Each day, after the latter part of July, we went up
the hill, and came back disappointed. I was anxious for her arrival,
for I had been told by letter that the owners in Boston, at the
request of my friends, had written to Captain T--- to take me on board
the Alert, in case she returned to the United States before the
Pilgrim; and I, of course, wished to know whether the order had been
received, and what was the destination of the ship. One year more or
less might be of small consequence to others, but it was everything to
me. It was now just a year since we sailed from Boston, and at the
shortest, no vessel could expect to get away under eight or nine
months, which would make our absence two years in all. This would be
pretty long, but would not be fatal. It would not necessarily be
decisive of my future life. But one year more would settle the matter.
I should be a sailor for life; and although I had made up my mind to
it before I had my letters from home, and was, as I thought, quite
satisfied; yet, as soon as an opportunity was held out to me of
returning, and the prospect of another kind of life was opened to me,
my anxiety to return, and, at least, to have the chance of deciding
upon my course for myself, was beyond measure.
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