The balance of life vibrated considerably on the African coast. Sometimes Mr. Bull’s scale ascended and sometimes the Slaver’s. It was now the turn of the former to be exalted for a while by way of revenge for my forced hospitality.

Our friends of the Bonito held on with provoking pertinacity in front of my factory, so that I was troubled but little with company from Cuba for several months. At last, however, it became necessary that I should visit a neighboring colony for supplies, and I took advantage of a Russian trader along the coast to effect my purpose. But when we were within sight of our destination, a British cruiser brought us to and visited the “Galopsik.” As her papers were in order, and the vessel altogether untainted, I took it for granted that Lieutenant Hill would make a short stay and be off to his “Saracen.” Yet, a certain “slave deck,” and an unusual quantity of water-casks, aroused the officer’s suspicions, so that instead of heading for our port, we were unceremoniously favored with a prize crew, and ordered to Sierra Leone!

I did not venture to protest against these movements, inasmuch as I had no interest whatever in the craft, but I ventured to suggest that “as I was only a passenger, there could be no objection to my landing before the new voyage was commenced.”

“By no means, sir,” was the prompt reply, “your presence is a material fact for the condemnation of the vessel!” Indeed, I soon found out that I was recognized by some of the Kroomen on the cruiser, and my unlucky reputation was a hole in the bottom of our Russian craft!

At Sierra Leone matters became worse. The Court did not venture to condemn the Russian, but resolved on ordering her to England; and when I re-stated my reasonable appeal for release, I was told that I must accompany the vessel on her visit to Great Britain.

This arbitrary decision of our captors sadly disconcerted my plans. A voyage to England would ruin New Sestros. My barracoons were alive with blacks, but I had not a month’s provisions in my stores. The clerk, temporarily in charge, was altogether unfit to conduct a factory during a prolonged absence, and all my personal property, as well as Don Pedro’s, was at the hazard of his judgment during a period of considerable difficulty.

I resolved to take “French leave.”

Three men-of-war were anchored astern and on our bows. No boats were allowed to approach us from shore; at night two marines and four sailors paraded the deck, so that it was a thing of some peril to dream of escape in the face of such Arguses. Yet there was no help for it. I could not afford an Admiralty or Chancery suit in England, while my barracoons were foodless in Africa.

No one had been removed from the Russian since her seizure, nor were we denied liberty of motion and intercourse so long as suspicion had not ripened into legal condemnation. The captain, by birth a Spaniard, was an old acquaintance, while the steward and boatswain were good fellows who professed willingness to aid me in any exploit I might devise for my liberty.

I hit upon the plan of a regular carouse; and at once decided that my Spanish skipper was bound to keep his birthday with commendable merriment and abundant grog. There was to be no delay; one day was as good as another for his festival, while all that we needed, was time enough to obtain the requisite supplies of food and fluid.

This was soon accomplished, and the “fatted pig” slaughtered for the feast. As I never left home unprovided with gold, means were not wanting to stock our pantry with champagne as well as brandy.

Every thing went off to a charm. We fed like gluttons and drank like old-fashioned squires. Bumper after bumper was quaffed to the captain. Little by little, the infection spread, as it always does, from the wardroom to the cabin, and “goodfellowship” was the watchword of the night. Invitations were given and accepted by our prize crew. Bull and the Lion again relaxed under the spell of beef and brandy, so that by sundown every lip had tasted our eau de vie, and watered for more. The “first watch” found every soul on board, with the exception of our corporal of marines, as happy as lords.

This corporal was a regular “character;” and, from the first, had been feared as our stumbling-block. He was a perfect martinet; a prim, precise, black-stock’d, military, Miss Nancy. He neither ate nor drank, neither talked nor smiled, but paraded the deck with a grim air of iron severity, as if resolved to preserve his own “discipline” if he could not control that of any one else. I doubt very much whether her Majesty has in her service a more dutiful loyalist than Corporal Blunt, if that excellent functionary has not succumbed to African malaria.

I hoped that something would occur to melt the corporal’s heart during the evening, and had prepared a little vial in my pocket, which, at least, would have given him a stirless nap of twenty-four hours. But nothing broke the charm of his spell-bound sobriety. There he marched, to and fro, regular as a drum tap, hour after hour, stiff and inexorable as a ramrod!

