Alonzo seriously contemplated on the incidents and events of this tragical story. Conscience whispered him, are not Malcomb’s miseries superior to thine? Candour and correct reason must have answered yes. “Melissa perished, said Alonzo, but not by the hand of her lover: she expired, but not through the mistaken frenzy of him who adored her. She died, conscious of the unfeigned love I bore her.”
Alonzo and his fellow prisoners had been robbed, when they were captured, of every thing except the clothes they wore. Their allowance of provisions was scanty and poor. They were confined in the third story of a lofty prison. Time rolled away; no prospects appeared of their liberation, either by exchange or parole. Some of the prisoners were removed, as new ones were introduced, to other places of confinement, until not one American was left except Alonzo.
Meantime the day appointed for the execution of Malcomb drew near. His past and approaching fate filled the breast of Alonzo with sympathetic sorrow. He saw his venerable father, his mother, his friends and acquaintance, with several pious clergymen, frequently enter the prison to console and comfort him, and to prepare him for the unchangeable state on which he was soon to enter. He saw his mind softened by their advice and counsel;—frequently would he burst into tears;—often in the solitary hours of night was he heard addressing the throne of grace for mercy and forgiveness. But the grief that preyed at his heart had wasted him to a mere skeleton; a slow but deleterious fever had consequently implanted itself in his constitution. Exhausted nature could make but a weak struggle against disease and affliction like his, and about a week previous to the day appointed for his execution, he expired in peace and penitence, trusting in the mercy of his Creator through the sufferings of a Redeemer.
Soon after this event, orders came for removing some of the prisoners to a most loathsome place of confinement in the suburbs of the city. It fell to Alonzo’s lot to be one. He therefore formed a project for escaping. He had observed that the gratings in one of the windows of the apartment were loose and could be easily removed. One night when the prisoners were asleep, he stripped off his clothes, every article of which he cut into narrow strips, tied them together, fastened one end to one of the strongest gratings, removed the others until he had made an opening large enough to get out, and then, by the rope he had made of his clothes, let himself down into the yard of the prison. There he found a long piece of timber, which he dragged to the wall, clambered up thereon, and sprang over into the street. His shoes and hat he had left in the prison, as a useless encumbrance without his clothes, all which he had converted into the means of escape, so that he was now literally stark naked. He stood a moment to reflect:—“Here am I, said he, freed from my local prison indeed, but in the midst of an enemy’s country, without a friend, without the means of obtaining one day’s subsistence, surrounded by the darkness of night, destitute of a single article of clothing, and even unable to form a resolution what step next to take. The ways of heaven are marvellous—may I silently bow to its dispensations!”
Alonzo passed along the street in this forlorn condition, not knowing where to proceed, or what course to take. It was about three o’clock in the morning; the street was illuminated by lamps, and he feared falling into the hands of the watch. For some time he saw no person; at length a voice from the other side of the street called out,——“Hallo, messmate! what, scudding under bare poles? You must have experienced a severe gale indeed thus to have carried away every rag of sail!”
Alonzo turned, and saw the person who spoke. He was a decent looking man, of middle age, dressed in a sailor’s habit. Alonzo had often heard of the generosity and honourable conduct of the British tars: he therefore approached him and told him his real case, not even concealing his being taken in actual hostility to the British government, and his escape from prison. The sailor mused for a few minutes. “Thy case, said he, is a little critical, but do not despair. Had I met thee as an enemy, I should have fought thee; but as it is, compassion is the first consideration. Perhaps I may be in as bad a situation before the war is ended.” Then slipping off his coat and giving it to Alonzo, “follow me,” he said, and turning, walked hastily along the street, followed by Alonzo; he passed into a bye-lane, entered a small house, and taking Alonzo into a back room, opened a trunk, and handed out a shirt: “there, said he, pointing to a bed, you can sleep till morning, when we will see what can be done.”
The next morning the sailor brought in a very decent suit of clothes and presented them to Alonzo. “You will make this place your home, said he, until more favorable prospects appear. In this great city you will be safe, for even your late gaoler would not recognize you in this dress. And perhaps some opportunity may offer by which you may return to your own country.” He told Alonzo that his name was Jack Brown; that he was a midshipman on board the Severn; that he had a wife and four children, and owned the house in which they then were. “In order to prevent suspicion or discovery, said he, I shall consider you as a relation from the country until you are better provided for.” Alonzo was then introduced to the sailor’s wife, an amiable woman, and here he remained for several weeks.
One day Alonzo was informed that a number of American prisoners were brought in. He went to the place where they were landed, and saw several led away to prison, and some who were sick or disabled, carried to the hospital. As the hospital was near at hand, Alonzo entered it to see how the sick and disabled American prisoners were treated.
He found that they received as much attention as could reasonably be expected.[*] [*] The Americans who were imprisoned in England, in the time of the war, were treated with much more humanity than those who were imprisoned at Halifax and other places in America. As he passed along the different apartments he was surprised at hearing his name called by a faint voice. He turned to the place from whence it proceeded, and saw stretched on a mattress, a person who appeared on the point of expiring. His visage was pale and emaciated, his countenance haggard and ghastly, his eyes inexpressive and glazy. He held out his withered hand, and feebly beckoned to Alonzo, who immediately approached him. His features appeared not unfamiliar to Alonzo, but for a moment he could not recollect him. “You do not know me,” said the apparently dying stranger. “Beauman!” exclaimed Alonzo, in surprise. “Yes, replied the sick man, it is Beauman; you behold me on the verge of eternity; I have but a short time to continue in this world.” Alonzo enquired how he came in the power of the enemy. “By the fate of war, he replied; I was taken in an action on York Island, carried on board a prison-ship in New-York, and sent with a number of others for England. I had received a wound in my thigh, from a musket ball, during the action; the wound mortified, and my thigh was amputated on the voyage; since which I have been rapidly wasting away, and I now feel that the cold hand of death is laid upon me.” Here he became exhausted, and for some time remained silent. Alonzo had not before discovered that he had lost his leg: he now found that it had been taken off close to his body, and that he was worn to a skeleton. When Beauman revived, he enquired into Alonzo’s affairs. Alonzo related all that had happened to him after leaving New London.