s his friend and
protector. He improved rapidly in his knowledge of English, and by the
time we drew near the coast of South America he was able to explain
himself with tolerable clearness. With the aid of the negro seaman I
spoke of, I got somewhat of poor Peter Pongo's simple history out of
him. I cannot put it in his words, for though at the time I could
understand them, yet you certainly would not if I wrote them down. One
day I had gone forward, and when seated on the forecastle, under the
shade of the fore-staysail, I listened to his narrative. "Ah! Massa
Pringle, my country very good," he began. He always called me Pringle,
for he could not manage to pronounce my surname. "Plenty yams there--
plenty denge--plenty corn--plenty sheep--tall trees--high mountains--
water come gushing out of rocks up among clouds--so cool with foam--loud
roar--make grass grow--bright ponds--many animals come and drink. Ah!
no country like mine. My father have good house too--very warm--very
cool--no rain come in--all built round square--high roof, hang long way
over wall--room for walk up and down under it. Dere we all sit in
middle of square, listen to stories--now we laugh, now we cry--sun go
down, moon get up--star twinkle in dark sky, all so bright--still we
talk--talk on--tell long stories--so happy--laugh still more. Ah! what
is dat? Dreadful shriek--shriek--shriek--guns fire--we all start up--
some run one way, some anoder--house on fire--flames rise up--fierce men
come in--cut down some--kill--kill--take women, children--many young
men--some fight--dey all killed--my father killed--mother, brother, and
me all carried away together--hands tied behind our backs--hundreds--
hundreds poor people, all drive away towards coast--then with long
sticks and whips drive along--walk, walk--foot so sore--sleep at night
under tree--all chained--up again before sun--walk, walk on all day--
cruel men beat us--some grow sick. My brother, him grow sick--lie down
under tree--men beat him with stick--he look up--say, Oh, no beat me--
give one sigh, fall back and die. Dere he stay--many die like him--some
lie down, and men beat him up again. On we go--see at last blue ocean--
put into Barracoon--all chained to iron bar--no move one side nor oder--
wait dere many days. Ship with white sail come at last--we all put on
raft--carried to ship. Oh, how many--more, more come--ship no hold
them--many sick--many die--thrown overboard--shark