After travelling by day and by night to expedite his return, over mountains, through marshes, by cross-roads; on horseback, on mules, in carriages of any and every sort that could but hurry him on, he reached Calais in a December so dreadfully stormy, that not a vessel of any kind could set sail for England. Repeatedly he secured his hammock, and went on board to take possession of it; but as repeatedly was driven back by fresh gales, during the space of nine fatiguing days and tempestuous nights. And when, at last, the passage was effected, so nearly annihilating had been his sufferings from sea-sickness, that it was vainly he was told he might now, at his pleasure, arise, go forth, and touch English ground; he had neither strength nor courage to move, and earnestly desired to be left awhile to himself.
Exhaustion, then, with tranquillity of mind, cast him into a sound sleep.
From this repose, when, much refreshed, he awoke, he called to the man who was in waiting, to help him up, that he might get out of the ship.
“Get out of the ship, sir?” repeated the man. “Good lauk! you’ll be drowned!”
“Drowned?—What’s to drown me? I want to go ashore.”
“Ashore, sir?” again repeated the man; “why you’re in the middle of the sea! There ar’nt a bit of ground for your toe nail.”
“What do you mean?” cried the Doctor, starting up; “the sea? did you not tell me we were safe in at Dover?”
“O lauk! that’s two good hours ago, sir! I could not get you up then, say what I would. You fell downright asleep, like a top. And so I told them. But that’s all one. You may go, or you may stay, as you like; but them pilots never stops for nobody.”
Filled with alarm, the Doctor now rushed up to the deck, where he had the dismay to discover that he was half-way back to France.
And he was forced to land again at Calais; where again, with the next mail, and a repetition of his sea-sickness, he re-embarked for Dover.