e Blackcap, that never
spared but one in the Calendar, and then 'twas by Mistake."

These were not very comfortable news for me, poor manacled wretch; and
with a great bayonet-wound in my side to boot, that had been but
clumsily dressed by a village Leech, who was, I suspect, a Farrier and
Cow Doctor as well. But I have always found, in this life's whirligig,
that when your Case is at the worst (unless a Man indeed Dies, when
there is nothing more to be done), it is pretty sure to mend, if you lie
quiet and let things take their chance. I could not be much worse off
than I was, wounded and friendless, and a captive; and so I held my
tongue, and let them use me as they would. Some scant comfort was it,
however, to find, when the battle-field was gone over, that, besides the
Grenadier whose crown I had cracked, another had been pistolled by
Jowler, and and lay mortally wounded, and Groaning Dismally. Poor Jowler
himself would never pistol Foe more. He was dead; for the Men of War,
furious at our desperate Resistance, at the worsting of their
fine-feathered officer (who was mumbling of his bruised hand as a
down-trodden Hound would its paw, and cursing meanwhile, which Dogs use
not to do), and driven to Mad Rage by the escape of Captain Night, had
fired pell-mell into a Group of which Jowler made one, and so killed
him. A bullet through his brain set him clean quit of all indictments
under the Black Act, before our Sovereign Lord the King. Likewise was it
a matter of rejoicing for our party that, after long seeking the Traitor
Coaley, the wretched "Beau" was found duly strangled, and completely a
corpse on the staircase. There was something curious about the manner of
justice coming to this villain. The Deed had been done with no weapon
more Lethal than an old Stocking; yet so tightly was it tied round his
false neck, that it had to be cut off piecemeal, and even then the ribs
of the worsted were found to be Imbedded, and to have made Furrows in
his flesh. Now it is certain that we Blacks had not laid about us with
old Wives' hose, any more than we had lunged at our enemies with
knitting-needles. There, however, was Monsieur Judas, as dead as a
Dolphin two hours on deck. Lord, what an ugly countenance had the losel
when they came to wash the charcoal off him! As to who had forestalled
the Hangman in his office, no certain testimony could be given. I have
always found at Sea, when any doubts arise as to the why and the
wher