But who, after the fall of Corporal Blunt, shall declare that there is a living man free from the lures of betrayal? And yet, he only surrendered to an enemy in disguise!

“God bless me, corporal,” said our prize lieutenant, “in the name of all that’s damnable, why don’t you let out a reef or two from those solemn cheeks of yours, and drink a bumper to Captain Gaspard and Don Teodor? You ain’t afraid of cider, are you?”

“Cider, captain?” said the corporal, advancing to the front and throwing up his hand with a military salute.

“Cider and be d d to you!” returned the lieutenant. “Cider of course, corporal; what other sort of pop can starving wretches like us drink in Sary-loney?”

“Well, lieutenant,” said the corporal, “if so be as how them fizzing bottles which yonder Spanish gentleman is a-pourin’ down is only cider; and if cider ain’t agin rules after ‘eight bells;’ and if you, lieutenant, orders me to handle my glass, I don’t see what right I have to disobey the orders of my superior!”

“Oh! blast your sermon and provisos,” interjected the lieutenant, filling a tumbler and handing it to the corporal, who drained it at a draught. In a moment the empty glass was returned to the lieutenant, who, instead of receiving it from the subaltern, refilled the tumbler.

“Oh, I’m sure I’m a thousand times obliged, lieutenant,” said Blunt, with his left hand to his cap, “a thousand, thousand times, lieutenant, but I’d rather take no more, if it’s all the same to your honor.”

“But it ain’t, Blunt, by any means; the rule is universal among gentlemen on ship and ashore, that whenever a fellow’s glass is filled, he must drink it to the dregs, though he may leave a drop in the bottom to pour out on the table in honor of his sweetheart; so, down with the cider! And now Blunt, my boy, that you’ve calked your first nail-head, I insist upon a bumper all round to that sweetheart you were just talking of!”

“Me, lieutenant?”

“You, corporal!”

“I wasn’t talking about any sweetheart, as I remembers, lieutenant; ’pon the honor of a soldier, I haven’t had no such a thing this twenty years, since one warm summer’s afternoon, when Jane

“Now, corporal, you don’t pretend to contradict your superior officer, I hope. You don’t intend to be the first man on this ship to show a mutinous example!”

“Oh! God bless me, lieutenant, the thought never entered my brain!”

But the third tumbler of champagne did, in the apple-blossom disguise of “cider;” and, in half an hour, there wasn’t an odder figure on deck than the poor corporal, whose vice-like stock steadied his neck, though there was nothing that could make him toe the plank which he pertinaciously insisted on promenading. Blunt the immaculate, was undeniably drunk!

In fact, though I say it with all possible respect for her Majesty’s naval officers, while on duty, there was, by this time, hardly a sober man on deck or in the cabin except myself and the Spanish captain, who left me to engage the prize-officer in a game of backgammon or dominoes. The crew was dozing about the decks, or nodding over the taffrail, while my colleague, the boatswain, prepared an oar on the forecastle to assist me in reaching the beach.

It was near midnight when I stripped in my state-room, leaving my garments in the berth, and hanging my watch over its pillow. In a small bundle I tied a flannel shirt and a pair of duck pantaloons, which I fastened behind my neck as I stood on the forecastle; and then, placing the oar beneath my arm, I glided from the bows into the quiet water.

The night was not only very dark, but a heavy squall of wind and rain, accompanied by thunder, helped to conceal my escape; and free the stream from sharks. I was not long in reaching a native town, where a Krooman from below, who had known me at Gallinas, was prepared for my reception and concealment.

Next morning, the cabin-boy, who did not find me as usual on deck, took my coffee to the state-room, where, it was supposed, I still rested in comfortable oblivion of last night’s carouse. But the bird had flown! There were my trunk, my garments, my watch, undisturbed as I left them when preparing for bed. There was the linen of my couch turned down and tumbled during repose. The inquest had no doubt of my fate: I had fallen overboard during the night, and was doubtless, by this time, well digested in the bowels of African sharks! Folks shook their heads with surprise when it was reported that the notorious slaver, Canot, had fallen a victim to mania a potu!

The report of my death soon reached shore; the British townsfolk believed it, but I never imagined for a moment that the warm-hearted tar who commanded the prize had been deceived by such false signals.

