"Now, here we are in the West Indies again, boys!" I heard some of our men shout as we marched along the shore; "now for potted missionary, pickled monkey, sangaree, brown girls, red rum, and yellow fever!"
"The mountains all sugar—the rivers all rum."
"Hot marches, mouldy biscuits, yams, and rattlesnakes, plunder and prize-money."
So the thoughtless fellows continued amid reckless laughter (though those islands were literally the grave of Europeans), while they retired to their barracks, in which they were to remain until Sir Charles Grey made his arrangements for beating up the quarters of M. de Rouvigny, the French chef de bataillon, who commanded in Martinique.
A rabble of every hue accompanied us to the gates of the their faces exhibiting every variety, from the sable negro of Sierra Leone, to the blanched pallor of the sickly English Creole, whose countenance suggested nothing but miasma, yellow fever, and the grave.
CHAPTER XXIX.
THE SNAKE.
I remember with what delight, in the intervals of duty, I rambled about this fertile and populous island, feeling as if I could never enjoy sufficiently my emancipation from the thraldom and confinement of a ship-of-war, crowded by soldiers, seamen, marines, and stores, for a hostile expedition.
The whole fleet yet lay anchored in three lines in Carlisle Bay, hoisting in fresh water and provisions; thus scores of smart men-o'-war boats were incessantly arriving at, or departing from, the mole and carenage at Bridgetown, preparing for our departure to Martinique. Armed ships and batteries guarded the coast as a protection against French privateers and Spanish pirates, a few of whom still prowled in the West-Indian seas.
One evening I was returning from the town with the order-book of my company, having been sent on duty to Mr. Haystone, who had quartered himself there in a snug lodging which he preferred to the garrison.