which, indeed, was melancholy enough, for he had no provisions, was beset
on every side, quite incapable of judging what to undertake, or what
course to steer: however, he at last resolved to steer farther into the
woods, which he accordingly did, and got up into another tree: here he
sat all the succeeding day, without a morsel of food; but was diverted
with a great multitude of squirrels he saw skipping from tree to tree;
and had he had a gun, he could have shot hundreds of pigeons, there was
so great a plenty of them. The next day, towards night, hunger became
too powerful, and he was almost spent for want of food; in this necessity
he knew not what to do; at last, happening to spy a planter's house at a
distance, he was resolved to venture down in the night, thinking he might
chance to find food of some sort or other, in or about the house:
agreeable to this resolution, he came down the tree in the middle of the
night, and, going into the planter's yard, to his great joy he found
there a parcel of milk cows penned in, which he soon milked in the crown
of his hat, making a most delicious feast, and then retired to the woods
again, climbing up into a tree, where he passed the day much more easy
than he had the preceding one.
Having found out this method of subsisting, he proceeded forwards in the
same manner, concealing himself in a tree in the day-time, and travelling
all the night, milking the cows as often as he had an opportunity; and
steering his course as near as he could guess towards Duck's Creek.
On the fifth night he heard the voices of several people near him in the
woods, upon which he stepped on one side, and concealed himself behind a
tree, till they had passed by. When he came near enough to distinguish
their words, he heard them say, we will make the best of our way to
Duck's Creek, and there we shall certainly have him. He now judged that
these were some men in pursuit of him, therefore thought himself very
happy in having so narrowly escaped them.
On the eighth day, being upon a tree, he discovered a lone house, near
the skirts of the woods, and saw all the family (as he supposed) going
out to hoe tobacco, and the dog following them; this was a joyful sight
to him, for he had not, the two preceding nights, met with any cows, and
consequently had been without food. As soon, therefore, as the family
were out of sight, he came down from the tree, and ventured in the house,
where he found not only enough to satisfy his hunger, but what might be
deemed luxury in his present condition: for there was a jolly cake,
powell, a sort of Indian corn bread, and good omani, which is
kidney-beans ground with Indian corn, sifted, then put into a pot to
boil, and eat with molasses. Seeing so many dainties, he did not
hesitate long, but, hunger pressing, sat down and ate the omani with as
much composure as if he had been invited thereto by the owner of it: and
knowing that hunger and necessity are bound by no laws of honour, he took
the liberty of borrowing the jolly cake, powell, and a leg of fine pork,
then hastened back to the tree with his booty. What the people thought
when they returned at night with good appetites, and found their dainty
omani, their jolly cake, and their pork, all vanished, we know not, but
suppose they were not a little surprised.
Being thus stocked with provisions, he made the best of his way to
Ogle-town that night, and so to Old-town. In the dawn of the morning of
the eleventh day, he came in sight of Duck's Creek; but being afraid he
might fall into the hands of his pursuers, he struck a great way into the
woods towards Tuck Hoe; where staying all the day in a tree, he came
again in the middle of the night to Duck's Creek. As soon as he came
here, he ran to the water side to seek for a canoe, but found them all
chained; he immediately set himself about breaking the chain, but found
it too strong, and all endeavours to break it were in vain. Never was
man more thunder-struck than he was now, just at the time when he
expected to be out of danger, to meet with so unforeseen and
insurmountable an obstacle. He knew there was no way of escaping, but by
passing the river Delaware, and could not think of a method of effecting
it. Several hours did he pass in this agitation of mind: sometimes he
had a mind to try his strength in swimming, but the river being so wide,
he thought he could not reach the opposite shore; at last, reflecting
what one of his ancestors had done in swimming a horse over Teignmouth
bar, and seeing some horses grazing thereabout, he resolved to attempt
passing the Delaware in that manner; for, let the worst happen, he
thought death preferable to slavery. Being thus resolved, he soon caught
one of the horses, and, making a sort of bridle with his handkerchief,
brought the horse to the water side; he walked for some time on the
banks, looking for a proper place to enter the horse: at last, espying a
little stream, which ran into the great river Deleware, he stripped
himself, and, tying his frock and trowsers about his shoulders, mounted
the horse, and putting him forward a little, the horse soon lost his
footing, and the water came up to Mr. Carew's middle, who kept his legs
as near as possible to the horse, and in this manner launched into the
great river Delaware.
