Mr Collinson had expected to hear from Monsieur Mouret, but day after day passed by and no news reached him.  The other lieutenant, Mr Mason, at length proposed that they should endeavour to make their escape to the coast.

“I fear that the undertaking is too hazardous to be attempted,” answered Mr Collinson.  “Even should we reach the coast, we may find no vessel to take us on board.”

Still, as he thought over the matter, he felt greatly inclined, at all risks, to make the attempt.  He had husbanded the small sum of money he possessed, in case of dire necessity, either to help them to escape or to obtain food.  Meantime, the rest of the party, who had scarcely recovered from their previous hardships, were growing thinner and thinner.

Sunshine Bill was the only one who kept up his spirits.  In a neighbouring cottage, to which the stable belonged, lived an old negress, the wife of the proprietor.  More than once she had caught sight of Bill, who used to go outside their habitation in the evening, and amuse the rest of the party, by showing that he had not forgotten Jack Windy’s instructions in dancing the hornpipe.  Jack declared that he had neither strength nor inclination to shake a leg himself, but he would not mind singing a tune for Bill to dance; and dance Bill did with great glee.  He did his best to try and persuade Tommy to join him, but Tommy was too weak and ill to do anything of the sort.  At length, one evening, when Bill had just finished his performance, the old black woman was seen approaching with a steaming bowl in her arms.

“Dare, brave garcon,” she said, patting Bill on the head, and pointing to the bowl, and making signs for him to eat.

She then signified that the rest might have what he chose to leave.  Bill was for giving it to them at once, but she snatched the bowl back again, and squatted herself down upon the ground to see that he took enough.  Whenever he stopped, she insisted upon his going on again, till at last he put his hands before him, and made signs that he could eat no more.  She then allowed him to give the remainder to his hungry companions, who very soon finished it.

“Thank you, mammy,” said Bill; “but, I say, could you not just bring a plate for our officer?  He is as hungry as we are.  He is inside there, very ill;” and Bill made signs which could scarcely be mistaken.

The old woman caught the word “officer,” and she nodded her head.  She soon returned with another dish of meat and vegetables, which Bill took in to Mr Collinson.

The next day after Bill had danced his hornpipe, old Mammy Otello, as they called her, came with her usual bowl of food, but on this occasion she brought a basket with various fruits besides.  This she did for two or three days.  One day, however, she came at an earlier hour, and made signs to Bill that he must come over to her house.  The rest of the party offered to accompany him, but she very significantly showed that she did not want their society.  Bill went on, wondering what she could require, though from her good-natured looks, he felt sure she intended him no harm.

As they were going towards the house, he saw a number of black people in gay dresses coming towards it from various quarters; and when he got there, he found a large room almost full of negroes in ruffles and shirt frills, and negresses in the gayest of gay gowns, somewhat scanty over the shoulder, and fitting rather close to the figure.  Bill found that there was to be a black ball.  At one end of the room sat, perched up on the top of a cask, a fiddler, who began scraping away as he entered.

The guests were beginning to stand up for dancing, but Mammy Otello, taking Bill by the hand, led him up to the musician, and made him understand that he was to describe the tune he wanted to have played.  Bill sung out his tune as well as he could, and the fiddler made violent attempts to imitate it.  At length he succeeded to his own satisfaction, if not to Bill’s.

Mammy then led him back into the middle of the room, and made him understand that he was to commence dancing.

“Well, you have been a kind old soul to us,” he observed; “the only one who has shown us any attention in this place; and I will do my best to please you.”

The musician began to play, and Bill began to dance, and very soon the former seemed to understand exactly the sort of music required, and off he went.  The guests shouted and shrieked, and clapped their hands; and the fiddler went on playing, and Bill went on dancing, and it seemed a great question which would first grow tired.

“I’ll do it, that I will,” thought Bill to himself; “if it’s only to see these blackamoors grinning, and rolling their eyes, and shrieking, and clapping their hands in the funny way they do.”

At length, so eager did the spectators become, that they pressed closer and closer upon the dancer, and Mammy Otello had to rush in and shove them back with her stout arms to prevent him from being overwhelmed.

“Tired yet, old fellow?” shouted Bill, as he went on shuffling away and kicking his heels; “I am not, let me tell you!”

The fiddler, although he might not have understood the words, comprehended the gesture, and continued working away till it seemed as if either his head or his arms and fiddle would part company, flying off in different directions.  Still Bill danced, and the black fiddler played, roars of applause proceeding from the thick lips of the dark-skinned audience.

At length, Mammy Otello, fancying that Bill himself would come to pieces, or that he would fall down exhausted, rushed in, and seizing him in her arms, carried him to a seat, amid the laughter and shouting and grinning and stamping of all present; the fiddler, dropping down his right hand, and letting his instrument slip from his chin, gave vent to a loud gasp, as if he could not either have continued his exertions many seconds longer.

