An' then I was forced to vomit. And that's about the
last thing, Mister Geake, I can mind doin'. 'Tis all foolishness after
that. They tell me that a 'Merican schooner, the _Shawanee_, sighted
my shirt flappin', an' sent a boat an' took me off an' landed me at
New Orleens. My head was bad--oh, very bad--an' they put me in a
'sylum an' cured me. But they took eight year' over it, an' I doubt if
'tis much of a job after all. I wasn' bad all the time, I must tell
you, sir; but 'tis only lately my mem'ry would work any further back
'n the wreck o' the barque. Everything seemed to begin an' end wi'
that. 'Tis about a year back that some visitors came to the 'sylum.
There was a lady in the party, an' something in her face, when she
spoke to me, put me in mind o' Na'mi, an' I remembered I was a married
man. Inside of a fortnight, part by thinkin'--'tis hard work still
for me to think--part by dreamin', I'd a-worried it all out. I was
betterin' fast by that. Soon as I was well enough to be discharged, I
worked my passage home in a grain ship, the _Druid_, o' Liverpool.
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