In the morning we wheeled the old gentleman out upon the porch and propped him up for a rest, until he would sign with his eyes to be lowered again. I kept up the rubbing daily. At the end of about a week I noticed that he could move the fingers of his right hand. This was a most promising sign; and I then began to rub him regularly three times a day. In the course of two days more he could use this hand and arm quite freely, and recovered some power in the muscles of his neck so that he could turn his head. But though he could utter some unintelligible sounds he could not yet articulate anything. He kept making signs as though he wanted something, which I could not understand. I got out a pencil and some paper, which he took and attempted to write, but I could not read the characters. His daughter, however, coming out just then, was able to comprehend his wants at once, and going in to where his coat hung, brought out his spectacles and placed them on his eyes. The old man then wrote plainly the word “Bible,” and the book was brought to him. Propped up on his couch he turned the leaves and began to read with an air of perfect contentment. The distorted appearance of his face had gradually been passing away, and when his daughter gave him the book his countenance was lighted up with a singularly sweet smile.
In the present condition of the old man I felt that if he could have a little generous wine, as port or Madeira, to drink it would be a benefit to him. Some alcoholic stimulant in small amount was evidently what he needed. But such a thing could not be had. Why should I not make whiskey? I remembered that the negroes frequently made what they called palm wine from the juice of the cocoanut palm. And I had drunk both the sweetish, fresh preparation and the same in the sour, fermented stage, the latter being quite alcoholic in its nature. Moreover, I knew the whole process of obtaining this drink; for I had watched the negro boys climb the palms at Martinique, bind and cut the unopened flower spathes, and attach the small gourds or little earthen chatties to catch the juice as it trickled out.
Without explaining my purpose either to the old man or his daughter, I climbed six palms that evening, bound the flower spathes to prevent them from opening, tied them in a bent position, and cut off the point, attaching to each spathe a gourd to receive the liquid drippings. The next morning I collected from these trees nearly two gallons of sweet sap, and cutting each spathe to a fresh surface left them to flow again. When I brought the sap down it was already beginning to ferment, and had somewhat the taste of sweet cider with a slight sparkle. I put half a pint of it in a bottle, corked it tight, and tied the cork. Some of it I set in an open gourd in the shade; and about a gallon I set on the fire in a pan, intending to boil this latter portion down into syrup, or into “jaggery,” as the gummy, sweet preparation is called. In about three hours after collecting it that portion which was left in the open gourd had changed to such condition as to have a sharp, sub-acid taste, something like hock. I immediately drank a tumbler full of it, and found in a few minutes that it had indeed already developed sufficient alcohol to make that amount all that a person of sober habits would care to imbibe at one time. It was pleasant to the taste and very refreshing, and had a sparkle and a slight hum like new ale, when poured into the glass. I gave the old man a tumbler full, and also his daughter, and for company’s sake took an additional half-tumbler myself. It did him good, apparently, at least he seemed greatly to relish it, and held out his glass to be filled again.