Bill wanted to go back for his friends, to bring them up to see the fun, but his hostess would not hear of it; and, whenever he got up to beat a retreat, she ran and brought him back again.  Meantime, the room was occupied by the negroes, who danced away in a fashion Bill had never seen before.

They bowed and scraped, and set to each other, however, with all the dignity of high-bred persons.  At length Bill watched his opportunity and while Mammy Otello had gone to another part of the room, he bolted out of the house, and set off as fast as his legs could carry him to his companions in captivity.

“I told you, Bill, that hornpipe of yours would gain friends wherever you go,” said Jack.  “I wish the old lady would give me a chance, however.  Perhaps she will now be civil to us on your account.”

The next day, when Mammy Otello came, she seemed rather inclined to scold Bill for running away.  He got Mr Collinson to explain that he would not have done so had the rest of the party been invited, as he did no think it fair to enjoy all the fun by himself.

“Bon garcon; bon garcon!” said Mammy Otello.  “The next time, for his sake, we will invite you all.”

Mr Collinson was surprised, after the many promises of assistance made by Monsieur Mouret, the planter, that he should neither have seen nor heard anything of him.  At length one day, a black, dressed in livery, rode into the village, inquiring for the English lieutenant who had last come.  On seeing Mr Collinson, he presented a note in a lady’s hand.  It contained but a few words.  It was from Mademoiselle Mouret.

“The day after you came here,” she said, “my father was taken ill, just as he was about to set off to Point a Petre, to make interest for you.  I watched over him for some days, and I confess that my grief allowed the promises he had made to escape my memory.  Alas!  He has been taken from me, while I myself have barely escaped with life; and only now am I sufficiently recovered to write.  Fearing that you will receive very uncourteous treatment from my countrymen, and that you may be even suffering from want of food, I have sent you some provisions by our faithful servant Pierre, as also a purse, which, I trust, you will accept from one who, though in affliction, is grateful for the kindness she has received from your friends.”

Mr Collinson felt that he had no right to refuse the gift which the young lady had so liberally sent.  When Jack Windy heard of it, he exclaimed

“They’re all alike!  Never mind whether they’re French, or Dons, or blackamoors, there’s a tender place in most women’s hearts, unless they’re downright bad, and then stand clear of them, I say, for they’re worse than us men.”

The next time Mammy Otello appeared, Mr Collinson placed a gold piece in her hand.

“Here, madame,” he said; “I beg that you will accept this as a mark of how sensible we are of your kindness; and I beg to assure you, that, if you can give us better accommodation, we will gladly pay for it.”

Mammy Otello’s countenance beamed, her mouth grew considerably wider, and her eyes sparkled, partly at the sight of the money, and partly at the lieutenant’s polite speech.  Putting the coin into her pocket, she hastened away.  In a short time she returned.

“Our family is a small one,” she said; “and as the authorities here do not object, my good man and I have arranged to give you two rooms in our house, while you shall take your meals in our public room.”

Mr Collinson’s great difficulty was to find paper and pen to write a suitable reply to Mademoiselle Mouret.  His own pocket-book had been destroyed.  Not a particle of paper could he find in the place, not even the fly-leaf of a book.  The other two officers had no paper of any sort.  He was able, therefore, only to return a verbal answer to the young lady.

“I told you so,” said Bill, when these satisfactory arrangements had been made, “that things would improve with us, and so they have.”

“Yes; but we’ve not had yellow Jack among us yet; and depend upon it he will be coming before long,” answered old Grim.

The good fortune of the Lillys, as the other prisoners called Mr Collinson and his followers, rather excited their jealousy.  It tended, however, but little to raise his spirits, and he began to fear that he should never again see his friends.

“Cheer up, sir,” said Bill, who had constituted himself his special attendant, “things have mended, and they will mend still more.  It’s a dark day when the sun does not shine out; and depend upon it, though the clouds seem pretty heavy just now, the sun will come out before long.”

One day there was an unusual commotion in the village.  The negroes were running about and talking to each other, and the white people especially wore anxious countenances.  Soon afterwards, drums were heard, and a regiment of militia marched by.  For some time, the prisoners could not ascertain what was taking place, though it was evident that something of importance was about to occur.  The few regulars in the neighbourhood were seen hurriedly to march away.

Mr Collinson and the other two officers were talking together.

“Hark!” said the former; “that’s the sound of a heavy gun!”

Others followed.  Eagerly they listened.  Some thought that they were fired at sea, others on shore.  At length the excitement of the people, who had also heard the firing, greatly increased, and they confessed that an English force had come off the island, and that the English troops had landed that morning.

“I wish we could manage to get to the top of some hill to see what is going forward,” exclaimed Jack Windy.  “Bill, what do you say?  We could get away from these fellows now.”

“If Mr Collinson wishes it, I am ready enough to go,” answered Bill.

