Speaking of Mr. Pordage's wanderings of
mind, reminds me that it is necessary to say
a word next, about the much more serious
case of Serjeant Drooce. The cut on his
head, acted on by the heat of the climate,
had driven him, to all appearance, stark mad.
Besides the danger to himself, if he broke out
before the Pirates, there was the danger to
the women and children, of trusting him
among them—a misfortune which, in
our captive condition, it was impossible to
avoid. Most providentially, however (as I
found on inquiry) Tom Packer, who had
saved his life, had a power of controlling
him, which none of the rest of us possessed.
Some shattered recollection of the manner in
which he had been preserved from death,
seemed to be still left in a corner of his
memory. Whenever he showed symptoms
of breaking out, Tom looked at him, and
repeated with his hand and arm the action
of cutting out right and left which had been
the means of his saving the sergeant. On
seeing that, Drooce always huddled himself
up close to Tom, and fell silent. We,—that
is, Packer and I—arranged it together that
he was always to keep near Drooce, whatever
happened, and however far we might
be marched before we reached the place of
our imprisonment.

The rest of us men—meaning Mr. Macey,
Mr. Fisher, two of my comrades of the Marines,
and five of the sloop's crew—were, making
allowance for a little smarting in our
wounds, in tolerable health, and not half
so much broken in spirit by troubles, past,
present, and to come, as some persons might
be apt to imagine. As for the seamen,
especially, no stranger who looked at
their jolly brown faces would ever have
imagined that they were prisoners, and in
peril of their lives. They sat together, chewing
their quids, and looking out good-
humouredly at the sea, like a gang of liberty-
men resting themselves on shore. "Take it
easy, soldier," says one of the six, seeing me
looking at him. "And, if you can't do that,
take it as easy as you can." I thought, at
the time, that many a wiser man might have
given me less sensible advice than this,
though it was only offered by a boatswain's
mate.

A movement among the Pirates attracted
my notice to the beach below us, and I saw
their Captain approaching our halting-
place, having changed his fine clothes for
garments that were fit to travel in.

His coming back to us had the effect of
producing unmistakable signs of preparation
for a long journey. Shortly after he
appeared, three Indians came up, leading three
loaded mules; and these were followed, in a
few minutes, by two of the Sambos, carrying
between them a copper full of smoking meat
and broth. After having been shared among
the Pirates, this mess was set down before
us, with some wooden bowls floating about
in it, to dip out the food with. Seeing that we
hesitated before touching it, the Pirate Captain
recommended us not to be too mealy-mouthed,
as that was meat from our own stores on the
Island, and the last we were likely to taste
for a long time to come. The sailors, without
any more ado about it, professed their
readiness to follow this advice, muttering
among themselves that good meat was
a good thing, though the devil himself had
cooked it. The Pirate Captain then,
observing that we were all ready to accept
the food, ordered the bonds that confined
the hands of us men to be loosened and
cast off, so that we might help ourselves.
After we had served the women and
children, we fell to. It was a good meal—
though I can't say that I myself had much
appetite for it. Jack, to use his own phrase,
stowed away a double allowance. The jolly
faces of the seamen lengthened a good deal,
however, when they found there was nothing
to drink afterwards but plain water. One of
them, a fat man, named Short, went so far
as to say that, in the turn things seemed
to have taken, he should like to make his
will before we started, as the stoppage of his
grog and the stoppage of his life were two
events that would occur uncommonly close
together.

When we had done, we were all ordered
to stand up. The Pirates approached me and
the other men, to bind our arms again; but,
the Captain stopped them.

"No," says he. "I want them to get on
at a good pace; and they will do that best
with their arms free. Now, prisoners," he
continued, addressing us, "I don't mean to
have any lagging on the road. I have fed
you up with good meat, and you have no
excuse for not stepping out briskly—women,
children, and all. You men are without
weapons and without food, and you know
nothing of the country you are going to
travel through. If you are mad enough, in
this helpless condition, to attempt escaping
on the march, you will be shot, as sure as you
all stand there,—and if the bullet misses, you
will starve to death in forests that have no
path and no end."

Having addressed us in those words, he
turned again to his men. I wondered then, as
I had wondered once or twice already, what
those private reasons might be, which he had
mentioned in his written paper, for sparing
the lives of us male prisoners. I hoped he
would refer to them now—but I was
disappointed.

"While the country allows it," he went
on, addressing his crew, "march in a square,
and keep the prisoners inside. Whether it
is man, woman, or child, shoot any one of
them who tries to escape, on peril of being
shot yourselves if you miss. Put the Indians
and mules in front, and the Sambos next to
them. Draw up the prisoners all together.
Tell off seven men to march before them,