“Jacob,” said Tom to me, pulling his wherry into the hard, alongside of mine, in which I was sitting with one of Mr Turnbull’s books in my hand; “Jacob, do you recollect that my time is up to-morrow? I shall have run off my seven years, and when the sun rises I shall be free of the river. How much more have you to serve?”
“About fifteen months, as near as I can recollect, Tom.—Boat, sir?”
“Yes; oars, my lad; be smart, for I am in a hurry. How’s tide?”
“Down, sir, very soon; but it’s now slack water. Tom, see if you can find Stapleton.”
“Pooh! never mind him, Jacob, I’ll go with you. I say, Jones, tell old ‘human natur’’ to look after my boat,” continued Tom, addressing a waterman of our acquaintance.
“I thought you had come up to see her,” said I to Tom, as we shoved off.
“See her at Jericho first,” replied Tom “she’s worse than a dog vane.”
“What, are you two again?”
“Two indeed—it’s all two—we are two fools. She is too fanciful; I am too fond; she behaves too ill, and I put up with too much. However, it’s all one.”
“I thought it was all two just now, Tom.”
“But two may be made one, Jacob, you know.”
“Yes, by the parson: but you are no parson.”
“Anyhow, I am something like one just now,” replied Tom, who was pulling the foremost oar; “for you are a good clerk, and I am sitting behind you.”
“That’s not so bad,” observed the gentleman in the stern-sheets, whom we had forgotten in the colloquy.
“A waterman would make but a bad parson, sir,” replied Tom.
“Why so?”
“He’s not likely to practice as he preaches.”
“Again, why so?”
“Because all his life he looks one way and pulls another.”
“Very good—very good, indeed.”
“Nay, sir, good in practice, but still not good in deed—there’s a puzzle.”
“A puzzle, indeed, to find such a regular chain of repartee in a wherry.”
“Well, sir, if I’m a regular chain to-day, I shall be like an irregular watch to-morrow.”
“Why so, my lad?”
“Because I shall be out of my time.”
“Take that, my lad,” said the gentleman, tossing half-a-crown to Tom.
“Thanky, sir; when we meet again may you have no more wit than you have now.”
“How do you mean?”
“Not wit enough to keep your money, sir—that’s all!”
“I presume you think that I have not got much.”
“Which, sir; wit or money?”
“Wit, my lad.”
“Nay, sir, I think you have both: the first you purchased just now; and you would hardly have bought it, if you had not money to spare.”
“But I mean wit of my own.”
“No man has wit of his own; if he borrows it, it’s not his own; if he has it in himself, it’s mother wit, so it’s not his.”
We pulled into the stairs near London Bridge, and the gentleman paid me his fare. “Good-bye, my lad,” said he to Tom.
“Fare-you-well, for well you’ve paid your fare,” replied Tom, holding out his arm to assist him out of the boat. “Well, Jacob, I’ve made more by my head than by my hands this morning. I wonder, in the long run, which gains most in the world.”
“Head, Tom, depend upon it; but they work best together.”
Here we were interrupted—“I say, you watermen, have you a mind for a good fare?” cried a dark-looking, not over clean, square-built, short young man, standing on the top of the flight of steps.
“Where to, sir?”
“Gravesend, my jokers, if you ain’t afraid of salt water.”
“That’s a long way, sir,” replied Tom; “and for salt water, we must have salt to our porridge.”
“So you shall, my lads, and a glass of grog into the bargain.”
“Yes; but the bargain a’n’t made yet, sir. Jacob, will you go?”
“Yes, but not under a guinea.”
“Not under two guineas,” replied Tom, aside. “Are you in a great hurry, sir?” continued he, addressing the young man.
“Yes, in a devil of a hurry; I shall lose my ship. What will you take me for?”
“Two guineas, sir.”
“Very well. Just come up to the public-house here, and put in my traps.”
We brought down his luggage, put it into the wherry, and started down the river with the tide. Our fare was very communicative, and we found out that he was the master’s mate of the Immortalité, forty-gun frigate, lying off Gravesend, which was to drop down next morning and wait for sailing orders at the Downs. We carried the tide with us, and in the afternoon were close to the frigate, whose blue ensign waved proudly over the taffrail. There was a considerable sea arising from the wind meeting the tide, and before we arrived close to her we had shipped a great deal of water; and when we were alongside, the wherry, with the chest in her bows, pitched so heavily that we were afraid of being swamped. Just as a rope had been made fast to the chest, and they were weighing it out of the wherry, the ship’s launch with water came alongside, and, whether from accident or wilfully, I know not, although I suspect the latter, the midshipman who steered her shot her against the wherry, which was crushed in, and immediately filled, leaving Tom and me in the water, and in danger of being jammed to death between the launch and the side of the frigate. The seamen in the boat, however, forced her off with their oars, and hauled us in, while our wherry sank with her gunwale even with the water’s edge, and floated away astern.
As soon as we had shaken ourselves a little, we went up the side, and asked one of the officers to send a boat to pick up our wherry.
“Speak to the first lieutenant—there he is,” was the reply.
I went up to the person pointed out to me; “If you please, sir—”
“What the devil do you want?”
“A boat, sir, to—”
“A boat! the devil you do!”
“To pick up our wherry, sir,” interrupted Tom.
“Pick it up yourself,” said the first lieutenant, passing us, and hailing the men aloft. “Maintop, there, hook on your stays. Be smart. Lower away the yards. Marines and after-guard, clear launch. Boatswain’s mate.”
“Here, sir.”
“Pipe marines and after-guard to clear launch.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“But we shall lose our boat, Jacob,” said Tom to me. “They stove it in, and they ought to pick it up.” Tom then went up to the master’s mate, which he had brought on board, and explained our difficulty.
“Upon my soul, I dar’n’t say a word. I’m in a scrape for breaking my leave. Why the devil didn’t you take care of your wherry, and haul a-head when you saw the launch coming?”
“How could we, when the chest was hoisting out?”
“Very true. Well, I am very sorry for you, but I must look after my chest.” So saying, he disappeared down the gangway ladder.
“I’ll try it again, anyhow,” said Tom, going up to the first lieutenant. “Hard case to lose our boat and our bread, sir,” said Tom touching his hat.
The first lieutenant, now that the marines and after-guard were at a regular stamp and go, had, unfortunately more leisure to attend to us. He looked at us earnestly, and walked aft to see if the wherry was yet in sight. At that moment up came the master’s mate, who had not yet reported himself to the first lieutenant.
“Tom,” said I, “there is a wherry close to, let us get into it, and go after our boat ourselves.”
“Wait one moment to see if they will help us—and get our money, at all events,” replied Tom; and we both walked aft.
“Come on board, sir,” said the master’s mate, touching his hat with humility.
“You’ve broke your leave, sir,” replied the first lieutenant, “and now I’ve to send a boat to pick up the wherry through your carelessness.”
“If you please, they are two very fine young men,” observed the mate. “Make capital foretopmen. Boat’s not worth sending for, sir.”
This hint, given by the mate to the first lieutenant, to regain his favour, was not lost. “Who are you, my lads?” said the first lieutenant to us.
“Watermen, sir.”
“Watermen, heh? was that your own boat?”
“No, sir,” replied I; “it belongs to the man that I serve with.”
“Oh, not your own boat? Are you an apprentice, then?”
“Yes, sir, both apprentices.”
“Show me your indentures.”
“We don’t carry them about with us.”
“Then how am I to know that you are apprentices?”
“We can prove it, sir, if you wish it.”
“I do wish it; at all events, the captain will wish it.”
“Will you please to send for the boat, sir? she’s almost out of sight.”
“No, my lads, I can’t find king’s boats for such service.”
“Then we had better go ourselves, Tom,” said I, and we went forward to call the waterman, who was lying on his oars close to the frigate.
“Stop—stop—not so fast. Where are you going, my lads?”
“To pick up our boat, sir.”
“Without my leave, heh?”
“We don’t belong to the frigate, sir.”
“No; but I think it very likely that you will, for you have no protections.”
“We can send for them, and have them down by to-morrow morning.”
“Well, you may do so if you please, my lads; but you can not expect me to believe everything that is told me. Now, for instance, how long have you to serve, my lad?” said he, addressing Tom.
“My time is up to-morrow, sir.”
“Up to-morrow. Why, then, I shall detain you until tomorrow, and then I shall press you.”
“If you detain me now, sir, I am pressed to-day.”
“Oh, no! you are only detained until you prove your apprenticeship, that’s all.”
“Nay, sir, I certainly am pressed during my apprenticeship.”
“Not at all, and I’ll prove it to you. You don’t belong to the ship until you are victualled on her books. Now I sha’n’t victual you to-day, and therefore you won’t be pressed.”
“I shall be pressed with hunger at all events,” replied Tom, who never could lose a joke.
“No you sha’n’t; for I’ll send you both a good dinner out of the gun-room. So you won’t be pressed at all,” replied the lieutenant, laughing at Tom’s reply.
“You will allow me to go, sir, at all events,” replied I; for I knew that the only chance of getting Tom and myself clear was my hastening to Mr Drummond for assistance.
“Pooh! nonsense; you must both row in the same boat as you have done. The fact is, my lads, I’ve taken a great fancy to you both, and I can’t make up my mind to part with you.”
“It’s hard to lose our bread this way,” replied I.
“We will find you bread, and hard enough you will find it,” replied the lieutenant, laughing; “it’s like a flint.”
“So we ask for bread, and you give us a stone,” said Tom; “that’s ’gainst Scripture.”
“Very true, my lad; but the fact is, all the scriptures in the world won’t man the frigate. Men we must have, and get them how we can, and where we can, and when we can. Necessity has no law; at least it obliges us to break through all laws. After all, there’s no great hardship in serving the king for a year or two, and filling your pockets with prize-money. Suppose you volunteer?”
“Will you allow us to go on shore for half-an-hour to think about it?” replied I.
“No. I’m afraid of the crimps dissuading you. But I’ll give you till to-morrow morning, and then I shall be sure of one at all events.”
“Thanky for me,” replied Tom.
“You’re very welcome,” replied the first lieutenant, as, laughing at us, he went down the companion-ladder to his dinner.
“Well, Jacob, we are in for it,” said Tom, as soon as we were alone. “Depend upon it there’s no mistake this time.”
“I am afraid not,” replied I, “unless we can get a letter to your father, or Mr Drummond, who, I am sure, would help us. But that dirty fellow, who gave the lieutenant the hint, said the frigate sailed to-morrow morning; there he is, let us speak to him.”
“When does the frigate sail!” said Tom to the master’s mate, who was walking the deck.
“My good fellow, it’s not the custom on board of a man-of-war for men to ask officers to answer such impertinent questions. It’s quite sufficient for you to know that when the frigate sails you will have the pleasure of sailing in her.”
“Well, sir,” replied I, nettled at his answer, “at all events you will have the goodness to pay us our fare. We have lost our wherry, and our liberty, perhaps, through you; we may as well have our two guineas.”
“Two guineas! It’s two guineas you want, heh.”
“Yes, sir, that was the fare we agreed upon.”
“Why you must observe, my men,” said the master’s mate, hooking a thumb into each armhole of his waistcoat, “there must be a little explanation as to that affair. I promised you two guineas as watermen; but now that you belong to a man-of-war, you are no longer watermen. I always pay my debts honourably when I can find the lawful creditors; but where are the watermen?”
“Here we are sir.”
“No, my lads, you are men-of-war’s men now, and that quite alters the case.”
“But we are not so yet, sir; even if it did alter the case, we are not pressed yet.”
“Well, then, you’ll be to-morrow, perhaps; at all events we shall see. If you are allowed to go on shore again, I owe you two guineas as watermen; and if you are detained as men-of-war’s men, why then you will only have done your duty in pulling down one of your officers. You see, my lads, I say nothing but what’s fair.”
“Well, sir, but when you hired us we were watermen,” replied Tom.
“Very true, so you were; but recollect the two guineas were not due until you had completed your task, which was not until you came on board. When you came on board you were pressed, and became men-of-war’s men. You should have asked for your fare before the first lieutenant got hold of you. Don’t you perceive the justice of my remarks?”
“Can’t say I do, sir; but I perceive there’s very little chance of our being paid,” said Tom.
“You are a lad of discrimination,” replied the master’s mate. “And now I advise you to drop the subject, or you may induce me to pay you ‘man-of-war fashion.’”
“How’s that, sir?”
“Over the face and eyes, as the cat paid the monkey,” replied the master’s mate, walking leisurely away.
“No go, Tom,” said I, smiling at the absurdity of the arguments.
“I’m afraid it’s no go in every way, Jacob. However, I don’t care much about it. I have had a little hankering after seeing the world, and perhaps now’s as well as an other time; but I’m sorry for you, Jacob.”
“It’s all my own fault,” replied I; and I fell into one of those reveries so often indulged in of late, as to the folly of my conduct in asserting my independence, which had now ended in my losing my liberty. But we were cold from the ducking we had received, and moreover, very hungry. The first lieutenant did not forget his promise: he sent us a good dinner, and a glass of grog each, which we discussed under the half-deck, between two of the guns. We had some money in our pockets, and we purchased some sheets of paper from the bum-boat people, who were on the main-deck supplying the seamen, and I wrote to Mr Drummond and Mr Turnbull, as well as to Mary and old Tom, requesting the two latter to forward our clothes to Deal, in case of our being detained. Tom also wrote to comfort his mother, and the greatest comfort which he could give was, as he said, to promise to keep sober. Having entrusted these letters to the bumboat woman, who promised faithfully to put them into the post-office, we had then nothing else to do but to look out for some place to sleep. Our clothes had dried on us, and we were walking under the half-deck: but not a soul spoke to, or even took the least notice of us. In a newly-manned ship just ready to sail there is a universal feeling of selfishness prevailing among the ship’s company. Some, if not most, had, like us, been pressed, and their thoughts were occupied with their situation and the change in their prospects. Others were busy making their little arrangements with their wives or relations; while the mass of the seamen, not yet organised by discipline or known to each other, were in a state of disunion and individuality, which naturally induced every man to look after himself without caring for his neighbour. We therefore could not expect, nor did we receive, any sympathy; we were in a scene of bustle and noise, yet alone. A spare topsail, which had been stowed for the present between two of the guns, was the best accommodation which offered itself. We took possession of it, and, tired with exertion of mind and body, were soon fast asleep.
At daylight the next morning we were awakened with a start by the shrill whistles of the boatswain and his mates piping all hands to unmoor. The pilot was on board, and the wind was fair. As the frigate had no anchor down, but was hanging to the moorings in the river, we had nothing to do but to cast off, sheet home, and in less than half-an-hour we were under all sail, stemming the last quarter of the flood tide. Tom and I had remained on the gangway watching the proceedings but not assisting, when the ship being fairly under sail, the order was given by the first lieutenant to coil down the ropes.
“I think, Jacob, we may as well help,” said Tom laying hold of the main tack, which was passed aft, and hauling it forward.
“With all my heart,” replied I, and I hauled it forward, while he coiled it away.
While we were thus employed the first lieutenant walked forward and recognised us. “That’s what I like, my lads,” said he; “you don’t sulk, I see, and I sha’n’t forget it.”
“I hope you won’t forget that we are apprentices, sir, and allow us to go on shore,” replied I.
“I’ve a shocking bad memory in some things,” was his reply, as he continued forward to the forecastle. He did not, however, forget to victual us that day, and insert our names, in pencil, upon the ship’s books; but we were not put into any mess, or stationed.
We anchored in the Downs on the following morning. It came on to blow hard in the afternoon, and there was no communication with the shore, except the signal was made, third day, when it moderated, and the signal was made “Prepare to weigh, and send boat for captain.” In the meantime several boats came off, and one had a postman on board. I had letters from Mr Drummond and Mr Turnbull, telling me that they would immediately apply to the Admiralty for our being liberated, and one from Mary, half of which was for me, and the rest to Tom. Stapleton had taken Tom’s wherry and pulled down to old Tom Beazeley with my clothes, which, with young Tom’s, had been despatched to Deal. Tom had a letter from his mother, half indited by his father, and the rest from herself; but I shall not trouble the reader with the contents, as he may imagine what was likely to be said upon such an occasion.
