Nothing is more common than a Traveller’s beginning the Account of his Voyages with one of his own Family; in which, if he can’t boast Antiquity, he is sure to make it up with the Probity of his Ancestors.  As it can no way interest my Reader, I shall decline following a Method, which I can’t but think ridiculous, as unnecessary.  I shall only say, that by the Death of my Father and Mother, which happen’d while I was an Infant, I fell to the Care of my Grandfather by my Mother, who was a Citizen of some Note in Bristol, and at the Age of Thirteen sent me to Sea Prentice to a Master of a Merchant-man.

My two first Voyages were to Jamaica, in which nothing remarkable happen’d.  Our third Voyage was to Guinea and Jamaica; we slaved, and arrived happily at that Island; but it being Time of War, and our Men fearing they should be press’d (for we were mann’d a-peak) Twelve, and myself, went on Shore a little to the Eastward of Port Morante, designing to foot it to Port Royal.  We had taken no Arms, suspecting no Danger; but I soon found we wanted Precaution:  For we were, in less than an Hour after our Landing, encompass’d by about Forty Run-away Negroes, well arm’d, who, without a Word speaking, pour’d in upon us a Volley of Shot, which laid Eight of our Company dead, and wounded the rest.  I was shot thro’ the right Arm.

After this Discharge, they ran upon us with their Axes, and (tho’ we cried for Mercy) cruelly butcher’d my remaining four Companions.

I had shared their Fate, had not he who seemed to Head the Party, interposed between me and the fatal Axe already lifted for my Destruction.  He seized the designed Executioner by the Arm, and said, No kill te Boy, me scavez him; me no have him make deady.  I knew not to what I should attribute this Humanity, and was not less surprized than pleas’d at my Escape.

They struck off the Heads of my Companions, which they carried with ’em to the Mountains, putting me in the Center of the Company.

I march’d very pensively, lamenting the Murder of my Ship-mates, and often wish’d the Negro who saved me had been less charitable; for I began to doubt I was reserved for future Tortures, and to be made a Spectacle to their Wives and Children; when my Protector coming up to me, said, No be sadd, Sam, you no scavez me? I look’d earnestly at the Fellow, and remember’d he was a Slave of a Planter’s, a distant Relation of mine, who had been a long while settled in the Island:  He had twice before run from his Master, and while I was at the Plantation my first Voyage, he was brought in, and his Feet ordered to be cut off to the Instep (a common Punishment inflicted on run-away Slaves) by my Intercession this was remitted, and he escaped with a Whipping.

I ask’d if his Name was not Cuffey, Mr. Tenant’s Negro?