Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Nineteen.I am tempted again—My pride is roused, and my course of life is changed in consequence.I passed a dreaming restless night, and woke early. I recalled all that had passed, and I felt very much dissatisfied with myself; the fifteen shillings, with the added prospect of receiving more, did not yield me the satisfaction I had anticipated. From what the men had said about old Nanny I thought that I would go and see her; and why? because I wished support against my own convictions. If I had not been actuated by such a feeling I should, as usual, have gone to old Anderson. When I went down to breakfast I felt confused, and I hardly dared to meet the clear bright eye of my little sister, and I wished the fifteen shillings out of my pocket. That I might appear to her and my mother as if I were not guilty, I swaggered; my sister was surprised, and my mother justifiably angry. As soon as breakfast was over, I hastened to old Nanny’s.“Well, Jack,” said she, “what brings you here so early?”“Why, mother, I was desired to ask you a question last night—between ourselves.”“Well, why don’t you ask it, since it’s between ourselves?” replied she, with surprise.“Some of the people want to know if youfencenow?”“Jack,” said old Nanny, harshly, “who asked you that question, and how did you fall into their company? Tell me directly; I will know.”“Why, mother, is there any harm in it?” replied I, confused and holding down my head.“Harm in it! Ask your own conscience, Jack, whether there’s harm in it. Why do you not look me in the face like an honest boy? Would they have dared to put that question to you, if you had not been a party to their evil deeds, Jack?” continued she, shaking her head. “I thought better of you; now you have filled me full of sorrow.”I was smitten to the heart at this rebuke from a quarter whence I did not expect it; but my heart was still rebellious, and I would not acknowledge what I felt. I thought to turn the tables, and replied, “Why, mother, at all events they say thatonceyou were a real good one.”“Is it indeed gone so far?” replied she. “Poor boy! poor boy! Yes, Jack, to my shame be it spoken, I once did receive things and buy them when they were not honestly come by, and now I’m rebuked by a child. But, Jack, I was almost mad then; I had that which would have turned any one’s brain—I was reckless, wretched; but I don’t do so any more. Even now I am a poor sinful wretch—I know it; but I’m not so crazy as I was then. I have done so, Jack, more’s the shame for me, and I wish I could recall it; but, Jack, we can’t recall the past. Oh that we could!”Here old Nanny pressed her hands to her temples, and for some time was silent. At last she continued, “Why did I love you, Jack?—Because you were honest. Why did I lend you money—I, an old miserly wretch, who have been made to dote on money; I, who have never spent a shilling for my own comfort for these ten years?—But because you were honest. Why have I longed the whole day to see you, and have cared only for you?—Because I thought you honest; Jack. I don’t care how soon I die now. I thought the world too bad to live in; you made me think better of it. Oh! Jack, Jack, how has this come to pass? How long have you known these bad people?”“Why, mother,” replied I, much affected, “only last night.”“Only last night? Tell me all about it; tell the truth, dear boy, do.”I could hold out no longer, and I told her everything that had passed.“Jack,” said she, “I’m not fit to talk to you; I’m a bad old woman, and you may say I don’t practise what I preach; but, Jack, if you love me, go to Peter Anderson and tell him everything. Don’t be afraid; only be afraid of doing what is wrong. Now, Jack, you must go.”“I will, I will,” replied I, bursting into tears.“Do, do, dear Jack! God bless your heart, I wish I could cry that way.”I walked away quite humiliated; at last I ran, I was so eager to go to Anderson and confess everything. I found him in his cabin—I attempted to speak, but I could not—I pulled out the money, put it on the table, and then I knelt down and sobbed on his knee.“What is all this, Jack?” said Anderson, calmly; but I did not reply. “I think I know, Jack,” said he, after a pause. “You have been doing wrong.”“Yes, yes,” replied I, sobbing.“Well, my dear boy, wait till you can speak, and then tell me all about it.”As soon as I could, I did. Anderson heard me without interruption.“Jack,” said he, when I had done speaking, “the temptation” (pointing to the money) “has been very great; you did not resist at the moment, but you have, fortunately, seen your error in good time for the money is still here. I have little to say to you, for your own feelings convince me that it is needless. Do you think that you can read a little? Then read this.” Anderson turned to the parable of the Prodigal Son, which I read to him. “And now,” said he, turning ever the leaves, “here is one verse more.”I read it: “There is more joy over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine that need no repentance.”“Be careful, therefore, my dear boy, let this be a warning to you; think well of it, for you have escaped a great danger: the money shall be returned. Go now, my child, to your employment; and if you do receive only halfpence, you will have the satisfaction of feeling that they are honestly obtained.”I can assure the reader that this was a lesson which I never forgot; it was, however, succeeded by another variety of temptation, which might have proved more dangerous to a young and ardent spirit, had it not ended as it did, in changing the course of my destiny and throwing me into a new path of action: to this I shall now refer.Hardly a month passed but we received additional pensioners into the hospital. Among others, a man was sent to the hospital who went by the name of Sam Spicer. I say went by the name, as it was not the custom for the seamen to give their real names when they were entered or pressed into the service, and of course they were discharged into the hospital by the same name which they bore on the ship’s books. Spicer was upwards of six feet in height, very large boned, and must, when he was in his prime, have been a man of prodigious strength. When he was admitted to the hospital he was nearly sixty years of age; his hair was black and grey mixed, his complexion very dark, and his countenance fierce and unprepossessing. He went by the name of Black Sam, on account of his appearance. He had lost his right hand in a frigate action, and to the stump he had fixed a sort of socket, into which he screwed his knife and the various articles which he wished to make use of—sometimes a file, sometimes a saw—having had every article made to fit into the socket, for he had been an armourer on board ship, and was very handy at such work. He was, generally speaking, very morose and savage to everybody, seldom entered into conversation, but sat apart, as if thinking, with a frown upon his countenance, and his eyes surmounted with bushy eyebrows, fixed upon the ground. The pensioners who belonged to the same ward said that he talked in his sleep, and from what they could collect at those times he must have been a pirate; but no one dared to speak to him on the subject, for more than once he had been punished for striking those who had offended him; indeed, he nearly killed one old man who was jesting with him when he was at work, having made a stab at him with his knife screwed in his socket, but his foot slipped, and the blow missed. Spicer was brought up before the council for this offence, and would have been discharged had he not declared that he had done it only by way of a joke to frighten the man; and, as no one else was present, it could not be proved to the contrary. For some reason or another, which I could not comprehend, Spicer appeared to have taken a liking to me; he would call me to him, and tell me stories about the West Indies and the Spanish Main, which I listened to very eagerly, for they were to me very interesting. But he seldom, if ever, spoke to me inside of the hospital; it was always when I was at the steps minding my vocation, where he would come down and lean over the rail at the top of the wharf. He made and gave me a boat-hook, which I found very convenient. He had a great deal of information, and as the ships came up the river he would point out the flags of the different nations, tell me where they traded from, and what their cargoes probably consisted of. If they had no ensign he would tell by their build and the cut of their sails what nation they belonged to, pointing out to me the differences, which I soon began to perceive. He had been in every part of the world, and scarcely a day passed in which I did not gain from him some amusing or useful information. Indeed, I became so fond of his company, that Peter Anderson spoke to me on the subject, and asked me what Spicer talked about. I told him, and he replied:—“Well, Jack, I daresay that he is a very pleasant companion to one who, like you, is so anxious for information, and I have nothing to say against him, for we have no right to listen to foolish reports which may probably have been raised from his savage appearance. Still, I confess I do not like the man, as he is decidedly of a violent temper. As long as he talks to you about what you say he does, there is no harm done; but when once he says anything which you think is wrong, promise me to let me know: and even now, if you will take my advice, you will not be so intimate with him.”A little while afterwards my father and Ben the Whaler both spoke to me on the same subject, but with much less reservation.My father said, “Jack, I don’t like to see you always in company with that old pirate, no good can come of it; so haul off a little farther for the future.”And Ben told me, “That a man who couldn’t sleep o’ nights without talking of killing people must have a bad conscience, and something lying heavy on his soul. There’s an old saying, Jack, ‘Tell me whose company you keeps, and I’ll tell you what sort of a chap you be.’ You’ve the character of a good honest boy; steer clear of Sam Spicer, or you’ll lose it.”Admonitions from all those whom I loved were not without their effect, and I made a resolution to be less intimate with Spicer. But it was difficult to do so, as I was obliged to be at the landing-steps, and could not prevent his coming there.I acknowledge that it was a severe privation to me to follow the injunctions given to me, for I would listen for hours to the thrilling narratives, the strange and almost incredible accounts of battles, incidents, and wild adventures, which this man Spicer would relate to me; and when I thought over them I felt that the desire to rove was becoming more strong within me every day. One morning I said to him that “I had a great mind to go on board of a man-of-war.”“On board of a man-of-war?” replied Spicer; “you’d soon be sick enough of that. Why, who would be at the beck and nod of others, ordered here, called there, by boy midshipmen; bullied by lieutenants, flogged by captains; have all the work and little of the pay, all the fighting and less of the prize money; and, after having worn out your life in hard service, be sent here as a great favour, to wear a cocked hat and get a shilling a week for your ’baccy? Pshaw, boy! that’s not life.”“Then, what is life?” inquired I.“What is life? Why, to sail in a clipper with a jolly crew and a roving commission; take your prizes, share and share alike, of gold-dust and doubloons.”“But what sort of vessel must that be, Spicer?”“What sort? why—a letter of marque—a privateer—a cruise on the Spanish Main—that’s life. Many’s the jolly day I’ve seen in those latitudes, where men-of-war do not bring vessels to and press the best men out of them. There the sun’s warm, and the sky and the sea are deep blue, and the corals grow like forests underneath, and there are sandy coves and cool caves for retreat—and where you may hide your gold till you want it—ay, and your sweethearts too, if you have any.”“I thought privateers always sent their prizes into port, to be condemned?”“Yes, in the Channel and these seas they do, but not down there—it’s too far off. We condemn the vessels ourselves, and share the money on the capstan-head.”“But is that lawful?”“Lawful! to be sure it is. Could we spare men to send prizes home to England, and put them into the hands of a rascally agent, who would rob us of three-fourths at least? No, no; that would never do. If I could have escaped from the man-of-war which picked up me and four others who were adrift in an open boat, I would now have been on the Coast. But when I lost my fin, I knew that all was over with me, so I came to the hospital; but I often think of old times, and the life of a rover. Now, if you have any thoughts of going to sea, look out for some vessel bound to the Gold Coast, and then you’ll soon get in the right way.”“The Gold Coast! Is not that to where the slavers go?”“Yes, slavers and other vessels besides. Some traffic for ivory and gold-dust; however, that’s as may happen. You’d soon find yourself in good company, and wouldn’t that be better than begging here for halfpence? I would be abovethat, at all events.”This remark, the first of the kind ever made to me, stung me to the quick. Strange, I had never before considered myself in the light of a beggar; and yet, was I not so, just as much as a sweeper of a crossing?“A beggar!” replied I.“Yes, a beggar. Don’t you beg for halfpence, and say, ‘Thank your honour; a copper for poor Jack, your honour?’” rejoined Spicer, mimicking me. “When I see that pretty sister of yours, that looks so like a real lady, I often thinks to myself, ‘Fine and smart as you are, miss, your brother’s only a beggar.’ Now, would you not like to return from a cruise with a bag of doubloons to throw into her lap, proving that you were a gentleman, and above coppers thrown to you out of charity? Well, old as I am, and maimed, I’d sooner starve where I now stand.—But I must be off, so good bye, Jack; look sharp after the halfpence.”As Spicer walked away my young blood boiled. A beggar! It was but too true; and yet I had never thought it a disgrace before. I sat down on the steps, and was soon in deep thought. Boat after boat came to the stairs, and yet I stirred not. Not one halfpenny did I take during the remainder of that day, for I could not, would not, ask for one. My pride, hitherto latent, was roused, and before I rose from where I had been seated I made a resolution that I would earn my livelihood in some other way. What hurt me most was his observations about Virginia and her beggar brother. I was so proud of Virginia, I felt that her brother ought not to be a beggar. Such was the effect produced in so short a time by the insidious discourse of this man. Had he still remained at the steps, I do believe that I should have asked, probably have followed, his advice. Fortunately he had left, and, after a little reflection, I had the wisdom to go and seek Peter Anderson, and consult him as to what I could do, for to change my mode of obtaining my livelihood I was determined upon.I found Anderson, as usual, seated under the colonnade, reading, and I went up to him.“Well, Jack, my boy, you are home early,” said he.“Yes,” replied I gravely, and then I was silent.After a pause of about a minute, Peter Anderson said, “Jack, I see there’s something the matter. Now, tell me what it is. Can I help you?”“I did wish to speak to you,” replied I. “I’ve been thinking—about going to sea.”“And how long have you thought of that, Jack?”“I’ve thought more of it lately,” replied I.“Yes, since Spicer has been talking to you. Now, is that not the case?”“Yes, it is.”“I knew that, Jack. I’m at your service for as long as you please; now sit down and tell me all he has said to you that you can remember. I sha’n’t interrupt you.”I did so; and before I had half finished, Anderson replied, “That is quite enough, Jack. One thing is evident to me—that Spicer has led a bad and lawless life, and would even now continue it, old as he is, only that he is prevented by being crippled. Jack, he has talked to you about privateers! God forgive me if I wrong him; but I think, had he said pirates, he would have told the truth. But say nothing about that observation of mine; I wish from my heart that you had never known him. But here comes your father. He has a right to know what we are talking about, for you owe duty to him as his son, and nothing can be done without his permission.”When my father came up to us, Anderson begged him to sit down, and he told him what we had been discoursing about. I had already stated my objections to enter on board of a man-of-war.“Well,” said my father, “I may come athwart hawse of that old piccaroon yet, if he don’t look out. Not that I mind your going to sea, Jack, as your father did before you; but what he says about the sarvice is a confounded lie. Let a man do his duty, and the sarvice is a good one; and a man who is provided for as he is, ought to be ashamed of himself to speak as he has done, the old rascal. Still, I do not care for your entering the sarvice so young. It would be better that you were first apprentice and larnt your duty; and as soon as your time is out, you will be pressed, of course, and then you would sarve the King. I see no objection to all that.”“But why do you want so particularly to go to sea, Jack?” observed Anderson.“I don’t like being a beggar—begging for halfpence!” replied I, “And Spicer told you that you were a beggar?” said Peter.“He did.”“Jack, if that is the case, we are all beggars; for we all work, and receive what money we can get for our work. There is no shame in that.”“I can’t bear to think of it,” replied I, as the tears came into my eyes.“Well, well! I see how it is,” replied Anderson; “it’s a pity you ever fell in with that man.”“That’s true as gospel,” observed my father; “but still, if he had said nothing worse than that, I should not have minded. I do think that Jack is now old enough to do something better; and I must say, I do not dislike his wishing so to do—for it is begging for halfpence, arter all.”“Well, boy,” said Peter Anderson, “suppose you leave your father and me to talk over the matter; and to-morrow, by this time, we will tell you what we think will be best.”“Anything—anything,” replied I, “but being a beggar.”“Go along, you are a foolish boy,” said Anderson.“I like his spirit, though,” said my father, as I walked away.On the next day the important question was to be decided. I did not go to the stairs to follow up my vocation. I had talked the matter over with Virginia, who, although she did not like that I should go away, had agreed with me that she objected to my begging for money. I waited very impatiently for the time that Anderson had appointed, and, at last, he and my father came together, when the former said:—“Well, Jack, it appears that you do not like to be a waterman, and that you have no great fancy for a man-of-war, although you have a hankering for the sea. Now, as you cannot cruise with your friend Spicer on the Spanish Main, nor yet be safe from impressment in a privateer or merchantman, we have been thinking that, perhaps, you would have no objection to be a channel and river pilot; and if so, I have an old friend in that service, who, I think, may help you. What do you say?”“I should like it very much.”“Yes, it is a good service, and a man is usefully employed. You may be the means, as soon as you are out of your time, and have passed your examination, of saving many a vessel and more lives. You have had a pretty fair education, indeed quite sufficient; and, as you will often be coming up the river, you will have opportunities of seeing your father and your friends. If you decide, I will write at once.”“It is the very thing that I should like,” replied I; “and many thanks to you, Anderson.”“And it’s exactly what I should wish also,” replied my father. “So that job’s jobbed, as the saying is.”After this arrangement, I walked away as proud as if I had been an emancipated slave: that very evening I announced my intention of resigning my office of “Poor Jack,” and named as my successor the boy with whom I had fought so desperately to obtain it, when the prospect was held out to me, by old Ben, of my becoming Poor Jack—for ever.

