Chapter Seven.

Chapter Seven.In which my mother gives my father a scriptural lesson. My father’s grief at parting with an old friend—He expostulates with my mother and quits the house.I woke early the next morning; for the whole night I had been restless, and dreaming of the unusual occurrences of the day before. It was just daylight, and I was recalling what had passed, and wondering what had become of my father, when I heard a noise in my mother’s room. I listened—the door opened, and she went downstairs.This surprised me; and being conscious, even at my age, of the vindictive temper shown by my mother upon every occasion, and, anxious to know where my father was, I could not remain in bed; I put on my trousers, and crept softly downstairs without my shoes. The door of the front room was ajar, and I looked in. The light was dimly peering through the window which pointed to the alley; the table was covered with the empty pipes, tobacco, and large pools of beer and liquor which had been spilt on it; the sofa was empty, and my father, who evidently had become deeply intoxicated the night before, was lying on the sanded floor with his face downwards; my mother, in her short dressing-gown and flannel petticoat, was standing over him, her teeth set, her fists clenched, and arms raised, with a dire expression of revenge in her countenance. I thought at the time that I never saw her look so ugly—I may say, so horrid; even now her expression at that moment is not effaced from my memory. After a few minutes she knelt down and put her ear close to his head, as if to ascertain whether he was in a sound sleep; she then took a knife from off the table, felt the edge, looked at my prostrate father, and raised it. I would have screamed, but my tongue was glued to my lips with horror. She appeared to reflect, and, after a time, laid the knife down on the table, put the palm of her hand up to her forehead, and then a smile gleamed over her moody features. “Yes, if he murders me; but they will be better,” muttered she at last. She went to the cupboard, took out a large pair of scissors, and, kneeling down by my father, commenced severing his long pigtail from his head. My father was too sound asleep to be roused: in a minute the tail was off, and my mother rose up, holding it, with an expression of the utmost contempt, between her finger and thumb. She then very softly laid it down by his side, and replaced the scissors in the cupboard; as I expected that she would go upstairs again, I concealed myself in the back kitchen. I was correct in my supposition. A moment afterwards I heard her ascending the stairs, and go into her own room.I must say that I felt indignant at this conduct of my mother’s, as, so far from provocation, she had hardly received the reward of previous treachery. I believe, however, that, like most people, I was actuated by my own feelings towards my mother, who had treated me so unkindly. I thought for a little while—what would my mother do? She would hardly remain in the house, to meet the wrath of my father, when he made the discovery. She would escape him: this I had no wish that she should do; so I went softly into the front parlour, and pushed my father to awake him. For some time this was useless; he muttered and growled, but it appeared impossible to rouse him. There were the remains of a jug of water on the table and, as I had seen the same thing done before to a drunken sailor, I took the jug, and poured the water softly on the nape of his neck. In a minute or two this had the effect of waking him: he turned over, opened his eyes, and, when I put my finger to my lips to intimate silence; he looked at me with a vacant stare. Time pressed; I heard my mother moving about upstairs, and I was afraid that she would leave the house before my father had recovered his senses. I therefore took his pigtail from the floor, and held it up before him. This appeared to surprise him; he fixed his eyes upon it for a few seconds, and then, as if at last suspecting what had taken place, he put his hand to the back of his head, and found no pigtail there. Suddenly he jumped up; he appeared to be sobered all at once: he caught the tail out of my hand, looked at it, felt convinced of his loss, threw himself down on the sofa, and wept like a child.“I saw my mother do it, father,” said I, whispering in his ear. This appeared to recall him; he raised himself up, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, ground his teeth, and shook his head. He threw his tail on the floor, and, as he eyed it, a deep melancholy spread over his countenance. After a minute or two, he folded his arms, and thus lamented over it:—“Well, I never would have thought it, had they told me that you and I should have parted company. Many, many years has it taken you to grow to your present length; often have you been handled, often have you been combed, and often have you been tied. Many’s the eel has been skinned for your sarvice, and many’s the yard of ribbon which you have cost me; you have been the envy of my ship mates, the fancy of the women, and the pride of poor Tom Saunders. I thought we should never have parted on ’arth, and, if so be my sins were forgiven me, and I could show a fair log, that I might be permitted to wear you in