Shortly afterwards our clothes, which had been sent to the care of an old shipmate of Tom’s father, were brought on board, and we hardly had received them when the signalman reported that the captain was coming off. There were so many of the men in the frigate who had never seen the captain that no little anxiety was shown by the ship’s company to ascertain how far, by the “cut of his jib,” that is, his outward appearance, they might draw conclusions as to what they might expect from one who had such unlimited power to make them happy or miserable. I was looking out of the maindeck port with Tom, when the gig pulled alongside, and was about to scrutinise the outward and visible signs of the captain, when I was attracted by the face of a lieutenant sitting by his side, whom I immediately recognised. It was Mr Wilson, the officer who had spun the oar and sunk the wherry, from which, as the reader may remember, I rescued my friends, the senior and junior clerk. I was overjoyed at this, as I hoped that he would interest himself in our favour. The pipe of the boatswain re-echoed as the captain ascended the side. He appeared on the quarter-deck—every hat descending to do him honour; the marines presented arms, and the marine officer at their head lowered the point of his sword. In return, the omnipotent personage, taking his cocked hat with two fingers and a thumb, by the highest peak, lifted it one inch off his head, and replaced it, desiring the marine officer to dismiss the guard. I had now an opportunity, as he paced to and fro with the first lieutenant, to examine his appearance. He was a tall, very large-boned, gaunt man, with an enormous breadth of shoulders, displaying Herculean strength (and this we found he eminently possessed). His face was of a size corresponding to his large frame; his features were harsh, his eye piercing, but his nose, although bold, was handsome, and his capacious mouth was furnished with the most splendid row of large teeth that I ever beheld. The character of his countenance was determination rather than severity. When he smiled the expression was agreeable. His gestures and his language were emphatic, and the planks trembled with his elephantine walk.
He had been on board about ten minutes, when he desired the first lieutenant to turn the hands up, and all the men were ordered on the larboard side of the quarter-deck. As soon as they were all gathered together, looking with as much awe on the captain as a flock of sheep at a strange, mischief-meaning dog, he thus addressed them—“My lads, as it so happens that we are all to trust to the same planks, it may be just as well that we should understand one another. I like to see my officers attentive to their duty, and behave themselves as gentlemen. I like to see my men well disciplined, active, and sober. What I like I will have—you understand me. Now,” continued he, putting on a stern look—“now, just look in my face, and see if you think you can play with me.” The men looked in his face, and saw that there was no chance of playing with him; and so they expressed by their countenances. The captain appeared satisfied by their mute acknowledgments, and to encourage them, smiled, and showed his white teeth, as he desired the first lieutenant to pipe down.
As soon as the scene was over, I walked up to Mr Wilson, the lieutenant, who was standing aft, and accosted him. “Perhaps, sir, you do not recollect me; but we met one night when you were sinking in a wherry, and you asked my name.”
“And I recollect it, my lad; it was Faithful, was it not?”
“Yes, sir;” and I then entered into an explanation of our circumstances, and requested his advice and assistance.
He shook his head. “Our captain,” said he, “is a very strange person. He has commanding interest, and will do more in defiance of the rules of the Admiralty than any one in the service. If an Admiralty order came down to discharge you, he would obey it; but as for regulations, he cares very little for them. Besides, we sail in an hour. However, I will speak to him, although I shall probably get a rap on the knuckles, as it is the business of the first lieutenant, and not mine.”
“But, sir, if you requested the first lieutenant to speak?”
“If I did, he would not, in all probability; men are too valuable, and the first lieutenant knows that the captain would not like to discharge you. He will, therefore, say nothing until it is too late, and then throw all the blame upon himself for forgetting it. Our captain has such interest that his recommendation would give a commander’s rank to-morrow, and we must all take care of ourselves. However, I will try, although I can give you very little hopes.”
Mr Wilson went up to the captain, who was still walking with the first lieutenant, and, touching his hat, introduced the subject, stating, as an apology, that he was acquainted with me.
“Oh, if the man is an acquaintance of yours, Mr Wilson, we certainly must decide,” replied the captain with mock politeness. “Where is he?” I advanced, and Tom followed me. We stated our case. “I always like to put people out of suspense,” said the captain, “because it unsettles a man—so now hear me; if I happened to press one of the blood-royal, and the king, and the queen, and all the little princesses were to go down on their knees, I’d keep him, without an Admiralty order for his discharge. Now, my lads, do you perceive your chance?” Then turning away to Mr Wilson, he said, “You will oblige me by stating upon what grounds you ventured to interfere in behalf of these men, and I trust your explanation will be satisfactory. Mr Knight,” continued he, to the first lieutenant, “send these men down below, watch, and station them.”
We went below by the gangway ladder and watched the conference between the captain and Mr Wilson, who, we were afraid, had done himself no good by trying to assist us. But when it was over the captain appeared pleased, and Mr Wilson walked away with a satisfied air. As I afterwards discovered it did me no little good. The hands were piped to dinner, and after dinner we weighed and made sail, and thus were Tom and I fairly, or rather unfairly, embarked in his majesty’s service.
“Well, Tom,” said I, “it’s no use crying. What’s done can’t be helped; here we are; now let us do all we can to make friends.”
“That’s just my opinion, Jacob. Hang care; it killed the cat; I shall make the best of it, and I don’t see why we may not be as happy here as anywhere else. Father says we may, if we do our duty, and I don’t mean to shirk mine. The more the merrier, they say, and I’ll be hanged but there’s not enough of us here.”
I hardly need say that, for the first three or four days, we were not very comfortable; we had been put into the seventh mess, and were stationed in the foretop; for although we had not been regularly bred up as seaman, the first lieutenant so decided, saying, that he was sure that, in a few weeks, there would be no smarter men in the ship.
We were soon clear of the Channel, and all hands were anxious to know our destination, which, in this almost solitary instance, had been really kept a secret, although surmises were correct. There is one point which, by the present arrangements, invariably makes known whether a ship is “fitting foreign,” or for home service, which is, by the stores and provisions ordered on board; and these stores are so arranged, according to the station to which the vessel is bound, that it is generally pretty well known what her destination is to be. This is bad, and at the same time easily remedied; for if every ship, whether for home service or foreign, was ordered to fit foreign, no one would be able to ascertain where she was about to proceed. With a very little trouble strict secrecy might be preserved, now that the Navy Board is abolished; but during its existence that was impossible. The Immortalité was a very fast sailing vessel, and when the captain (whose name I have forgotten to mention, it was Hector Maclean) opened his sealed orders, we found that we were to cruise for two months between the Western Isles and Madeira, in quest of some privateers, which had captured many of our outward-bound West Indiamen, notwithstanding they were well protected by convoy, and, after that period, to join the admiral at Halifax, and relieve a frigate which had been many years on that station. In a week we were on our station, the weather was fine, and the whole of the day was passed in training the men to the guns, small arms, making and shortening sail, reefing topsails, and manoeuvring the ship. The captain would never give up his point, and sometimes we were obliged to make or shorten sail twenty times running until he was satisfied.
“My lads,” he would say to the ship’s company, sending for them aft, “you have done this pretty well; you have only been two minutes; not bad for a new ship’s company, but I like it done in a minute and a-half. We’ll try again.” And sure enough it was try again, until in a minute and a-half it was accomplished. Then the captain would say, “I knew you could do it, and having once done it, my lads, of course you can do it again.”
Tom and I adhered to our good resolutions. We were as active and as forward as we could be; and Mr Knight, the first lieutenant, pointed us out to the captain. As soon as the merits of the different men were ascertained, several alterations were made in the watch and station bills, as well as in the ratings on the ship’s books, and Tom and I were made second captains, larboard and starboard, of the foretop. This was great promotion for so young hands, especially as we were not bred as regular sailors; but it was for the activity and zeal which we displayed. Tom was a great favourite among the men, always joking, and ready for any lark or nonsense; moreover, he used to mimic the captain, which few others dared do. He certainly seldom ventured to do it below; it was generally in the foretop, where he used to explain to the men what he liked. One day we both ventured it, but it was on an occasion which excused it. Tom and I were aft, sitting in the jolly boat astern, fitting some of her gear, for we belonged to the boat at that time, although we were afterwards shifted into the cutter. The frigate was going about four knots through the water, and the sea was pretty smooth. One of the marines fell overboard, out of the forechains. “Man overboard,” was cried out immediately, and the men (became) very busy clearing away the starboard cutter, with all the expedition requisite on such an occasion. The captain was standing aft on the signal chest when the marine passed astern; the poor fellow could not swim, and Tom turning to me said, “Jacob, I should like to save that Jolly,” and immediately dashed overboard.
“And I should like to help you, Tom,” cried I, following him.
The captain was close to us, and heard us both. Between us we easily held up the marine, and the boat had us all on board in less than a minute. When we came on deck the captain was at the gangway. He showed his white teeth, and shook the telescope in his hand at us. “I heard you both; and I should like to have a good many more impudent fellows like you.”
We continued our cruise, looking sharp out for the privateers, but without success; we then touched at Madeira for intelligence, and were informed that they had been seen more to the southward. The frigate’s head was turned in that direction until we were abreast of the Canary Isles, and then we traversed east and west, north or south, just as the wind and weather, or the captain’s like thought proper. We had now cruised seven weeks out of our time without success, and the captain promised five guineas to the man who should discover the objects of our search. Often did Tom and I climb to the mast-head and scan the horizon, and so did many others: but those who were stationed at the look-out were equally on the alert. The ship’s company were now in a very fair state of discipline, owing to the incessant practice, and every evening the hands were turned up to skylark—that is, to play and amuse themselves. There was one amusement which was the occasion of a great deal of mirth, and it was a favourite one of the captain’s, as it made the men smart. It is called, “Follow my leader.” One of the men leads, and all who choose follow him: sometimes forty or fifty will join. Whatever the leader does, the rest must do also; wherever he goes they must follow. Tom, who was always the foremost for fun, was one day the leader, and after having scampered up the rigging, laid out on the yards, climbed in by the lifts, crossed from mast to mast by the stays, slid down by the backstays, blacked his face in the funnel, in all which motions he was followed by about thirty others, hallooing and laughing, while the officers and other men were looking on and admiring their agility, a novel idea came into Tom’s head; it was then about seven o’clock in the evening, the ship was lying becalmed, Tom again sprang up the rigging, laid out to the main yard-arm, followed by me and the rest, and as soon as he was at the boom iron, he sprang up, holding by the lift, and crying out, “Follow my leader,” leaped from the yard-arm into the sea. I was second, and crying out, “Follow my leader” to the rest, I followed him, and the others, whether they could swim or not, did the same, it being a point of honour not to refuse.
The captain was just coming up the ladder, when he saw, as he imagined, a man tumble overboard, which was Tom in his descent; but how much more was he astonished at seeing twenty or thirty more tumbling off by twos or threes, until it appeared that half the ship’s company were overboard. Some of the men who could not swim, but were too proud to refuse to follow, were nearly drowned. As it was, the first lieutenant was obliged to lower the cutter to pick them up, and they were all brought on board.
“Confound that fellow,” said the captain to the first lieutenant; “he is always at the head of all mischief. Follow my leader, indeed! Send Tom Beazeley here.” We all thought that Tom was about to catch it. “Hark ye, my lad,” said the captain; “a joke’s a joke, but everybody can’t swim as well as you. I can’t afford to lose any of my men by your pranks, so don’t try that again—I don’t like it.”
Every one thought that Tom got off very cheaply; but he was a favourite with the captain, although that never appeared but indirectly; “Beg pardon, sir,” replied Tom, with great apparent humility, “but they were all so dirty—they’d blacked themselves at the funnel, and I thought a little washing would not do them any harm.”
“Be off, sir, and recollect what I have said,” replied the captain, turning away, and showing his white teeth.
I heard the first lieutenant say to the captain, “He’s worth any ten men in the ship, sir. He keeps them all alive and merry, sets such a good example.”
In the meantime, Tom had gone up to the fore-royal arm, and was looking round for the five guineas, and just as the conversation was going on, cried out, “Sail ho!”
“Strange sail reported.”
“Where,” cried the first lieutenant, going forward.
“Right under the sun.”
“Mast-head there—do you make her out?”
“Yes, sir; I think she’s a schooner; but I can only see down to her mainyard.”
“That’s one of them, depend upon it,” said the captain.
“Up there, Mr Wilson, and see what you make of her. Who is the man who reported it?”
“Tom Beazeley, sir.”
“Confound that fellow, he makes all my ship’s company jump overboard, and now I must give him five guineas. What do you make of her, Mr Wilson?”
“A low schooner, sir, very rakish indeed, black sides. I cannot make out her ports; but I should think she can show a very pretty set of teeth. She is becalmed as well as we.”
“Well, then, we must whistle for a breeze. In the meantime, Mr Knight, we will have the boats all ready.”
If you whistle long enough the wind is certain to come. In about an hour the breeze did come, and we took it down with us; but it was too dark to distinguish the schooner, which we had lost sight of as soon as the sun had set. About midnight the breeze failed us, and it was again calm. The captain and most of the officers were up all night, and the watch were employed preparing the boats for service. It was my morning watch, and at break of day I saw the schooner from the foresail-yard about four miles to the North West. I ran down on deck and reported her.
“Very good, my lad. I have her, Mr Knight,” said the captain, who had directed his glass to where I pointed; “and I will have her too, one way or the other. No signs of wind. Lower down the cutters. Get the yards and stays hooked all ready. We’ll wait a little, and see a little more of her when it’s broad daylight.”
At broad daylight the schooner, with her appointments, was distinctly to be made out. She was pierced for sixteen guns, and was a formidable vessel to encounter with the boats. The calm still continuing, the launch, yawl, and pinnace were hoisted out, manned, and armed. The schooner got out her sweeps, and was evidently preparing for their reception. Still the captain appeared unwilling to risk the lives of his men in such a dangerous conflict, and there we all lay alongside, each man sitting in his place with his oar raised on end. Cat’s-paws of wind, as they call them, flew across the water here and there, ruffling its smooth surface, portending that a breeze would soon spring up, and the hopes of this chance rendered the captain undecided. Thus did we remain alongside, for Tom and I were stationed in the first and second cutters until twelve o’clock, when we were ordered out to take a hasty dinner, and the allowance of spirits was served out. At one it was still calm. Had we started when the boats were first hoisted out the affair would have been long before decided. At last, the captain, perceiving that the chance of a breeze was still smaller then than in the forenoon, ordered the boats to shove off. We were still about the same distance from the privateer, from three-and-a-half to four miles. In less than half-an-hour we were within gun-shot; the privateer swept her broadside to us, and commenced firing guns with single round shot, and with great precision. They ricochetted over the boats, and at every shot we made sure of our being struck. At this time a slight breeze swept along the water. It reached the schooner, filled her sails, and she increased her distance. Again it died away, and we neared her fast. She swept round again, and recommenced firing, and one of her shot passed through the second cutter, in which I was stationed, ripping open three of her planks, and wounding two men beside me. The boat, heavy with the gun, ammunition chests, etcetera, immediately filled and turned over with us, and it was with difficulty that we could escape from the weighty hamper that was poured out of her. One of the poor fellows, who had not been wounded, remained entangled under the boat, and never rose again. The remainder of the crew rose to the surface and clung to the side of the boat. The first cutter hauled to our assistance, for we had separated to render the shot less effectual; but it was three or four minutes before she was able to render us any assistance, during which time the other two wounded men, who had been apparently injured in the legs or body, exhausted with loss of blood, gradually unloosed their holds and disappeared under the calm, blue water. I had received a splinter in my left arm, and held on longer than the others who had been maimed, but I could not hold on till the cutter came. I lost my recollection, and sank. Tom, who was in the bow of the cutter, perceiving me go down, dived after me, brought me up again to the surface, and we were both hauled in. The other five men were also saved. As soon as we were picked up, the cutter followed the other boats, which continued to advance towards the privateer. I recovered my senses, and found that a piece of one of the thwarts of the boat, broken off by the shot, had been forced through the fleshy part of my arm below the elbow, where it still remained. It was a very dangerous as well as a painful wound. The officer of the boat, without asking me, laid hold of the splinter and tore it out; but the pain was so great, from its jagged form, and the effusion of blood so excessive after this operation, that I again fainted. Fortunately no artery was wounded, or I must have lost my arm. They bound it up, and laid me at the bottom of the boat. The firing from the schooner was now very warm; and we were within a quarter of a mile of her, when the breeze sprang up, and she increased her distance a mile. There was a prospect of wind from the appearance of the sky, although, for a time, it again died away. We were within less than half-a-mile of the privateer, when we perceived that the frigate was bringing up a smart breeze, and rapidly approached the scene of conflict.
The breeze swept along the water and caught the sails of the privateer, and she was again, in spite of all the exertions of our wearied men, out of gun-shot; and the first lieutenant very properly decided upon making for the frigate, which was now within a mile of us. In less than ten minutes the boats were hoisted in; and the wind now rising fast, we were under all sail, going at the rate of seven miles an hour; the privateer having also gained the breeze, and gallantly holding her own.
I was taken down into the cockpit, the only wounded man brought on board. The surgeon examined my arm, and at first shook his head, and I expected immediate amputation; but on re-examination he gave his opinion that the limb might be saved. My wound was dressed, and I was put into my hammock, in a screened bulk under the half-deck, where the cooling breeze from the ports fanned my feverish cheeks. But I must return to the chase.