I passed a dreaming restless night, and woke early. I recalled all that had passed, and I felt very much dissatisfied with myself; the fifteen shillings, with the added prospect of receiving more, did not yield me the satisfaction I had anticipated. From what the men had said about old Nanny I thought that I would go and see her; and why? because I wished support against my own convictions. If I had not been actuated by such a feeling I should, as usual, have gone to old Anderson. When I went down to breakfast I felt confused, and I hardly dared to meet the clear bright eye of my little sister, and I wished the fifteen shillings out of my pocket. That I might appear to her and my mother as if I were not guilty, I swaggered; my sister was surprised, and my mother justifiably angry. As soon as breakfast was over, I hastened to old Nanny’s.

“Well, Jack,” said she, “what brings you here so early?”

“Why, mother, I was desired to ask you a question last night—between ourselves.”

“Well, why don’t you ask it, since it’s between ourselves?” replied she, with surprise.

“Some of the people want to know if youfencenow?”

“Jack,” said old Nanny, harshly, “who asked you that question, and how did you fall into their company? Tell me directly; I will know.”

“Why, mother, is there any harm in it?” replied I, confused and holding down my head.

“Harm in it! Ask your own conscience, Jack, whether there’s harm in it. Why do you not look me in the face like an honest boy? Would they have dared to put that question to you, if you had not been a party to their evil deeds, Jack?” continued she, shaking her head. “I thought better of you; now you have filled me full of sorrow.”

I was smitten to the heart at this rebuke from a quarter whence I did not expect it; but my heart was still rebellious, and I would not acknowledge what I felt. I thought to turn the tables, and replied, “Why, mother, at all events they say thatonceyou were a real good one.”

“Is it indeed gone so far?” replied she. “Poor boy! poor boy! Yes, Jack, to my shame be it spoken, I once did receive things and buy them when they were not honestly come by, and now I’m rebuked by a child. But, Jack, I was almost mad then; I had that which would have turned any one’s brain—I was reckless, wretched; but I don’t do so any more. Even now I am a poor sinful wretch—I know it; but I’m not so crazy as I was then. I have done so, Jack, more’s the shame for me, and I wish I could recall it; but, Jack, we can’t recall the past. Oh that we could!”

Here old Nanny pressed her hands to her temples, and for some time was silent. At last she continued, “Why did I love you, Jack?—Because you were honest. Why did I lend you money—I, an old miserly wretch, who have been made to dote on money; I, who have never spent a shilling for my own comfort for these ten years?—But because you were honest. Why have I longed the whole day to see you, and have cared only for you?—Because I thought you honest; Jack. I don’t care how soon I die now. I thought the world too bad to live in; you made me think better of it. Oh! Jack, Jack, how has this come to pass? How long have you known these bad people?”

“Why, mother,” replied I, much affected, “only last night.”

“Only last night? Tell me all about it; tell the truth, dear boy, do.”

I could hold out no longer, and I told her everything that had passed.

“Jack,” said she, “I’m not fit to talk to you; I’m a bad old woman, and you may say I don’t practise what I preach; but, Jack, if you love me, go to Peter Anderson and tell him everything. Don’t be afraid; only be afraid of doing what is wrong. Now, Jack, you must go.”

“I will, I will,” replied I, bursting into tears.

“Do, do, dear Jack! God bless your heart, I wish I could cry that way.”

I walked away quite humiliated; at last I ran, I was so eager to go to Anderson and confess everything. I found him in his cabin—I attempted to speak, but I could not—I pulled out the money, put it on the table, and then I knelt down and sobbed on his knee.

“What is all this, Jack?” said Anderson, calmly; but I did not reply. “I think I know, Jack,” said he, after a pause. “You have been doing wrong.”

“Yes, yes,” replied I, sobbing.

“Well, my dear boy, wait till you can speak, and then tell me all about it.”

As soon as I could, I did. Anderson heard me without interruption.

“Jack,” said he, when I had done speaking, “the temptation” (pointing to the money) “has been very great; you did not resist at the moment, but you have, fortunately, seen your error in good time for the money is still here. I have little to say to you, for your own feelings convince me that it is needless. Do you think that you can read a little? Then read this.” Anderson turned to the parable of the Prodigal Son, which I read to him. “And now,” said he, turning ever the leaves, “here is one verse more.”

I read it: “There is more joy over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety and nine that need no repentance.”

“Be careful, therefore, my dear boy, let this be a warning to you; think well of it, for you have escaped a great danger: the money shall be returned. Go now, my child, to your employment; and if you do receive only halfpence, you will have the satisfaction of feeling that they are honestly obtained.”

I can assure the reader that this was a lesson which I never forgot; it was, however, succeeded by another variety of temptation, which might have proved more dangerous to a young and ardent spirit, had it not ended as it did, in changing the course of my destiny and throwing me into a new path of action: to this I shall now refer.

Hardly a month passed but we received additional pensioners into the hospital. Among others, a man was sent to the hospital who went by the name of Sam Spicer. I say went by the name, as it was not the custom for the seamen to give their real names when they were entered or pressed into the service, and of course they were discharged into the hospital by the same name which they bore on the ship’s books. Spicer was upwards of six feet in height, very large boned, and must, when he was in his prime, have been a man of prodigious strength. When he was admitted to the hospital he was nearly sixty years of age; his hair was black and grey mixed, his complexion very dark, and his countenance fierce and unprepossessing. He went by the name of Black Sam, on account of his appearance. He had lost his right hand in a frigate action, and to the stump he had fixed a sort of socket, into which he screwed his knife and the various articles which he wished to make use of—sometimes a file, sometimes a saw—having had every article made to fit into the socket, for he had been an armourer on board ship, and was very handy at such work. He was, generally speaking, very morose and savage to everybody, seldom entered into conversation, but sat apart, as if thinking, with a frown upon his countenance, and his eyes surmounted with bushy eyebrows, fixed upon the ground. The pensioners who belonged to the same ward said that he talked in his sleep, and from what they could collect at those times he must have been a pirate; but no one dared to speak to him on the subject, for more than once he had been punished for striking those who had offended him; indeed, he nearly killed one old man who was jesting with him when he was at work, having made a stab at him with his knife screwed in his socket, but his foot slipped, and the blow missed. Spicer was brought up before the council for this offence, and would have been discharged had he not declared that he had done it only by way of a joke to frighten the man; and, as no one else was present, it could not be proved to the contrary. For some reason or another, which I could not comprehend, Spicer appeared to have taken a liking to me; he would call me to him, and tell me stories about the West Indies and the Spanish Main, which I listened to very eagerly, for they were to me very interesting. But he seldom, if ever, spoke to me inside of the hospital; it was always when I was at the steps minding my vocation, where he would come down and lean over the rail at the top of the wharf. He made and gave me a boat-hook, which I found very convenient. He had a great deal of information, and as the ships came up the river he would point out the flags of the different nations, tell me where they traded from, and what their cargoes probably consisted of. If they had no ensign he would tell by their build and the cut of their sails what nation they belonged to, pointing out to me the differences, which I soon began to perceive. He had been in every part of the world, and scarcely a day passed in which I did not gain from him some amusing or useful information. Indeed, I became so fond of his company, that Peter Anderson spoke to me on the subject, and asked me what Spicer talked about. I told him, and he replied:—

“Well, Jack, I daresay that he is a very pleasant companion to one who, like you, is so anxious for information, and I have nothing to say against him, for we have no right to listen to foolish reports which may probably have been raised from his savage appearance. Still, I confess I do not like the man, as he is decidedly of a violent temper. As long as he talks to you about what you say he does, there is no harm done; but when once he says anything which you think is wrong, promise me to let me know: and even now, if you will take my advice, you will not be so intimate with him.”

A little while afterwards my father and Ben the Whaler both spoke to me on the same subject, but with much less reservation.

My father said, “Jack, I don’t like to see you always in company with that old pirate, no good can come of it; so haul off a little farther for the future.”

And Ben told me, “That a man who couldn’t sleep o’ nights without talking of killing people must have a bad conscience, and something lying heavy on his soul. There’s an old saying, Jack, ‘Tell me whose company you keeps, and I’ll tell you what sort of a chap you be.’ You’ve the character of a good honest boy; steer clear of Sam Spicer, or you’ll lose it.”

Admonitions from all those whom I loved were not without their effect, and I made a resolution to be less intimate with Spicer. But it was difficult to do so, as I was obliged to be at the landing-steps, and could not prevent his coming there.

I acknowledge that it was a severe privation to me to follow the injunctions given to me, for I would listen for hours to the thrilling narratives, the strange and almost incredible accounts of battles, incidents, and wild adventures, which this man Spicer would relate to me; and when I thought over them I felt that the desire to rove was becoming more strong within me every day. One morning I said to him that “I had a great mind to go on board of a man-of-war.”

