The Colonel was a stubborn man, and so was the sea-captain--good Tories both, and not desirous to skulk out of scrapes, and leave better men to pick up their clumsy breakages.

Blue and red vied with one another to scour the country, and punish the natives--if only they could catch them--and to vindicate, with much strong language, the dignity of Great Britain, and to make an eternal example.
But white bones are what the white man makes, under that slimy sunshine and putrefying moon.

Weary, slack-jointed, low-hearted as they were, the deadly coast-fever fell upon them, and they shivered, and burned, and groaned, and raved, and leaped into holes, or rolled into camp fires.
The Colonel died early, and the Naval Captain followed him; none stood upon the order of their going; but man followed man, as in a funeral, to the grave, until there was no grave to go to.

The hand of the Lord was stretched out against them; and never would one have come back to England, out of more than five hundred who landed, except for the manhood and vigour of a seaman, Captain Southcombe, of the transport Gwalior.
This brave and sensible man had been left with his ship lying off to be signalled for, in case of mishap, while his consort and the frigate were despatched in advance to a creek, about twenty leagues westward, where the land-force triumphant was to join them.

Captain Southcombe, with every hand he could muster, traced the unfortunate party inland, and found them led many leagues in the wrong direction, lost among quagmires breathing death, worn out with vermin, venom, and despair, and hemmed in by savages lurking for the night, to rush in upon and make an end of them.