This ends the catalogue of the Pilgrim’s original crew, except her first master, Captain Thompson.  He was not employed by the same firm again, and got up a voyage to the coast of Sumatra for pepper.  A cousin and classmate of mine, Mr. Channing, went as supercargo, not having consulted me as to the captain.  First, Captain Thompson got into difficulties with another American vessel on the coast, which charged him with having taken some advantage of her in getting pepper; and then with the natives, who accused him of having obtained too much pepper for his weights.  The natives seized him, one afternoon, as he landed in his boat, and demanded of him to sign an order on the supercargo for the Spanish dollars that they said were due them, on pain of being imprisoned on shore.  He never failed in pluck, and now ordered his boat aboard, leaving him ashore, the officer to tell the supercargo to obey no direction except under his hand.  For several successive days and nights, his ship, the Alciope, lay in the burning sun, with rain-squalls and thunder-clouds coming over the high mountains, waiting for a word from him.  Toward evening of the fourth or fifth day he was seen on the beach, hailing for the boat.  The natives, finding they could not force more money from him, were afraid to hold him longer, and had let him go.  He sprang into the boat, urged her off with the utmost eagerness, leaped on board the ship like a tiger, his eyes flashing and his face full of blood, ordered the anchor aweigh, and the topsails set, the four guns, two on a side, loaded with all sorts of devilish stuff, and wore her round, and, keeping as close into the bamboo village as he could, gave them both broadsides, slam-bang into the midst of the houses and people, and stood out to sea!  As his excitement passed off, headache, languor, fever, set in,—­ the deadly coast-fever, contracted from the water and night-dews on shore and his maddened temper.  He ordered the ship to Penang, and never saw the deck again.  He died on the passage, and was buried at sea.  Mr. Channing, who took care of him in his sickness and delirium, caught the fever from him, but, as we gratefully remember, did not die until the ship made port, and he was under the kindly roof of a hospitable family in Penang.  The chief mate, also, took the fever, and the second mate and crew deserted; and, although the chief mate recovered and took the ship to Europe and home, the voyage was a melancholy disaster.  In a tour I made round the world in 1859-1860, of which my revisit to California was the beginning, I went to Penang.  In that fairy-like scene of sea and sky and shore, as beautiful as material earth can be, with its fruits and flowers of a perpetual summer,—­ somewhere in which still lurks the deadly fever,—­ I found the tomb of my kinsman, classmate, and friend.  Standing beside his grave, I tried not to think that his life had been sacrificed to the faults and violence of another; I tried not to think too hardly of that other, who at least had suffered in death.