“On board of a man-of-war?” replied Spicer; “you’d soon be sick enough of that. Why, who would be at the beck and nod of others, ordered here, called there, by boy midshipmen; bullied by lieutenants, flogged by captains; have all the work and little of the pay, all the fighting and less of the prize money; and, after having worn out your life in hard service, be sent here as a great favour, to wear a cocked hat and get a shilling a week for your ’baccy? Pshaw, boy! that’s not life.”

“Then, what is life?” inquired I.

“What is life? Why, to sail in a clipper with a jolly crew and a roving commission; take your prizes, share and share alike, of gold-dust and doubloons.”

“But what sort of vessel must that be, Spicer?”

“What sort? why—a letter of marque—a privateer—a cruise on the Spanish Main—that’s life. Many’s the jolly day I’ve seen in those latitudes, where men-of-war do not bring vessels to and press the best men out of them. There the sun’s warm, and the sky and the sea are deep blue, and the corals grow like forests underneath, and there are sandy coves and cool caves for retreat—and where you may hide your gold till you want it—ay, and your sweethearts too, if you have any.”

“I thought privateers always sent their prizes into port, to be condemned?”

“Yes, in the Channel and these seas they do, but not down there—it’s too far off. We condemn the vessels ourselves, and share the money on the capstan-head.”

“But is that lawful?”

“Lawful! to be sure it is. Could we spare men to send prizes home to England, and put them into the hands of a rascally agent, who would rob us of three-fourths at least? No, no; that would never do. If I could have escaped from the man-of-war which picked up me and four others who were adrift in an open boat, I would now have been on the Coast. But when I lost my fin, I knew that all was over with me, so I came to the hospital; but I often think of old times, and the life of a rover. Now, if you have any thoughts of going to sea, look out for some vessel bound to the Gold Coast, and then you’ll soon get in the right way.”

“The Gold Coast! Is not that to where the slavers go?”

“Yes, slavers and other vessels besides. Some traffic for ivory and gold-dust; however, that’s as may happen. You’d soon find yourself in good company, and wouldn’t that be better than begging here for halfpence? I would be abovethat, at all events.”

This remark, the first of the kind ever made to me, stung me to the quick. Strange, I had never before considered myself in the light of a beggar; and yet, was I not so, just as much as a sweeper of a crossing?

“A beggar!” replied I.

“Yes, a beggar. Don’t you beg for halfpence, and say, ‘Thank your honour; a copper for poor Jack, your honour?’” rejoined Spicer, mimicking me. “When I see that pretty sister of yours, that looks so like a real lady, I often thinks to myself, ‘Fine and smart as you are, miss, your brother’s only a beggar.’ Now, would you not like to return from a cruise with a bag of doubloons to throw into her lap, proving that you were a gentleman, and above coppers thrown to you out of charity? Well, old as I am, and maimed, I’d sooner starve where I now stand.—But I must be off, so good bye, Jack; look sharp after the halfpence.”

As Spicer walked away my young blood boiled. A beggar! It was but too true; and yet I had never thought it a disgrace before. I sat down on the steps, and was soon in deep thought. Boat after boat came to the stairs, and yet I stirred not. Not one halfpenny did I take during the remainder of that day, for I could not, would not, ask for one. My pride, hitherto latent, was roused, and before I rose from where I had been seated I made a resolution that I would earn my livelihood in some other way. What hurt me most was his observations about Virginia and her beggar brother. I was so proud of Virginia, I felt that her brother ought not to be a beggar. Such was the effect produced in so short a time by the insidious discourse of this man. Had he still remained at the steps, I do believe that I should have asked, probably have followed, his advice. Fortunately he had left, and, after a little reflection, I had the wisdom to go and seek Peter Anderson, and consult him as to what I could do, for to change my mode of obtaining my livelihood I was determined upon.

I found Anderson, as usual, seated under the colonnade, reading, and I went up to him.

“Well, Jack, my boy, you are home early,” said he.

“Yes,” replied I gravely, and then I was silent.

After a pause of about a minute, Peter Anderson said, “Jack, I see there’s something the matter. Now, tell me what it is. Can I help you?”

“I did wish to speak to you,” replied I. “I’ve been thinking—about going to sea.”

“And how long have you thought of that, Jack?”

“I’ve thought more of it lately,” replied I.

“Yes, since Spicer has been talking to you. Now, is that not the case?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I knew that, Jack. I’m at your service for as long as you please; now sit down and tell me all he has said to you that you can remember. I sha’n’t interrupt you.”

I did so; and before I had half finished, Anderson replied, “That is quite enough, Jack. One thing is evident to me—that Spicer has led a bad and lawless life, and would even now continue it, old as he is, only that he is prevented by being crippled. Jack, he has talked to you about privateers! God forgive me if I wrong him; but I think, had he said pirates, he would have told the truth. But say nothing about that observation of mine; I wish from my heart that you had never known him. But here comes your father. He has a right to know what we are talking about, for you owe duty to him as his son, and nothing can be done without his permission.”

When my father came up to us, Anderson begged him to sit down, and he told him what we had been discoursing about. I had already stated my objections to enter on board of a man-of-war.

“Well,” said my father, “I may come athwart hawse of that old piccaroon yet, if he don’t look out. Not that I mind your going to sea, Jack, as your father did before you; but what he says about the sarvice is a confounded lie. Let a man do his duty, and the sarvice is a good one; and a man who is provided for as he is, ought to be ashamed of himself to speak as he has done, the old rascal. Still, I do not care for your entering the sarvice so young. It would be better that you were first apprentice and larnt your duty; and as soon as your time is out, you will be pressed, of course, and then you would sarve the King. I see no objection to all that.”

“But why do you want so particularly to go to sea, Jack?” observed Anderson.

“I don’t like being a beggar—begging for halfpence!” replied I, “And Spicer told you that you were a beggar?” said Peter.

“He did.”

“Jack, if that is the case, we are all beggars; for we all work, and receive what money we can get for our work. There is no shame in that.”

“I can’t bear to think of it,” replied I, as the tears came into my eyes.

“Well, well! I see how it is,” replied Anderson; “it’s a pity you ever fell in with that man.”

“That’s true as gospel,” observed my father; “but still, if he had said nothing worse than that, I should not have minded. I do think that Jack is now old enough to do something better; and I must say, I do not dislike his wishing so to do—for it is begging for halfpence, arter all.”

“Well, boy,” said Peter Anderson, “suppose you leave your father and me to talk over the matter; and to-morrow, by this time, we will tell you what we think will be best.”

“Anything—anything,” replied I, “but being a beggar.”

“Go along, you are a foolish boy,” said Anderson.

“I like his spirit, though,” said my father, as I walked away.

On the next day the important question was to be decided. I did not go to the stairs to follow up my vocation. I had talked the matter over with Virginia, who, although she did not like that I should go away, had agreed with me that she objected to my begging for money. I waited very impatiently for the time that Anderson had appointed, and, at last, he and my father came together, when the former said:—

“Well, Jack, it appears that you do not like to be a waterman, and that you have no great fancy for a man-of-war, although you have a hankering for the sea. Now, as you cannot cruise with your friend Spicer on the Spanish Main, nor yet be safe from impressment in a privateer or merchantman, we have been thinking that, perhaps, you would have no objection to be a channel and river pilot; and if so, I have an old friend in that service, who, I think, may help you. What do you say?”

“I should like it very much.”

“Yes, it is a good service, and a man is usefully employed. You may be the means, as soon as you are out of your time, and have passed your examination, of saving many a vessel and more lives. You have had a pretty fair education, indeed quite sufficient; and, as you will often be coming up the river, you will have opportunities of seeing your father and your friends. If you decide, I will write at once.”

“It is the very thing that I should like,” replied I; “and many thanks to you, Anderson.”

“And it’s exactly what I should wish also,” replied my father. “So that job’s jobbed, as the saying is.”

After this arrangement, I walked away as proud as if I had been an emancipated slave: that very evening I announced my intention of resigning my office of “Poor Jack,” and named as my successor the boy with whom I had fought so desperately to obtain it, when the prospect was held out to me, by old Ben, of my becoming Poor Jack—for ever.