the world which is to come. But there you are—parted for all the world like a limb shot off in action, never to be spliced again. What am I to say when I go on board? I shall have a short tale to tell, instead of a long tail to show. And the wife of my bosom to do this! Well, I married too high, and now my pride is laid low. Jack, never marry a lady’s ladies’ maid; for it appears that the longer the names, the more venomous the cattle be.”Just as he had finished, I heard my mother coming downstairs with Virginia, whom she had taken up and dressed, to take away with her. “Hush!” I heard her softly say to Virginia, “don’t speak, dear, or you’ll wake your naughty father.”She had hardly said this, when she made her appearance, with Virginia on one arm, and a large bundle on the other. But as soon as she perceived that my father was awake, and cognizant of her revenge, she uttered a loud scream, dropped Virginia and the bundle, and, running upstairs to her own room, locked herself in.Poor little Virginia set up a roar at this very unusual (and I believe felonious) act of child-dropping on the part of my mother. I ran to her, and carried her to the sofa, while my father, with compressed lips, first taking two or three quarter-deck strides up and down the room, locked the street door, put the key in his pocket, and then ascended the stairs to pay a visit to my mother, who, I believe, would very willingly have been “not at home;” but some people are importunate, and will take no refusal; and, when my father retired three or four steps from the door, and with a sudden run brought the whole weight of his foot to bear upon it, it flew open. At first my mother was not visible, my father thought she had escaped; but at last he spied her legs under the bed. Seizing her by her extremities, he dragged her out, without any regard to propriety, until he had her into the middle of time room with his foot upon her. What a situation for a lady’s ladies’ maid! I had put Virginia down on the sofa, and crept up the stairs to see what took place. My father and mother were in these relative positions, and he thus addressed her:—“I have heard say that a man mustn’t thrash his wife with anything thicker than his own thumb. That’s as may be,—and I do recollect when the first lieutenant wanted to cut off the men’s hair, that the purser told him that it was felony, under the Act of cutting and maiming. I don’t know whether the first lieutenant would have made a felony or not; but this I’m sartain of—he’d have made a mutiny. You desarve no mercy, and you shall have none. This pigtail of mine shall be what I shall use upon you, and if the colt is heavy, recollect you cut it for yourself; and as you may not be able to hear what I say by the time I have done with you, I’ll just tell you now. I’ll point the end, and work a mouse on this pigtail of mine, and never part with it. I’ll keep it for your own particular use, and for nobody else’s; and as sartain as I come back, so sartain every time I come you shall have a taste of pigtail withoutchewing, my lady’s ladies’ maid.”Having made this uncommon long speech, to which my mother offered no reply, her eyes being fixed in terror upon the brandished tail, which was nearly as thick as her own arm, my father proceeded to put his threats into execution. Blow resounded after blow; my mother’s cries became feebler and feebler, until at last she appeared senseless. Then I ran to my father, and clinging to his leg, cried, “Oh, father, she’s dead!”This observation induced him to leave off. He looked at my mother’s face; her eyes were closed, and her jaw had fallen. “Well, she had enough of it this time,” said my father, after a pause; “maybe, too much on it. But when I looks at this tail in my hand, I feel as if I could still give her more. And if she be dead, I think the judge would not hang me, if I showed him what I have lost. I’d rather have parted with an arm or a leg any day of the week. There’s been provocation enough, at all events; if she be dead—a saint in heaven couldn’t stand it.”During these remarks my mother gave no signs of returning animation, and at last my father became seriously alarmed. “Jack,” said he, “I must cut my stick, or they may put me into limbo. As soon as I have cleared out, do you run for a doctor to look at your mother; and mind you don’t forget to tell that old chap who was boozing with me last night everything which has happened, and the people will say, come what will on it, that I was aggravated sufficient; and, Jack, if there he a crowner’s inquest, mind you tell the truth. You know I didn’t want to kill the old woman, don’t you, my boy? for didn’t I say that I’d keep the tail to give her another dose when I came back again?—that proves I didn’t intend that she should slip her wind, you know, boy. I said I’d give her another dose, you know, Jack—and,” continued my father, “so I will, if I find her above ground when I comes back again.”My father then went downstairs. Little Virginia had fallen asleep again on the sofa; my father kissed her softly, shook hands with me, and put a crown in my hand. He then unlocked the door, and, thrusting the end of his pigtail into his breast, coiled it, as it were, round his body, hastened down the alley, and was soon out of sight.