In less than an hour the wind had increased, so that we could with difficulty carry our royals; the privateer was holding her own about three miles right a-head, keeping our three masts in one. At sunset they were forced to take in the royals, and the sky gave every prospect of a rough gale. Still we carried on every stitch of canvas which the frigate could bear; keeping the chase in sight with our night-glasses, and watching all her motions.
The breeze increased; before morning there was a heavy sea, and the frigate could only carry top-gallant sails over double-reefed top-sails. At daylight we had neared the schooner, by the sextants, about a quarter of a mile, and the captain and officers went down to take some repose and refreshment, not having quitted the deck for twenty-four hours. All that day did we chase the privateer, without gaining more than a mile upon her, and it now blew up a furious gale: the topgallant sails had been before taken in; the top-sails were close reefed, and we were running at the speed of nearly twelve miles an hour; still so well did the privateer sail, that she was barely within gunshot when the sun went down below the horizon, angry and fiery red. There was now great fear that she would escape, from the difficulty of keeping the glasses upon her during the night, in a heavy sea, and the expectation that she would furl all sail and allow us to pass her. It appeared, however, that this manoeuvre did not enter into the head of the captain of the privateer; he stood on under a press of sail, which even in day-time would have been considered alarming; and at daylight, owing to the steerage during the night never being so correct as during the day, she had recovered her distance, and was about four miles from us. The gale, if anything, had increased, and Captain Maclean determined, notwithstanding, to shake a reef out of the topsails.
In the morning, as usual, Tom came to my cot, and asked me how I was? I told him I was better and in less pain, and that the surgeon had promised to dress my wound after breakfast, for the bandages had not been removed since I had first come on board. “And the privateer, Tom, I hope we shall take her; it will be some comfort to me that she is captured.”
“I think we shall, if the masts stand, Jacob; but we have an enormous press of sail, as you may guess by the way in which the frigate jumps; there is no standing on the forecastle, and there is a regular waterfall down in the waist from forward. We are nearing her now. It is beautiful to see how she behaves: when she heels over, we can perceive that all her men are lashed on deck, and she takes whole seas into her fore and aft mainsail, and pours them out again as she rises from the lurch. She deserves to escape, at all events.”
She did not, however, obtain her deserts, for about twelve o’clock in the day we were within a mile of her. At two, the marines were firing small arms at her, for we would not yaw to fire at her a gun, although she was right under our bows. When within a cable’s length we shortened sail, so as to keep at that distance astern, and the chase, after having lost several men by musketry, the captain of her waved his hat in token of surrender. We immediately shortened sail to keep the weather-gage, pelting her until every sail was lowered down: we then rounded to, keeping her under our lee, and firing at every man who made his appearance on deck. Taking possession of her was a difficult task: a boat could hardly live in such a sea and when the captain called aloud for volunteers, and I heard Tom’s voice in the cutter as it was lowering down, my heart misgave me lest he should meet with some accident. At last I knew, from the conversation on deck, that the cutter had got safe on board, and my mind was relieved. The surgeon came up and dressed my arm, and I then received comparative bodily as well as mental relief.
It was not until the next day, when we lay to, with the schooner close to us, that the weather became sufficiently moderate to enable us to receive the prisoners, and put our own men and officers on board. The prize proved to be an American-built schooner, fitted out as a French privateer. She was called the Cerf Agile, mounting fourteen guns, of nearly three hundred tons measurement, and with a crew of one hundred and seventy men, of which forty-eight were away in prizes. It was perhaps fortunate that the boats were not able to attack her, as they would have received a very warm reception. Thus did we succeed in capturing this mischievous vessel, after a chase of two hundred and seventy miles. As soon as all the arrangements were made, we shaped our course, with the privateer in company, for Halifax, where we arrived in about five weeks. My wound was now nearly healed, but my arm had wasted away, and I was unable to return to my duty. It was well known that I wrote a good hand, and I volunteered, as I could do nothing else, to assist the purser and the clerk with the ship’s books, etcetera.
The admiral was at Bermuda, and the frigate which we were to relieve had, from the exigence of the service, been despatched down to the Honduras, and was not expected back for some months. We sailed from Halifax to Bermuda, and joined the admiral, and after three weeks we were ordered on a cruise. My arm was now perfectly recovered, but I had become so useful in the clerk’s office that I was retained, much against my own wishes: but the captain liked it, as Tom said and after that there was no more said about the matter.
America was not the seat of war at that period; and, with the exception of chasing French runners, there was nothing to be done on the North American station. I have, therefore, little to narrate during the remainder of the time that I was on board the frigate. Tom did his duty in the foretop, and never was in any disgrace; on the contrary, he was a great favourite both with officers and men, and took more liberties with the captain than any one else dared to have done; but Captain Maclean knew that Tom was one of his foremost and best men, always active, zealous, and indifferent as to danger, and Tom knew exactly how far he could venture to play with him. I remained in the clerk’s office, and as it was soon discovered that I had received an excellent education, and always behaved myself respectfully to my superiors, I was kindly treated, and had no reason to complain of a man-of-war.
Such was the state of affairs when the other frigate arrived from the Honduras, and we, who had been cruising for the last four months in Boston Bay, were ordered in by a cutter, to join the admiral at Halifax. We had now been nearly a year from England without receiving any letters. The reader may, therefore, judge of my impatience when, after the anchor had been let go and the sails furled, the admiral’s boat came on board with several bags of letters for the officers and ship’s company. They were handed down into the gun-room, and I waited with impatience for the sorting and distribution.
“Faithful,” said the purser, “here are two letters for you.”
I thanked him, and hastened into the clerk’s office, that I might read them without interruption. The first was addressed in a formal hand quite unknown to me. I opened it with some degree of wonderment as to who could possibly write to so humble an individual! It was from a lawyer, and the contents were as follows:—
Sir—We hasten to advise you of the death of your good friend Mr Alexander Turnbull. By his will, which has been opened and read, and of which you are the executor, he has made you his sole heir, bequeathing you, at the present, the sum of 30,000 pounds, with the remainder of his fortune at the demise of his wife. With the exception of 5000 pounds left to Mrs Turnbull for her own disposal, the legacies do not amount to more than 800 pounds. The jointure arising from the interest of the money secured to Mrs Turnbull during her life is 1080 pounds per annum, upon the three per cent, consols, so that at her demise you will come into 36,000 pounds consols, which at 76, will be equal to 27,360 pounds sterling. I beg to congratulate you upon your good fortune, and, with Mr Drummond, have made application to the Admiralty for your discharge. This application, I am happy to say, has been immediately attended to, and by the same mail that conveys this letter is forwarded an order for your discharge and a passage home. Should you think proper to treat our firm as your legal advisers, we shall be most happy to enrol you among our clients.
I am, sir, yours very respectfully, John Fletcher.
I must leave the reader to judge of this unexpected and welcome communication. At first I was so stunned that I appeared as a statue, with the letter in my hand, and in this condition I remained until roused by the first lieutenant, who had come to the office to desire me to pass the word for “letters for England,” and to desire the sail-maker to make a bag.
“Faithful—why what’s the matter? Are you ill, or—?” I could not reply, but I put the letter into his hand. He read the contents, expressed his astonishment by occasional exclamations. “I wish you joy, my lad, and may it be my turn next time. No wonder you looked like a stuck pig. Had I received such news the captain might have hallooed till he was hoarse, and the ship might have tumbled overboard before I should have roused myself. Well, I suppose we shall get no more work out of you—”
“The captain wants you, Mr Knight,” said one of the midshipmen, touching his hat.
Mr Knight went into the cabin, and in a few minutes returned, holding the order for my discharge in his hand.
“It’s all right, Faithful, here is your discharge, and an order for your passage home.”
He laid it on the table, and then went away, for a first lieutenant in harbour has no time to lose. The next person who came was Tom, holding in his hand a letter from Mary, with a postscript from his mother.
“Well, Jacob,” said he, “I have news to tell you. Mary says that Mr Turnbull is dead, and has left her father 200 pounds, and that she has been told that he has left you something handsome.”
“He has indeed, Tom,” replied I; “read this letter.”
While Tom was reading, I perceived the letter from Mr Drummond, which I had forgotten. I opened it. It communicated the same intelligence as that of the lawyer, in fewer words; recommended my immediate return, and enclosed a bill upon his house for 100 pounds, to enable me to appear in a manner corresponding to my present condition.
“Well,” said Tom, “this is, indeed, good news, Jacob. You are a gentleman at last, as you deserve to be. It has made me so happy; what do you mean to do?”
“I have my discharge here,” replied I, “and am ordered a passage home.”
“Better still. I am so happy, Jacob; so happy. But what is to become of me?” And Tom passed the back of his hand across his eyes to brush away a tear.
“You shall soon follow me, Tom, if I can manage it either by money or any influence.”
“I will manage it, if you don’t, Jacob. I won’t stay here without you, that I am determined.”
“Do nothing rashly, Tom. I am sure I can buy your discharge, and on my arrival in England I will not think of anything else until it is done.”
“You must be quick, then, Jacob, for I’m sure I can’t stay here long.”
“Trust to me, Tom; you’ll still find me Jacob Faithful,” said I, extending my hand. Tom squeezed it earnestly, and with moistened eyes, turned away, and walked forward.
The news had spread through the ship, and many of the officers, as well as the men, came to congratulate me. What would I have given to have been allowed only one half-hour to myself—one half-hour in which I might be permitted to compose my excited feelings—to have returned thanks for such unexpected happiness, and paid a tribute to the memory of so sincere a friend? But in a ship this is almost impossible, unless, as an officer, you can retreat to your own cabin; and those gushings from the heart, arising from grief or pleasure, the tears so sweet in solitude, must be prostituted before the crowd, or altogether repressed. At last the wished-for opportunity did come. Mr Wilson, who had been away on service, came to congratulate me as soon as he heard the news, and with an instinctive perception of what might be my feelings, asked me whether I would not like to write my letters in his cabin, which, for a few hours, was at my service. I thankfully accepted the offer; and, when summoned by the captain, had relieved my overcharged heart, and had composed my excited feelings.
“Jacob Faithful, you are aware there is an order for your discharge,” said he, kindly. “You will be discharged this afternoon into the Astrea; she is ordered home, and will sail with despatches in a few days. You have conducted yourself well since you have been under my command; and, although you are now in a situation not to require a good certificate, still you will have the satisfaction of feeling that you have done your duty in the station of life to which you have, for a certain portion of it, been called—I wish you well.”
Although Captain Maclean, in what he said, never lost sight of the relative situations in which we had been placed, there was a kindness of manner, especially in the last words, “I wish you well,” which went to my heart. I replied that I had been very happy during the time I had been under his command, and thanked him for his good wishes. I then bowed and left the cabin. But the captain did not send me on board the Astrea, although I was discharged into her. He told the first lieutenant that I had better go on shore, and equip myself in a proper manner; and as I afterwards found out, spoke of me in very favourable terms to the captain of the Astrea, acknowledging that I had received the education of a gentleman, and had been illegally impressed; so that, when I made my appearance on board the Astrea, the officers of the gun-room requested that I would mess with them during the passage home.
I went on shore, obtained the money for my bill, hastened to a tailor, and with his exertions, and other fitting-out people, procured all that was requisite for the outward appearance of a gentleman. I then returned to the Immortalité, and bade farewell to the officers and seamen with whom I had been most intimate. My parting with Tom was painful. Even the few days which I had been away, I perceived, had made an alteration in his appearance.
“Jacob,” said he, “don’t think I envy you; on the contrary, I am as grateful, even more grateful than if such good fortune had fallen to my own lot; but I cannot help fretting at the thought of being left here without you: and I shall fret until I am with you again.”
I renewed my promises to procure his discharge, and forcing upon him all the money I thought that I could spare, I went over the side as much affected as poor Tom. Our passage home was rapid. We had a continuance of North West winds, and we flew before them, and in less than three weeks we dropped our anchor at Spithead. Happy in the change of my situation, and happier still in anticipation, I shall only say that I never was in better spirits, or in company with more agreeable young men than were the officers of the Astrea; and although we were so short a time together, we separated with mutual regret.
My first object on my return was to call upon old Tom, and assure him of his son’s welfare. My wishes certainly would have led me to Mr Drummond’s but I felt that my duty required that I should delay that pleasure. I arrived at the hotel late in the evening, and early next morning I went down to the steps at Westminster Bridge, and was saluted with the usual cry of “Boat, sir!” A crowd of recollections poured into my mind at the well-known sound; my life appeared to have passed in review in a few seconds, as I took my seat in the stern of a wherry, and directed the waterman to pull up the river. It was a beautiful morning, and even at that early hour almost too warm—the sun was so powerful; I watched every object that we passed with an interest I cannot describe; every tree, every building, every point of land—they were all old friends, who appeared, as the sun shone brightly on them, to rejoice in my good fortune. I remained in a reverie too delightful to be wished to be disturbed from it, although occasionally there were reminiscences which were painful; but they were but as light clouds, obscuring for a moment, as they flew past, the glorious sun of my happiness. At last the well-known tenement of old Tom, his large board with “Boats built to order,” and the half of the boat stuck up on end, caught my sight, and I remembered the object of my embarkation. I directed the waterman to pull to the hard, and, paying him well, dismissed him; for I had perceived that old Tom was at work stumping round a wherry, bottom up; and his wife was sitting on a bench in the boat-arbour, basking in the warm sun, and working away at her nets. I had landed so quietly, and they both were so occupied with their respective employments, that they had not perceived me, and I crept round by the house to surprise them. I had gained a station behind the old boat, where I overheard the conversation.
“It’s my opinion,” said old Tom, who left off hammering for a time, “that all the nails in Birmingham won’t make this boat water-tight. The timbers are as rotten as a pear, and the nails fall through them. I have put in one piece more than agreed for; and if I don’t put in another here she’ll never swim.”
“Well, then, put another piece in,” replied Mrs Beazeley.
“Yes; so I will; but I’ve a notion I shall be out of pocket by this job. Seven-and-sixpence won’t pay for labour and all. However, never mind,” and Tom carolled forth—
“Is not the sea
Made for the free—
Land for courts and chains alone?
There we are slaves,
But on the waves
Love and liberty’s all our own.”
“Now, if you do sing, sing truth, Beazeley,” said the old woman. “A’n’t our boy pressed into the service? And how can you talk of liberty?”
Old Tom answered by continuing his song—
“No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us;
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.”
“Yes, yes,” replied the old woman; “no eye to watch, indeed. He may be in sickness and in sorrow; he may be wounded, or dying of a fever; and there’s no mother’s eye to watch over him. As to all the earth being forgot, I won’t believe that Tom has forgotten his mother.”
Old Tom replied—
“Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same wherever it goes.”
“So it does, Tom—so it does; and he’s thinking this moment of his father and mother, I do verily believe, and he loves us more than ever.”
“So I believe,” replied old Tom—“that is, if he hasn’t anything better to do. But there’s a time for all things; and when a man is doing his duty as a seaman, he mustn’t let his thoughts wander. Never fear, old woman: he’ll be back again.
“There’s a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft,
To take care of the life of poor Jack.”
“God grant it! God grant it!” replied the old woman, wiping her eyes with her apron, and then resuming her netting.
“He seems,” continued she, “by his letters, to be over-fond of that girl, Mary Stapleton—and I sometimes think that she cares not a little for him; but she’s never of one mind long. I didn’t like to see her flaunting and flirting so with the soldiers, and at the same time Tom says that she writes that she cares for nobody but him.”
“Women are—women! that’s sartin,” replied old Tom, musing for a time, and then showing that his thoughts were running on his son, by bursting out—
“Mary, when yonder boundless sea
Shall part us, and perchance for ever,
Think not my heart can stray from thee,
Or cease to mourn thine absence—never!
And when in distant climes I roam,
Forlorn, unfriended, broken-hearted—”
“Don’t say so, Tom—don’t say so,” interrupted the old woman.
Tom continued—
“Oft shall I sigh for thee and home,
And all those joys from which I parted.”
“Aye, so he does, poor fellow, I’ll be bound to say. What would I give to see his dear, smiling face!” said Mrs Beazeley.
“And I’d give no little, missus, myself. But still, it’s the duty for every man to serve his country; and so ought Tom, as his father did before him. I shall be glad to see him back: but I’m not sorry that he’s gone. Our ships must be manned, old woman; and if they take men by force, it’s only because they won’t volunteer—that’s all. When they’re once on board they don’t mind it. You women require pressing just as much as the men, and it’s all much of a muchness.”
“How’s that Tom?”