Chapter Twenty.Much ado about nothing; or, a specimen of modern patronage.I communicated to my mother and Virginia my father’s intentions relative to my future employ, and was not surprised to find my mother very much pleased with the intelligence, for she had always considered my situation of “Poor Jack” as disgracing her family—declaring it the “most ungenteelest” of all occupations. Perhaps she was not only glad of my giving up the situation, but also of my quitting her house. My father desired me to wear my Sunday clothes during the week, and ordered me a new suit for my best, which he paid for out of the money which he had placed in the hands of the Lieutenant of the Hospital; and I was very much surprised to perceive my mother cutting out half a dozen new shirts for me, which she and Virginia were employed making up during the evenings. Not that my mother told me who the shirts were for—she said nothing; but Virginia whispered it to me; my mother could not be even gracious to me: nevertheless, the shirts and several other necessaries, such as stockings and pocket-handkerchiefs, were placed for my use on my father’s sea-chest, in my room, without any comment on her part, although she had paid for them out of her own purse. During the time that elapsed from my giving up the situation of “Poor Jack,” to my quitting Greenwich, I remained very quietly in my mother’s house, doing everything that I could for her, and employing myself chiefly in reading books, which I borrowed anywhere that I could. I was very anxious to get rid of mysobriquetof “Poor Jack,” and when so called would tell everybody that my name was now “Thomas Saunders.”One Sunday, about three weeks after I had given up my berth, I was walking with my father and Virginia on the terrace of the hospital, when we perceived a large party of ladies and gentlemen coming towards us. My father was very proud of us: I had this very day put on the new suit of clothes which he had ordered for me, and which had been cut out in the true man-of-war fashion; and Virginia was, as usual, very nicely dressed. We were walking towards the party who were advancing, when all of a sudden my father started, and exclaimed:—“Well, shiver my timbers! if it ain’tshe—andhe—by all that’s blue!”Whosheorhemight be, neither Virginia nor I could imagine; but I looked at the party, who were now close to us, and perceived, in advance of the rest, an enormous lady, dressed in a puce-coloured pelisse and a white satin bonnet. Her features were good, and, had they been on a smaller scale, would have been considered handsome. She towered above the rest of the company, and there was but one man who could at all compete with her in height and size, and he was by her side.My father stopped, took off his cocked hat, and scraped the gravel with his timber toe, as he bowed a little forward.“Sarvant, your honour’s ladyship. Sarvant, your honour Sir Hercules.”“Ah! who have we here?” replied Sir Hercules, putting his hand up as a screen above his eyes. “Who are you, my man?” continued he.“Tom Saunders, your honour’s coxswain, as was in the Druid,” replied my father, with another scrape at the gravel, “taken in moorings at last, your honour. Hope to see your honour and your honourable ladyship quite well.”“I recollect you now, my man,” replied Sir Hercules, very stiffly. “And where did you lose your leg?”“Battle o’ the Nile, your honour; Majesty’s ship Oudacious.”“How interesting!” observed one of the ladies; “one of Sir Hercules’ old men.”“Yes, madam, and one of my best men. Lady Hercules, you must recollect him,” said Sir Hercules.“I should think so, Sir Hercules,” replied the lady; “did I not give him my own lady’s maid in marriage?”“Dear me, howexcessivelyinteresting!” said another of the party.Now, this was a little event in which Sir Hercules and Lady Hercules stood prominent; it added to their importance for the moment, and therefore they were both pleased. Lady Hercules then said, “And pray, my good man, how is your wife?”“Quite well and hearty, at your ladyship’s sarvice,” replied my father; “and, please your ladyship, these two be our children.”“Bless me, how interesting!” exclaimed another lady.“And remarkably well bred ’uns,” remarked a short gentleman in a fox-hunting coat, examining Virginia through his eye-glass; “coxswain, filly—dam, lady’s maid.”“What is your name, child?” said Lady Hercules to Virginia.“Virginia, ma’am,” replied my sister, with a courtesy.“You must say ‘Lady Hercules,’ my dear,” said my father, stooping down.“My name is Virginia, Lady Hercules,” replied my sister, courtesying again.“Indeed; then I suppose you are named after me?”“Yes, your ladyship; hope no offence—but we did take the liberty,” replied my father.“And what is yours, boy?”“Thomas, Lady Hercules,” replied I, with a bow and scrape, after my father’s receipt for politeness.“And where is your mother?” said Sir Hercules.“Mother’s at home, Lady Hercules,” replied I, with another scrape.“Howveryinteresting!” exclaimed one of the party. “Quite an event!” said another. “A delightfulrencontre!” cried a third. “How kind of you, Lady Hercules, to give up your own maid! and such handsome children,” etcetera, etcetera. “It’s really quite charming.”Lady Hercules was evidently much pleased, and she assumed the patroness.“Well, little girl, since you have been named after me, out of gratitude I must see what can be done for you. Tell your mother to come up to me to-morrow at three o’clock, and bring you with her.”“Yes, Lady Hercules,” replied Virginia, with a courtesy.“And Saunders, you may as well come up at the same time, and bring your lad with you,” added Sir Hercules.“Yes, your honour,” replied my father, both he and I simultaneously scraping the gravel.“Wish your honour Sir Hercules, and your honourable lady, and all the honourable company, a very good morning,” continued my father, taking Virginia and me by the hand to lead us away.Sir Hercules touched his hat in return, and walked away as stiff as usual; the pensioners who had witnessed the interview between him and my father, concluding that Sir Hercules was a naval officer, now rose and touched their hats to him as he walked with her ladyship in advance of the party. We joined Anderson, who was sitting down at the other end of the walk, when my father communicated to him what had passed.As my father conducted Virginia home, she said to him, “Why do you call himsir, and herlady?”“Because they are quality people, child. He is a barrownight, and she is Lady Hercules.”“Are all barrownights and ladies so much bigger than other people are in general?”“No, child, they don’t go by size. I’ve seen many a lord who was a very little man.”My mother was very much pleased when we narrated what had happened, as she considered that Lady Hercules might prove a valuable patron to Virginia, whom she did not fail to have ready at the time appointed; and, dressed in our very best, we all walked together to the Sun, at which Sir Hercules and his lady had taken up their quarters. Let it not be supposed that my mother had forgotten the unceremonious manner in which she had been dismissed from the service of Lady Hercules,—it was still fresh in the memory of a person so revengeful in her disposition; but she considered that as Lady Hercules had forgotten it, it was her interest to do the same; so, when we were ushered into the room where sat Sir Hercules and her ladyship, my mother was all smiles and courtesies, and gratitude for past favours.There was an old gentleman, with a bald powdered head, dressed in black, standing with his back to the fire when we entered; he was the only other person in the room beside Sir Hercules and his lady. Lady Hercules first obtained from my mother a short history of what had happened since they had parted; and really, to hear my mother’s explanation, it would have been supposed that she and my father had always been the most loving couple in the world.“Well,” said Sir Hercules, “and what do you intend to do with your boy, Saunders?”“May it please your honour, I’ve been thinking of bringing him up as a channel pilot,” replied my father.“Very good,” replied Sir Hercules; “I can see to that; and with my interest at the Trinity Board, thething is done, sir;” and Sir Hercules walked pompously about the room. “Saunders,” said Sir Hercules, stopping, after he had taken three or four turns up and down, and joining his fingers behind his back, “I thought I perceived some difference in you when you first addressed me. What has become of your tail, sir?”“My tail, your honour?” replied my father, looking as much a delinquent as if he was still on board a man-of-war, and had been guilty of some misdemeanour, “why, please your honour Sir Hercules—”“I cut it off for him with my scissors,” interrupted my mother, with a courtesy. “Saunders was very savage when he came for to know it; but he had a stupefaction of the brain, and was quite insensible at the time; and so, Sir Hercules and my lady” (here a courtesy), “I thought it was better—”“Ah! I see,—a brain fever,” observed Sir Hercules. “Well, under these circumstances you may have saved his life; but ’twas a pity, was it not, my lady?—quite altered the man. You recollect his tail, my lady?”“What a question, Sir Hercules!” replied her ladyship with great dignity, turning round towards my mother.My father appeared to be quite relieved from his dilemma by his wife’s presence of mind, and really thankful to her for coming to his assistance; she had saved him from the mortification of telling the truth. How true it is that married people, however much they may quarrel, like to conceal their squabbles from the world!“And what are you thinking of doing with your little girl?” said Lady Hercules—“bringing her up to service, I presume. Leave that to me: as soon as she is old enough, thething is done, you need say no more about it.” Here her ladyship fell back in the large easy chair on which she was seated, with a self-satisfied air of patronage, and looking even more dignified than her husband.But my mother had no such intentions, and having first thanked her ladyship for her great kindness, stated very humbly that she did not much like the idea of her daughter going out to service, that she was far from strong, and that her health would not allow her to undertake hard work.“Well, but I presume she may do the work of a lady’s maid?” replied her ladyship haughtily; “and it was that service which I intended for her.”“Indeed, Lady Hercules, you are very kind; but there is an objection,” replied my mother, to gain time.“Please your ladyship,” said my father, who, to my great surprise, came to my mother’s support, “I do not wish that my little girl should be a lady’s maid.”“And why not, pray?” said her ladyship, rather angrily.“Why, you see, your ladyship, my daughter is, after all, only the daughter of a poor Greenwich pensioner; and, although she has been so far pretty well educated, yet I wishes her not to forget her low situation in life, and ladies’ maids do get so confounded proud (’specially those who have the fortune to be ladies’ ladies’ maids), that I don’t wish that she should take a situation which would make her forget herself, and her poor old pensioner of a father; and, begging your honour’s pardon, that is the real state of the case, my lady.”What my mother felt at this slap at her I do not know, but certain it is that she was satisfied with my father taking the responsibility of refusal on his own shoulders, and she therefore continued—“I often have told Mr Saunders how happy I was when under your ladyship’s protection, and what a fortunate person I considered myself; but my husband has always had such an objection to my girl being brought up to it, that I have (of course, my lady, as it is my duty to him to do so) given up my own wishes from the first; indeed, my lady, had I not known that my little girl was not to go to service, I never should have ventured to have called her Virginia, my lady.”“What, then, do you intend her for?” said Sir Hercules to my father. “You don’t mean to bring her up as a lady, do you?”“No, your honour, she’s but a pensioner’s daughter, and I wishes her to be humble, as she ought to be; so I’ve been thinking that something in the millinery line, or perhaps—”“As a governess, my lady,” interrupted my mother, with a courtesy. “That will make her humble enough, at all events,” observed the bald gentleman in black, with a smile.“I admit,” replied Lady Hercules, “that your having given my name to your little girl is a strong reason for her not going into service; but there are many expenses attending the education necessary for a young person as governess.”Here my mother entered into an explanation of how Virginia had been educated—an education which she should not have dreamt of giving, only that her child bore her ladyship’s name, etcetera. My mother employed her usual flattery and humility, so as to reconcile her ladyship to the idea; who was the more inclined when she discovered that she was not likely to be put to any expense in her patronage of my sister. It was finally agreed that Virginia should be educated for the office of governess, and that when she was old enough Lady Hercules would take her under her august protection; but her ladyship did do her some service. Finding that Virginia was at a respectable school, she called there with a party of ladies, and informed the schoolmistress that the little girl was under her protection, and that she trusted that justice would be done to her education. In a school where the Miss Tippets were considered the aristocracy, the appearance of so great a woman as Lady Hercules was an event, and I do not know whether my little sister did not after that take precedence in the school; at all events, she was much more carefully instructed and looked after than she had been before. Sir Hercules was also pleased to find, upon inquiry, that there was every prospect of my entering the pilot service, without any trouble on his part. Both Sir Hercules and his lady informed their friends of what their intentions were to their youngprotégés, and were inundated with praises and commendations for their kindness, the full extent of which the reader will appreciate. But, as my mother pointed out as we walked home, if we did not require their assistance at present, there was no saying but that we eventually might; and if so, that Sir Hercules and Lady Hawkingtrefylyan could not well refuse to perform their promises. I must say that this was the first instance in my recollection in which my parents appeared to draw amicably together; and I believe that nothing except regard for their children could have produced the effect.

I communicated to my mother and Virginia my father’s intentions relative to my future employ, and was not surprised to find my mother very much pleased with the intelligence, for she had always considered my situation of “Poor Jack” as disgracing her family—declaring it the “most ungenteelest” of all occupations. Perhaps she was not only glad of my giving up the situation, but also of my quitting her house. My father desired me to wear my Sunday clothes during the week, and ordered me a new suit for my best, which he paid for out of the money which he had placed in the hands of the Lieutenant of the Hospital; and I was very much surprised to perceive my mother cutting out half a dozen new shirts for me, which she and Virginia were employed making up during the evenings. Not that my mother told me who the shirts were for—she said nothing; but Virginia whispered it to me; my mother could not be even gracious to me: nevertheless, the shirts and several other necessaries, such as stockings and pocket-handkerchiefs, were placed for my use on my father’s sea-chest, in my room, without any comment on her part, although she had paid for them out of her own purse. During the time that elapsed from my giving up the situation of “Poor Jack,” to my quitting Greenwich, I remained very quietly in my mother’s house, doing everything that I could for her, and employing myself chiefly in reading books, which I borrowed anywhere that I could. I was very anxious to get rid of mysobriquetof “Poor Jack,” and when so called would tell everybody that my name was now “Thomas Saunders.”

One Sunday, about three weeks after I had given up my berth, I was walking with my father and Virginia on the terrace of the hospital, when we perceived a large party of ladies and gentlemen coming towards us. My father was very proud of us: I had this very day put on the new suit of clothes which he had ordered for me, and which had been cut out in the true man-of-war fashion; and Virginia was, as usual, very nicely dressed. We were walking towards the party who were advancing, when all of a sudden my father started, and exclaimed:—

“Well, shiver my timbers! if it ain’tshe—andhe—by all that’s blue!”

Whosheorhemight be, neither Virginia nor I could imagine; but I looked at the party, who were now close to us, and perceived, in advance of the rest, an enormous lady, dressed in a puce-coloured pelisse and a white satin bonnet. Her features were good, and, had they been on a smaller scale, would have been considered handsome. She towered above the rest of the company, and there was but one man who could at all compete with her in height and size, and he was by her side.

My father stopped, took off his cocked hat, and scraped the gravel with his timber toe, as he bowed a little forward.

“Sarvant, your honour’s ladyship. Sarvant, your honour Sir Hercules.”

“Ah! who have we here?” replied Sir Hercules, putting his hand up as a screen above his eyes. “Who are you, my man?” continued he.

“Tom Saunders, your honour’s coxswain, as was in the Druid,” replied my father, with another scrape at the gravel, “taken in moorings at last, your honour. Hope to see your honour and your honourable ladyship quite well.”

“I recollect you now, my man,” replied Sir Hercules, very stiffly. “And where did you lose your leg?”

“Battle o’ the Nile, your honour; Majesty’s ship Oudacious.”

“How interesting!” observed one of the ladies; “one of Sir Hercules’ old men.”

“Yes, madam, and one of my best men. Lady Hercules, you must recollect him,” said Sir Hercules.

“I should think so, Sir Hercules,” replied the lady; “did I not give him my own lady’s maid in marriage?”

“Dear me, howexcessivelyinteresting!” said another of the party.

Now, this was a little event in which Sir Hercules and Lady Hercules stood prominent; it added to their importance for the moment, and therefore they were both pleased. Lady Hercules then said, “And pray, my good man, how is your wife?”

“Quite well and hearty, at your ladyship’s sarvice,” replied my father; “and, please your ladyship, these two be our children.”

“Bless me, how interesting!” exclaimed another lady.

“And remarkably well bred ’uns,” remarked a short gentleman in a fox-hunting coat, examining Virginia through his eye-glass; “coxswain, filly—dam, lady’s maid.”

“What is your name, child?” said Lady Hercules to Virginia.

“Virginia, ma’am,” replied my sister, with a courtesy.

“You must say ‘Lady Hercules,’ my dear,” said my father, stooping down.

“My name is Virginia, Lady Hercules,” replied my sister, courtesying again.

“Indeed; then I suppose you are named after me?”

“Yes, your ladyship; hope no offence—but we did take the liberty,” replied my father.

“And what is yours, boy?”

“Thomas, Lady Hercules,” replied I, with a bow and scrape, after my father’s receipt for politeness.

“And where is your mother?” said Sir Hercules.

“Mother’s at home, Lady Hercules,” replied I, with another scrape.

“Howveryinteresting!” exclaimed one of the party. “Quite an event!” said another. “A delightfulrencontre!” cried a third. “How kind of you, Lady Hercules, to give up your own maid! and such handsome children,” etcetera, etcetera. “It’s really quite charming.”

Lady Hercules was evidently much pleased, and she assumed the patroness.

“Well, little girl, since you have been named after me, out of gratitude I must see what can be done for you. Tell your mother to come up to me to-morrow at three o’clock, and bring you with her.”

“Yes, Lady Hercules,” replied Virginia, with a courtesy.

“And Saunders, you may as well come up at the same time, and bring your lad with you,” added Sir Hercules.

“Yes, your honour,” replied my father, both he and I simultaneously scraping the gravel.

“Wish your honour Sir Hercules, and your honourable lady, and all the honourable company, a very good morning,” continued my father, taking Virginia and me by the hand to lead us away.

Sir Hercules touched his hat in return, and walked away as stiff as usual; the pensioners who had witnessed the interview between him and my father, concluding that Sir Hercules was a naval officer, now rose and touched their hats to him as he walked with her ladyship in advance of the party. We joined Anderson, who was sitting down at the other end of the walk, when my father communicated to him what had passed.