I woke early the next morning; for the whole night I had been restless, and dreaming of the unusual occurrences of the day before. It was just daylight, and I was recalling what had passed, and wondering what had become of my father, when I heard a noise in my mother’s room. I listened—the door opened, and she went downstairs.

This surprised me; and being conscious, even at my age, of the vindictive temper shown by my mother upon every occasion, and, anxious to know where my father was, I could not remain in bed; I put on my trousers, and crept softly downstairs without my shoes. The door of the front room was ajar, and I looked in. The light was dimly peering through the window which pointed to the alley; the table was covered with the empty pipes, tobacco, and large pools of beer and liquor which had been spilt on it; the sofa was empty, and my father, who evidently had become deeply intoxicated the night before, was lying on the sanded floor with his face downwards; my mother, in her short dressing-gown and flannel petticoat, was standing over him, her teeth set, her fists clenched, and arms raised, with a dire expression of revenge in her countenance. I thought at the time that I never saw her look so ugly—I may say, so horrid; even now her expression at that moment is not effaced from my memory. After a few minutes she knelt down and put her ear close to his head, as if to ascertain whether he was in a sound sleep; she then took a knife from off the table, felt the edge, looked at my prostrate father, and raised it. I would have screamed, but my tongue was glued to my lips with horror. She appeared to reflect, and, after a time, laid the knife down on the table, put the palm of her hand up to her forehead, and then a smile gleamed over her moody features. “Yes, if he murders me; but they will be better,” muttered she at last. She went to the cupboard, took out a large pair of scissors, and, kneeling down by my father, commenced severing his long pigtail from his head. My father was too sound asleep to be roused: in a minute the tail was off, and my mother rose up, holding it, with an expression of the utmost contempt, between her finger and thumb. She then very softly laid it down by his side, and replaced the scissors in the cupboard; as I expected that she would go upstairs again, I concealed myself in the back kitchen. I was correct in my supposition. A moment afterwards I heard her ascending the stairs, and go into her own room.

I must say that I felt indignant at this conduct of my mother’s, as, so far from provocation, she had hardly received the reward of previous treachery. I believe, however, that, like most people, I was actuated by my own feelings towards my mother, who had treated me so unkindly. I thought for a little while—what would my mother do? She would hardly remain in the house, to meet the wrath of my father, when he made the discovery. She would escape him: this I had no wish that she should do; so I went softly into the front parlour, and pushed my father to awake him. For some time this was useless; he muttered and growled, but it appeared impossible to rouse him. There were the remains of a jug of water on the table and, as I had seen the same thing done before to a drunken sailor, I took the jug, and poured the water softly on the nape of his neck. In a minute or two this had the effect of waking him: he turned over, opened his eyes, and, when I put my finger to my lips to intimate silence; he looked at me with a vacant stare. Time pressed; I heard my mother moving about upstairs, and I was afraid that she would leave the house before my father had recovered his senses. I therefore took his pigtail from the floor, and held it up before him. This appeared to surprise him; he fixed his eyes upon it for a few seconds, and then, as if at last suspecting what had taken place, he put his hand to the back of his head, and found no pigtail there. Suddenly he jumped up; he appeared to be sobered all at once: he caught the tail out of my hand, looked at it, felt convinced of his loss, threw himself down on the sofa, and wept like a child.

