In ship and prison

by William P. Chipman

“What is it, my good fellow?” Doctor Burns inquired kindly.

“That ye put me in Master Dunn’s bed, an’ let me die for him, while he lives as Dick Jones,” he explained. “Then the red-coats won’t get him.”

Like a flash the physician recognized the possibility of the plan. Owing to the scarcity of surgeons, since the surrender he had been left in sole charge of that ward. On their tour of inspection the British had numbered each patient, putting his name against the number. If he died, his number was reported, and an order came for his burial. If he recovered, his number was also reported, and an order came for his discharge, and his return to the barracks of his company.

Jones was number seventy-two in that ward, while I was number fifty-seven. The change could be made, and on the death of the old sailor the report that patient number fifty-seven had died could be sent to the British officer acting as superintendent of that building. Doubtless he would simply issue an order for the burial without visiting the ward as he had a score of times before, and in his records would enter the fact that number fifty-seven, or Midshipman Arthur Dunn, had died and was buried; while upon my discharge the same records would show that number seventy-two, or Richard Jones, a sailor, had recovered.

“It shall be done, Richard,” he promised in a low tone, “and God bless you for thinking of it.”

That night, with the help of two Continental soldiers who were acting as nurses, the surgeon had the change made without explaining to his assistants why it was done. To me, however, he made known the whole scheme, and cautioned me that I was to remember I was Richard Jones until my exchange was effected.

The next morning the old sailor had joined the unseen majority, and before night was buried under my number. We never knew what the effect of the report was at the British headquarters. Probably they accepted it as a fact, as no further inquiry was made concerning me so far as we ever knew. Three weeks later, I left the hospital as number seventy-two, or Richard Jones, to the British authorities—another fact they never questioned.

Instead of joining my comrades in the barracks set apart for their use, however, I went to a boarding-place which my friends had secured for me, and where I was known by my assumed name.

But I was there only three days, for on June 26th Captain Tucker and his crew were exchanged for Captain William Wardlow and crew, who had been captured by the Boston on the Thorn twelve months before. As Richard Jones, sailor, I passed unrecognized before the English officer in charge of the exchange; and on the following day the Captain and I started by the overland route for our home in Marblehead.

We were there only a month, however. Then Captain Tucker received notice that he was to take command of the ship Thorn, at that time in Boston harbor. With that notice came my own commission as a second lieutenant, and an assignment to the same vessel. We left at once for Boston, and boarded the frigate to find to our delight that she had been put in thorough repair, furnished with a crew of one hundred and twenty-five men and her armament increased to twenty-two guns.