“Why, when we make love, and ask you to marry, don’t you always pout, and say, ‘No!’ You like being kissed, but we must take it by force. So it is with manning a ship. The men all say, ‘No;’ but when they are once there, they like the service very much—only, you see, like you, they want pressing. Don’t Tom write and say that he’s quite happy, and don’t care where he is so long as he’s with Jacob?”
“Yes; that’s true; but they say Jacob is to be discharged and come home, now that he’s come to a fortune; and what will Tom say then?”
“Why, that is the worst of it. I believe that Jacob’s heart is in the right place; but still, riches spoil a man. But we shall see. If Jacob don’t prove ‘true blue,’ I’ll never put faith in man again. But there be changes in this world, that’s sartin.
“We all have our taste of the ups and the downs,
As Fortune dispenses her smiles and her frowns;
But may we not hope, if she’s frowning to-day,
That to-morrow she’ll lend us the light of her ray.
“I only wish Jacob was here—that’s all.”
“Then you have your wish, my good old friend,” cried I, running up to Tom and seizing his hand. But old Tom was so taken by surprise that he started back and lost his equilibrium, dragging me after him, and we rolled on the turf together. Nor was this the only accident, for old Mrs Beazeley was so alarmed that she also sprang from the bench fixed in the half of the old boat stuck on end, and threw herself back against it. The boat, rotten when first put up, and with the disadvantage of exposure to the elements for many years, could no longer stand such pressure. It gave way to the sudden force applied by the old woman, and she and the boat went down together, she screaming and scuffling among the rotten planks, which now, after so many years close intimacy, were induced to part company. I was first on my legs, and ran to the assistance of Mrs Beazeley, who was half smothered with dust and flakes of dry pitch; and old Tom coming to my assistance, we put the old woman on her legs again.
“O deary me!” cried the old woman—“O deary me! I do believe my hip is out! Lord, Mr Jacob, how you frightened me!”
“Yes,” said old Tom, shaking me warmly by the hand, “we were all taken aback, old boat and all. What a shindy you have made, bowling us all down like ninepins! Well, my boy, I’m glad to see you, and notwithstanding your gear, you’re Jacob Faithful still.”
“I hope so,” replied I; and we then adjourned to the house, where I made them acquainted with all that had passed, and what I intended to do relative to obtaining Tom’s discharge. I then left them, promising to return soon, and, hailing a wherry going up the river, proceeded to my old friend the Dominie, of whose welfare, as well as Stapleton’s and Mary’s, I had been already assured.
But as I passed through Putney Bridge I thought I might as well call first upon old Stapleton; and I desired the waterman to pull in. I hastened to Stapleton’s lodgings, and went upstairs, where I found Mary in earnest conversation with a very good-looking young man, in a sergeant’s uniform of the 93rd Regiment. Mary, who was even handsomer than when I had left her, starting up, at first did not appear to recognise me, then coloured up to the forehead, as she welcomed me with a constraint I had never witnessed before. The sergeant appeared inclined to keep his ground; but on my taking her hand and telling her that I brought a message from a person whom I trusted she had not forgotten, he gave her a nod and walked downstairs. Perhaps there was a severity in my countenance as I said, “Mary, I do not know whether, after what I have seen, I ought to give the message; and the pleasure I anticipated in meeting you again is destroyed by what I have now witnessed. How disgraceful is it thus to play with a man’s feelings—to write to him, assuring him of your regard and constancy, and at the same time encouraging another.”
Mary hung down her head. “If I have done wrong, Mr Faithful,” said she, after a pause, “I have not wronged Tom; what I have written I felt.”
“If that is the case, why do you wrong another person? why encourage another young man only to make him unhappy?”
“I have promised him nothing; but why does not Tom come back and look after me? I can’t mope here by myself; I have no one to keep company with; my father is always away at the alehouse, and I must have somebody to talk to. Besides, Tom is away, and may be away a long while, and absence cures love in men, although it does not in women.”
“It appears then, Mary, that you wish to have two strings to your bow, in case of accident.”
“Should the first string break, a second would be very acceptable,” replied Mary. “But it is always this way,” continued she, with increasing warmth; “I never can be in a situation which is not right; whenever I do anything which may appear improper, so certain do you make your appearance when least expected and least wished for—as if you were born to be my constant accuser.”
“Does not your own conscience accuse you, Mary?”
“Mr Faithful,” repeated she, very warmly, “you are not my father confessor; but do as you please—write to Tom if you please, and tell him all you have seen, and anything you may think—make him and make me miserable and unhappy—do it, I pray. It will be a friendly act; and as you are now a great man, you may persuade Tom that I am a jilt and a good-for-nothing.”
Here Mary laid her hands on the table and buried her face in them.
“I did not come here to be your censor, Mary; you are certainly at liberty to act as you please, without my having any right to interfere; but as Tom is my earliest and best friend, so far as his interests and happiness are concerned, I shall carefully watch over them. We have been so long together, and I am so well acquainted with all his feelings, that I really believe that if ever there was a young man sincerely and devotedly attached to a woman, he is so to you; and I will add, that if ever there was a young man who deserved love in return, it is Tom. When I left, not a month back, he desired me to call upon you as soon as I could, and assure you of his unalterable attachment; and I am now about to procure his discharge, that he may be able to return. All his thoughts are upon this point, and he is now waiting with the utmost impatience the arrival of it, that he may again be in your company; you can best judge whether his return will or will not be a source of happiness.”
Mary raised her head—her face was wet with tears.
“Then he will soon be back again, and I shall see him. Indeed, his return will be no source of unhappiness, if I can make him happy—indeed, it shall not, Mr Faithful; but pray don’t tell him of my foolish conduct, pray don’t—why make him unhappy?—I entreat you not to do it. I will not do so again. Promise me, Jacob, will you?” continued Mary, taking me by the arm, and looking beseechingly in my face.
“Mary, I will never be a mischief-maker; but recollect I exact the performance of your promise.”
“Oh, and I will keep it, now that I know he will soon be home. I can, I think I can—I’m sure I can wait a month or two without flirting. But I do wish that I was not left so much alone. I wish Tom was at home to take care of me, for there is no one else. I can’t take care of myself.”
I saw by Mary’s countenance that she was in earnest, and I therefore made friends with her, and we conversed for two hours, chiefly about Tom. When I left her she had recovered her usual spirits, and said at parting, looking archly at me, “Now, you will see how wise and prudent I shall be.”
I shook my head, and left her that I might find out (my) old friend Stapleton, who, as usual, was at the door of the public-house, smoking his pipe. At first he did not recognise me, for when I accosted him he put his open hand to his ear as usual, and desired me to speak a little louder, but I answered, “Nonsense, Stapleton, that won’t do with me.” He then took his pipe out of his mouth, and looked me full in the face.
“Jacob, as I’m alive! Didn’t know you in your long togs—thought you was a gentleman wanting a boat. Well, I hardly need say how glad I am to see you after so long; that’s no more than human natur’. And how’s Tom? Have you seen Mary?”
These two questions enabled me to introduce the subject that I wished. I told him of the attachment and troth pledged between the two, and how wrong it was for him to leave her so much alone. The old man agreed with me, and said, that as to talking to the men, that was on Mary’s part nothing but “human natur’”; and that as for Tom wishing to be at home and seeing her again, that also was nothing but “human natur’”; but that he would smoke his pipe at home in future, and keep the soldiers out of the house. Satisfied with this assurance I left him, and taking another wherry went up to Brentford to see the Dominie.
I found the worthy old Dominie in the school-room, seated at his elevated desk, the usher not present, and the boys making a din enough to have awaked a person from a trance. That he was in one of his deep reveries, and that the boys had taken advantage of it, was evident. “Mr Dobbs,” said I, walking close up to the desk, but the Dominie answered not. I repeated his name in a louder voice.
“Cosine of X plus AB minus Z minus a half; such must be the result,” said the Dominie talking to himself. “Yet it doth not prove correct. I may be in error. Let me revise my work,” and the Dominie lifted up his desk to take out another piece of paper. When the desk lid was raised, I removed his work and held it behind me.
“But how is this?” exclaimed the Dominie, and he looked everywhere for his previous calculations. “Nay,” continued he, “it must have been the wind;” and then he cast his eyes about until they fixed upon me laughing at him. “Eheu! what do my eyes perceive?—It is—yet it is not—yes, most truly it is, my son Jacob. Welcome, most welcome,” cried the old man, descending from his desk, and clasping me in his arms. “Long is it since I have seen thee, my son, Interea magnum sol circumvolvitur annum. Long, yes long, have I yearned for thy return, fearful lest, nudus ignota arena, thou mightest, like another Palinurus, have been cast away. Thou art returned, and all is well; as the father said in the Scripture: I have found my son which I had lost; but no prodigal thou, though I use the quotation as apt. Now all is well; thou hast escaped the danger of the battle, the fire, and the wreck, and now thou mayest hang up thy wet garment as a votive offering; as Horace hath it, Uvida suspendisse potenti vestimenta maris Deo.”
During the apostrophe of the Dominie, the boys perceiving that he was no longer wrapped up in his algebra, had partly settled to their desks, and in their apparent attention to their lessons reminded me of the humming of bees before a hive on a summer’s day.
“Boys,” cried the Dominie, “nunc est ludendum; verily ye shall have a holiday; put up your books, and depart in peace.”
The books were hastily put up, in obedience to the command; the depart in peace was not so rigidly adhered to—they gave a loud shout, and in a few seconds the Dominie and I stood alone in the school-room.
“Come, Jacob, let us adjourn to my sanctum; there may we commune without interruption. Thou shalt tell me thine adventures, and I will communicate to thee what hath been made known to me relative to those with whom thou wert acquainted.”
“First let me beg you to give me something to eat, for I am not a little hungry,” interrupted I, as we gained the kitchen.
“Verily shalt thou have all that we possess, Jacob; yet now, I think, that will not be much, seeing that I and our worthy matron did pick the bones of a shoulder of mutton, this having been our fourth day of repast upon it. She is out, yet I will venture to intrude into the privacy of her cupboard, for thy sake. Peradventure she may be wroth, yet will I risk her displeasure.” So saying, the old Dominie opened the cupboard, and, one by one, handed to me the dishes with their contents. “Here Jacob are two hard dumplings from yesterday. Canst thou relish cold, hard, dumplings?—but, stop, here is something more savoury—half of a cold cabbage, which was left this day. We will look again. Here is meat—yes, it is meat; but now do I perceive it is a piece of lights reserved for the dinner of the cat to-morrow. I am fearful that we must not venture upon that, for the dame will be wroth.”
“Pray put it back, sir; I would not interfere with puss on any account.”
“Nay, then, Jacob, I see naught else, unless there may be viands on the upper shelf. Sir, here is bread, the staff of life, and also a fragment of cheese; and now, methinks, I discern something dark at the back of the shelf.” The Dominie extended his hand, and immediately withdrew it, jumping from his chair, with a loud cry. He had put his fingers into a rat gin, set by the old woman for those intruders, and he held up his arm and stamped as he shouted out with the pain. I hastened to him, and pressing down the spring, released his fingers from the teeth, which, however, had drawn blood, as well as bruised him; fortunately, like most of the articles of their menage, the trap was a very old one, and he was not much hurt. The Dominie thrust his fingers into his capacious mouth, and held them there some time without speaking. He began to feel a little ease, when in came the matron.
“Why, what’s all this!” said she, in a querulous tone. “Jacob here, and all my cupboard on the table. Jacob, how dare you go to my cupboard?”
“It was the Dominie, Mrs Bately, who looked there for something for me to eat, and he has been caught in a rat-trap.”
“Serve him right; I have forbade him that cupboard. Have I not, Mr Dobbs?”
“Yea, and verily,” quoth the Dominie, “and I do repent me that I took not thine advice, for look at my fingers;” and the Dominie extended his lacerated digits.
“Dear me! well I’d no idea that a rat-trap pinched so hard,” replied the old woman, whose wrath was appeased. “How it must hurt the poor things—I won’t set it again, but leave them all to the cat; he’ll kill them, if he only can get at them.” The old lady went to a drawer, unlocked it, brought out some fragments of rags, and a bottle of friar’s balsam, which she applied to the Dominie’s hand, and then bound it up, scolding him the whole time. “How stupid of you, Mr Dobbs; you know that I was only out for a few minutes. Why didn’t you wait—and why did you go to the cupboard? Hav’n’t I always told you not to look into it? and now you see the consequences.”
“Verily my hand burneth,” replied the Dominie.
“I will go for cold water, and it will ease you. What a deal of trouble you do give, Mr Dobbs; you’re worse than a charity boy;” and the old lady departed to the pump.
“Vinegar is a better thing, sir,” said I, “and there is a bottle in the cupboard, which I dare say is vinegar.” I went to the cupboard, and brought out the bottle, took out the cork and smelt it. “This is not vinegar, sir, it is Hollands or gin.”
“Then would I like a glass, Jacob, for I feel a sickening faintness upon me; yet be quick, peradventure the old woman may return.”
“Drink out of the bottle, sir,” said I, perceiving that the Dominie looked very pale, “and I will give you notice of her approach.” The Dominie put the bottle to his mouth, and was taking a sufficient draught, when the old woman returned by another door which was behind us; she had gone that way for a wash-basin. Before we could perceive her, she came behind the Dominie, snatched the bottle from his mouth with a jerk that threw a portion of the spirits in his eyes, and blinded him.
“That’s why you went to my cupboard, is it, Mr Dobbs?” cried she, in a passion. “That’s it, is it? I thought my bottle went very fast; seeing that I don’t take more than a tea-spoonful every night, for the wind which vexes me so much. I’ll set the rat-trap again, you may depend upon it; and now you may get somebody else to bind your fingers.”
“It was I who took it out, Mrs Bately; the Dominie would have fainted with pain. It was very lucky that he has a housekeeper who is careful to have something of the kind in the house, or he might have been dead. You surely don’t begrudge a little of your medicine to recover Mr Dobbs?”
“Peace, woman, peace,” said the Dominie, who had gained courage by his potation. “Peace, I say; I knew not that thou hadst in thy cupboard either a gin for my hand, or gin for my mouth; since I have been taken in the one, it is but fair that I should take in the other. In future both thy gins will not be interfered with by me. Bring me the basin, that I may appease my angry wounds, and then hasten to procure some viands to appease the hunger of my son Jacob; lastly, appease thine own wrath. Pax. Peace, I say;” and the old woman, who perceived that the Dominie had asserted his right of dominion, went to obey his orders, grumbling till she was out of hearing. The application of the cold pump-water soon relieved the pain of the good old Dominie, and with his hand remaining in the basin, we commenced a long conversation.
At first I narrated to him the events which had occurred during my service on board of the frigate. When I told him of my parting with Tom, he observed, “Verily do I remember that young Tom, a jocund, pleasant, yet intrusive lad. Yet do I wish him well, and am grieved that he should be so taken by that maiden Mary. Well may we say of her, as Horace hath of Pyrrha—‘Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa, perfusis liquidis urgit odoribus, grate, Pyrrha, sub antro. Cui flavam religas comam, simplex munditiis.’ I grieve at it, yea, grieve much. Heu, quoties fidem mutatosque Deos flebit! Verily, Jacob, I do prophesy that she will lead him into error, yea, perhaps into perdition.”
“I trust not, sir,” replied I; but the Dominie made no answer. For half-an-hour he was in deep and serious thought, during which Mrs Bately entered, and spreading a cloth, brought in from the other room some rashers of bacon and eggs, upon which I made a hasty and hearty meal. The old matron’s temper was now smoothed, and she welcomed me kindly, and shortly after went out for a fresh basin of cold water for the Dominie to bathe his hand. This roused him, and he recommenced the conversation.
“Jacob, I have not yet congratulated thee upon thy accession to wealth; not that I do not sincerely rejoice in it, but because the pleasure of thy presence has made me unmindful of it. Still, was it fortunate for thee that thou hadst raised up such a friend as Mr Turnbull; otherwise what would have been the result of thy boasted independence? Thou wouldst probably have remained many years on board of a man-of-war, and have been killed, or have returned mutilated, to die unknown.”
“You were right, sir,” replied I; “my independence was nothing but pride; and I did bitterly repent, as you said I should do, even before I was pressed into the king’s service—but Mr Drummond never repeated his offers.”
“He never did, Jacob; but as I have since been informed by him, although he was taken by surprise at thy being forced away to serve thy country, still he was not sure that you would accept them; and he, moreover, wished you fully to feel thine own folly. Long before you had made friends with him, he had attested the will of Mr Turnbull, and was acquainted with the contents. Yet, did he watch over thee, and had he thought that thy way of life had led thee into that which was wrong, he would have interfered to save thee; but he considered with Shakespeare that ‘sweet were the uses of adversity,’ and that thou wouldst be more schooled by remaining some time under her unprepossessing frowns. He hath ever been thy friend.”
“I can believe it. I trust he is well, and his family.”