The horse snorted and neighed to his companions, but made for the
opposite shore with all the strength he could. Mr. Carew did not imagine
the horse would be able to reach it, but proposed to save himself by
swimming when the horse failed, for the river was three miles over:
however the horse reached the shore, but finding no place to land, it
being a sandy mud, he was obliged to swim him along the shore, till he
came to a little creek, which the horse swimming into, soon got sure
footing, to the great joy of Mr. Carew, who, dismounting, kissed the
horse, telling him he must now turn quaker as well as himself, and so let
him go into the woods.
His clothes were not very wet; however, he staid on the banks some time
to dry them with the morning sun, then went up into the country. The
first house he came to was a miller's, whose wife came out and asked him
from whence he came? He told her he had been a prisoner some time in the
Havannah, from whence he had been released by an exchange of prisoners,
and was now going home.
The good woman pitied him much, and told him he looked very melancholy;
but her husband coming in, said, he believed he was an Irishman. This he
denied, averring he was of the West of England; so they gave him a piece
of that country money, and a mug of rum, which he drinking greedily,
being very thirsty, it threw him into such a violent fever, that he was
obliged to stop at a neighbouring house, where he lay sick for three or
four days. From hence he went to Newcastle, where he raised
contributions from several gentlemen, as he had done before, but not
under the former name, from hence to Castle, Brandywine Ferry, Chester,
and Derby, where he got relief from the same miller that Mr. Whitfield
was with when he was there before, and lodged at the same house, but took
care to disguise himself so as not to be known: he there got a pass from
the justice as a sick man bound to Boston. From hence he proceeded to
Brunswick, where he got relief from Mr. Matthews, the miller, who treated
him so hospitably the first time he was there, but did not know him again
now.
From hence he proceeded to New London, where he chanced to see the
captain who had taken him home before, but he avoided him. From New
London he proceeded to Groten, where he got a twenty-shilling bill from
one Mr. Goyf, and several half-crown bills from other people. He then
inquired of his landlord his way to Rhode-island, who accompanied him
about two miles of the way, when they chanced to fall into the company of
some drovers, who were driving a number of bullocks, for the use of some
privateers that lay at Rhode-island; he therefore joined them, and, after
about nine or ten miles travelling, they came to a ferry, where they
stopped at a public-house for some time, till the bullocks were taken
over; but neither the tavern-man nor drovers would suffer him to pay any
thing, they pitying his unfortunate condition: and passing over this
ferry, they came to Rhode-island.
Rhode-island, by the natives called Aquetnet, near the Narraganset Bay,
is fourteen or fifteen miles long, and four or five miles abroad. It was
first inhabited by the English in the year 1639. Those that withdrew to
this island were such as espoused the covenant of grace, and were under
great persecution from them that sided with the covenant of works. There
is a very considerable trade from Rhode-island to the sugar colonies for
butter and cheese, a sure sign of the fruitfulness and beauty of the
place, for horses, sheep, beef, pork, tallow, and timber, from which the
traders have been enriched. It is deservedly called the Paradise of New
England, for the great fruitfulness of the soil, and the temperature of
the climate, which, though it be not above fifty-five miles from Boston,
is a coat warmer in winter, and, being surrounded by the ocean, is not so
much affected in summer with the hot land-breezes as the towns on the
continent. They live in great amity with their neighbours, and, though
every man does what he thinks right in his own eyes, it is rare that any
notorious crimes are committed by them, which may be attributed in some
measure to their great veneration for the Holy Scriptures, which they all
read, from the least to the greatest, though they have neither ministers
nor magistrates to recommend it to them.
