In ship and prison

by William P. Chipman

Then to the waiting lieutenant he said:

“Take him forward, sir, and see that he has half rations, double work, and double watches. If he rebels, give him twenty blows with the cat; and if that doesn’t tame him, give him forty,” and again he gave that satanic grin. Master Seymour also laughed, and I knew he had received an order he would delight to carry out to the letter.

In the forecastle I found quite a number of men I knew, but with the exception of old Pete Berry they greeted me with jeers. It was clear that they had no love for one whom they regarded as a deserter, and I was confident that in them the captain would find the tools he desired to make my stay on shipboard anything but agreeable.

I shall not weary the reader by relating here the many and repeated insults I received, by telling the hard and disagreeable tasks to which I was assigned, by recounting the lashes which without any provocation on my part were put upon my back. I had not been on board the ship a week before I knew my only hope was to escape from the clutches of my tormentors. I simply abided my opportunity.

The following week an incident happened which at the time seemed to me to close every opportunity I might have had to escape, but which really proved to be the link in the chain which was to give me my freedom.

The frigate had sighted and chased an American privateer. She was apparently nearly overhauled, and our bow gun was ready for the firing. Then I was brought forward, and the command was given me to aim, and touch off the cannon.

“And mark you,” Lieutenant Seymour, who gave the order, continued, “if you miss the craft, you shall receive forty blows from the cat.”

“Then you’d better give me the blows now,” I replied resolutely, “for I will not aim or fire a gun at my countrymen, not if I die for it.”

There was no time just then to use the lash, so I was hurried off to the brig, and confined there until the battle with the sloop-of-war was over. They did not forget me, however, and possibly the escape of the Continental vessel after a slight brush with them added to the spite which was put into the blows I received. With back lacerated and bleeding, and every part of my body quivering and aching in sympathy, I was thrown back into the brig with the assurance that I should lie there until the ship was in port.

The next morning I was delirious with the fever from my sores, and, perhaps fearing I might not be in a condition to turn over to the home officials when we arrived in London, the ship’s doctor was sent to me. He took me in hand to such a good purpose that in a few days I was myself again, save the scars on my back. But they still thought the brig the best place for me, and left me confined there. It was then I gave up all hope of effecting my escape, and began to speculate on what would happen when I was handed over to the Naval Board.