“They were well and prosperous, but a little while ago, Jacob; yet I have seen but little of them since the death of Mr Turnbull. It will pain thee to hear that affliction at thy absence hastened his dissolution. I was at his death-bed, Jacob; and I verily believe he was a good man, and will meet the reward of one; yet did he talk most strangely, and reminded me of that remnant of a man you call old Tom. ‘It’s no use, old gentleman,’ said he, as he lay in his bed supported by pillows, for he had wasted away till he was but a skeleton, having broken a blood-vessel with his violent coughing—‘It’s no use pouring that doctor’s stuff down my throat; my anchor’s short stay a-peak, and in a few minutes I shall trip it, I trust for heaven, where I hope there are moorings laid down for me.’ ‘I would fain comprehend thee,’ replied I, ‘but thou speakest in parables.’ ‘I mean to say that death has driven his harpoon in up to the shank, and that I struggle in vain. I have run out all my line. I shall turn up in a few minutes—so give my love and blessing to Jacob—he saved my life once—but now I’m gone.’ With these last words his spirit took its flight; and thus, Jacob, did your benefactor breathe his last, invoking a blessing on your head.”
I remained silent for a few minutes, for I was much affected by the Dominie’s description; he at length resumed the conversation.
“Thou hast not yet seen the Drummonds, Jacob?”
“I have not,” I replied, “but I will call upon them tomorrow; but it is time that I should go, for I have to return to London.”
“Thou needst not, Jacob. Thine own house is at hand.”
“My own house!”
“Yes; by the will of Mr Turnbull, his wife has been left a handsome jointure, but, for reasons which he did not explain, the house and furniture are not left to her, but, as residuary legatee, belong to thee.”
“Indeed!—then where is Mrs Turnbull?”
“At Bath, where she hath taken up her residence. Mr Drummond, who hath acted in thy behalf, permitted her to take away such articles as she might wish, but they were but few, chiefly those little objects which filled up rather than adorned the drawing-room. The house is all ready for thy reception, and thou mayst take possession this evening.”
“But why did not Mr Turnbull leave it to his widow?”
“I cannot exactly say, but I think he did not wish her to remain in this place. He, therefore, left her 5000 pounds at her own disposal, to enable her to purchase and furnish another.”
I then took my leave of the Dominie, and it being rather late, I resolved to walk to the house and sleep there.
On my arrival the front gates were opened by the gardener’s wife, who made me a profound courtesy. The gardener soon afterwards made his appearance, hat in hand. Everything was neat and in good order. I entered the house, and as soon as possible rid myself of their obsequious attentions. I wished to be alone. Powerful feelings crowded on my mind. I hastened to Mr Turnbull’s study, and sat down in the chair so lately occupied by him. The proud feeling of possession, softened into gratitude to heaven, and sorrow at his death, came over me, and I remained for a long while in a deep reverie. “And all this, and more, much more, are mine,” I mentally exclaimed; “the sailor before the mast, the waterman on the river, the charity-boy, the orphan sits down in quiet possession of luxury and wealth. What have I done to deserve all this?” My heart told me nothing, or if anything, it was almost valueless, and I poured forth my soul in thanks to heaven. I felt more composed after I had performed this duty, and my thoughts then dwelt upon my benefactor. I surveyed the room—the drawings, the furs and skins, the harpoons and other instruments, all remaining in their respective places, as when I last had an interview with Mr Turnbull. I remembered his kindness, his singleness of heart, his honesty, his good sense, and his real worth; and I shed many tears for his loss. My thoughts then passed to Sarah Drummond, and I felt much uneasiness on that score. Would she receive me, or would she still remember what I had been? I recollected her kindness and good-will towards me. I weighed these, and my present condition, against my origin and my former occupation; and could not ascertain how the scale might turn. I shall soon see, thought I. To-morrow, even, may decide the question. The gardener’s wife knocked at the door, and announced that my bed was prepared. I went to sleep, dreaming of Sarah, young Tom, the Dominie and Mary Stapleton.
I was up early the next morning, and hastened to the hotel; when, having arranged my person to the best of my power (but at the same time never so little to my satisfaction), I proceeded to the house of Mr Drummond. I knocked; and this time I was not desired to wait in the hall, but was immediately ushered up into the drawing-room. Sarah Drummond was sitting alone at her drawing. My name was announced as I entered. She started from her chair, and blushed deeply as she moved towards me. We joined hands in silence. I was breathless with emotion. Never had she appeared so beautiful. Neither party appeared willing to break silence; at last I faltered out, “Miss Drummond,”—and then I stopped.
“Mr Faithful,” replied she; and then, after a break—“How very silly this is; I ought to have congratulated you upon your safe return, and upon your good fortune; and, indeed, Mr Faithful, no one can do so more sincerely.”
“Miss Drummond,” replied I, confused, “when I was an orphan, a charity-boy, and a waterman, you called me Jacob, if the alteration in my prospects induces you to address me in so formal a manner—if we are in future to be on such different terms—I can only say that I wish that I were again—Jacob Faithful, the waterman.”
“Nay,” replied she, “recollect that it was your own choice to be a waterman. You might have been different—very different. You might at this time have been a partner with my father, for he said so but last night, when we were talking about you. But you refused all; you threw away your education, your talents, your good qualities, from a foolish pride, which you considered independence. My father almost humbled himself to you—not that it is ever humiliating to acknowledge and attempt to repair a fault, but still he did more than could be expected from most people. Your friends persuaded you, but you rejected their advice; and what was still more unpardonable, even I had no influence over you. As long as you punished yourself I did not upbraid you; but now that you have been so fortunate, I tell you plainly—”
“What?”
“That it is more than you deserve, that’s all.”
“You have said but the truth, Miss Drummond. I was very proud and very foolish; but I had repented of my folly long before I was pressed; and I candidly acknowledge that I do not merit the good fortune I have met with. Can I say more?”
“No; I am satisfied with your repentance and acknowledgment. So, now you may sit down, and make yourself agreeable.”
“Before I do that, allow me to ask, as you address me as Mr Faithful, how am I to address you? I should not wish to be considered impertinent.”
“My name is Miss Drummond, but those who feel intimate with me call me Sarah.”
“I may reply that my name is Faithful, but those who feel intimate with me call me Jacob.”
“Very true; but allow me to observe that you show very little tact. You should never force a lady into a corner. If I appear affronted when you call me Sarah, then you will do wise to fall back upon Miss Drummond. But why do you fix your eyes upon me so earnestly?”
“I cannot help it, and must beg your pardon; but you are so improved in appearance since I last saw you. I thought no one could be more perfect, but—”
“Well, that’s not a bad beginning, Jacob. I like to hear of my perfections. Now follow up your but.”
“I hardly know what I was going to say, but I think it was that I do not feel as if I ought or can address you otherwise than as Miss Drummond.”
“Oh, you’ve thought better of it, have you? Well, I begin to think myself that you look so well in your present dress, and have become so very different a person, that I ought not to address you by any other name than Mr Faithful. So now we are agreed.”
“That’s not what I mean to say.”
“Well, then, let me know what you did mean to say.”
This puzzling question fortunately did not require an answer, for Mr Drummond came into the room and extended his hand.
“My dear Jacob,” said he, in the most friendly manner, “I’m delighted to see you back again, and to have the pleasure of congratulating you on your good fortune. But you have business to transact which will not admit of any delay. You must prove the will, and arrange with the lawyers as soon as possible. Will you come now? All the papers are below, and I have the whole morning to spare. We will be back to dinner, Sarah, if Jacob has no other engagement.”
“I have none,” replied I; “and shall be most happy to avail myself of your kindness. Miss Drummond, I wish you a good morning.”
“Au revoir, Mr Faithful,” replied Sarah, courtesying formally, with a mocking smile.
The behaviour of Mr Drummond towards me was most kind and parental, and my eyes were often suffused with tears during the occupation of the morning. The most urgent business was got through, and an interview with Mr Turnbull’s solicitor put the remainder in progress; still it was so late when we had accomplished it, that I had no time to dress. On my return, Mrs Drummond received me with her usual kindness. I narrated, during the evening, my adventures since we parted, and took that opportunity to acknowledge to Mr Drummond how bitterly I had repented my folly, and I may add ingratitude, towards him.
“Jacob,” said he, as we were sitting at the tea-table with Mrs Drummond and Sarah, “I knew at the time that you were toiling on the river for shillings that you were the inheritor of thousands; for I not only witnessed but read the will of Mr Turnbull; but I thought it best that you should have a lesson which you would never forget in after life. There is no such thing in this world as independence, unless in a savage state. In society we are all mutually dependent upon each other. Independence of mind we may have, but no more. As a waterman, you were dependent upon your customers, as every poor man must be upon those who have more means; and in refusing my offers you were obliged to apply for employment to others. The rich are as entirely dependent upon others as the poor; they depend upon them for their food, their clothes, their necessities, and their luxuries. Such ever will be the case in society, and the more refined the society may be—the more civilised its parts—the greater is the mutual dependence. Still it is an error originating in itself from high feelings, and therefore must be considered as an error on the right side; but recollect how much you might have thrown away had not you, in the first place, secured such a friend as Mr Turnbull; and secondly, if the death of that friend had not so soon put you in possession.”
I was but too ready to acknowledge the truth of these remarks. The evening passed away so rapidly that it was midnight before I rose to take my leave, and I returned to the hotel as happy in my mind, and as grateful as ever any mortal could possibly be. The next day I removed to the house left me by Mr Turnbull, and the first order I gave was for a wherry. Such was the force of habit, I could not do without one; and half my time was spent upon the river, pulling every day down to Mr Drummond’s, and returning in the evening, or late at night. Thus passed away two months, during which I occasionally saw the Dominie, the Stapletons, and old Tom Beazeley. I had exerted myself to procure Tom’s discharge, and at last had the pleasure of telling the old people that it was to go out by the next packet. By the Drummonds I was received as a member of the family—there was no hindrance to my being alone with Sarah for hours; and although I had not ventured to declare my sentiments, they appeared to be well understood, as well by the parents as by Sarah herself.
Two days after I had communicated this welcome intelligence to the old couple, as I was sitting at breakfast, attended by the gardener and his wife (for I had made no addition to my establishment), what was my surprise at the appearance of young Tom, who entered the room as usual, laughing as he held out his hand.
“Tom!” exclaimed I, “why, how did you come here?”
“By water, Jacob, as you may suppose.”
“But how have you received your discharge? Is the ship come home?”
“I hope not; the fact is, I discharged myself, Jacob.”
“What! did you desert?”
“Even so. I had three reasons for so doing. In the first place, I could not remain without you; in the second, my mother wrote to say Mary was taken up with a sodger; and the third was, I was put into the report for punishment, and should have been flogged, as sure as the captain had a pair of epaulettes.”
“Well, but sit down and tell me all about it. You know your discharge is obtained.”
“Yes, thanks to you, Jacob; all the better, for now they won’t look after me. All’s well that ends well. After you went away, I presume I was not in the very best of humours; and that rascal of a master’s mate who had us pressed, thought proper to bully me beyond all bearing. One day he called me a lying scoundrel; upon which I forgot that I was on board of a man-of-war, and replied that he was a confounded cheat, and that he had better pay me his debt of two guineas for bringing him down the river. He reported me on the quarter-deck for calling him a cheat, and Captain Maclean, who, you know, won’t stand any nonsense, heard the arguments on both sides; upon which he declared that the conduct of the master’s mate was not that of an officer or a gentleman, and therefore he should leave the ship; and that my language to my superior officer was subversive to the discipline of the service, and therefore he should give me a good flogging. Now, Jacob, you know that if the officers don’t pay their debts, Captain Maclean always does, and with interest into the bargain; so finding that I was in for it, and no mistake, I swam ashore the night before Black Monday, and made my way to Miramichi, without any adventure, except a tussle with a sergeant of marines, whom I left for dead about three miles out of the town. At Miramichi I got on board of a timber ship, and here I am.”
“I am sorry that you deserted, nevertheless,” replied I; “it may come to mischief.”
“Never fear; the people on the river know that I have my discharge, and I’m safe enough.”
“Have you seen Mary!”
“Yes, and all’s right in that quarter. I shall build another wherry, wear my badge and dress, and stick above bridge. When I’m all settled, I’ll splice, and live along with the old couple.”
“But will Mary consent to live there? It is so quiet and retired that she won’t like it.”
“Mary Stapleton has given herself airs enough in all conscience, and has had her own way quite enough. Mary Beazeley will do as her husband wishes, or I will know the reason why.”
“We shall see, Tom. Bachelors’ wives are always best managed, they say. But now you want money to buy your boat.”
“Yes, if you’ll lend it to me; I don’t like to take it away from the old people; and I’ll pay you when I can, Jacob.”
“No; you must accept this, Tom; and when you marry you must accept something more,” replied I, handing the notes to him.
“With all my heart, Jacob. I never can repay you for what you have done for me, and so I may just as well increase the debt.”
“That’s good logic, Tom.”
“Quite as good as independence; is it not, Jacob?”
“Better, much better, as I know to my cost,” replied I, laughing.
Tom finished his breakfast, and then took his leave. After breakfast, as usual, I went to the boat-house, and unchaining my wherry, pulled up the river, which I had not hitherto done; my attendance upon Sarah having invariably turned the bow of my wherry in the opposite direction. I swept by the various residences on the banks of the river until I arrived opposite to that of Mr Wharncliffe, and perceived a lady and gentleman in the garden. I knew them at once, and, as they were standing close to the wall, I pulled in and saluted them.
“Do you recollect me?” said I to them, smiling.
“Yes,” replied the lady, “I do recollect your face—surely—it is Faithful, the waterman!”
“No, I am not a waterman; I am only amusing myself in my own boat.”
“Come up,” replied Mr Wharncliffe; “we can’t shake hands with you at that distance.”
I made fast my wherry and joined them. They received me most cordially.
“I thought you were not a waterman, Mr Faithful, although you said that you were,” said Mrs Wharncliffe. “Why did you deceive us in that way?”
“Indeed, at that time I was, from my own choice and my own folly a waterman; now I am so no longer.”
We were soon on the most intimate terms, and I narrated part of my adventures. They expressed their obligations to me, and requested that I would accept their friendship.
“Would you like to have a row on the water? It is a beautiful day, and if Mrs Wharncliffe will trust herself—”
“Oh, I should like it above all things. Will you go. William? I will run for a shawl.”
In a few minutes we were all three embarked, and I rowed them to my villa. They had been admiring the beauty of the various residences on the banks of the Thames.
“How do you like that one?” inquired I of Mrs Wharncliffe.
“It is very handsome, and I think one of the very best.”
“That is mine,” replied I. “Will you allow me to show it to you?”
“Yours!”
“Yes, mine; but I have a very small establishment, for I am a bachelor.”
We landed, and after walking about the grounds went into the house.
“Do you recollect this room?” said I to Mr Wharncliffe.
“Yes, indeed I do; it was here that the box was opened, and my uncle’s—But we must not say anything about that: he is dead!”
“Dead!”
“Yes; he never held his head up after his dishonesty was discovered. He pined and died within three months, sincerely repenting what he had attempted.”
I accepted their invitation to dinner, as I rowed them back to their own residence; and afterwards had the pleasure of enrolling them among my sincerest friends. Through them I was introduced to Lady Auburn and many others; and I shall not forget the old housekeeper recognising me one day, when I was invited to Lady Auburn’s villa.
“Bless me! what tricks you young gentlemen do play. Only to think how you asked me for water, and how I pushed the door in your face, and wouldn’t let you rest yourself. But if you young gentlemen will disguise yourselves, it’s your own faults, and you must take the consequences.”
My acquaintances now increased rapidly, and I had the advantage of the best society. I hardly need observe that it was a great advantage; for, although I was not considered awkward, still I wanted that polish which can only be obtained by an admixture with good company. The reports concerning me were various; but it was generally believed that I was a young man who had received an excellent education, and might have been brought forward, but that I had taken a passion for the river, and had chosen to be a waterman in preference to any other employment; that I had since come into a large fortune, and had resumed my station in society. How far the false was blended with the true, those who have read my adventures will readily perceive. For my part, I cared little what they said, and I gave myself no trouble to refute the various assertions. I was not ashamed of my birth, because it had no effect upon the Drummonds; still I knew the world too well to think it necessary to blazon it. On the whole, the balance was in my favour; there was a degree of romance in my history, with all its variations, which interested, and, joined to the knowledge of my actual wealth, made me to be well received, and gained me attention wherever I went. One thing was much to my advantage—my extensive reading, added to the good classical education which I had received. It is not often in society that an opportunity occurs when any one can prove his acquisitions; and thus did education turn the scale in my favour, and every one was much more inclined to believe the false rather than the true versions of my history.
