On the third of July, Washington arrived from the South to take the command.  Israel witnessed his joyful reception by the huzzaing companies.

The British now quartered in Boston suffered greatly from the scarcity of provisions.  Washington took every precaution to prevent their receiving a supply.  Inland, all aid could easily be cut off.  To guard against their receiving any by water, from tories and other disaffected persons, the General equipped three armed vessels to intercept all traitorous cruisers.  Among them was the brigantine Washington, of ten guns, commanded by Captain Martiedale.  Seamen were hard to be had.  The soldiers were called upon to volunteer for these vessels.  Israel was one who so did; thinking that as an experienced sailor he should not be backward in a juncture like this, little as he fancied the new service assigned.

Three days out of Boston harbor, the brigantine was captured by the enemy’s ship Foy, of twenty guns.  Taken prisoner with the rest of the crew, Israel was afterwards put on board the frigate Tartar, with immediate sailing orders for England.  Seventy-two were captives in this vessel.  Headed by Israel, these men—­half way across the sea—­formed a scheme to take the ship, but were betrayed by a renegade Englishman.  As ringleader, Israel was put in irons, and so remained till the frigate anchored at Portsmouth.  There he was brought on deck; and would have met perhaps some terrible fate, had it not come out, during the examination, that the Englishman had been a deserter from the army of his native country ere proving a traitor to his adopted one.  Relieved of his irons, Israel was placed in the marine hospital on shore, where half of the prisoners took the small-pox, which swept off a third of their number.  Why talk of Jaffa?

From the hospital the survivors were conveyed to Spithead, and thrust on board a hulk.  And here in the black bowels of the ship, sunk low in the sunless sea, our poor Israel lay for a month, like Jonah in the belly of the whale.

But one bright morning, Israel is hailed from the deck.  A bargeman of the commander’s boat is sick.  Known for a sailor, Israel for the nonce is appointed to pull the absent man’s oar.

The officers being landed, some of the crew propose, like merry Englishmen as they are, to hie to a neighboring ale-house, and have a cosy pot or two together.  Agreed.  They start, and Israel with them.  As they enter the ale-house door, our prisoner is suddenly reminded of still more imperative calls.  Unsuspected of any design, he is allowed to leave the party for a moment.  No sooner does Israel see his companions housed, than putting speed into his feet, and letting grow all his wings, he starts like a deer.  He runs four miles (so he afterwards affirmed) without halting.  He sped towards London; wisely deeming that once in that crowd detection would be impossible.

Ten miles, as he computed, from where he had left the bargemen, leisurely passing a public house of a little village on the roadside, thinking himself now pretty safe—­hark, what is this he hears?—­