As my father conducted Virginia home, she said to him, “Why do you call himsir, and herlady?”

“Because they are quality people, child. He is a barrownight, and she is Lady Hercules.”

“Are all barrownights and ladies so much bigger than other people are in general?”

“No, child, they don’t go by size. I’ve seen many a lord who was a very little man.”

My mother was very much pleased when we narrated what had happened, as she considered that Lady Hercules might prove a valuable patron to Virginia, whom she did not fail to have ready at the time appointed; and, dressed in our very best, we all walked together to the Sun, at which Sir Hercules and his lady had taken up their quarters. Let it not be supposed that my mother had forgotten the unceremonious manner in which she had been dismissed from the service of Lady Hercules,—it was still fresh in the memory of a person so revengeful in her disposition; but she considered that as Lady Hercules had forgotten it, it was her interest to do the same; so, when we were ushered into the room where sat Sir Hercules and her ladyship, my mother was all smiles and courtesies, and gratitude for past favours.

There was an old gentleman, with a bald powdered head, dressed in black, standing with his back to the fire when we entered; he was the only other person in the room beside Sir Hercules and his lady. Lady Hercules first obtained from my mother a short history of what had happened since they had parted; and really, to hear my mother’s explanation, it would have been supposed that she and my father had always been the most loving couple in the world.

“Well,” said Sir Hercules, “and what do you intend to do with your boy, Saunders?”

“May it please your honour, I’ve been thinking of bringing him up as a channel pilot,” replied my father.

“Very good,” replied Sir Hercules; “I can see to that; and with my interest at the Trinity Board, thething is done, sir;” and Sir Hercules walked pompously about the room. “Saunders,” said Sir Hercules, stopping, after he had taken three or four turns up and down, and joining his fingers behind his back, “I thought I perceived some difference in you when you first addressed me. What has become of your tail, sir?”

“My tail, your honour?” replied my father, looking as much a delinquent as if he was still on board a man-of-war, and had been guilty of some misdemeanour, “why, please your honour Sir Hercules—”

“I cut it off for him with my scissors,” interrupted my mother, with a courtesy. “Saunders was very savage when he came for to know it; but he had a stupefaction of the brain, and was quite insensible at the time; and so, Sir Hercules and my lady” (here a courtesy), “I thought it was better—”

“Ah! I see,—a brain fever,” observed Sir Hercules. “Well, under these circumstances you may have saved his life; but ’twas a pity, was it not, my lady?—quite altered the man. You recollect his tail, my lady?”

“What a question, Sir Hercules!” replied her ladyship with great dignity, turning round towards my mother.

My father appeared to be quite relieved from his dilemma by his wife’s presence of mind, and really thankful to her for coming to his assistance; she had saved him from the mortification of telling the truth. How true it is that married people, however much they may quarrel, like to conceal their squabbles from the world!

“And what are you thinking of doing with your little girl?” said Lady Hercules—“bringing her up to service, I presume. Leave that to me: as soon as she is old enough, thething is done, you need say no more about it.” Here her ladyship fell back in the large easy chair on which she was seated, with a self-satisfied air of patronage, and looking even more dignified than her husband.

But my mother had no such intentions, and having first thanked her ladyship for her great kindness, stated very humbly that she did not much like the idea of her daughter going out to service, that she was far from strong, and that her health would not allow her to undertake hard work.

“Well, but I presume she may do the work of a lady’s maid?” replied her ladyship haughtily; “and it was that service which I intended for her.”

“Indeed, Lady Hercules, you are very kind; but there is an objection,” replied my mother, to gain time.

“Please your ladyship,” said my father, who, to my great surprise, came to my mother’s support, “I do not wish that my little girl should be a lady’s maid.”

“And why not, pray?” said her ladyship, rather angrily.

“Why, you see, your ladyship, my daughter is, after all, only the daughter of a poor Greenwich pensioner; and, although she has been so far pretty well educated, yet I wishes her not to forget her low situation in life, and ladies’ maids do get so confounded proud (’specially those who have the fortune to be ladies’ ladies’ maids), that I don’t wish that she should take a situation which would make her forget herself, and her poor old pensioner of a father; and, begging your honour’s pardon, that is the real state of the case, my lady.”

What my mother felt at this slap at her I do not know, but certain it is that she was satisfied with my father taking the responsibility of refusal on his own shoulders, and she therefore continued—“I often have told Mr Saunders how happy I was when under your ladyship’s protection, and what a fortunate person I considered myself; but my husband has always had such an objection to my girl being brought up to it, that I have (of course, my lady, as it is my duty to him to do so) given up my own wishes from the first; indeed, my lady, had I not known that my little girl was not to go to service, I never should have ventured to have called her Virginia, my lady.”

“What, then, do you intend her for?” said Sir Hercules to my father. “You don’t mean to bring her up as a lady, do you?”

“No, your honour, she’s but a pensioner’s daughter, and I wishes her to be humble, as she ought to be; so I’ve been thinking that something in the millinery line, or perhaps—”

“As a governess, my lady,” interrupted my mother, with a courtesy. “That will make her humble enough, at all events,” observed the bald gentleman in black, with a smile.

“I admit,” replied Lady Hercules, “that your having given my name to your little girl is a strong reason for her not going into service; but there are many expenses attending the education necessary for a young person as governess.”

Here my mother entered into an explanation of how Virginia had been educated—an education which she should not have dreamt of giving, only that her child bore her ladyship’s name, etcetera. My mother employed her usual flattery and humility, so as to reconcile her ladyship to the idea; who was the more inclined when she discovered that she was not likely to be put to any expense in her patronage of my sister. It was finally agreed that Virginia should be educated for the office of governess, and that when she was old enough Lady Hercules would take her under her august protection; but her ladyship did do her some service. Finding that Virginia was at a respectable school, she called there with a party of ladies, and informed the schoolmistress that the little girl was under her protection, and that she trusted that justice would be done to her education. In a school where the Miss Tippets were considered the aristocracy, the appearance of so great a woman as Lady Hercules was an event, and I do not know whether my little sister did not after that take precedence in the school; at all events, she was much more carefully instructed and looked after than she had been before. Sir Hercules was also pleased to find, upon inquiry, that there was every prospect of my entering the pilot service, without any trouble on his part. Both Sir Hercules and his lady informed their friends of what their intentions were to their youngprotégés, and were inundated with praises and commendations for their kindness, the full extent of which the reader will appreciate. But, as my mother pointed out as we walked home, if we did not require their assistance at present, there was no saying but that we eventually might; and if so, that Sir Hercules and Lady Hawkingtrefylyan could not well refuse to perform their promises. I must say that this was the first instance in my recollection in which my parents appeared to draw amicably together; and I believe that nothing except regard for their children could have produced the effect.

Chapter Twenty One.A most important present is made to me; and, as it will eventually appear, the generosity of the giver is rewarded.Sir Hercules and Lady Hawkingtrefylyan quitted Greenwich the day after the interview narrated in the preceding chapter, and by that day’s post Anderson received a letter in reply to the one he had written from his friend Philip Bramble, channel and river pilot, who had, as he said in his letter, put on shore at Deal, where he resided but the day before, after knocking about in the Channel for three weeks. Bramble stated his willingness to receive and take charge of me, desiring that I would hold myself in readiness to be picked up at a minute’s warning, and he would call for me the first time that he took a vessel up the river. A letter communicating this intelligence was forthwith dispatched by my mother to Sir Hercules, who sent a short reply, stating that if I conducted myself properly he would not lose sight of me. This letter, however, very much increased the family consequence in Fisher’s Alley, for my mother did not fail to show it to everybody, and everybody was anxious to see the handwriting of a real baronet.About a week afterwards I went to the shop of the widow St. Felix to purchase some tobacco for my father, when she said to me, “So Jack—or Tom—as I hear you request to be called now—you are going to leave us!”“Yes,” replied I, “and I shall be sorry to leave you, you have been so kind to me.”“A little kindness goes a great way with some people, Tom, and that’s the case with you, for you’ve a grateful heart. You’re to be a pilot, I hear; well, Tom, I’ve a present to make you, which you will find very useful in your profession, and which will make you think of me sometimes. Stop a moment till I come down again.”The widow went upstairs, and when she came down held in her hand a telescope, or spy-glass, as sailors generally call them. It was about two feet long, covered with white leather, and apparently had been well preserved.“Now, Tom, this is what a pilot ought not to be without, and if what was said by the person to whom it belonged is true, it is an excellent spy-glass; so now accept it from your loving friend, and long may you live to peep through it.”“Thank you, thank you,” replied I, delighted, as Mrs St. Felix put it into my hands. I surveyed it all over, pulled out the tube, and then said to her, “Who did it belong to?”“Tom,” replied the widow, “that’s a sad trick you have of asking questions; it’s quite sufficient that it is mine, and that I give it to you—is it not?”“Yes,” replied I, “but you’re the only person who says that I ask too many questions. Why, here’s a name, FI.”The widow stretched herself over the counter with a sudden spring, and snatched the telescope out of my hand. When I looked at her she stood pale and trembling.“Why, what is the matter?” inquired I.She put her hand to her side, as if in great pain, and for some seconds could not speak.“Tom, I never knew that there was a name on the telescope; the name must not be known, that’s the truth; you shall have it this evening, but you must go away now—do, that’s a dear good boy.”The widow turned to walk into the back parlour, with the telescope in her hand, and I obeyed her injunctions in silence and wondering. That there was a mystery about her was certain, and I felt very sorrowful, not that I did not know the secret, but that I could not be of service to her. That evening the telescope was brought to my mother’s house by fat Jane. I perceived that the portion of the brass rim upon which the name had been cut with a knife, for it had not been engraved, as I thought, had been carefully filed down, so that not a vestige of the letters appeared.The next morning I was down at the steps long before breakfast, that I might try my new present. Bill Freeman was there, and he showed me how to adjust the focus. I amused myself looking at the vessels which were working up and down the Reach, and so much was I delighted that I quite forgot how time passed, and lost my breakfast. Every one asked to have a peep through the telescope, and every one declared that it was an excellent glass: at last Spicer came up to where I stood.“Well, Jack,” said he, “what have you there—a spy-glass? Let’s have a look; I’m a good judge of one, I can tell you.”I handed the telescope over to him; he looked through it for some time.“A first-rate glass, Jack” (I was oftener called Jack than Tom at that time); “I never knew but one equal to it. Where did you get it?”I don’t exactly know why, but perhaps the mystery evident in the widow, and the cautions I had received against Spicer, combined together, induced me not to answer the question.“It’s odd,” observed Spicer, who was now examining the outside of the telescope; “I could almost swear to it.” He then looked at the small brass rim where the name had been, and perceived that it had been erased. “Now I’m positive! Jack, where did you get this glass?”“It was made a present to me,” replied I.“Come here,” said Spicer, leading me apart from the others standing by. “Now tell me directly,” and Spicer spoke in an authoritative tone, “who gave you this glass?”I really was somewhat afraid of Spicer, who had gained much power over me. I dared not say that I would not tell him, and I did not like to tell a lie. I thought that if I told the truth I might somehow or another injure Mrs St. Felix, and I therefore answered evasively, “It was sent to me as a present by a lady.”“Oh!” replied Spicer, who had heard of Sir Hercules and his lady, “so theladysent it to you? It’s very odd,” continued he; “I could take my oath that I’ve had that glass in my hand a hundred times.”“Indeed!” replied I. “Where?”But Spicer did not answer me; he had fallen into one of his dark moods, and appeared as if recalling former events to his mind. He still kept possession of the glass, and I was afraid that he would not return it, for I tried to take it softly out of his hand, and he would not let go. He remained in this way about a minute, when I perceived my father and Ben the Whaler coming up, at which I was delighted.“Father,” said I, as they came near, “come and try my new spy glass.”Spicer started, and released the telescope, when I laid hold of it and put it into my father’s hands. As neither my father nor Ben would ever speak to him, Spicer, with a lowering brow, walked away. After my father had examined the glass and praised it, he very naturally asked me where I obtained it. After what had passed with Spicer I was so fearful of his discovering, by other people, by whom the glass had been given to me, that I replied again, in the hearing of everybody, “A lady, father; you may easily guess who.”“Well,” replied my father, “I never thought that her ladyship could have been so generous. I take it very kindly of her.”I was delighted at my father falling so easily into the mistake. As for my mother and Virginia, they were neither of them present when Jane brought the telescope to me, or I certainly should have stated, without reservation, to whom I had been indebted. I hardly could decide whether I would go to the widow and tell her what had occurred; but, upon some reflection, as she had accused me of asking too many questions, and might suppose that I wished to obtain her secrets, I determined upon saying nothing about it.For a week I occupied myself wholly with my telescope, and I became perfectly master of it, or rather quite used to it, which is of some importance. I avoided Spicer, always leaving the steps when I perceived him approaching, although once or twice he beckoned to me. At the expiration of the week a message was brought by a waterman from Philip Bramble, stating that he should pass Greenwich in a day or two, being about to take down a West Indiaman then lying below London Bridge. My clothes were therefore then packed up in readiness, and I went to bid farewell to my limited acquaintance.I called upon old Nanny, who was now quite strong again. I had before acquainted her with my future prospects.“Well, Jack,” says she, “and so you’re going away? I don’t think you were quite right to give up a situation where you gained so many halfpence every day, and only for touching your cap: however, you know best. I shall have no more bargains after you are gone, that’s certain. But, Jack, you’ll be on board of vessels coming from the East and West Indies, and all other parts of the world, and they have plenty of pretty things on board, such as shells, and empty bottles, and hard biscuit, and bags of oakum; and, Jack, they will give them to you for nothing, for sailors don’t care what they give away when they come from a long voyage; and so mind you beg for me as much as you can, that’s a good boy; but don’t take live monkeys or those things, they eat so much. You may bring me a parrot, I think I could sell one, and that don’t cost much to feed. Do you understand, Jack? Will you do this for me?”“I don’t know whether I can do all you wish, but depend upon it, mother, I won’t forget you.”“That’s enough, Jack, you’ll keep your word; and now, is there any nice thing that I can give you out of my shop, as a keepsake, Jack?”“Why, no, mother, I thank you,—nothing.”“Think of something, Jack,” replied old Nanny; “you must have something.”“Well, then, mother, you know I like reading; will you give me the old book that I was reading when I sat up with you one night?”“Yes, Jack, and welcome; what book is it? I don’t know—I can’t see to read large print without spectacles, and I, broke mine many years ago.”“Why do you not buy another pair?”“Another pair, Jack? Spectacles cost money. I’ve no money; and as I never read, I don’t want spectacles. Go in and fetch the book; it’s yours and welcome.”I went in and brought out the Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” which I before mentioned. “This is it, mother.”“Yes, yes, I recollect now, it’s a very pretty book. What’s it about, Jack? I can’t see myself: never mind, take it, Jack, and don’t forget your promise.”I wished old Nanny good bye, and took the book home, which I gave into Virginia’s care, as I wished her to read it. The next morning, at daybreak, I was summoned; the ship was dropping down the river. I bade farewell to my little sister, who wept on my shoulder; to my mother, who hardly condescended to answer me. My father helped me down with my luggage, which was not very heavy; and Anderson and old Ben accompanied us to the landing-steps; and having bid them all farewell, besides many others of my friends who were there, I stepped into the boat sent for me; and quitted Greenwich for my new avocation on the 6th of October, 1799, being then, as Anderson had calculated, precisely thirteen years and seven months old.