Here Mr. Carew found many of his old acquaintance, particularly one Mr.
Perkins, a stay-maker, and Mr. Gidley and his mother, who kept several
negroes for distilling rum, and Mr. Southeon Lingworthy, a pewterer, all
natives of Exeter, and one Mr. Martin, of Honiton, in Devon, they were
all very glad to see him; he telling them, that he was taken by the
Spaniards, and had escaped from prison, they treated him with very great
kindness, and gave him letters to carry to their friends in England.
From hence he went through Piscataqua and Marblehead to Boston, the
capital of New England, and the largest city in America, except two or
three on the Spanish continent. It is pleasantly situated on a
peninsula, about four miles in compass, at the bottom of a fine bay, (the
Massachusets,) guarded from the roughness of the ocean by several rocks
appearing above water, and by above a dozen islands, many of which are
inhabited. One of these, called Nettle's island, within these few years,
was esteemed worth two or three hundred pounds a year to the owner,
Colonel Shrimpton. There is but one common and safe passage into the
bay, and that not very broad, there being hardly room for three ships to
come in abreast; but, being once in, there is room for the anchorage of
five hundred sail.
The most remarkable of these islands is called Castle-island, from the
castle there built. It stands about a league from the town, upon the
main channel leading to it, and is so conveniently situated, that no ship
of burden can approach the town, without the hazard of being torn in
pieces by its cannon. It was now called Fort William, being mounted with
one hundred pieces of ordnance: two hundred more which were given to the
province of Queen Anne, are placed on a platform near high water mark, so
as to rake a ship fore and aft, before she can bring her broadsides to
bear against the castle. Some of these cannon are forty-two pounders.
Five hundred able men are exempt from all military duty in time of war,
to be ready to attend the service of the castle at an hour's warning,
upon any signal of the approach of an enemy, of which there seems to be
no great danger at Boston; where in twenty-four hours' time, ten thousand
effective men, well armed, might be ready for their defence. To prevent
all possible surprise, there is a light-house built on the rock appearing
above water, about a long league from the town, which in time of war
makes a signal to the castle, and the castle to the town, by hoisting and
lowering the union flag, so many times as there are ships approaching,
which, if they exceed a certain number, the castle fires three guns, to
alarm the town of Boston; and the governor, if need be, orders a beacon
to be fired, which alarms all the adjacent country; so that unless an
enemy can be supposed to sail by so many islands and rocks in a fog, the
town of Boston must have six or more hours to prepare for their
reception; but, supposing they might pass the castle, there are two
batteries at the north and south end of the town that command the whole
bay, and make it impossible for an enemy's ship of any burden to ride
there in safety, while the merchant-men and small craft may retire up
into Charles-river, out of the reach of cannon.
It is equally impossible for any ship to be run away with out of this
harbour by a pirate; for the castle suffers no ships outward-bound to
pass, without a permit from the governor, which is never granted without
a clearing from the custom-house, and the usual notice of sailing, by
loosening the fore-top sail.
The bay of Boston is spacious enough to contain, in a manner, the whole
navy of England. The masts of ships here, at the proper season of the
year, make a kind of a wood of trees, like that which we see upon the
river Thames about Wapping and Limehouse, which may be easily imagined,
when we consider, that, by the computation given in by the collectors of
his majesty's light-house, it appeared that there were twenty-four
thousand tons of shipping cleared annually.
There is a larger pier at the bottom of the bay, one thousand eight
hundred, or two thousand feet in length, with a row of warehouses on the
north side. The pier runs so far into the bay, that ships of the
greatest burden may unload without the help of boats and lighters. The
chief streets of the town come down to the head of the pier. At the
upper end of it is the town-house, or exchange, a fine building,
containing, besides the walk for merchants, the council-chambers, the
house of commons, and a spacious room for the courts of justice. The
exchange is surrounded with booksellers' shops, who have a good trade.
