Late in September Laurence Washington, with George and his faithful body-servant Peter, sailed for Barbadoes. The voyage lasted five weeks, and was very tedious. It did more to cure George of his still smouldering passion for a sea life than he had thought possible. To a young man accustomed to the boundless forests the confinement was irksome. He was used to pursue his plans regardless of weather, and the lying motionless for days in a dead and depressing calm chafed him inexpressibly. Laurence, who bore patiently all the discomforts and delays of their position, could not forbear a wan smile when George, coming down one day to his cabin, burst forth:
“Brother, you were right to prefer the army to the navy for me. At least, let me be where if I walk ten miles I shall be ten miles advanced on my way. I have walked ten miles around this vessel, and I am just where I started.”
On a beautiful autumn morning, under a dazzling sun, they landed at Barbadoes. The governor of the island, hearing that the sick gentleman had once been an officer in the British army, immediately called at their temporary lodgings and offered every kindness in his power. He advised Laurence to take a house in the country near the sea, and where the air was good. That afternoon they drove out to the house recommended by the governor, and in a few days were comfortably established there.
At first Laurence improved much. He received every attention, and took pleasure in the society of the officers of the garrison, who found two polished and educated strangers a great resource in their monotonous lives. So anxious was one of them—Colonel Clarke—to have them to dinner that he very unwisely invited them without mentioning that a member of his family was just recovering from the small-pox.
They knew nothing of it until their return home, when both of them were naturally indignant; and George had reason to be, for within nine days he was seized with a well-marked case of the terrible disease. In anticipation of it he had made every arrangement, and, having engaged an old Barbadian negro who had had small-pox for a nurse, he shut himself up to fight the disease.
His powerful constitution triumphed over it, and in three weeks he was well. But never, in all his life, did he forget the sufferings of those dreadful weeks. Utterly unused to illness, he endured agonies of restlessness, and was like a caged lion in his wrath and furious impatience. The old Barbadian, who had nursed many small-pox patients, made him laugh, while in one of his worst moods, by saying, gravely:
“Barbadian nuss small-pox folks forty year. Ain’t neber see no patient so bad like Massa Washington.”
A fear haunted him that sometimes made him smile grimly, but, nevertheless, gave him some anxious moments. The idea of being horribly disfigured for life was bitter to him. He saw no one but the old Barbadian, and felt afraid to ask him; and as he said nothing about the marks of the disease, there was room to suspect they were bad. George had been able to sit up several days before he dared look in the glass. At last one day, nerving himself, he walked steadily to the mirror and looked at himself, expecting to see a vision of horror. To his amazement and deep relief there was not a single permanent mark. His skin was red, his eyes were hollow and sunken, and he was not by any means the handsome young man who had landed on the island four weeks before, but he was unmarked. He felt a deep thankfulness in his heart when he was thoroughly recovered, though he was distressed to find that his brother grew daily weaker.
Christmas amid waving palmettos and under a tropical sky was dreary to the two brothers, and soon after it became plain that the climate was doing Laurence no good. One night, calling George to him, he said:
“George, I have determined to leave this island, and, with Peter, go to Bermuda. But I am homesick and heartsick for those I love, therefore I have determined to send you back to the colony for your sister Anne, to bring her to me. If I am compelled to be an exile, I will, at least, have the comfort of her society, and I do not think it right, at your age, to keep you forever tied to a sick man’s chair.”