Sir Hercules and Lady Hawkingtrefylyan quitted Greenwich the day after the interview narrated in the preceding chapter, and by that day’s post Anderson received a letter in reply to the one he had written from his friend Philip Bramble, channel and river pilot, who had, as he said in his letter, put on shore at Deal, where he resided but the day before, after knocking about in the Channel for three weeks. Bramble stated his willingness to receive and take charge of me, desiring that I would hold myself in readiness to be picked up at a minute’s warning, and he would call for me the first time that he took a vessel up the river. A letter communicating this intelligence was forthwith dispatched by my mother to Sir Hercules, who sent a short reply, stating that if I conducted myself properly he would not lose sight of me. This letter, however, very much increased the family consequence in Fisher’s Alley, for my mother did not fail to show it to everybody, and everybody was anxious to see the handwriting of a real baronet.

About a week afterwards I went to the shop of the widow St. Felix to purchase some tobacco for my father, when she said to me, “So Jack—or Tom—as I hear you request to be called now—you are going to leave us!”

“Yes,” replied I, “and I shall be sorry to leave you, you have been so kind to me.”

“A little kindness goes a great way with some people, Tom, and that’s the case with you, for you’ve a grateful heart. You’re to be a pilot, I hear; well, Tom, I’ve a present to make you, which you will find very useful in your profession, and which will make you think of me sometimes. Stop a moment till I come down again.”

The widow went upstairs, and when she came down held in her hand a telescope, or spy-glass, as sailors generally call them. It was about two feet long, covered with white leather, and apparently had been well preserved.

“Now, Tom, this is what a pilot ought not to be without, and if what was said by the person to whom it belonged is true, it is an excellent spy-glass; so now accept it from your loving friend, and long may you live to peep through it.”

“Thank you, thank you,” replied I, delighted, as Mrs St. Felix put it into my hands. I surveyed it all over, pulled out the tube, and then said to her, “Who did it belong to?”

“Tom,” replied the widow, “that’s a sad trick you have of asking questions; it’s quite sufficient that it is mine, and that I give it to you—is it not?”

“Yes,” replied I, “but you’re the only person who says that I ask too many questions. Why, here’s a name, FI.”

The widow stretched herself over the counter with a sudden spring, and snatched the telescope out of my hand. When I looked at her she stood pale and trembling.

“Why, what is the matter?” inquired I.

She put her hand to her side, as if in great pain, and for some seconds could not speak.

“Tom, I never knew that there was a name on the telescope; the name must not be known, that’s the truth; you shall have it this evening, but you must go away now—do, that’s a dear good boy.”

The widow turned to walk into the back parlour, with the telescope in her hand, and I obeyed her injunctions in silence and wondering. That there was a mystery about her was certain, and I felt very sorrowful, not that I did not know the secret, but that I could not be of service to her. That evening the telescope was brought to my mother’s house by fat Jane. I perceived that the portion of the brass rim upon which the name had been cut with a knife, for it had not been engraved, as I thought, had been carefully filed down, so that not a vestige of the letters appeared.

The next morning I was down at the steps long before breakfast, that I might try my new present. Bill Freeman was there, and he showed me how to adjust the focus. I amused myself looking at the vessels which were working up and down the Reach, and so much was I delighted that I quite forgot how time passed, and lost my breakfast. Every one asked to have a peep through the telescope, and every one declared that it was an excellent glass: at last Spicer came up to where I stood.

“Well, Jack,” said he, “what have you there—a spy-glass? Let’s have a look; I’m a good judge of one, I can tell you.”

I handed the telescope over to him; he looked through it for some time.

“A first-rate glass, Jack” (I was oftener called Jack than Tom at that time); “I never knew but one equal to it. Where did you get it?”

I don’t exactly know why, but perhaps the mystery evident in the widow, and the cautions I had received against Spicer, combined together, induced me not to answer the question.

“It’s odd,” observed Spicer, who was now examining the outside of the telescope; “I could almost swear to it.” He then looked at the small brass rim where the name had been, and perceived that it had been erased. “Now I’m positive! Jack, where did you get this glass?”

“It was made a present to me,” replied I.

“Come here,” said Spicer, leading me apart from the others standing by. “Now tell me directly,” and Spicer spoke in an authoritative tone, “who gave you this glass?”

I really was somewhat afraid of Spicer, who had gained much power over me. I dared not say that I would not tell him, and I did not like to tell a lie. I thought that if I told the truth I might somehow or another injure Mrs St. Felix, and I therefore answered evasively, “It was sent to me as a present by a lady.”

“Oh!” replied Spicer, who had heard of Sir Hercules and his lady, “so theladysent it to you? It’s very odd,” continued he; “I could take my oath that I’ve had that glass in my hand a hundred times.”

“Indeed!” replied I. “Where?”

But Spicer did not answer me; he had fallen into one of his dark moods, and appeared as if recalling former events to his mind. He still kept possession of the glass, and I was afraid that he would not return it, for I tried to take it softly out of his hand, and he would not let go. He remained in this way about a minute, when I perceived my father and Ben the Whaler coming up, at which I was delighted.

“Father,” said I, as they came near, “come and try my new spy glass.”

Spicer started, and released the telescope, when I laid hold of it and put it into my father’s hands. As neither my father nor Ben would ever speak to him, Spicer, with a lowering brow, walked away. After my father had examined the glass and praised it, he very naturally asked me where I obtained it. After what had passed with Spicer I was so fearful of his discovering, by other people, by whom the glass had been given to me, that I replied again, in the hearing of everybody, “A lady, father; you may easily guess who.”

“Well,” replied my father, “I never thought that her ladyship could have been so generous. I take it very kindly of her.”

I was delighted at my father falling so easily into the mistake. As for my mother and Virginia, they were neither of them present when Jane brought the telescope to me, or I certainly should have stated, without reservation, to whom I had been indebted. I hardly could decide whether I would go to the widow and tell her what had occurred; but, upon some reflection, as she had accused me of asking too many questions, and might suppose that I wished to obtain her secrets, I determined upon saying nothing about it.

For a week I occupied myself wholly with my telescope, and I became perfectly master of it, or rather quite used to it, which is of some importance. I avoided Spicer, always leaving the steps when I perceived him approaching, although once or twice he beckoned to me. At the expiration of the week a message was brought by a waterman from Philip Bramble, stating that he should pass Greenwich in a day or two, being about to take down a West Indiaman then lying below London Bridge. My clothes were therefore then packed up in readiness, and I went to bid farewell to my limited acquaintance.

I called upon old Nanny, who was now quite strong again. I had before acquainted her with my future prospects.

“Well, Jack,” says she, “and so you’re going away? I don’t think you were quite right to give up a situation where you gained so many halfpence every day, and only for touching your cap: however, you know best. I shall have no more bargains after you are gone, that’s certain. But, Jack, you’ll be on board of vessels coming from the East and West Indies, and all other parts of the world, and they have plenty of pretty things on board, such as shells, and empty bottles, and hard biscuit, and bags of oakum; and, Jack, they will give them to you for nothing, for sailors don’t care what they give away when they come from a long voyage; and so mind you beg for me as much as you can, that’s a good boy; but don’t take live monkeys or those things, they eat so much. You may bring me a parrot, I think I could sell one, and that don’t cost much to feed. Do you understand, Jack? Will you do this for me?”

“I don’t know whether I can do all you wish, but depend upon it, mother, I won’t forget you.”

“That’s enough, Jack, you’ll keep your word; and now, is there any nice thing that I can give you out of my shop, as a keepsake, Jack?”

“Why, no, mother, I thank you,—nothing.”

“Think of something, Jack,” replied old Nanny; “you must have something.”

“Well, then, mother, you know I like reading; will you give me the old book that I was reading when I sat up with you one night?”

“Yes, Jack, and welcome; what book is it? I don’t know—I can’t see to read large print without spectacles, and I, broke mine many years ago.”

“Why do you not buy another pair?”

“Another pair, Jack? Spectacles cost money. I’ve no money; and as I never read, I don’t want spectacles. Go in and fetch the book; it’s yours and welcome.”

I went in and brought out the Bunyan’s “Pilgrim’s Progress” which I before mentioned. “This is it, mother.”

“Yes, yes, I recollect now, it’s a very pretty book. What’s it about, Jack? I can’t see myself: never mind, take it, Jack, and don’t forget your promise.”

I wished old Nanny good bye, and took the book home, which I gave into Virginia’s care, as I wished her to read it. The next morning, at daybreak, I was summoned; the ship was dropping down the river. I bade farewell to my little sister, who wept on my shoulder; to my mother, who hardly condescended to answer me. My father helped me down with my luggage, which was not very heavy; and Anderson and old Ben accompanied us to the landing-steps; and having bid them all farewell, besides many others of my friends who were there, I stepped into the boat sent for me; and quitted Greenwich for my new avocation on the 6th of October, 1799, being then, as Anderson had calculated, precisely thirteen years and seven months old.