There are several printing-houses, where the presses are generally full
of work, which is in a great measure, owing to the colleges and schools
for useful learning in New England.
The town of Boston lies in the form of a half-moon round the harbour,
consisting of between three and four thousand houses, and makes an
agreeable prospect; the surrounding shore being high, the streets long,
and the buildings beautiful. The goodness of the pavement may compare
with most in London; to gallop a horse on it is three shillings and
fourpence forfeit.
It is computed the number of inhabitants is not less than twenty-four
thousand, which is one-third more than the computation of the city of
Exeter, and consequently Boston is one-third bigger than that city, which
is pretty near the matter.
There are ten churches in Boston, viz. Old Church, North Church, South
Church, New Church, New North Church, New South Church, the Church of
England Church, the Baptist Meeting, and the Quakers' Meeting.
The conversation in this town is as polite as in most of the cities and
towns in England; many of their merchants having traded in Europe, and
those that stay at home having the advantage of society with travellers;
so that a gentleman from London would think himself at home in Boston,
when he observes the number of people, their furniture, their tables,
their dress, and conversation, which perhaps is as splendid and showy as
that of the most considerable tradesmen in London. Upon the whole,
Boston is the most flourishing town for trade and commerce in all
America. Near six hundred sail of ships have been laden here in a year
for Europe and the British plantations. Here the governor commonly
resides, the general court and assembly meet, the courts of judicature
sit, and the affairs of the whole province are transacted.
The streets are broad and regular; some of the richest merchants have
very stately, well built, convenient houses. The ground on which the
town stands is wonderfully high; and very good water is found all over
it. There are several wharfs built, which jet into the harbour, one of
which is eight hundred feet in length, where large ships with great ease
may load and unload. On one side are warehouses almost the whole length
of the wharf, where the merchants stow their goods; and more than fifty
ships may load and unload there at the same time.
Coming into the city, Mr. Carew was surprised at the grandeur of it; and
seeing a green hill at the end of the great street, much like Glastonbury
Tower, he went up to it, and had a most beautiful prospect of the city
from the top of it, where was placed the mast of a ship, with pullies to
draw up a lighted barrel of tar to alarm the country in case of an
invasion. Going down the hill again he met two drummers, a sergeant, and
several soldiers and marines, who were, by the beat of drum, proclaiming,
that the taverns and shopkeepers might safely credit the soldiers and
marines to a certain value. Some of the soldiers presently knew him,
and, accosting him, persuaded him to go along them to one Mother
Passmore's, a house of rendezvous, where they were very merry together.
While they were drinking, in came Captain Sharp, who commanded them, and
who was an old acquaintance of our hero's. What, Mr. Carew! cried the
captain in a surprise, who could think of seeing you here? When did you
see my brother? I saw him, replied he, about six months ago, but his
lady is dead. Is she so? said the captain, I have heard nothing of it.
The captain having asked him several other questions, treated him very
handsomely, and kept him some time at his own charge: but his heart
glowing to see his native country, he once more resolved to ship himself
for old England. He accordingly agreed to take the run with Captain
Ball, of the Mary, for fifteen pounds, fifteen gallons of rum, ten pounds
of sugar and tobacco, and ten pipes. They were two months on their
voyage before they made Lundy, nothing material happening on their
passage worthy of being recorded in this true history. The captain would
not stop at Lundy for a pilot, but made for Combe, and there took one in,
who brought the ship safe to King Road, and the next tide up to the quay
at Bristol; and having moored the vessel, the crew spent the night on
shore with their jolly landladies.
The next morning early they all got on board, and soon after the captain
came with some Bristol merchants. The captain gave Mr. Carew a bill on
his brother who lived at Topsham, and having received payment thereof, he
soon turned his back on Bristol.
