University of Virginia Library

“Dear Henry.—You will receive this by Captain T.,
who has undertaken to visit you and learn your true situation.
Your captivity has afflicted us with the deepest
sorrow; your mother is unconsolable and refuses to be
comforted. Our Government is negociating your ransom,
which is attended with much difficulty; but I expect
it will soon be brought about: if them Spanish dogs
don't cut your throat or something worse, you will receive
one thousand dollars. If that will set you at liberty
I shall think it well laid out. I am in too much
trouble to say more.

“You will recollect, said she, that my father promised
to see the Vice Roy and ask his permission for your

friend to deliver the letter; he promised you he would
go that evening and accordingly he went, but was unable
to get an audiance that evening. After his return he
came into my parlour, as he always does when he concludes
the business of the day. Whilst he was talking
in a careless manner, and growing sleepy he yawned and
observed,

“I am afraid we are to be troubled with another prisoner.”

I enquired “who, where and how?”

He then related the circumstance of your friend's visit,
and said from what he could understand, he would not
be allowed to depart the country.

This was the first I had heard of his arrival. I said
very little then, but determined within myself to effect
his escape if possible, if he was not already in custody.
Accordingly when my father retired, I sent for Dennis
to know where the young man was, but Dennis could
give me no information; he had seen him, or at least a
man that he took to be him, walking with his master
late in the evening, but that was all he knew of the matter.
I was seriously alarmed, expecting it was over
with him perhaps by that time. I sent Dennis, out,
however, to see if he could make any discovery, but to
no purpose. Yesterday about ten o'clock he came to our
house, and Dennis who was standing centry on the outside
of the gate, knew him immediately and brought him
privately to me, when I apprized him of his danger.

He said if he was once on his horse they might catch
him if they could.

But I advised him not to leave the city till dark; but
how to conceal him was the question, as every house
would be searched, and finally sending my woman abroad
on some pretence, I desired Dennis to conduct him to my
chamber where he locked the door and gave me the key.
Had he not taken shelter the moment he did, he must
have fallen into the hands of his enemies, as they came
to the house a few minutes afterwards in company with
my father, who had just returned from the Vice Roy.

My father after making enquiry of the servants whether
they had seen the stranger (which of course they had

not) desired the guard to wait at the gate and apprehend
him as he came in, as he was expected shortly, to hear
the result of his petition respecting the letter. They
watched there the whole day, and another party way-laid
the prison expecting he would attempt to see you. Dennis
and I had a difficult part to act, and though the odds
were against us we determined to effect his escape if
possible. The first thing to be done was to ascertain
from the stranger where his horse (upon which he seemed
to stake his safety) was to be found. This by his direction
was done in the course of the day by Dennis.
The stranger continued in my chamber till dark and then
withdrew privately to his horse, which Dennis had prepared
for him. On taking leave of me he handed me
the papers and begged me to convey them to you, adding
that if he could get but half an hour the start of his enemies
he defied them, as his horse was the fleetest of his
kind.

My father was much concerned at his disappearance,
and took an active part in the pursuit which was immediately
set on foot. Lights were procured and diligent
search was made throughout the city to discover the way
he had taken. The whole city was alarmed and patrols
dispatched after him in all directions, these have returned
without making any discovery, and I hope he is out of
danger.

“Incomprehensible lady,” said Wilson, “how much
do we owe you: can we ever requite kindness like yours?”

We united in expressions of gratitude and admiration,
but generosity like hers sets language at defiance.

“When we forget you, madam,” said I, “may heaven
forget us.”

She said he took the road to Vera Cruz, at which
place he informed her a vessel waited for him, the same
which brought him from the United States.

After her departure we looked at the manuscript, and
eagerly perused the following narrative:

“We, your unfortunate companions, were seriously
afflicted at your sudden disappearance on the day of our
separation in —. At one time we thought you were
lost in the forest, and again that you had abandoned us

with design, and some there were amongst us that suggested
the truth as we afterwards discovered. The circumstance
gave us infinite pain, and myself not the least:
when morning appeared, you came not. We came to an
immediate resolution to go in search of you in a body,
thinking it imprudent to separate. Accordingly we traversed
the forest that day without making any discovery,
till about sundown, when we came upon the trace of horses.
We took the back track and proceeded but a short
distance before we discovered the place where you were
apprehended. This was confirmed by a pistol found
at the place, and pieces of cord fresh cut with a knife;
the pistol we knew belonged to the horsemen whoever
they were, being different from any in our possession.
The trampled appearance of the ground, all taken together
left little doubt of your captivity.

We turned about with all haste, and taking the trace
of the horses pursued it till dark, when we could no
longer discern the trace, we stopped for the night, resolving
to renew the pursuit in the morning at all hazards,
breaking our fast for the first time that day upon the
fruit that spontaneously grew near our encampment and
quenching our thirst from a small rivulet of bad tasted
water at the same place. We set forward by the dawn
of day and continued to pursue the trace of the horses
till noon, when it brought us to a small village—at this
place we learned your fate from the inhabitants, who
were principally Indians. No language could depict our
sorrow at this intelligence, the truth of which we had
too much reason to believe.