“I am afraid he would say no, if we were to ask him,” said Jack.  “I would give anything to find out who is winning the day.”

However, the nearest hills were some way off, and, even if they had got to the top of them, they could not at all tell that they would be able to see what was taking place.  The sound of the firing increased, and it became very certain that a fierce engagement was going on.  The people about them, however, knew no more than they did, so they could gain no information.

At length a body of men was seen coming over a pass in the distance.  They were watched anxiously.  Who could they be English or French?  On they came, increasing their speed.  As they drew nearer, it was evident that they were black troops the same regiment, indeed, which had passed through the village in the morning.  It seemed, from the way they marched, or rather ran, that they thought an enemy was behind them.  They bore among them several wounded men.  Not till they had hurried through the village did they halt.

At first, no one would say what had happened.  The hopes of the English prisoners, however, began to rise, and soon the news spread through the village that a fierce battle had been fought, and that the English had been victorious.  At length a French officer was seen coming along the road, who stopped for a few minutes to give his horse some water.  Mr Collinson approached him.

“I am one of the English officers who have been some time prisoners in the island,” he said, addressing him in French.

“Ah!” he answered, “you need consider yourselves prisoners no longer.  Your countrymen have come with an overwhelming force and taken possession of the island.  I am sent with despatches to the other side, to give notice of the capitulation.”

This news rapidly spread throughout the village.

A loud cheer burst from Jack and the boys’ throats, in which even
Grimshaw joined.

The other prisoners came hurrying up to hear the news, and three more hearty cheers were given, in which even many of the negroes for sympathy could not help joining.  There, whites and blacks were shouting together, and shaking hands cordially.

There was some difficulty in getting conveyances for the whole party.  At length, however, mules and horses sufficient to carry them were collected.  Mammy Otello gave Bill an affectionate embrace, as he wished her good-bye, an honour she did not bestow on the rest of the party.  She insisted, however, on their taking several delicacies of her own cooking; and, at length, all hands being under weigh, with repeated cheers, the sailors set out from the place of their long imprisonment.

Mr Collinson stopped at the house where they had been entertained on their way.  Mademoiselle Mouret entreated him not to thank her for the trifle she had sent, and begged him to assure his friends that, should they ever come to the island, it would be her pride and pleasure to receive them.

On arriving in sight of the sea, a large fleet of men-of-war and transports were seen below them, while British troops lay encamped on the side of the hill.  Having been delivered over by the French authorities, in due form, to the English, they once more had the satisfaction of feeling themselves free men.  Among the ships lay a fine corvette.  No sooner did Jack Windy’s eye fall on her than he exclaimed

“She’s the Lilly herself, or I’m a Dutchman!”

Hastening down to the port, they eagerly put off in the first boats they could find.  As they pulled alongside, none on board knew them.  Captain Trevelyan and the other officers were on deck.  Besides Mr Barker, there was another lieutenant.

“Then they must suppose I am lost,” thought Mr Collinson, as he stepped aft.  “I am afraid I am not known,” he said.

Captain Trevelyan started.  A beam of pleasure lighted up his face.

Fortunately, the corvette was immediately despatched with news of the capture of the island.  She had a quick passage to Jamaica, and Mr Collinson lost not many hours, after his arrival, in hurrying to Uphill Cottage.  The black cook told Bill, who went up with him on his next visit, that the young lady did not go into hysterics at the sight of him, but, although she had been somewhat sad and pale before, her colour returned, and her voice was as cheerful and merry as it used to be.  As Mr Collinson had been superseded, he did not return to the Lilly; indeed, a few days after her arrival, he received his promotion.

“Now he is a commander, I suppose he will be marrying Miss Lydall,” observed Bill a remark the sagacity of which was proved a few days before the Lilly sailed for England, where Mr and Mrs Collinson soon after arrived in a merchant-vessel.

Although Bill did not bring home as much gold as he had expected, he was received not the less warmly by widow Sunnyside and his brothers and sisters.  Soon afterwards, Captain Collinson called at the widow’s house, and left with her a roll of gold pieces.

“Here are Bill’s wages,” he said.  “He attended me as my servant, and I consider them justly his due; indeed,” he added, “if it had not been for his hopeful and cheerful spirit, I believe that I should have sunk under the hardships we had to go through.”

The next time Captain Trevelyan went to sea, he took Sunshine Bill with him; indeed, for many years he served either with him, or with Captain Collinson, whose coxswain he became.  At that time, finding an honest girl who reminded him of his happy little mother, he married, and had no reason to repent his choice.  Ultimately, having improved in his education, he passed as a boatswain, in which capacity he served for many years, till he was laid up, like many another noble tar, in ordinary; but to the end of his days he maintained the same cheerful and hopeful disposition which had carried him through so many trials in his youth a disposition which was happily inherited by a numerous offspring.