Mr. Carew, having left Bristol, made the best of his way to Bridgewater,
and from thence unto Taunton, and so to Exeter, supporting his travelling
expenses by his ingenuity as a mendicant. As soon as he arrived at
Exeter, he made the best of his way to the house of an old acquaintance,
where he expected to hear some news of his beloved wife; but going
through East-gate, he was met by two gentlemen, who immediately cried
out, Here's our old friend Carew! They then laid hold of him, and took
him back to the Oxford Inn, where they inquired where he had been this
long time. He acquainted them in what manner he had been seized, on
Topsham quay, and carried to Maryland; he likewise informed of Captain
Simmonds's death, (which they were sorry to hear of,) and that the vessel
had been carried into port by Harrison, the mate, who was afterwards
drowned, in company with some planters, in Talbot river.
Fame having soon sounded the arrival of our hero through every street in
Exeter, several gentlemen flocked to the Oxford Inn to visit him, and
amongst the rest merchant Davy. What! have you found your way home
again? said the merchant. Yes, yes, replied he; as you sent me over for
your pleasure, I am come back for my own; which made the gentlemen laugh
very heartily. The merchant then asked him several questions about
Captain Simmonds and Harrison, where he left the vessel, and if he had
been sold. No, no, replied he, I took care to be out of the way before
they had struck a bargain for me; and, as to the vessel, I left her in
Miles river. The gentlemen could not help being surprised at his
ingenuity and expedition, in thus getting home twice before the vessel
which carried him out. Merchant Davy then proposed making a collection
for him, and began it himself with half-a-crown; having therefore
received a handsome contribution, he returned the gentlemen thanks, and
took his leave, being impatient to hear some news about his wife. He
went directly to his usual quarters, at Kitty Finnimore's, Castle-lane,
where he occasioned no little terror to his landlady, she believing it to
be his ghost, as she heard he was certainly dead; however, our hero soon
convinced her he was real flesh and blood. He then inquired when she
heard from his wife, who informed him, to his great joy, that both his
wife and daughter were there a few days before, and were going towards
Newton-Bushel; but they had given over all thoughts of seeing him any
more, as they thought him dead.
He now set forward immediately for Newton-Bushel. Calling at Lord
Clifford's in his way, he was told by Mrs. Ratcliffe, the housekeeper,
and Mr. Kilshaw, the steward, (who were quite surprised to see him,) that
his wife had been there just before, supposing him to be dead; and that
he would find her at Newton-Bushel. Though it was then night, our hero,
impatient of seeing his wife and daughter, set forward for Newton-Bushel,
where he arrived late in the night. Going directly to his usual
quarters, he found them all in bed, and calling out to the woman of the
house, his wife, hearing his voice, immediately leaped out of bed,
crying, it was her poor Bampfylde. A light was then struck with as much
expedition as possible, and his wife, daughter, and landlady, all came
down to open the door to him.
Here, how shall I find words to express the transports of our hero, the
tender embraces of his wife, the endearing words of his daughter, and
hearty congratulations of the landlady! Unable for the task, most gentle
reader, I must imitate that celebrated painter who painted Agamemnon with
a covering over his face, at the sacrifice of his daughter, and draw a
veil over this scene of tenderness; let it suffice to say, that their joy
was too full to be contained, and, not finding any other passage, gushed
out in tears.
The next morning, accompanied by his wife and daughter, he went and paid
his respects to Sir Thomas Carew, at Hackum, where they were received
with great kindness; and Sir Thomas told him, if he would forsake the
mendicant order, he would take care to provide for him and his family.
He returned Sir Thomas a great many thanks, but declared, that, as he had
entered himself into the mendicant order, he was resolved to continue
therein as long as he lived; but hoped if any accident happened to him,
he would extend his goodness to his dear wife and daughter.
It was about this time, that one of the greatest personages in the
kingdom being at Bath, Mr. Carew was drawn thither with the rest of the
world to see her, but to more advantage indeed to himself than most
others reaped from it; for making himself as much an Hanoverian as he
could in his dress, &c., he presented a petition to her as an unfortunate
person of that country; and as every one is inclined to be kind to their
own countryfolks, he had from her a very princely benefaction.