I had often ruminated in what manner I could render the Dominie more comfortable. I felt that to him I was as much indebted as to any living being, and one day I ventured to open the subject; but his reply was decided.
“I see, Jacob, my son, what thou wouldst wish: but it must not be. Man is but a creature of habit; habit becomes to him not only necessity but luxury. For five-and-forty years have I toiled, instilling precepts and forcing knowledge into the brains of those who have never proved so apt as thou. Truly, it hath been a painful task, yet can I not relinquish it. I might, at one time, that is, during the first ten years, have met the offer with gratitude; for I felt the humiliation and annoyance of wearying myself with the rudiments, when I would fain have commented upon the various peculiarities of style in the ancient Greek and Latin authors; but now, all that has passed away. The eternal round of concord, prosody, and syntax has charms for me from habit: the rule of three is preferable to the problems of Euclid, and even the Latin grammar has its delights. In short, I have a hujus pleasure in hic, haec, hoc; (cluck cluck;) and even the flourishing of the twigs of that tree of knowledge, the birch, hath become a pleasurable occupation to me, if not to those upon whom it is inflicted. I am like an old horse, who hath so long gone round and round in a mill, that he cannot walk straight forward; and, if it pleases the Almighty, I will die in harness. Still I thank thee, Jacob; and thank God that thou hast again proved the goodness of thy heart, and given me one more reason to rejoice in thee and in thy love; but thine offer, if accepted, would not add to my happiness; for what feeling can be more consolatory to an old man near into his grave than the reflection that his life, if not distinguished, has at least been useful?”
I had not for some time received a visit from Tom; and, surprised at this, I went down to his father’s to make inquiry about him. I found the old couple sitting in-doors; the weather was fine, but old Tom was not at his work; even the old woman’s netting was thrown aside.
“Where is Tom?” inquired I, after wishing them good morning.
“Oh deary me!” cried the old woman, putting her apron up to her eyes; “that wicked good-for-nothing girl!”
“Good heavens! what is the matter?” inquired I of old Tom.
“The matter, Jacob,” replied old Tom, stretching out his two wooden legs, and placing his hands upon his knees, “is, that Tom has ’listed for a sodger.”
“’Listed for a soldier!”
“Yes; that’s as sartain as it’s true; and what’s worse, I’m told the regiment is ordered to the West Indies. So, what with fever o’ mind and yellow fever, he’s food for the land crabs, that’s sartain. I think now,” continued the old man, brushing a tear from his eye with his fore-finger, “that I see his bones bleaching under the palisades; for I know the place well.”
“Don’t say so, Tom; don’t say so!”
“O Jacob! beg pardon if I’m too free now; but can’t you help us?”
“I will if I can, depend upon it; but tell me how this happened.”
“Why, the long and the short of it is this: that girl, Mary Stapleton, has been his ruin. When he first came home he was well received, and looked forward to being spliced and living with us; but it didn’t last long. She couldn’t leave off her old tricks; and so, that Tom might not get the upper hand, she plays him off with the sergeant of a recruiting party, and flies off from one to the other, just like the ticker of the old clock there does from one side to the other. One day the sergeant was the fancy man, and the next day it was Tom. At last Tom gets out of patience, and wishes to come to a fair understanding. So he axes her whether she chooses to have the sergeant or to have him; she might take her choice, but he had no notion of being played with in that way, after all her letters and all her promises. Upon this she huffs outright, and tells Tom he may go about his business, for she didn’t care if she never sees him no more. So Tom’s blood was up, and he called her a damned jilt, and, in my opinion, he was near to the truth; so then they had a regular breeze, and part company. Well, this made Tom very miserable, and the next day he would have begged her pardon, and come to her terms, for, you see, Jacob, a man in love has no discretion; but she being still angry, tells him to go about his business, as she means to marry the sergeant in a week. Tom turns away again quite mad; and it so happens that he goes into the public-house where the sergeant hangs out, hoping to be revenged on him, and meaning to have a regular set-to, and see who is the best man; but the sergeant wasn’t there, and Tom takes pot after pot to drive away care; and when the sergeant returned, Tom was not a little in liquor. Now, the sergeant was a knowing chap, and when he comes in, and perceives Tom with his face flushed, he guesses what was to come, so, instead of saying a word, he goes to another table, and dashes his fist upon it, as if in a passion. Tom goes up to him, and says, ‘Sergeant, I’ve known that girl long before you, and if you are a man, you’ll stand up for her.’ ‘Stand up for her; yes,’ replied the sergeant, ‘and so I would have done yesterday, but the blasted jilt has turned me to the right about and sent me away. I won’t fight now, for she won’t have me—any more than she will you.’ Now when Tom hears this, he becomes more pacified with the sergeant, and they set down like two people under the same misfortune, and take a pot together, instead of fighting; and then, you see, the sergeant plies Tom with liquor, swearing that he will go back to the regiment, and leave Mary altogether, and advises Tom to do the same. At last, what with the sergeant’s persuasions, and Tom’s desire to vex Mary, he succeeds in ’listing him, and giving him the shilling before witnesses; that was all the rascal wanted. The next day Tom was sent down to the depôt, as they call it, under a guard; and the sergeant remains here to follow up Mary without interruption. This only happened three days ago, and we only were told of it yesterday by old Stapleton, who threatens to turn his daughter out of doors.”
“Can’t you help us, Jacob?” said the old woman, crying.
“I hope I can; and if money can procure his discharge it shall be obtained. But did you not say that he was ordered to the West Indies?”
“The regiment is in the Indies, but they are recruiting for it, so many have been carried off by the yellow fever last sickly season. A transport, they say, will sail next week, and the recruits are to march for embarkation in three or four days.”
“And what is the regiment, and where is the depôt?”
“It is the 47th Fusiliers, and the depôt is at Maidstone.”
“I will lose no time, my good friends,” replied I; “to-morrow I will go to Mr Drummond, and consult with him.” I returned the grateful squeeze of old Tom’s hand, and, followed by the blessings of the old woman, I hastened away.
As I pulled up the river, for that day I was engaged to dine with the Wharncliffes, I resolved to call upon Mary Stapleton, and ascertain by her deportment whether she had become that heartless jilt which she was represented, and if so, to persuade Tom, if I succeeded in obtaining his discharge, to think no more about her; I felt so vexed and angry with her, that after I landed, I walked about a few minutes before I went to the house, that I might recover my temper. When I walked up the stairs I found Mary sitting over a sheet of paper, on which she had been writing. She looked up as I came in, and I perceived that she had been crying. “Mary,” said I, “how well you have kept the promise you made to me when last we met! See what trouble and sorrow you have brought upon all parties except yourself.”
“Except myself—no, Mr Faithful, don’t except myself, I am almost mad—I believe that I am mad—for surely such folly as mine is madness;” and Mary wept bitterly.
“There is no excuse for your behaviour, Mary—it is unpardonably wicked. Tom sacrificed all for your sake—he even deserted, and desertion is death by the law. Now what have you done?—taken advantage of his strong affection to drive him to intemperance, and induce him, in despair, to enlist for a soldier. He sails for the West Indies to fill up the ranks of a regiment thinned by the yellow fever, and will perhaps never return again—you will then have been the occasion of his death. Mary, I have come to tell you that I despise you.”
“I despise and hate myself,” replied Mary, mournfully; “I wish I were in my grave. Oh, Mr Faithful, do for God’s sake—do get him back. You can, I know you can—you have money and everything.”
“If I do, it will not be for your benefit, Mary, for you shall trifle with him no more. I will not try for his discharge unless he faithfully promises never to speak to you again.”
“You don’t say that—you don’t mean that!” cried Mary, sweeping the hair with her hand back from her forehead—and her hand still remaining on her head—“O God! O God! what a wretch I am! Hear me, Jacob, hear me,” cried she, dropping on her knees, and seizing my hands; “only get him his discharge—only let me once see him again, and I swear by all that’s sacred, that I will beg his pardon on my knees as I now do yours. I will do everything—anything—if he will but forgive me, for I cannot, I will not live without him.”
“If this is true, Mary, what madness could have induced you to have acted as you have?”
“Yes,” replied Mary, rising from her knees, “madness, indeed—more than madness to treat so cruelly one for whom I only care to live. You say Tom loves me; I know he does; but he does not love me as I do him. O, my God! my heart will break!” After a pause, Mary resumed. “Read what I have written to him—I have already written as much in another letter. You will see that if he cannot get away, I have offered to go out with him as his wife; that is, if he will have such a foolish, wicked girl as I am.”
I read the letter; it was as she said, praying forgiveness, offering to accompany him, and humiliating herself as much as it was possible. I was much affected. I returned the letter.
“You can’t despise me so much as I despise myself,” continued Mary; “I hate, I detest myself for my folly. I recollect now how you used to caution me when a girl. Oh, mother, mother, it was a cruel legacy you left to your child, when you gave her your disposition. Yet why should I blame her? I must blame myself.”
“Well, Mary, I will do all I can, and that as soon as possible. To-morrow I will go down to the depôt.”
“God bless you, Jacob; and may you never have the misfortune to be in love with such a one as myself.”
I left Mary, and hastened home to dress for dinner. I mentioned the subject of wishing to obtain Tom’s discharge to Mr Wharncliffe, who recommended my immediately applying to the Horse Guards; and, as he was acquainted with those in office, offered to accompany me. I gladly accepted his offer; and the next morning he called for me in his carriage, and we went there. Mr Wharncliffe sent up his card to one of the secretaries, and we were immediately ushered up, when I stated my wishes. The reply was:— “If you had time to procure a substitute it would be easily arranged; but the regiment is so weak, and the aversion to the West Indies so prevalent after this last very sickly season, that I doubt if His Royal Highness would permit any man to purchase his discharge. However, we will see. The Duke is one of the kindest-hearted of men, and I will lay the case before him. But let us see if he is still at the depôt; I rather think not.” The secretary rang the bell.
“The detachment of the 47th Fusiliers from the depôt—has it marched? And when does it embark?”
The clerk went out, and in a few minutes returned with some a papers in his hand. “It marched the day before yesterday, and was to embark this morning, and sail as soon as the wind was fair.”
My heart sank at this intelligence.
“How is the wind, Mr G—? Go down and look at the tell-tale.”
The clerk returned. “East North East, sir, and has been steadily so these two days.”
“Then,” replied the secretary, “I am afraid you are too late to obtain your wish. The orders to the port-admiral are most peremptory to expedite the sailing of the transports, and a frigate has been now three weeks waiting to convoy them. Depend upon it, they have sailed to-day.”
“What can be done?” replied I, mournfully.
“You must apply for his discharge, and procure a substitute. He can then have an order sent out, and be permitted to return home. I am very sorry, as I perceive you are much interested; but I’m afraid it is too late now. However, you may call to-morrow. The weather is clear with this wind, and the port-admiral will telegraph to the Admiralty the sailing of the vessels. Should anything detain them, I will take care that His Royal Highness shall be acquainted with the circumstances this afternoon, if possible, and will give you his reply.”
We thanked the secretary for his politeness, and took our leave. Vexed as I was with the communications I had already received, I was much more so when one of the porters ran to the carriage to show me, by the secretary’s order, a telegraphic communication from the Admiralty, containing the certain and unpleasant information, “Convoy to West Indies sailed this morning.”
“Then it is all over for the present,” said I, throwing myself back in the carriage; and I continued in a melancholy humour until Mr Wharncliffe, who had business in the city, put me down as near as the carriage went to the house of Mr Drummond. I found Sarah, who was the depository of all my thoughts, pains, and pleasures, and I communicated to her this episode in the history of young Tom. As most ladies are severe judges of their own sex, she was very strong in her expressions against the conduct of Mary, which she would not allow to admit of any palliation. Even her penitence had no weight with her.
“And yet, how often is it the case, Sarah, not perhaps to the extent carried on by this mistaken girl; but still, the disappointment is as great, although the consequences are not so calamitous. Among the higher classes, how often do young men receive encouragement, and yield themselves up to a passion, to end only in disappointment! It is not necessary to plight troth; a young woman may not have virtually committed herself, and yet, by merely appearing pleased with the conversation and company of a young man, induce him to venture his affections in a treacherous sea, and eventually find them wrecked.”
“You are very nautically poetical, Jacob,” replied Sarah. “Such things do happen; but I think that women’s affections are, to use your phrase, oftener wrecked than those of men. That, however, does not exculpate either party. A woman must be blind, indeed, if she cannot perceive, in a very short time, whether she is trifling with a man’s feelings, and base, indeed, if she continues to practise upon them.”
“Sarah,” replied I, and I stopped.
“Well?”
“I was,” replied I, stammering a little—“I was going to ask you if you were blind.”
“As to what, Jacob?” said Sarah, colouring up.
“As to my feelings towards you.”
“No; I believe you like me very well,” replied she, smiling.
“Do you think that that is all?”
“Where do you dine to-day, Jacob,” replied Sarah.
“That must depend upon you and your answer. If I dine here to-day, I trust to dine here often. If I do not dine here to-day, probably I never may again. I wish to know, Sarah, whether you have been blind to my feelings towards you; for, with the case of Mary and Tom before me, I feel that I must no longer trust to my own hopes, which may end in disappointment. Will you have the kindness to put me out of my misery?”
“If I have been blind to your feelings I have not been blind to your merit, Jacob. Perhaps I have not been blind to your feelings, and I am not of the same disposition as Mary Stapleton. I think you may venture to dine here to-day,” continued she, colouring and smiling, as she turned away to the window.
“I can hardly believe that I’m to be so happy, Sarah,” replied I, agitated. “I have been fortunate, very fortunate; but the hopes you have now raised are so much beyond my expectations—so much beyond my deserts—that I dare not indulge in them. Have pity on me, and be more explicit.”
“What do you wish me to say?” replied Sarah, looking down upon her work, as she turned round to me.
“That you will not reject the orphan who was fostered by your father, and who reminds you of what he was, that you may not forget at this moment what I trust is the greatest bar to his presumption—his humble origin.”
“Jacob, that was said like yourself—it was nobly said; and if you were not born noble, you have true nobility of mind. I will imitate your example. Have I not often, during our long friendship, told you that I loved you?”
“Yes, as a child you did, Sarah.”
“Then, as a woman, I repeat it. And now are you satisfied?”
I took Sarah by the hand; she did not withdraw it, but allowed me to kiss it over and over again.
“But your father and mother, Sarah?”
“Would never have allowed our intimacy if they had not approved of it, Jacob, depend upon it. However, you may make yourself easy on that score by letting them know what has passed; and then, I presume, you will be out of your misery.”
Before the day was over I had spoken to Mrs Drummond, and requested her to open the business to her husband, as I really felt it more than I could dare to do. She smiled as her daughter hung upon her neck; and when I met Mr Drummond at dinner-time I was “out of my misery,” for he shook me by the hand, and said, “You have made us all very happy, Jacob; for that girl appears determined either to marry you or not to marry at all. Come; dinner is ready.”
I will leave the reader to imagine how happy I was, what passed between Sarah and me in our tête-à-tête of that evening, how unwilling I was to quit the house, and how I ordered a post-chaise to carry me home, because I was afraid to trust myself on that water on which the major part of my life had been safely passed, lest any accident should happen to me and rob me of my anticipated bliss. From that day I was as one of the family, and finding the distance too great, took up my abode at apartments contiguous to the house of Mr Drummond. But the course of other people’s love did not run so smooth, and I must now return to Mary Stapleton and Tom Beazeley.
I had breakfasted, and was just about to take my wherry and go down to acquaint the old couple with the bad success of my application. I had been reflecting with gratitude upon my own happiness in prospect, indulging in fond anticipations, and then, reverting to the state in which I had left Mary Stapleton and Tom’s father and mother, contrasting their misery with my joy, arising from the same source, when, who should rush into the dining-room but young Tom, dressed in nothing but a shirt and a pair of white trousers, covered with dust, and wan with fatigue and excitement.
“Good heavens! Tom! are you back? then you must have deserted.”
“Very true,” replied Tom, sinking on a chair, “I swam on shore last night, and have made from Portsmouth to here since eight o’clock. I hardly need say that I am done up. Let me have something to drink, Jacob, pray.”
I went to the cellaret and brought him some wine, of which he drank off a tumbler eagerly. During this I was revolving in my mind the consequences which might arise from this hasty and imprudent step. “Tom,” said I, “do you know the consequences of desertion?”
“Yes,” replied he, gloomily, “but I could not help it. Mary told me in her letter that she would do all I wished, would accompany me abroad; she made all the amends she could, poor girl! and, by heavens, I could not leave her; and when I found myself fairly under weigh, and there was no chance, I was almost mad; the wind baffled us at the Needles, and we anchored for the night; I slipped down the cable and swam on shore, and there’s the whole story.”
