“That’s as it may be,” said the captain; “no man fights better than he with a halter round his neck:  and remember what neighbour Green has said, for he has ‘let the cat out of the bag:’  we should have no Englishmen in our service, if they had not been pressed into yours.”

I could make no return to this salute, because, like the gunner at Landguard Fort, I had no powder, and, in fact, I felt the rebuke.

Green stood by, but never opened his lips until the captain had finished; then holding out his hand to me, with his eyes full of tears, and his voice almost choked, “Farewell, my excellent friend,” said he; “I shall never forget you; you found me a villain, and, by the blessing of God, you have made me an honest man.  Never, never, shall I forget the day when, at the risk of your own life, you came to save one so unworthy of your protection; but God bless you! and if ever the fortune of war should send you a prisoner to my country, here is my address—­what is mine is yours, and so you shall find.”

The man who had mutinied in the boat, and afterwards entered on board the privateer, who was sent home with me to take his trial, held out his hand to Captain Green, as he passed him, to wish him good-by, but he turned away, saying, “A traitor to his country is a traitor to his God.  I forgive you for the injury you intended to do me, and the more so, as I feel I brought it on myself; but I cannot degrade myself by offering you the hand of fellowship.”

So saying, he followed Captain Peters into the boat.  I accompanied them to the cartel, where, having satisfied myself that they had every comfort, I left them.  Green was so overcome that he could not speak, and poor Mungo could only say, “Good-by, massa leptenant, me tinkee you berry good man.”

I returned to my own vessel, and made sail for England:  once more we greeted the white cliffs of Albion, so dear to every true English bosom.  No one but he who has been an exile from its beloved shores can fully appreciate the thrill of joy on such an occasion.  We ran through the Needles, and I anchored at Spithead, after an absence of fourteen months.  I waited on the admiral, showed him my orders, and reported the prisoners, whom he desired me to discharge into the flag ship; “and now,” said he, “after your extraordinary escape, I will give you leave to run up to town and see your family, to whom you are no doubt an object of great interest.”

Here a short digression is necessary.

Chapter XXII

  Such was my brother too,
  So went he suited to his watery tomb: 
  If spirits can assume both form and suit,
  You come to fright us.

  Twelfth Night.

Soon after the frigate which had taken me off from New Providence had parted company with the American prize that I was sent on board of, the crew of the former, it appeared, had been boasting among the American prisoners of the prize-money they should receive.