I write again. The mail is not yet closed---but we
have further intelligence. The pirates are captured;
and their story, with all its horrible distinctness, is before
me. It is impossible to imagine any conspiracy now---
for the pirates were cut up to an unparalleled degree--their
vessel riddled with shot---all their spars disabled, and
more than half their crew killed and wounded. No---
there could have been no conspiracy. It is impossible.
Beside, it is found, that not one of the four men
that Molton furnished Grenville with, is alive; they
were made minced meat of. The pirates complain that,
but for them, they never should have been exasperated as
they were;---nor so disabled, that they could neither fight
nor run, when the Ontario hove in sight. I pray God

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that this may be true!---I believe it---for I would not
imagine for a moment, that Molton had put a guard
upon Grenville---to—. No, I am glad that not one
of the four is left alive. That speaks loudly, indeed, of
their fidelity. Poor fellows! I knew them well. They
had just begun to understand a few words of English;
but their strength and appearance were so terrible, that
they scarcely ever ventured abroad. Molton knew their
temper, and told me himself, that, though they would die
for him, at a word---nay, cut each others throats, at his
bidding,---yet, that they would whip a knife into the heart
of any human being but himself, who happened to thwart
them, for a moment, in the publick highway. He was
careful to keep them unarmed---and at home---till he let
Grenville have them. “The seas are dangerous,” said
he.---He then gave his orders to the slaves in their own
language. They turned round; prostrated themselves;
raised poor Grenville's foot, and placed it upon their
heads, one after the other. “But trust to these fellows,
whatever may happen. They will understand you.---
Signs are sufficient. Just touch the handle of that dagger---if
you want yourself defended, or avenged---and the
business is done. You might sleep quietly in hell, with
such a guard about you.”

Adieu, dear Sarah. I still continue to write you,
without knowing where to address my letters---but in
the hope that some may find you, at last. Juliet is much
the same, I hear, and the babe finely.