During eight days I remained hidden among the friendly negroes, and from my loophole, saw the Russian vessel sail under the Saracen’s escort. I was not, however, neglected in my concealment by the worthy tradesmen of the British colony, who knew I possessed money as well as credit. This permitted me to receive visits and make purchases for the factory, so that I was enabled, on the eighth day, with a full equipment of all I desired, to quit the British jurisdiction in a Portuguese vessel.

On our way to New Sestros, I made the skipper heave his main-yard aback at Digby, while I embarked thirty-one “darkies,” and a couple of stanch canoes with their Kroomen, to land my human freight in case of encountering a cruiser.

And well was it for me that I took this precaution. Night fell around us, dark and rainy, the wind blowing in squalls, and sometimes dying away altogether. It was near one o’clock when the watch announced two vessels on our weather bow; and, of course, the canoes were launched, manned, filled with twenty of the gang, and set adrift for the coast, ere our new acquaintances could honor us with their personal attention. Ten of the slaves still remained on board, and as it was perilous to risk them in our own launch, we capsized it over the squad, burying the fellows in its bowels under the lee of a sailor’s pistol to keep them quiet if we were searched.

Our lights had hardly been extinguished in cabin and binnacle, when we heard the measured stroke of a man-of-war oar. In a few moments more the boat was alongside, the officer on deck, and a fruitless examination concluded. The blacks beneath the launch were as silent as death; nothing was found to render the “Maria” suspicious; and we were dismissed with a left-handed blessing for rousing gentlemen from their bunks on so comfortless a night. Next morning at dawn we reached New Sestros, where my ten lubbers were landed without delay.

But our little comedy was not yet over. Noon had not struck before the “Dolphin” cast anchor within hail of the “Maria,” and made so free as to claim her for a prize! In the darkness and confusion of shipping the twenty slaves who were first of all despatched in canoes, one of them slipped overboard with a paddle, and sustained himself till daylight, when he was picked up by the cruiser whose jaws we had escaped during the night! The negro’s story of our trick aroused the ire of her commander, and the poor “Maria” was obliged to pay the forfeit by revisiting Sierra Leone in custody of an officer.

There were great rejoicings on my return to New Sestros. The coast was full of odd and contradictory stories about our capture. When the tale of my death at Sierra Leone by drowning, in a fit of drunkenness, was told to my patron Don Pedro, that intelligent gentleman denied it without hesitation, because, in the language of the law, “it proved too much.” It was possible, he said, that I might have been drowned; but when they told him I had come to my death by strong drink, they declared what was not only improbable, but altogether out of the question. Accordingly, he would take the liberty to discredit the entire story, being sure that I would turn up before long.

But poor Prince Freeman was not so clever a judge of nature as Don Pedro. Freeman had heard of my death; and, imbued as he was with the superstitions of his country, nobody could make him credit my existence till he despatched a committee to my factory, headed by his son, to report the facts. But then, on the instant, the valiant prince paid me a visit of congratulation. As I held out both hands to welcome him, I saw the fellow shrink with distrust.

“Count your fingers!” said Freeman.

“Well,” said I, “what for? here they are one two three four five six seven eight nine ten!”

“Good good!” shouted the prince, as he clasped my digits. “White men tell too many lies ’bout the commodore! White man say, John Bull catch commodore, and cut him fingers all off, so commodore no more can ‘makee book’ for makee fool of John Bull!” Which, being translated into English, signifies that it was reported my fingers had been cut off by my British captors to prevent me from writing letters by which the innocent natives believed I so often bamboozled and deceived the cruisers of her Majesty.

During my absence, a French captain, who was one of our most attentive friends, had left a donkey which he brought from the Cape de Verds for my especial delectation, by way of an occasional promenade a cheval! I at once resolved to bestow the “long-eared convenience” on Freeman, not only as a type, but a testimonial; yet, before a week was over, the unlucky quadruped reappeared at my quarters, with a message from the prince that it might do well enough for a bachelor like me, but its infernal voice was enough to cause the miscarriage of an entire harem, if not of every honest woman throughout his jurisdiction! The superstition spread like wildfire. The women were up in arms against the beast; and I had no rest till I got rid of its serenades by despatching it to Monrovia, where the dames and damsels were not afraid of donkeys of any dimensions.