And yet, during this prosperous career, I was secretly unhappy. Year after year, the English residents returned with the independence they had acquired, to die in the land which gave them birth. To me, as I bade them an eternal farewell, every departure caused fresh misery, and probed to the very quick a wound that none suspected was rankling in my breast. I had no country. What was father-land to me? I, a degraded outcast—stigmatized with crime, believed to be a felon and a suicide; and from the memory of whose existence, my very father, if living, would recoil. And yet the fancy of returning to England haunted me. I thought of it—dreamed of it—till at last, unable to combat the inclination, I determined, at every hazard, to indulge the wish, and revisit the “land of my sires,” were it but to die there.
I made the necessary preparations to effect my design—converted my property into specie—secured a passage for myself and faithful follower in a vessel bound for England, which, with several others, were to start under convoy of a sloop of war. We sailed on the appointed day; and, as I then believed, bade an eternal farewell to the shores of South America.
What was my motive for returning to a land where my name was a disgrace, and where he whose feelings towards the offendings of a child are lenient, a father—ay, a father—would repudiate me with contempt? It was to cleanse that name, stained as it was with youthful indiscretions, from the plague-spot that human villany had attached to it; and now with the command of the means by which justice in England can be secured—money—wipe away the felon charge which had driven me undeservedly into exile and disgrace, and expose the guilty to the world—ay, though the last guinea of a fortune, which years of toil, and danger, and privations, had acquired, should be expended to attain the end.
For a week our little fleet progressed steadily across the ocean. Old merchantmen were then the dullest sailors imaginable; and with every inch of canvass we could spread, the sloop of war, with topsails on the cap, was frequently obliged to heave to and wait upon our lazy barque. Indeed, the vigilance of the convoy-ship was rendered necessary from the circumstance of a very suspicious vessel having been discovered for several successive mornings at sunrise, following in the wake of the fleet, and hauling off whenever she observed that she had been noticed.
On the sixth evening, the weather, which had hitherto been remarkably fine, threatened a change; and at midnight, the wind had considerably freshened. The security of the ship would have pointed out the prudence of making preparations for a gale, and putting the vessel under easy canvass; while, from the dulness of our sailing, and the certainty that a suspicious stranger was in our immediate vicinity, it was absolutely necessary that we should keep our place in the fleet, and avail ourselves of the man-of-war’s protection. In this dilemma it was determined to trust to fortune, and “carry on.” We had certainly, two dangerous alternatives to choose between—threatening weather, and an enemy’s privateer. The latter fear was predominant; and although every minute skyey appearance became more alarming, we still kept a press of canvass on the vessel—and consequently, it was our fate to verify an old saw, in avoiding Seylla, to fall into Charybdis.
In the darkness, a squall struck us suddenly; and before everything could be let fly, our three topmasts were over the side, and our worst apprehensions were about to be realized.
It was but a passing gale which had wrought us all this mischief; and when morning dawned, the weather had moderated into a light and steady breeze. The fleet was out of sight; and we were unable, from the weakness of the crew, to clear away at once the wreck of fallen spars and sails that cumbered us. We were lying a log upon the water, while our more fortunate companions were bowling away before a wind directly in their favour. One sail only was in sight, and that was steering in the same direction with the convoy. For a time, from being dismasted, we were not discovered by the stranger. But suddenly he changed his course, hauled closely to the wind, and soon presented to our startled view, the same long, black, suspicious-looking brig, which for days before had occasioned a general uneasiness.
We had no chance of escape, even had our spars been standing; and in an hour the suspected vessel was within musquet range. No doubt of his country and calling remained. A French ensign was flying at his peak—his long dark hull showed eleven ports a side—his decks were crowded, and he looked a regular rover.
Had we a wish to resist, the means were wanting; and at the first hail, a boat was lowered, and our captain went on board. In return, two boats, filled with armed men, rowed to us from the privateer; the rovers mounted our decks, and the work of plunder commenced busily. I had no hope from the first, that my property could by any possibility’ escape detection; and a very few minutes put that question at rest. A foreign seaman, whom we had shipped at Bio, gave information to the prize-master; and I had the misery to see the acquisition of an enter-prizing life pass into the possession of the sea-robbers who had captured us.
From the disabled condition of the ship, all design of taking her into port was abandoned by our captors; but every thing that was portable, even to the sea-chests of the crew, was removed on board the brig. The whole day was consumed in stripping our luckless vessel; and when at nightfall the enemy left us lying still a wreck upon the ocean, I found myself in the same condition as when, seven years before, I had landed on the beach at Bio—without a second shirt, a second dollar, or a second friend. Of the latter, I possessed a faithful one—Dominique remained. He had resisted every inducement held out by the French captain to join the privateer. Poor faithful fellow! when the fickle goddess smiled, he had shared my fortune; and adversity had no other effect than to confirm his devoted attachment.