We now held a counsel, in which it was unanimously
agreed to abide by the opinion of the majority—the result
was that we should procure what provisions the village
afforded either by force or fair means, return home
with all possible despatch, and exert every means in our
power to procure your ransom. We found no difficulty
in procuring as much provision as each man was able to
carry, consisting of Indian corn and yams; we laid
down the money which the inhabitants did not refuse,
and set out for home. The Indians at the village informed
us (in the course of our short interview) that a

large body of Spaniards were in the woods in search of
us. This intelligence was sufficient of itself to quicken
our march.

We travelled that day, the succeeding night, the next
day and half the ensuing night without sleep, expecting
momentarily to be overtaken by the Spaniards. Being
unable to support the want of sleep any longer, we lay
down about midnight. I had but stretched myself on
the ground when I heard the trampling of horses, and
(as I thought) men talking; as the noise was only heard
by myself, I ascribed it to a disturbed mind, but a few
moments proved it to be no phantom, the trampling and
voices being distinctly heard by the whole party. Convinced
that it was reality, I desired every man to make
ready—the sound was not immediately in our rear—it
appeared to be on our right—the night was dark, the
sky being overcast with clouds, and lest our fire might
betray us, we sprung to our feet and moved obliquely a
few hundred yards lest they might stumble immediately
upon us. We moved with the utmost silence and fell on
their rear: the noise soon died away and laying down
we slept sound till morning.

We had intended to rest that day and parch corn for
our journey, but the occurrence of the night induced us
to change our resolution, and we pursued our journey
sufficing our hunger with fruit which we plucked as we
walked along—we charged our guns afresh and determined
to oppose force by force and fight to the last man,
should we be attacked.

It was not long before our courage was put to the trial;
before ten o'clock we were overtaken by about two hundred
Spaniards on horseback, armed principally with
swords and pistols. It is evident from the sequel that
these fellows knew nothing of our mode of fighting, or
they never would have approached us in the manner they
did. They were mounted on mules, and rode up to us at
a round trot, calling out as they approached (in their
language, to surrender, but we made them no answer except
by a volley discharged from our rifles when they
were within shot. I called to my men to take good aim
and every one kill his man: no sooner said than done.

and down fell most of the Spaniards,[2] the rest fled without
firing a shot and even without looking behind them.
We charged our rifles and pursued our journey.

In the course of the day we came upon a few scattering
huts inhabited by Indians; here we halted and parched
our corn enough to last us to New-Orleans, to which
place we bent our course. We were not so confident of
our valour as to neglect setting guard whenever we stopped,
to prevent surprise. At this place we procured
some Buffalo flesh and other refreshments, afraid to use
our ammunition for the purpose of providing food. We
felt grateful to these Indians who treated us with great
kindness and hospitality, and had it not been that the
Spaniards might return with a superior force, we should
have remained here some time to recruit our strength
and spirits, but the idea of subjecting ourselves to the
necessity of another engagement, influenced us to continue
our journey.

These Indians had informed us that there was a great
river just before us, (the same that terrified us on our
journey to—) and gave us information that by going up
the river we would come to other Indians who would furnish
us with canoes and aid us in crossing it; they also
gave us general directions, which in the end proved very
convenient. These were the mildest and most friendly
Indians I ever met with, and had it not been for fear of
the Spaniards they would have conducted us on our way.

In the course of a few hours we arrived at the river,
and pursuing their directions we reached the Indians,
crossed the river and continued our course for New-Orleans
without further interruption from the Spaniards.
But to recount to you the hardships we endured
from hunger, thirst, fatigue and sickness, would surpass
the ordinary power of language. We travelled for days
through endless prairies, parched with the sun, and
without a drop of water; at another time we would be
immersed in swamps up to our middles and almost every
man sick. We could have killed enough to satisfy the
cravings of hunger, but our whole cry was water, being

parched up with fevers. Had you seen us seated on the
banks of a prodigious river, while one of us was feebly
wielding the axe, for the purpose of constructing a raft,
with scarcely strength enough to raise the weight of it.
Had you seen us scattered over those boundless forests,
some supported by others, as they feebly walked on in
search of water, all eloquent with grief at our disappointment,
you would have congratulated yourselves
upon your not unhappier fate. It is wonderful how we
surmounted such a complication of calamities. Perhaps
human fortitude never sustained greater. Seven of our
number found relief in death. Poor Murray, Herbert,
and — fell victims to the scene of misery I have described.
We scraped a little earth over them, each
envying their happier lot

As soon as we arrived in Tennessee, I hastened to apprize
Captain Wilson of your situation, advising him to
apply to our government immediately to obtain your ransom;
nor did I leave him till I saw a messenger dispatched
to Washington for the purpose. But the old
gentlemen, to say nothing of Mrs. Wilson, would not
rest until I consented to visit Mexico to ascertain
your real situation. No one would undertake the dangerous
task but myself—Howard did once agree to come,
by whom I intended to have sent this, but when it came
to the test his courage failed him. I expect to remain
here until you are liberated.