In ship and prison

by William P. Chipman

I looked doubtfully at him. “I don’t know whether to believe you or not,” I then said slowly.

“I’ll keep my word. I’ll send men at once with the things, and they’ll bring your old ones away, and burn them. Only go back into your room and stay there.”

“I’ll try you this once,” I finally decided, releasing the turnkey. “But mark you, if you fail me, there’ll be the hottest time in this old jail you ever saw. We can get out of the room when we please, and as I said, we may die in the attempt, but it will not be until we have exposed lots of you to the foul disease from which we are suffering,” and I went back into the room.

He kept his word in part. The clean beds and clothing were brought, but we received no medical care or supplies, and so the next morning I repeated that part of my demand.

“The superintendent told me to tell you that he was trying to find a physician for you,” the attendant said tremblingly, “but so far every one in town has refused to come here.”

Another week passed. Eight more of the lads had ended their sufferings, and seven new cases of the disease had developed—among them three of my own men: Midshipman LeMoyne, Quartermaster Mohyes, and Elias Bowden, an old sailor.

Of the original prisoners—those in the room at our coming—there were only six surviving, so terrible had been the ravages of the scourge among them. Would there be as great a loss among my crew? I feared it, and though at that time of my life I was not much given to prayer, I now prayed:

“O, Lord, spare my men. Send us help in some way. We are in sore need.”

Over and over again I repeated the words, and in some way they gave me great comfort. I felt the help was coming, but I acknowledge it came in a way I little expected. The next morning there were hurried feet along our corridor, then the door suddenly swung back, and the funniest little Frenchman I ever saw popped in.

Short and fat, and dressed in the height of fashion, he bowed repeatedly first to one, then to another of us, all the while talking in a strange mixture of good French and poor English. Between it all we made out that he was Doctor Jean Vignor, who had landed in the town the previous day. Learning by the merest accident of our situation, he had deemed it a great privilege to volunteer his services for our relief. The prison authorities had consented, and there he was to take the cases in hand.