“But, Tom, you will certainly be recognised and taken up for a deserter.”
“I must think of that,” replied Tom; “I know the risk I run; but if you obtain my discharge, they may let me off.”
I thought this was the best plan to proceed upon, and requesting Tom to keep quiet, I went to consult with Mr Wharncliffe. He agreed with me that it was Tom’s only chance, and I pulled to his father’s, to let them know what had occurred, and then went on to the Drummonds. When I returned home late in the evening the gardener told me that Tom had gone out and had not returned. My heart misgave me that he had gone to see Mary, and that some misfortune had occurred, and I went to bed with most anxious feelings. My forebodings were proved to be correct, for the next morning I was informed that old Stapleton wished to see me. He was ushered in, and as soon as he entered, he exclaimed, “All’s up, Master Jacob—Tom’s nabbed—Mary fit after fit—human natur’.”
“Why, what is the matter, Stapleton?”
“Why, it’s just this—Tom desarts to come to Mary. Cause why?—he loves her—human natur’. That soldier chap comes in and sees Tom, clutches hold, and tries to take possession of him. Tom fights, knocks out sergeant’s starboard eye, and tries to escape—human natur’. Soldiers come in, pick up sergeant, seize Tom, and carry him off. Mary cries, and screams, and faints—human natur’—poor girl can’t keep her head up—two women with burnt feathers all night. Sad job, Mister Jacob. Of all the senses love’s the worst, that’s sartain—quite upset me, can’t smoke my pipe this morning—Mary’s tears quite put my pipe out,”—and old Stapleton looked as if he was ready to cry himself.
“This is a sad business, Stapleton,” replied I. “Tom will be tried for desertion, and God knows how it will end. I will try all I can; but they have been very strict lately.”
“Hope you will, Mister Jacob. Mary will die, that’s sartain. I’m more afraid that Tom will. If one does, t’other will. I know the girl—just like her mother, never could carry her helm amidships, hard a port, or hard a starboard. She’s mad now to follow him—will go to Maidstone. I take her as soon as I go back to her. Just come up to tell you all about it.”
“This is a gloomy affair, Stapleton.”
“Yes, for sartain—wish there never was such a thing as human natur’.”
After a little conversation, and a supply of money, which I knew would be acceptable, Stapleton went away, leaving, me in no very happy state of mind. My regard for Tom was excessive, and his situation one of peculiar danger. Again I repaired to Mr Wharncliffe for advice, and he readily interested himself most warmly.
“This is, indeed, an awkward business,” said he, “and will require more interest than I am afraid that I command. If not condemned to death, he will be sentenced to such a flogging as will break him down in spirit as well as in body, and sink him into an early grave. Death were preferable of the two. Lose no time, Mr Faithful, in going down to Maidstone, and seeing the colonel commanding the depôt. I will go to the Horse Guards, and see what is to be done.”
I wrote a hurried note to Sarah to account for my absence, and sent for post-horses. Early in the afternoon I arrived at Maidstone, and finding out the residence of the officer commanding the depôt, sent up my card. In few words I stated to him the reason of my calling upon him.
“It will rest altogether with the Horse Guards, Mr Faithful, and I am afraid I can give you but little hope. His Royal Highness has expressed his determination to punish the next deserter with the utmost severity of the law. His leniency on that point has been very injurious to the service, and he must do it. Besides, there is an aggravation of the offence in his attack upon the sergeant, who has irrecoverably lost his eye.”
“The sergeant first made him drunk, and then persuaded him to enlist.” I then stated the rivalship that subsisted between them, and continued, “Is it not disgraceful to enlist men in that way—can that be called voluntary service?”
“All very true,” replied the officer, “but still expediency winks at even more. I do not attempt to defend the system, but we must have soldiers. The seamen are impressed by force, the soldiers are entrapped by other means, even more discreditable: the only excuse is expediency, or, if you like it better, necessity. All I can promise you, sir, is, to allow the prisoner every comfort which his situation will permit, and every advantage at his court-martial, which mercy, tempered by justice, will warrant.”
“I thank you, sir; will you allow me and his betrothed to see him?”
“Most certainly; the order shall be given forthwith.”
I thanked the officer for his kindness, and took my leave.
I hastened to the black hole where Tom was confined, and the order for my admission having arrived before me, I was permitted by the sergeant of the guard to pass the sentry. I found Tom sitting on a bench notching a stick with his knife, whistling a slow tune.
“This is kind, Jacob, but not more than I expected of you—I made sure that I should see you to-night or to-morrow morning. How’s poor Mary? I care only for her now—I am satisfied—she loves me, and—I knocked out the sergeant’s eye—spoilt his wooing, at all events.”
“But, Tom, are you aware of the danger in which you are placed?”
“Yes, Jacob, perfectly; I shall be tried by a court-martial and shot. I’ve made up my mind to it—at all events, it’s better than being hung like a dog, or being flogged to death like a nigger. I shall die like a gentleman, if I have never been one before, that’s some comfort. Nay, I shall go out of the world with as much noise as if a battle had been fought, or a great man had died.”
“How do you mean?”
“Why there’ll be more than one bullet-in.”
“This is no time for jesting, Tom.”
“Not for you, Jacob, as a sincere friend, I grant; not for poor Mary, as a devoted girl; not for my poor father and mother—no, no,” continued Tom. “I feel for them, but for myself I neither fear nor care. I have not done wrong—I was pressed against the law and Act of Parliament, and I deserted. I was enlisted when I was drunk and mad, and I deserted. There is no disgrace to me; the disgrace is to the government which suffers such acts. If I am to be a victim, well and good—we can only die once.”
“Very true, Tom; but you are young to die, and we must hope for the best.”
“I have given up all hope, Jacob. I know the law will be put in force. I shall die and go to another and a better world, as the parson says, where, at all events, there will be no muskets to clean, no drill, and none of your confounded pipe-clay, which has almost driven me mad. I should like to die in a blue jacket—in a red coat I will not, so I presume I shall go out of the world in my shirt, and that’s more than I had when I came in.”
“Mary and her father are coming down to you, Tom.”
“I’m sorry for that, Jacob; it would be cruel not to see her—but she blames herself so much that I cannot bear to read her letters. But, Jacob, I will see her, to try if I can comfort her—but she must not stay; she must go back again till after the court-martial, and the sentence, and then—if she wishes to take her farewell, I suppose I must not refuse.” A few tears dropped from his eyes as he said this. “Jacob, will you wait and take her back to town?—she must not stay here—and I will not see my father and mother until the last. Let us make one job of it, and then all will be over.”
As Tom said this the door of the cell again opened, and Stapleton supported in his daughter. Mary tottered to where Tom stood, and fell into his arms in a fit of convulsions. It was necessary to remove her, and she was carried out. “Let her not come in again, I beseech you, Jacob; take her back, and I will bless you for your kindness. Wish me farewell now, and see that she does not come again.” Tom wrung me by the hand, and turned away to conceal his distress. I nodded my head in assent, for I could not speak for emotion, and followed Stapleton and the soldiers who had taken Mary out. As soon as she was recovered sufficiently to require no further medical aid, I lifted her into the post-chaise, and ordered the boys to drive back to Brentford. Mary continued in a state of stupor during the journey; and when I arrived at my own house, I gave her into the charge of the gardener’s wife, and despatched her husband for medical assistance. The application of Mr Wharncliffe was of little avail, and he returned to me with disappointment in his countenance. The whole of the next week was the most distressing that I ever passed; arising from my anxiety for Tom, my daily exertions to reason Mary into some degree of submission to the will of Providence—her accusations of herself and her own folly—her incoherent ravings, calling herself Tom’s murderer, which alarmed me for her reason; the distress of old Tom and his wife, who, unable to remain in their solitude, came all to me for intelligence, for comfort, and for what, alas! I dare not give them—hope. All this, added to my separation from Sarah during my attendance to what I considered my duty, reduced me to a debility, arising from mental exertion, which changed me to almost a skeleton.
At last the court-martial was held, and Tom was condemned to death. The sentence was approved of, and we were told that all appeals would be unavailing. We received the news on the Saturday evening, and Tom was to suffer on the Tuesday morning. I could no longer refuse the appeals of Mary; indeed, I received a letter from Tom, requesting that all of us, the Dominie included, would come down and bid him farewell. I hired a carriage for old Tom, his wife, Stapleton, and Mary, and putting the Dominie and myself in my own chariot, we set off early on the Sunday morning for Maidstone. We arrived about eleven o’clock, and put up at an inn in close proximity to the barracks. It was arranged that the Dominie and I should see Tom first, then his father and mother, and lastly, Mary Stapleton.
“Verily,” said the Dominie, “my heart is heavy, exceeding heavy; my soul yearneth after the poor lad, who is thus to lose his life for a woman—a woman from whose toils I did myself escape. Yet is she exceeding fair and comely, and now that it is unavailing, appeareth to be penitent.”
I made no reply; we had arrived at the gate of the barracks. I requested to be admitted to the prisoner, and the doors were unbarred. Tom was dressed with great care and cleanliness in white trousers and shirt and waistcoat, but his coat lay on the table; he would not put it on. He extended his hand towards me with a faint smile.
“It’s all over now, Jacob; and there is no hope that I am aware of, and I have made up my mind to die; but I wish these last farewells were over, for they unman me. I hope you are well, sir,” continued Tom to the Dominie.
“Nay, my poor boy, I am as well as age and infirmity will permit, and why should I complain when I see youth, health, and strength about to be sacrificed; and many made miserable, when many might be made so happy?” And the Dominie blew his nose, the trumpet sound of which re-echoed through the cell, so as to induce the sentry to look through the bars.
“They are all here, Tom,” said I. “Would you like to see them now?”
“Yes; the sooner it is over the better.”
“Will you see your father and mother first?”
“Yes,” replied Tom, in a faltering tone.
I went out, and returned with the old woman on my arm, followed by old Tom, who stumped after me with the assistance of his stick. Poor old Mrs Beazeley fell on her son’s neck, sobbing convulsively.
“My boy—my boy—my dear, dear boy!” said she at last, and she looked up steadfastly in his face. “My God! he’ll be dead to-morrow!”
Her head again sank on his shoulder, and her sobs were choking her. Tom kissed his mother’s forehead as the tears coursed down his cheeks, and motioned me to take her away. I placed her down on the floor, where she remained silent, moving her head up and down with a slow motion, her face buried in her shawl. It was but now and then that you heard a convulsive drawing of her breath. Old Tom had remained a silent but agitated spectator of the scene. Every muscle in his weather-beaten countenance twitched convulsively, and the tears at last forced their way through the deep furrows on his cheeks. Tom, as soon as his mother was removed, took his father by the hand, and they sat down together.
“You are not angry with me, father, for deserting?”
“No, my boy, no; I was angry with you for ’listing, but not for deserting. What business had you with the pipeclay? But I do think I have reason to be angry elsewhere, when I reflect that after having lost my two legs in defending her, my country is now to take from me my boy in his prime. It’s but a poor reward for long and hard service—poor encouragement to do your duty; but what do they care? they have had my sarvices, and they have left me a hulk. Well, they may take the rest of me if they please, now that they—Well, it’s no use crying; what’s done can’t be helped,” continued old Tom, as the tears ran down in torrents; “they may shoot you, Tom; but this I know well, you’ll die game, and shame them by proving to them they have deprived themselves of the sarvices of a good man when good men are needed. I would not have so much cared,” continued old Tom, after a pause—”(look to the old woman, Jacob, she’s tumbling over to port)—if you had fallen on board a king’s ship in a good frigate action; some must be killed when there’s hard fighting; but to be drilled through by your own countrymen, to die by their hands, and, worst of all, to die in a red coat, instead of a true blue—”
“Father, I will not die in a red coat—I won’t put it on.”
“That’s some comfort, Tom, anyhow, and comfort’s wanted.”
“And I’ll die like a man, father.”
“That you will, Tom, and that’s some comfort.”
“We shall meet again, father.”
“Hope so, Tom, in heaven—that’s some comfort.”
“And now, father, bless me, and take care of my poor mother.”
“Bless you, Tom, bless you!” cried the old man, in a suffocating voice, extending both his hands towards Tom, as they rose up; but the equilibrium was no longer to be maintained, and he reeled back in the arms of me and Tom. We lowered him gently down by the side of his wife; the old couple turned to each other, and embracing, remained sobbing in each other’s arms.
“Jacob,” said Tom, squeezing me by the hand, with a quivering lip, “by your regard for me, let now the last scene be got over—let me see Mary, and let this tortured heart once more be permitted a respite.” I sent out the Dominie. Tom leant against the wall, with his arms folded, in appearance summoning up all his energy for the painful meeting. Mary was led in by her father. I expected she would have swooned away, as before; but, on the contrary, although she was pale as death, and gasping for breath, from intensity of feeling, she walked up to Tom where he was standing, and sat down on the form close to him. She looked anxiously round upon the group, and then said, “I know that all I now say is useless, Tom; but still I must say it—it is I who, by my folly, have occasioned all this distress and misery—it is I who have caused you to suffer a—dreadful death—yes, Tom, I am your murderer.”
“Not so, Mary, the folly was my own,” replied Tom, taking her hand.
“You cannot disguise or palliate to me, dearest Tom,” replied Mary; “my eyes have been opened, too late it is true, but they have been opened; and although it is kind of you to say so, I feel the horrid conviction of my own guilt. See what misery I have brought about. There is a father who has sacrificed his youth and his limbs to his country, sobbing in the arms of a mother whose life is bound up with that of her only son. To them,” continued Mary, falling down upon her knees, “to them I must kneel for pardon, and I ask it as they hope to be forgiven. Answer me—oh! answer me! can you forgive a wretch like me?”
A pause ensued. I went up to old Tom, and kneeling by his side, begged him to answer.
“Forgive her, poor thing—yes; who could refuse it, as she kneels there? Come,” continued he, speaking to his wife, “you must forgive her. Look up, dame, at her, and think that our poor boy may be asking the same of heaven to-morrow at noon.”
The old woman looked up, and her dimmed eyes caught a sight of Mary’s imploring and beautiful attitude; it was not to be withstood.
“As I hope for mercy to my poor boy, whom you have killed, so do I forgive you, unhappy young woman.”
“May God reward you, when you are summoned before Him,” replied Mary. “It was the hardest task of all. Of you, Jacob, I have to ask forgiveness for depriving you of your early and truest friend—yes, and for much more. Of you, sir,” addressing the Dominie, “for my conduct towards you, which was cruel and indefensible—will you forgive me?”
“Yes, Mary, from my heart, I do forgive you,” replied I.
“Bless thee, maiden, bless thee!” sobbed the Dominie.
“Father, I must ask of you the same—I have been a wilful child—forgive me!”
“Yes, Mary; you could not help it,” replied old Stapleton, blubbering; “it was all human natur’.”
“And now,” said Mary, turning round on her knees to Tom, with a look expressive of anguish and love, “to you, Tom, must be my last appeal. I know you will forgive me—I know you have—and this knowledge of your fervent love makes the thought more bitter that I have caused your death. But hear me, Tom, and all of you hear me. I never loved but you; I have liked others much; I liked Jacob; but you only ever did make me feel I had a heart; and alas, you only have I sacrificed. When led away by my folly to give you pain, I suffered more than you—for you have had my only, you shall have my eternal and unceasing love. To your memory I am hereafter wedded, to join you will be my only wish—and if there could be a boon granted me from heaven, it would be to die with you, Tom—yes, in those dear arms.”
Mary held out her arms to Tom, who falling down on his knees, embraced her, and thus they remained with their faces buried in each other’s shoulders. The whole scene was now at its climax; it was too oppressive, and I felt faint, when I was aroused by the voice of the Dominie, who, lifting up both his arms, and extending them forth, solemnly prayed, “O Lord, look down upon these Thy servants in affliction; grant to those who are to continue in their pilgrimage strength to bear Thy chastening—grant to him who is to be summoned to Thee that happiness which the world cannot give; and O God most mighty, God most powerful, lay not upon us burdens greater than we can bear.—My children let us pray.”
The Dominie knelt down and repeated the Lord’s prayer; all followed his example, and then there was a pause.
“Stapleton,” said I, pointing to Mary. I beckoned to the Dominie. We assisted up old Tom, and then his wife, and led them away; the poor old woman was in a state of stupefaction, and until she was out in the air was not aware that she had quitted her son. Stapleton had attempted to detach Mary from Tom, but in vain; they were locked together as if in death. At last Tom, roused by me, suffered his hold to be loosened, and Mary was taken out in a happy state of insensibility, and carried to the inn by her father and the Dominie.
“Are they all gone?” whispered Tom to me, as his head reclined on my shoulder.
“All, Tom.”
“Then the bitterness of death is past; God have mercy on them, and assuage their anguish; they want His help more than I do.”
