He endeavoured to comfort me under my Afflictions in this barbarous
Dialect; but I was so possess'd with the Notion of my being reserv'd to
be murdered, that I received but little Consolation.

We marched very slowly, both on account of the Heat, and of the Plunder
they had got from some Plantations; for every one had his Load of Kidds,
Turkies, and other Provisions.

About Three in the Afternoon, we reach'd a Village of run-away Negroes,
and we were received by the Inhabitants with all possible Demonstrations
of Joy. The Women sung, danc'd, and clapp'd their Hands, and the Men
brought _Mobby_ (a sort of Drink) and Rum, to welcome the return'd
Party. One of the Negro Men ask'd _Cuffey_, why he did not bring my
Head, instead of bringing me alive? He gave his Reason, at which he
seem'd satisfied, but said it was dangerous to let a _Baccararo_ know
their Retreat; that he would tell Captain _Thomas_, and he must expect
his Orders concerning me.

_Cuffey_ said he would go to give Captain _Thomas_ an Account of what
had happen'd in this _Sortie_, and would carry me with him. As they
spoke in the Negroes _English_, I understood them perfectly well. My
Friend then went to Captain _Thomas_, who was the Chief of all the
run-away Blacks, and took me with him. This Chief of theirs was about
Seventy Five Years old, a hale, strong, well-proportion'd Man, about Six
Foot Three Inches high; the Wooll of his Head and his Beard were white
with Age, he sat upon a little Platform rais'd about a Foot from the
Ground, accompanied by Eight or Ten near his own Age, smoaking Segars,
which are Tobacco Leaves roll'd up hollow.