Chapter Twenty Two.In which a story is begun and not finished, which I think the reader will regret as much as, at the time, I did.The boat was soon alongside of the West Indiaman, which had been tiding it down Limehouse Reach under her topsails, there being but little wind, and that contrary; but now that she had arrived to Greenwich Reach she had braced up, with her head the right way. My box was handed up the side, and I made my appearance on the deck soon afterwards, with my telescope in my hand.“Are you the lad for whom the pilot sent the boat?” inquired a man, whom I afterwards found to be the second mate.“Yes,” replied I.“Well, there he is abaft, in a P-jacket,” said he, walking to the gangway, and directing the men to drop the boat astern.I looked aft, and perceived my future master talking with the captain of the vessel. Philip Bramble was a spare man, about five feet seven inches high, he had on his head a low-crowned tarpaulin hat, a short P-jacket (so called from the abbreviation ofpilot’sjacket) reached down to just above his knees. His features were regular, and, indeed, although weatherbeaten, they might be termed handsome. His nose was perfectly straight, his lips thin, his eyes grey and very keen; he had little or no whiskers, and, from his appearance and the intermixture of grey with his brown hair, I supposed him to be about fifty years of age. In one hand he held a short clay pipe, into which he was inserting the forefinger of the other, as he talked with the captain. At the time that he was pointed out to me by the second mate he was looking up aloft; I had, therefore, time to make the above observations before he cast his eyes down and perceived me, when I immediately went aft to him.“I suppose you are Tom Saunders?” said he, surveying me from head to foot.I replied in the affirmative.“Well, Anderson has given you a good character, mind you don’t lose it. D’ye think you’ll like to be a pilot?”“Yes,” replied I.“Have you sharp eyes, a good memory, and plenty of nerve?”“I believe I’ve got the two first, I don’t know about the other.”“I suppose not, it hasn’t been tried yet. How far can you see through a fog?”“According how thick it is.”“I see you’ve a glass there: tell me what you make of that vessel just opening from Blackwall Reach.”“What, that ship?”“Oh, you can make it out to be a ship, can you, with the naked eye? Well, then, you have good eyes.”I plied my glass upon the vessel, and, after a time, not having forgotten the lessons so repeatedly given me by Spicer, I said, “She has no colours up, but she’s an Embden vessel by her build.”“Oh,” said he, “hand me the glass. The boy’s right; and a good glass, too. Come, I see you do know something—and good knowledge, too, for a pilot. It often saves us a deal of trouble when we know a vessel by her build; them foreigners sail too close to take pilots. Can you stand cold? Have you got a P-jacket?”“Yes, father bought me one.”“Well, you’ll want it this winter, for the wild geese tell us that it will be a sharp one. Steady, starboard!”“Starboard it is.”“D’ye know the compass?”“No.”“Well, stop till we get down to Deal. Now, stand by me, and keep your eyes wide open; for, d’ye see, you’ve plenty to learn, and you can’t begin too soon. We must square the mainyard, captain, if you please,” continued he as we entered Blackwall Reach. “What could make the river so perverse as to take these two bends in Limehouse and Blackwall Reaches, unless to give pilots trouble, I can’t say.”The wind being now contrary from the sharp turn in the river, we were again tiding it down; that is, hove-to and allowing the tide to drift us through the Reach; but as soon as we were clear of Blackwall Reach, we could lay our course down the river. As we passed Gravesend, Bramble asked me whether I was ever so low down.“Yes,” replied I, “I have been down as far as Sea Reach;” which I had been when I was upset in the wherry, and I told him the story.“Well, Tom, that’s called the river now; but do you know that, many years ago, where we now are used to be considered as the mouth of the river, and that fort there” (pointing to Tilbury Fort) “was built to defend it? for they say the French fleet used to come and anchor down below.”“Yes,” replied I; “and they say, in the History of England, that the Danes used to come up much higher, even up to Greenwich; but that’s a very long while ago.”“Well, you beat me, Tom! I never heard that; and I think, if ever they did do so, they won’t do it again in a hurry. What water have you got, my man? Port there!”“Port it is.”“Steady—so.”“Shall we get down to the Nore to-night, pilot?” said the captain.“Why, sir, I’m in hopes we shall; we have still nearly three hours’ daylight; and now that we are clear of the Hope, we shall lay fairly down Sea Reach; and if the wind will only freshen a little (and it looks very like it), we shall be able to stem thefirstof the flood, at all events.”I ought to observe that Bramble, as soon as he had passed any shoal or danger, pointed it out to me; he said, “I tell it to you, because you can’t be told too often. You won’t recollect much that I tell you, I daresay; I don’t expect it; but you may recollect a little, and every little helps.”The tide had flowed more than an hour when we passed the Nore Light and came to an anchor.“What lights are those?” inquired I.“That’s Sheerness,” replied Bramble. “We were talking of the French and Danes coming up the river. Why, Tom, it is not much more than one hundred and fifty years ago when the Dutch fleet came up to Sheerness, destroyed the batteries, and landed troops there; howsomever, as I said of the French and the other chaps, they won’t do so again in a hurry.”As soon as they had veered out sufficient cable, Bramble accepted the invitation of the captain to go down in the cabin, when I went and joined the men, who were getting their supper forwards. I was soon on good terms with them; and after supper, as it was cold, they went down to the fore-peak, got out some beer and grog, and we sat round in a circle, with the bottles and mugs and a farthing candle in the centre. Being right in theeyesof her, as it is termed, we could plainly hear the water slapping against the bends outside of her, as it was divided by the keelson, and borne away by the strong flood tide. It was a melancholy sound; I had never heard it before; and during a pause, as I listened to it, one of the men observed, “Queer sound, boy, ain’t it? You’d think that the water was lapping in right among us. But noises aboard ship don’t sound as they do on shore; I don’t know why.” No more did I at that time; the fact is that nothing conveys sound better than wood, and every slight noise is magnified, in consequence, on board of a vessel.“I recollect when I was on a Mediterranean voyage how we were frightened with noises, sure enough,” observed one of the men.“Come, that’s right, Dick, give us a yarn,” said the others.“Yes,” replied Dick, “and it’s a true yarn too, and all about a ghost.”“Well, I stop a moment,” said one of the men, “and let us top this glim a bit before you begin, for it seemed to get dimmer the moment you talked about a ghost.”Dick waited till a little more light was obtained, and then commenced. “I had shipped on board of a vessel bound to Smyrna, now about seven years ago. We had gone down to Portsmouth, where we waited for one of the partners of the house by which we had been freighted, and who was going out as passenger. We were a man short, and the captain went on shore to get one from the crimps, whom he knew very well, and the fellows promised to send one on board the next morning. Well, sure enough a wherry came off with him just before break of day, and he and his traps were taken on board; but it was not perceived at the time what he had in his arms under his grego, and what do you think it proved to be at daylight? Why, a large black tom cat.”“What, a black one?”“Yes, as black as the enemy himself. The fellow came down forward with it, and so says I, ‘Why, messmate, you’re not going to take that animal to sea with us?’“‘Yes, I am,’ said he, very surlily; ‘it’s an old friend of mine, and I never parts with him.’“‘Well,’ says I, ‘you’ll find the difference when the captain hears on it, I can tell you, and, for the matter of that, I won’t promise you that it will be very safe if it comes near me when I’ve a handspike in my hand.’“‘I tell you what,’ says he, ‘it ain’t the taking of a cat on board what brings mischief, but it’s turning one out of a ship what occasions ill luck. No cat ever sunk a ship till the animal was hove overboard and sunk first itself, and then it does drag the ship down after it.’“Well, one of the boys who did not care about such things, for he was young and ignorant, put his hand to the cat’s head to stroke it, and the cat bit him right through the fingers, at which the boy gave a loud cry.“‘Now, that will teach you to leave my cat alone,’ said the man.“‘He won’t come near nobody but me, and he bites everybody else, so I give you fair warning.’“And sure enough the brute, which was about as big as two common cats, was just as savage as a tiger. When the first mate called the man on deck, the fellow left his cat behind him in the fore peak, just as if it were now here, and it got into a dark corner, growling and humping its back, with its eyes flashing fire at every one of us as we came anigh it. ‘Oh!’ says we, ‘this here won’t never do; wait till the captain comes on board, that’s all.’ Well, the hatches were off, and we were busy re-stowing the upper tier of the cargo, which we had thrown in very carelessly in our hurry to get down the river; just putting the bales in order (it wasn’t breaking bulk, you see), and we were at it all day. At last, towards evening, the captain comes on board with the gentleman passenger, a mighty timorsome sort of young chap he appeared for to be, and had never before set his foot upon the plank of a vessel. So as soon as the captain was on deck we all broke off our work, and went to him to tell him about this cat, and the captain he gets into a great rage as soon as he hears on it, and orders the man to send the cat on shore, or else he’d threw it overboard. Well, the luau, who was a sulky, saucy sort of chap, and no seaman, I’ve a notion, gives cheek, and says he won’t send his cat on shore for no man, whereupon the captain orders the cat to be caught, that he might send it in the boat; but nobody dared to catch it, for it was so fierce to everybody but its master. The second mate tried, and he got a devil of a bite, and came up from the fore-peak without the cat, looking very blue indeed. And then the first mate went down, and he tried; but the cat flew at him, and he came up as white as a sheet. And then the cat became so savage that it stood at the foot of the ladder, all ready to attack whoever should come down, and the man laughed heartily, and told us to fetch the cat. ‘Well,’ says the first mate, ‘I can’t touch the cat, but I can you, you beggar, and I will too, if it costs me twenty pounds;’ so he ups with a handspike and knocks the fellow down senseless on the deck, and there he laid. And it sarved him right.“Well, then the captain thought to shoot the cat, for it was for all the world like a wild beast, and one proposed one thing and one another; at last Jim, the cabin-boy, comes forward with some brimstone matches in a pan, and he lights them and lowers them down into the fore-peak by a rope-yarn, to smother it out. And so it did sure enough, for all of a sudden the cat made a spring up to the deck, and then we all chased it here and there, until at last it got out to the end of the flying jib-boom, and then Jim, the cabin-boy, followed it out with a handspike, and poked at it as hard as he could, until at last it lost its hold, and down it went into the water, and Jim and the handspike went along with it, for Jim, in his last poke at the cat, lost his balance, so away they went together. Well, there was a great hurry in manning the boat, and picking up poor Jim and the handspike; but the cat we saw no more, for it was just dark at the time. Well, when it was all over, we began to think what we had done, and as soon as we had put on the hatches and secured the hold we went down below into the fore-peak, where the smell of brimstone did not make us feel more comfortable, I can tell you, and we began to talk over the matter, for you see the cat should not have been thrown overboard, but put on shore; but we were called away to man the boat again, for the fellow had come to his senses, and swore that he would not stay in the ship, but go on shore and take the law of the first mate, and the first mate and captain thought the sooner he was out of the ship the better, for we were to sail before daylight, and there might not be a wherry for him to get into; so the fellow took his kit, and we pulled him on shore and landed him on Southsea beach, he swearing vengeance the whole way; and as he stepped out on the beach he turned round to us and said, as he shook his fist, ‘You’ve thrown overboard ablack tom cat, recollect that! and now you’ll see the consequence; a pleasant voyage to you. I wouldn’t sail in that vessel if you were to offer her to me as a present as soon as she got to Smyrna; because why, you’ve thrown overboard ablack tom cat, and you’ll never get there—never!’ cried he again, and off he ran with his bundle.“Well, we didn’t much like it, and if the second mate hadn’t been in the boat, I’m not sure that we shouldn’t all have gone on shore rather than sail in the vessel; but there was no help for it. The next morning before daylight we started, for the captain wouldn’t wait to get another hand, and we were soon out of soundings, and well into the Bay of Biscay.“We had just passed Cape Finisterre, when Jim, the cabin-boy says one morning, ‘I’m blessed if I didn’t hear that cat last night, or the ghost on it!’ So we laughed at him; for, you see, he slept abaft, just outside the cabin door, close to the pantry, and not forward with the rest of us.“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I heard her miaul, and when I awoke I think I seed two eyes looking at me.’“‘Well, Jim,’ said I, for we had got over our fears, ‘it was you who knocked her overboard, so it’s all right that she should haunt you and nobody else.’ Jim, however, could not laugh, but looked very grave and unhappy. A few days afterwards the captain and passenger complained that they could not sleep for the noise and racket that was kept up all night between the timbers and in the run aft. They said it was as if a whole legion of devils were broken loose and scampering about; and the captain was very grave; and as for the passenger, he was frightened out of his wits. Still we laughed, because we had heard nothing ourselves, and thought that it must only be fancy on their parts, particularly as the captain used tobowse his jibup pretty taut every night. Well, all went on very well; we arrived at the Rock, got our fresh provisions and vegetables, and then made sail again. The captain complained of no more noises, and Jim of no more eyes, and the whole matter was almost forgotten.”Here the narrator was interrupted by the thumping of a hand-spike on the deck above. “Halloo! what’s the matter now?”“Come, tumble up, my lads, and pump the ship out,” said the mate from above; “we had almost forgotten that. Be smart, now; it’s but a ten minutes’ job.”Thus broke off the story, much to my annoyance; but it could not be helped—ships must be pumped out—so the men went on deck, and I followed them.

The boat was soon alongside of the West Indiaman, which had been tiding it down Limehouse Reach under her topsails, there being but little wind, and that contrary; but now that she had arrived to Greenwich Reach she had braced up, with her head the right way. My box was handed up the side, and I made my appearance on the deck soon afterwards, with my telescope in my hand.

“Are you the lad for whom the pilot sent the boat?” inquired a man, whom I afterwards found to be the second mate.

“Yes,” replied I.

“Well, there he is abaft, in a P-jacket,” said he, walking to the gangway, and directing the men to drop the boat astern.