A passionate flood of tears, which lasted some minutes, relieved the poor fellow; he raised himself, and drying his eyes, became more composed.
“Jacob, I hardly need tell my dying request, to watch over my poor father and mother, to comfort poor Mary—God bless you, Jacob! you have indeed been a faithful friend, and may God reward you. And now, Jacob, leave me; I must commune with my God, and pray for forgiveness. The space between me and eternity is but short.”
Tom threw himself into my arms, where he remained for some minutes; he then broke gently away, and pointed to the door. I once more took his hand and we parted.
I went back to the inn, and ordering the horses to be put to, I explained to all but Mary the propriety of their now returning home. Mary was lifted in, and it was a relief to my mind to see them all depart. As for myself, I resolved to remain until the last; but I was in a state of feverish agitation, which made me restless. As I paced up and down the room, the newspaper caught my eye. I laid hold of it mechanically, and looked at it. A paragraph rivetted my attention. “His Majesty’s ship Immortalité Chatham, to be paid off.” Then our ship has come home. But what was that now? Yet something whispered to me that I ought to go and see Captain Maclean, and try if anything could be done. I knew his commanding interest, and although it was now too late, still I had an impulse to go and see him, which I could not resist. “After all,” said I to myself, “I’m of no use here, and I may as well go.” This feeling, added to my restlessness, induced me to order horses, and I went to Chatham, found out that Captain Maclean was still on board, and took boat off to the frigate. I was recognised by the officers, who were glad to see me, and I sent a message to the captain, who was below, requesting to see him. I was asked into the cabin, and stated to him what had occurred, requesting his assistance, if possible.
“Faithful,” replied he, “it appears that Tom Beazeley has deserted twice; still there is much extenuation; at all events, the punishment of death is too severe, and I don’t like it—I can save him, and I will. By the rule of the services, a deserter from one service can be claimed from the other, and must be tried by his officers. His sentence is, therefore, not legal. I shall send a party of marines, and claim him as a deserter from the Navy, and they must and shall give him up—make yourself easy, Faithful, his life is as safe as yours.”
I could have fallen on my knees and thanked him, though I could hardly believe that such good news was true.
“There is no time to lose, sir,” replied I, respectfully; “he is to be shot to-morrow at nine o’clock.”
“He will be on board here to-morrow at nine o’clock, or I am not Captain Maclean. But, as you say, there is no time to lose. It is now nearly dark, and the party must be off immediately. I must write a letter on service to the commanding officer of the depôt. Call my clerk.”
I ran out and called the clerk. In a few minutes the letter was written, and a party of marines, with the second lieutenant, despatched with me on shore. I ordered post-chaises for the whole party, and before eleven we were at Maidstone. The lieutenant and I sat up all night, and, at daylight, we summoned the marines and went to the barracks, where we found the awful note of preparation going forward, and the commanding officer up and attending to the arrangements. I introduced the lieutenant, who presented the letter on service.
“Good heavens, how fortunate! You can establish his identity, I presume.”
“Every man here can swear to him.”
“’Tis sufficient, Mr Faithful. I wish you and your friend joy of this reprieve. The rules of the service must be obeyed, and you will sign a receipt for the prisoner.”
This was done by the lieutenant, and the provost marshal was ordered to deliver up the prisoner. I hastened with the marines into the cell; the door was unlocked. Tom, who was reading his Bible, started up, and perceiving the red jackets, thought that he was to be led out to execution.
“My lads,” exclaimed he, “I am ready; the sooner this is over the better.”
“No, Tom,” said I, advancing; “I trust for better fortune. You are claimed as a deserter from the Immortalité.”
Tom stared, lifted the hair from his forehead, and threw himself into my arms; but we had no time for a display of feelings. We hurried Tom away from the barracks; again I put the whole party into chaises, and we soon arrived at Chatham, where we embarked on board of the frigate. Tom was given into the charge of the master-at-arms as a deserter, and a letter was written by Captain Maclean, demanding a court-martial on him.
“What will be the result?” inquired I of the first lieutenant.
“The captain says, little or nothing, as he was pressed as an apprentice, which is contrary to Act of Parliament.”
I went down to cheer Tom with this intelligence, and taking my leave, set off for London with a light heart. Still I thought it better not to communicate this good news until assurance was made doubly sure. I hastened to Mr Drummond’s, and detailed to them all that had passed. The next day Mr Wharncliffe went with me to the Admiralty, where I had the happiness to find that all was legal, and that Tom could only be tried for his desertion from a man-of-war; and that if he could prove that he was an apprentice, he would, in all probability, be acquitted. The court-martial was summoned three days after the letter had been received by the Admiralty. I hastened down to Chatham to be present. It was very short; the desertion was proved, and Tom was called upon for his defence. He produced his papers, and proved that he was pressed before his time had expired. The court was cleared for a few minutes, and then re-opened. Tom was acquitted on the ground of illegal detention, contrary to Act of Parliament, and he was free. I returned my thanks to Captain Maclean and his officers for their kindness, and left the ship with Tom in the cutter, ordered for me by the first lieutenant. My heart swelled with gratitude at the happy result. Tom was silent, but his feelings I could well analyse. I gave to the men of the boat five guineas to drink Tom’s health, and, hastening to the inn, ordered the carriage, and with Tom, who was a precious deposit, for upon his welfare depended the happiness of so many, I hurried to London as fast as I could, stopped at the Drummond’s to communicate the happy intelligence, and then proceeded to my own house, where we slept. The next morning I dressed Tom in some of my clothes, and we embarked in the wherry.
“Now, Tom,” said I, “you must keep in the background at first, while I prepare them. Where shall we go first?”
“Oh, to my mother,” replied Tom.
We passed through Putney Bridge, and Tom’s bosom heaved as he looked towards the residence of Mary. His heart was there, poor fellow! and he longed to fly to the poor girl and dry her tears; but his first duty was to his parents.
We soon arrived abreast of the residence of the old couple, and I desired Tom to pull in, but not turn his head round, lest they should see him before I had prepared them; for too much joy will kill as well as grief. Old Tom was not at his work, and all was quiet. I landed and went to the house, opened the door, and found them both sitting by the kitchen fire in silence, apparently occupied in watching the smoke as it ascended up the spacious chimney.
“Good morning to you both,” said I; “how do you find yourself, Mrs Beazeley?”
“Ah, deary me!” replied the old woman, putting her apron up to her eyes.
“Sit down, Jacob, sit down,” said old Tom; “we can talk of him now.”
“Yes, now that he’s in heaven, poor fellow!” interposed the old woman.
“Tell me, Jacob,” said old Tom, with a quivering lip, “did you see the last of him? Tell me all about it. How did he look? How did he behave? Was he soon out of his pain? And—Jacob—where is he buried!”
“Yes, yes;” sobbed Mrs Beazeley; “tell me where is the body of my poor child.”
“Can you bear to talk about him?” said I.
“Yes, yes; we can’t talk too much; it does us good,” replied she. “We have done nothing but talk about him since we left him.”
“And shall, till we sink down into our own graves,” said old Tom, “which won’t be long. I’ve nothing to wish for now, and I’ll never sing again, that’s sartain. We shan’t last long, either of us. As for me,” continued the old man with a melancholy smile, looking down at his stumps. “I may well say that I’ve two feet in the grave already. But come, Jacob, tell us all about him.”
“I will,” replied I; “and my dear Mrs Beazeley, you must prepare yourself for different tidings than what you expect. Tom is not yet shot.”
“Not dead!” shrieked the old woman.
“Not yet, Jacob;” cried old Tom, seizing me by the arm, and squeezing it with the force of a vice, as he looked me earnestly in the face.
“He lives; and I am in hopes he will be pardoned.”
Mrs Beazeley sprang from her chair and seized me by the other arm.
“I see—I see by your face. Yes, Jacob, he is pardoned; and we shall have our Tom again.”
“You are right, Mrs Beazeley; he is pardoned, and will soon be here.”
The old couple sank down on their knees beside me. I left them, and beckoned from the door to Tom, who flew up, and in a moment was in their arms. I assisted him to put his mother into her chair, and then went out to recover myself from the agitating scene. I remained about an hour outside, and then returned. The old couple seized me by the hands, and invoked blessings on my head.
“You must now part with Tom a little while,” said I; “there are others to make happy besides yourselves.”
“Very true,” replied old Tom; “go, my lad, and comfort her. Come, missus, we mustn’t forget others.”
“Oh, no. Go, Tom; go and tell her that I don’t care how soon she is my daughter.”
Tom embraced his mother, and followed me to the boat; we pulled up against the tide, and were soon at Putney.
“Tom, you had better stay in the boat. I will either come or send for you.”
It was very unwillingly that Tom consented, but I overruled his entreaties, and he remained. I walked to Mary’s house and entered. She was up in the little parlour, dressed in deep mourning; when I entered she was looking out upon the river; she turned her head, and perceiving me, rose to meet me.
“You do not come to upbraid me, Jacob, I am sure,” said she, in a melancholy voice; “you are too kind-hearted for that.”
“No, no, Mary; I come to comfort you, if possible.”
“That is not possible. Look at me, Jacob. Is there not a worm—a canker—that gnaws within?”
The hollow cheek and wild flaring eye, once so beautiful, but too plainly told the truth.
“Mary,” said I, “sit down; you know what the Bible says—‘It is good for us to be afflicted.’”
“Yes, yes,” sobbed Mary, “I deserve all I suffer; and I bow in humility. But am I not too much punished, Jacob? Not that I would repine; but is it not too much for me to bear, when I think that I am the destroyer of one who loved me so?”
“You have not been the destroyer, Mary.”
“Yes, yes; my heart tells me that I have.”
“But—I tell you that you have not. Say, Mary, dreadful as the punishment has been, would you not kiss the rod with thankfulness, if it cured you of your unfortunate disposition, and prepared you to make a good wife?”
“That it has cured me, Jacob, I can safely assert; but it has also killed me as well as him. But I wish not to live; and I trust, in a few short months, to repose by his side.”
“I hope you will have your wish, Mary, very soon, but not in death.”
“Merciful heavens! what do you mean, Jacob?”
“I said you were not the destroyer of poor Tom—you have not been; he has not yet suffered; there was an informality, which has induced them to revise the sentence.”
“Jacob,” replied Mary, “it is cruelty to raise my hopes only to crush them again. If not yet dead, he is still to die. I wish you had not told me so,” continued she, bursting into tears; “what a state of agony and suspense must he have been in all this time, and I—I have caused his sufferings! I trusted he had long been released from this cruel, heartless world.”
The flood of tears which followed assured me that I could safely impart the glad intelligence. “Mary, Mary, listen to me.”
“Leave me, leave me,” sobbed Mary, waving her hand.
“No, Mary, not until I tell you that Tom is not only alive, but—pardoned.”
“Pardoned!” shrieked Mary.
“Yes, pardoned, Mary—free, Mary—and in a few minutes will be in your arms.”
Mary dropped on her knees, raised her hands and eyes to heaven, and then fell into a state of insensibility. Tom, who had followed me, and remained near the house, had heard the shriek, and could no longer retain himself; he flew into the room as Mary fell, and I put her into his arms. At the first signs of returning sensibility, I left them together, and went to find old Stapleton, to whom I was more brief in my communication. Stapleton continued to smoke his pipe during my narrative.
“Glad of it, glad of it,” said he, when I finished. “I were just thinking how all these senses brought us into trouble, more than all, that sense of love; got me into trouble, and made me kill a man—got my poor wife into trouble, and drowned her—and now almost shot Tom, and killed Mary. Had too much of human natur’ lately—nothing but moist eyes and empty pipes. Met that sergeant yesterday, had a turn up; Tom settled one eye, and, old as I am, I’ve settled the other for a time. He’s in bed for a fortnight—couldn’t help it—human natur’.”
I took leave of Stapleton, and calling in upon Tom and Mary, shaking hands with the one, and kissing the other, I despatched a letter to the Dominie, acquainting him with what had passed, and then hastened to the Drummonds and imparted the happy results of my morning’s work to Sarah and her mother.
“And now, Sarah, having so successfully arranged the affairs of other people, I should like to plead in my own behalf. I think that after having been deprived almost wholly of your dear company for a month, I deserve to be rewarded.”
“You do, indeed, Jacob,” said Mrs Drummond, “and I am sure that Sarah thinks so too, if she will but acknowledge it.”
“I do acknowledge it, mamma; but what is this reward to be?”
“That you will allow your father and mother to arrange an early day for our nuptials, and also allow Tom and Mary to be united at the same altar.”
“Mamma, have I not always been a dutiful daughter?”
“Yes, my love, you have.”
“Then I shall do as I am bidden by my parents, Jacob; it will be probably the last command I receive from them, and I shall obey it; will that please you, dear Jacob?”
That evening the day was fixed, and now I must not weary the reader with a description of my feelings, or of my happiness in the preparations for the ceremony. Sarah and I, Mary and Tom, were united on the same day, and there was nothing to cloud our happiness. Tom took up his abode with his father and mother; and Mary, radiant with happiness, even more beautiful than ever, has settled down into an excellent, doting wife. For Sarah, I hardly need say the same; she was my friend from childhood, she is now all that a man could hope and wish for. We have been married several years, and are blessed with a numerous family.
I am now almost at a conclusion. I have only to acquaint the reader with a few particulars relative to my early friends. Stapleton is still alive, and is wedded to his pipe, which, with him, although the taste for tobacco has been considered as an acquired one, may truly be asserted to be human nature. He has two wherries with apprentices, and from them gains a good livelihood, without working himself. He says that the boys are not as honest as I was, and cheat him not a little; but he consoles himself by asserting that it is nothing but human natur’. Old Tom is also strong and hearty, and says that he don’t intend to follow his legs for some time yet. His dame, he says, is peaking, but Mary requires no assistance. Old Tom has left off mending boats, his sign is taken down, for he is now comfortable. When Tom married, I asked him what he wished to do; he requested me to lend him money to purchase a lighter; I made him a present of a new one, just launched by Mr Drummond’s firm. But old Stapleton made over to him the 200 pounds, left to him by Mr Turnbull, and his mother brought out an equal sum from her hoards. This enabled Tom to purchase another lighter, and now he has six or seven, I forget which; at all events he is well off, and adding to his wealth every year. They talk of removing to a better house, but the old couple wish to remain. Old Tom, especially, has built an arbour where the old boat stood, and sits there carolling his songs, and watching the crafts as they go up and down the river.
Mr and Mrs Wharncliffe still continue my neighbours and dearest friends. Mrs Turnbull died a few months back, and I am now in possession of the whole property. My father and mother-in-law are well and happy. Mr Drummond will retire from business as soon as he can wind up his multifarious concerns. I have but one more to speak of—the old Dominie. It is now two years since I closed the eyes of this worthy man. As he increased in years so did he in his abstractions of mind, and the governors of the charity thought it necessary to superannuate him with a pension. It was a heavy blow to the old man, who asserted his capabilities to continue to instruct; but people thought otherwise, and he accepted my offer to take up his future residence with us, upon the understanding that it was necessary that our children, the eldest of whom, at that time, was but four years old, should be instructed in Latin and Greek. He removed to us with all his books, etcetera, not forgetting the formidable birch; but as the children would not take to the Latin of their own accord, and Mrs Faithful would not allow the rod to be made use of, the Dominie’s occupation was gone. Still, such was the force of habit, that he never went without the Latin grammar in his pocket, and I have often watched him sitting down in the poultry-yard, fancying, I presume, that he was in his school. There would he decline, construe, and conjugate aloud, his only witnesses being the poultry, who would now and then raise a gobble, gobble, gobble, while the ducks with their quack, quack, quack, were still more impertinent in their replies. A sketch of him, in this position, has been taken by Sarah, and now hangs over the mantel-piece of my study, between two of Mr Turnbull’s drawings, one of an iceberg, on the 17th of August ’78, and the other showing the dangerous position of the Camel whaler, jammed between the floe of ice, in latitude —, and longitude —.
Reader, I have now finished my narrative. There are two morals, I trust, to be drawn from the events of my life, one of which is, that in society we naturally depend upon each other for support, and that he who would assert his independence throws himself out of the current which bears to advancement; the other is, that with the advantages of good education, and good principle, although it cannot be expected that everyone will be so fortunate as I have been, still there is every reasonable hope, and every right to expect, that we shall do well in this world. Thrown up, as the Dominie expressed himself, as a tangled weed from the river, you have seen the orphan and charity-boy rise to wealth and consideration; you have seen how he who was friendless secured to himself the warmest friends; he who required everything from others became in a situation to protect and assist in return; he who could not call one individual his relation, united to the object of his attachment, and blessed with a numerous family; and to amass all these advantages and this sum of happiness, the only capital with which he embarked was a good education and good principles.
Reader, farewell!