My recollections of that evacuation are disordered. Let two final memories suffice:

In late afternoon, as we waited to sail, there arrived three boatloads of slaves, newly escaped, having hazarded dangers unimaginable, hearing of Lord Dunmore’s promise of freedom and his isle.

My Company were upon the decks, surveying the shore, which prospect was infested with rebels at their work.

The slaves called up to us, “That the island?”

Captain Mackay said to us, “Do not speak.” He walked to the gunwales and to those who drifted below, explained, “The rebels have taken the island. We evacuate.”

The slaves were distressed, and requested we throw them down a hawser, that they might board us.

“You will have to row on,” said our Captain. “You cannot stop here.”

A man called, “There ain’t noplace to row to.”

The Captain said, “We have no water. We have no food.”

They paddled to the side of the ship, and one of them made to take hold of the stays.

“You cannot board,” said our Captain.

Now a large number of people in our fleet, drawn out by the exclamations and pleas of the refugees, observed the incident from the decks of their ships. To several ships, application was made, but the officers aboard all of them were unbending, and the answer came again and again, “You must row on.”

Now the rebels harked to the proceedings; we saw them watching from the shore, though they could not hear. They observed from their canoes; an audience little comforting to those who begged for mercy in the water by our side. To our ears came distant jeering cries of, “Come to us! Come to us, sweeties!”

The slave who had seized upon the stays of our ship stood, and, casting a glance toward the mob awaiting him upon the shore, began to climb, his knees clasped around the cords.

“Back down, man,” said our Captain. “We shall fire.”

He called his orders, and a file of Marines presented their muskets. The man stalled in his progress, seeking a further handhold. The women in the boat rose and gripped the stays.

“You cannot board,” repeated our Captain. “There is no succor here.”

“We come this whole way,” said one of the women.

“If you do not row on,” said the Captain, “we shall fire.”

The man said, “Please, sir. Please,” and hauled himself up still further.

The Captain called, “Fire.” The Marines let loose a volley, and the slave fell into the waves and sank, then rose again, and sank while the women screamed.

At this sight, this betrayal, there arose from all of us upon the decks of those ships a great moan, protests in all those hundred tongues, as if all the nations of the world cried out in horror.

And yet the women released their grip upon our ship; and the three boats were washed away from us.

The canoes paddled out to greet them.

We saw them try to flee, but they had no art in navigation. We saw them surrounded, and observed as they begged and importuned; we saw them towed to the island and dragged ashore, the mob awaiting them, engorged with victory, armed with brickbats and bayonets.

And so the Sons of Liberty fell upon them, and they were seen no more.