[A LOYAL TRAITOR.]
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
CHAPTER XII.
A PRISONER OF WAR.
I suppose that a man who has been almost drowned—to the limit that all sense leaves him, at least—has drunk as deep of death as a person can and talk of it afterwards. With a shifting light before my eyes, a throbbing pain in my temples, and a sickness all through me, I found myself knowing that I was breathing once more; but I was water-logged, and when I attempted to move, I could feel that I was filled to the throat with some gallons of brine. All at once I doubled up with a spasm of choking, and in a minute I felt better.
I was lying in the bow of a boat, whose motion I could feel distinctly, but owing to the thwart being immediately over my head, I could see nothing but a succession of sturdy legs and bare feet pushing against the stretchers as the men rowed.
Such an attack of hiccoughs racked me that it called attention to my having regained my senses.
"'Ullo, Bill, 'ere's another one come back from Davy Jones," said a black-whiskered man, leaning over with his face close to mine. "He's swallowed a bloomin' volcano, from the looks of him."