A LOYAL TRAITOR.
A STORY OF THE WAR OF 1812 BETWEEN AMERICA AND ENGLAND.
BY JAMES BARNES.
Memories of John Hurdiss, of Stonington, Connecticut, written by himself, in order to ease his mind and, incidentally, to interest any one who might enjoy an unembellished narrative, told by a pen untried but truthful. It represents the labor of spare moments taken from a busy life, and is dedicated to those who may bear the writer's name. He therefore craves a kind indulgence.—J. H.
Editor's Note.—The manuscript from which the following auto-biographical story is printed was found in an old desk that had been hidden away in the garret of a shipping-office in the town of Stonington, Connecticut. It narrowly escaped being destroyed at the time of discovery. Parts of it required a great deal of care in the putting together, as the mice had unfortunately commenced their work of destruction. However, it has been deciphered without loss of a paragraph, and, it is to be hoped, contains sufficient that will interest the reader. John Hurdiss is well remembered by one or two of Stonington's oldest inhabitants, although he moved from that town to the West some time in the forties. His grandchildren (for whom he probably wrote the story) are now given a chance to read of the strange adventures of their ancestor under three flags. The mystery which is referred to, and which has little to do with the story itself, perhaps, we leave for their unravelling. Thus, without further preamble, it is presented as it came from his pen and in his words. The main title is taken from one of Captain Hurdiss's own expressions; the titles to some of the chapters had to be supplied, as the original author left them in blank.
Chapter I.
AB INITIO.
In sitting down to write a tale in which I myself am the central figure and most prominent actor, I cannot help at first feeling a fear that any one who perchance shall read all that is to follow (if I ever succeed in the finishing of it) will judge me a person whose opinion of himself is high in the extreme.
While possessing the proper self-respect, without which no man is ever truthful or successful, I do not claim to have accomplished anything for the reason that I am gifted beyond the ordinary. I am not. But circumstances of my early youth gave to me chances for adventure, and fate probably led me, under the guiding hand of Providence, through much that is outside of the usual walks of life.
Although, as I write, I am only in late middle age and hale and hearty, all that I intend to record seems long ago indeed. Yet truthfully, and in such ways as memory recalls it, do I intend to put it down. If I am discursive, it is because I am led away by the vividness with which my eye puts the scenes again before me; that is all there is to it.