In Ship and Prison by William P. Chipman — Read

Around the first corner and down to Watling Street I ran, taking the nearest course to the river, though I had no intention of returning to my ship. The startling news I had heard about the state of affairs in the homeland had fired me with a patriotism before which all thought of allegiance to the King vanished. I was inflamed with the desire to cross the ocean at once and throw in my lot with my struggling countrymen. For the present I would endeavor to escape my pursuers; later I would find some way to return to my native land.

I came to this decision in the brief time it took me to reach St. Paul's church. Turning there, I crossed Carter Lane and Queen Street, and came out upon the Thames near St. Paul's pier. Here a glance behind me showed that I had distanced my pursuers. Noting this fact with much satisfaction, I sped out upon the wharf and darted through the open door of the nearest warehouse. No one appeared to dispute my entrance or to check my advance, and swiftly I glided between the barrels and boxes to the farthest side of the room. Here I found another door. It was closed but unfastened, and I had time to open it before the angry mob that was following me appeared. Passing quickly into the next apartment, I shut the door and rolled a huge cask of rum against it, effectually barring it. Confident now that it would be some time before my pursuers discovered my whereabouts, I proceeded leisurely through the semi-darkness of the room to a place where great bales of cotton were piled nearly to the ceiling. Among these I at length found an open space which allowed me to crawl back of the outer tier, where I lay down and waited.