I looked aft, and perceived my future master talking with the captain of the vessel. Philip Bramble was a spare man, about five feet seven inches high, he had on his head a low-crowned tarpaulin hat, a short P-jacket (so called from the abbreviation ofpilot’sjacket) reached down to just above his knees. His features were regular, and, indeed, although weatherbeaten, they might be termed handsome. His nose was perfectly straight, his lips thin, his eyes grey and very keen; he had little or no whiskers, and, from his appearance and the intermixture of grey with his brown hair, I supposed him to be about fifty years of age. In one hand he held a short clay pipe, into which he was inserting the forefinger of the other, as he talked with the captain. At the time that he was pointed out to me by the second mate he was looking up aloft; I had, therefore, time to make the above observations before he cast his eyes down and perceived me, when I immediately went aft to him.

“I suppose you are Tom Saunders?” said he, surveying me from head to foot.

I replied in the affirmative.

“Well, Anderson has given you a good character, mind you don’t lose it. D’ye think you’ll like to be a pilot?”

“Yes,” replied I.

“Have you sharp eyes, a good memory, and plenty of nerve?”

“I believe I’ve got the two first, I don’t know about the other.”

“I suppose not, it hasn’t been tried yet. How far can you see through a fog?”

“According how thick it is.”

“I see you’ve a glass there: tell me what you make of that vessel just opening from Blackwall Reach.”

“What, that ship?”

“Oh, you can make it out to be a ship, can you, with the naked eye? Well, then, you have good eyes.”

I plied my glass upon the vessel, and, after a time, not having forgotten the lessons so repeatedly given me by Spicer, I said, “She has no colours up, but she’s an Embden vessel by her build.”

“Oh,” said he, “hand me the glass. The boy’s right; and a good glass, too. Come, I see you do know something—and good knowledge, too, for a pilot. It often saves us a deal of trouble when we know a vessel by her build; them foreigners sail too close to take pilots. Can you stand cold? Have you got a P-jacket?”

“Yes, father bought me one.”

“Well, you’ll want it this winter, for the wild geese tell us that it will be a sharp one. Steady, starboard!”

“Starboard it is.”

“D’ye know the compass?”

“No.”

“Well, stop till we get down to Deal. Now, stand by me, and keep your eyes wide open; for, d’ye see, you’ve plenty to learn, and you can’t begin too soon. We must square the mainyard, captain, if you please,” continued he as we entered Blackwall Reach. “What could make the river so perverse as to take these two bends in Limehouse and Blackwall Reaches, unless to give pilots trouble, I can’t say.”

The wind being now contrary from the sharp turn in the river, we were again tiding it down; that is, hove-to and allowing the tide to drift us through the Reach; but as soon as we were clear of Blackwall Reach, we could lay our course down the river. As we passed Gravesend, Bramble asked me whether I was ever so low down.

“Yes,” replied I, “I have been down as far as Sea Reach;” which I had been when I was upset in the wherry, and I told him the story.

“Well, Tom, that’s called the river now; but do you know that, many years ago, where we now are used to be considered as the mouth of the river, and that fort there” (pointing to Tilbury Fort) “was built to defend it? for they say the French fleet used to come and anchor down below.”

“Yes,” replied I; “and they say, in the History of England, that the Danes used to come up much higher, even up to Greenwich; but that’s a very long while ago.”

“Well, you beat me, Tom! I never heard that; and I think, if ever they did do so, they won’t do it again in a hurry. What water have you got, my man? Port there!”

“Port it is.”

“Steady—so.”

“Shall we get down to the Nore to-night, pilot?” said the captain.

“Why, sir, I’m in hopes we shall; we have still nearly three hours’ daylight; and now that we are clear of the Hope, we shall lay fairly down Sea Reach; and if the wind will only freshen a little (and it looks very like it), we shall be able to stem thefirstof the flood, at all events.”

I ought to observe that Bramble, as soon as he had passed any shoal or danger, pointed it out to me; he said, “I tell it to you, because you can’t be told too often. You won’t recollect much that I tell you, I daresay; I don’t expect it; but you may recollect a little, and every little helps.”

The tide had flowed more than an hour when we passed the Nore Light and came to an anchor.

“What lights are those?” inquired I.

“That’s Sheerness,” replied Bramble. “We were talking of the French and Danes coming up the river. Why, Tom, it is not much more than one hundred and fifty years ago when the Dutch fleet came up to Sheerness, destroyed the batteries, and landed troops there; howsomever, as I said of the French and the other chaps, they won’t do so again in a hurry.”

As soon as they had veered out sufficient cable, Bramble accepted the invitation of the captain to go down in the cabin, when I went and joined the men, who were getting their supper forwards. I was soon on good terms with them; and after supper, as it was cold, they went down to the fore-peak, got out some beer and grog, and we sat round in a circle, with the bottles and mugs and a farthing candle in the centre. Being right in theeyesof her, as it is termed, we could plainly hear the water slapping against the bends outside of her, as it was divided by the keelson, and borne away by the strong flood tide. It was a melancholy sound; I had never heard it before; and during a pause, as I listened to it, one of the men observed, “Queer sound, boy, ain’t it? You’d think that the water was lapping in right among us. But noises aboard ship don’t sound as they do on shore; I don’t know why.” No more did I at that time; the fact is that nothing conveys sound better than wood, and every slight noise is magnified, in consequence, on board of a vessel.

“I recollect when I was on a Mediterranean voyage how we were frightened with noises, sure enough,” observed one of the men.

“Come, that’s right, Dick, give us a yarn,” said the others.

“Yes,” replied Dick, “and it’s a true yarn too, and all about a ghost.”

“Well, I stop a moment,” said one of the men, “and let us top this glim a bit before you begin, for it seemed to get dimmer the moment you talked about a ghost.”

Dick waited till a little more light was obtained, and then commenced. “I had shipped on board of a vessel bound to Smyrna, now about seven years ago. We had gone down to Portsmouth, where we waited for one of the partners of the house by which we had been freighted, and who was going out as passenger. We were a man short, and the captain went on shore to get one from the crimps, whom he knew very well, and the fellows promised to send one on board the next morning. Well, sure enough a wherry came off with him just before break of day, and he and his traps were taken on board; but it was not perceived at the time what he had in his arms under his grego, and what do you think it proved to be at daylight? Why, a large black tom cat.”

“What, a black one?”

“Yes, as black as the enemy himself. The fellow came down forward with it, and so says I, ‘Why, messmate, you’re not going to take that animal to sea with us?’

“‘Yes, I am,’ said he, very surlily; ‘it’s an old friend of mine, and I never parts with him.’

“‘Well,’ says I, ‘you’ll find the difference when the captain hears on it, I can tell you, and, for the matter of that, I won’t promise you that it will be very safe if it comes near me when I’ve a handspike in my hand.’

“‘I tell you what,’ says he, ‘it ain’t the taking of a cat on board what brings mischief, but it’s turning one out of a ship what occasions ill luck. No cat ever sunk a ship till the animal was hove overboard and sunk first itself, and then it does drag the ship down after it.’

“Well, one of the boys who did not care about such things, for he was young and ignorant, put his hand to the cat’s head to stroke it, and the cat bit him right through the fingers, at which the boy gave a loud cry.

“‘Now, that will teach you to leave my cat alone,’ said the man.

“‘He won’t come near nobody but me, and he bites everybody else, so I give you fair warning.’

“And sure enough the brute, which was about as big as two common cats, was just as savage as a tiger. When the first mate called the man on deck, the fellow left his cat behind him in the fore peak, just as if it were now here, and it got into a dark corner, growling and humping its back, with its eyes flashing fire at every one of us as we came anigh it. ‘Oh!’ says we, ‘this here won’t never do; wait till the captain comes on board, that’s all.’ Well, the hatches were off, and we were busy re-stowing the upper tier of the cargo, which we had thrown in very carelessly in our hurry to get down the river; just putting the bales in order (it wasn’t breaking bulk, you see), and we were at it all day. At last, towards evening, the captain comes on board with the gentleman passenger, a mighty timorsome sort of young chap he appeared for to be, and had never before set his foot upon the plank of a vessel. So as soon as the captain was on deck we all broke off our work, and went to him to tell him about this cat, and the captain he gets into a great rage as soon as he hears on it, and orders the man to send the cat on shore, or else he’d threw it overboard. Well, the luau, who was a sulky, saucy sort of chap, and no seaman, I’ve a notion, gives cheek, and says he won’t send his cat on shore for no man, whereupon the captain orders the cat to be caught, that he might send it in the boat; but nobody dared to catch it, for it was so fierce to everybody but its master. The second mate tried, and he got a devil of a bite, and came up from the fore-peak without the cat, looking very blue indeed. And then the first mate went down, and he tried; but the cat flew at him, and he came up as white as a sheet. And then the cat became so savage that it stood at the foot of the ladder, all ready to attack whoever should come down, and the man laughed heartily, and told us to fetch the cat. ‘Well,’ says the first mate, ‘I can’t touch the cat, but I can you, you beggar, and I will too, if it costs me twenty pounds;’ so he ups with a handspike and knocks the fellow down senseless on the deck, and there he laid. And it sarved him right.

“Well, then the captain thought to shoot the cat, for it was for all the world like a wild beast, and one proposed one thing and one another; at last Jim, the cabin-boy, comes forward with some brimstone matches in a pan, and he lights them and lowers them down into the fore-peak by a rope-yarn, to smother it out. And so it did sure enough, for all of a sudden the cat made a spring up to the deck, and then we all chased it here and there, until at last it got out to the end of the flying jib-boom, and then Jim, the cabin-boy, followed it out with a handspike, and poked at it as hard as he could, until at last it lost its hold, and down it went into the water, and Jim and the handspike went along with it, for Jim, in his last poke at the cat, lost his balance, so away they went together. Well, there was a great hurry in manning the boat, and picking up poor Jim and the handspike; but the cat we saw no more, for it was just dark at the time. Well, when it was all over, we began to think what we had done, and as soon as we had put on the hatches and secured the hold we went down below into the fore-peak, where the smell of brimstone did not make us feel more comfortable, I can tell you, and we began to talk over the matter, for you see the cat should not have been thrown overboard, but put on shore; but we were called away to man the boat again, for the fellow had come to his senses, and swore that he would not stay in the ship, but go on shore and take the law of the first mate, and the first mate and captain thought the sooner he was out of the ship the better, for we were to sail before daylight, and there might not be a wherry for him to get into; so the fellow took his kit, and we pulled him on shore and landed him on Southsea beach, he swearing vengeance the whole way; and as he stepped out on the beach he turned round to us and said, as he shook his fist, ‘You’ve thrown overboard ablack tom cat, recollect that! and now you’ll see the consequence; a pleasant voyage to you. I wouldn’t sail in that vessel if you were to offer her to me as a present as soon as she got to Smyrna; because why, you’ve thrown overboard ablack tom cat, and you’ll never get there—never!’ cried he again, and off he ran with his bundle.

“Well, we didn’t much like it, and if the second mate hadn’t been in the boat, I’m not sure that we shouldn’t all have gone on shore rather than sail in the vessel; but there was no help for it. The next morning before daylight we started, for the captain wouldn’t wait to get another hand, and we were soon out of soundings, and well into the Bay of Biscay.

“We had just passed Cape Finisterre, when Jim, the cabin-boy says one morning, ‘I’m blessed if I didn’t hear that cat last night, or the ghost on it!’ So we laughed at him; for, you see, he slept abaft, just outside the cabin door, close to the pantry, and not forward with the rest of us.

“‘Well,’ says he, ‘I heard her miaul, and when I awoke I think I seed two eyes looking at me.’

“‘Well, Jim,’ said I, for we had got over our fears, ‘it was you who knocked her overboard, so it’s all right that she should haunt you and nobody else.’ Jim, however, could not laugh, but looked very grave and unhappy. A few days afterwards the captain and passenger complained that they could not sleep for the noise and racket that was kept up all night between the timbers and in the run aft. They said it was as if a whole legion of devils were broken loose and scampering about; and the captain was very grave; and as for the passenger, he was frightened out of his wits. Still we laughed, because we had heard nothing ourselves, and thought that it must only be fancy on their parts, particularly as the captain used tobowse his jibup pretty taut every night. Well, all went on very well; we arrived at the Rock, got our fresh provisions and vegetables, and then made sail again. The captain complained of no more noises, and Jim of no more eyes, and the whole matter was almost forgotten.”

Here the narrator was interrupted by the thumping of a hand-spike on the deck above. “Halloo! what’s the matter now?”

“Come, tumble up, my lads, and pump the ship out,” said the mate from above; “we had almost forgotten that. Be smart, now; it’s but a ten minutes’ job.”

Thus broke off the story, much to my annoyance; but it could not be helped—ships must be pumped out—so the men went on deck, and I followed them.

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