“I saw my mother do it, father,” said I, whispering in his ear. This appeared to recall him; he raised himself up, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, ground his teeth, and shook his head. He threw his tail on the floor, and, as he eyed it, a deep melancholy spread over his countenance. After a minute or two, he folded his arms, and thus lamented over it:—

“Well, I never would have thought it, had they told me that you and I should have parted company. Many, many years has it taken you to grow to your present length; often have you been handled, often have you been combed, and often have you been tied. Many’s the eel has been skinned for your sarvice, and many’s the yard of ribbon which you have cost me; you have been the envy of my ship mates, the fancy of the women, and the pride of poor Tom Saunders. I thought we should never have parted on ’arth, and, if so be my sins were forgiven me, and I could show a fair log, that I might be permitted to wear you in the world which is to come. But there you are—parted for all the world like a limb shot off in action, never to be spliced again. What am I to say when I go on board? I shall have a short tale to tell, instead of a long tail to show. And the wife of my bosom to do this! Well, I married too high, and now my pride is laid low. Jack, never marry a lady’s ladies’ maid; for it appears that the longer the names, the more venomous the cattle be.”

Just as he had finished, I heard my mother coming downstairs with Virginia, whom she had taken up and dressed, to take away with her. “Hush!” I heard her softly say to Virginia, “don’t speak, dear, or you’ll wake your naughty father.”

She had hardly said this, when she made her appearance, with Virginia on one arm, and a large bundle on the other. But as soon as she perceived that my father was awake, and cognizant of her revenge, she uttered a loud scream, dropped Virginia and the bundle, and, running upstairs to her own room, locked herself in.

Poor little Virginia set up a roar at this very unusual (and I believe felonious) act of child-dropping on the part of my mother. I ran to her, and carried her to the sofa, while my father, with compressed lips, first taking two or three quarter-deck strides up and down the room, locked the street door, put the key in his pocket, and then ascended the stairs to pay a visit to my mother, who, I believe, would very willingly have been “not at home;” but some people are importunate, and will take no refusal; and, when my father retired three or four steps from the door, and with a sudden run brought the whole weight of his foot to bear upon it, it flew open. At first my mother was not visible, my father thought she had escaped; but at last he spied her legs under the bed. Seizing her by her extremities, he dragged her out, without any regard to propriety, until he had her into the middle of time room with his foot upon her. What a situation for a lady’s ladies’ maid! I had put Virginia down on the sofa, and crept up the stairs to see what took place. My father and mother were in these relative positions, and he thus addressed her:—

“I have heard say that a man mustn’t thrash his wife with anything thicker than his own thumb. That’s as may be,—and I do recollect when the first lieutenant wanted to cut off the men’s hair, that the purser told him that it was felony, under the Act of cutting and maiming. I don’t know whether the first lieutenant would have made a felony or not; but this I’m sartain of—he’d have made a mutiny. You desarve no mercy, and you shall have none. This pigtail of mine shall be what I shall use upon you, and if the colt is heavy, recollect you cut it for yourself; and as you may not be able to hear what I say by the time I have done with you, I’ll just tell you now. I’ll point the end, and work a mouse on this pigtail of mine, and never part with it. I’ll keep it for your own particular use, and for nobody else’s; and as sartain as I come back, so sartain every time I come you shall have a taste of pigtail withoutchewing, my lady’s ladies’ maid.”

Having made this uncommon long speech, to which my mother offered no reply, her eyes being fixed in terror upon the brandished tail, which was nearly as thick as her own arm, my father proceeded to put his threats into execution. Blow resounded after blow; my mother’s cries became feebler and feebler, until at last she appeared senseless. Then I ran to my father, and clinging to his leg, cried, “Oh, father, she’s dead!”

This observation induced him to leave off. He looked at my mother’s face; her eyes were closed, and her jaw had fallen. “Well, she had enough of it this time,” said my father, after a pause; “maybe, too much on it. But when I looks at this tail in my hand, I feel as if I could still give her more. And if she be dead, I think the judge would not hang me, if I showed him what I have lost. I’d rather have parted with an arm or a leg any day of the week. There’s been provocation enough, at all events; if she be dead—a saint in heaven couldn’t stand it.”

During these remarks my mother gave no signs of returning animation, and at last my father became seriously alarmed. “Jack,” said he, “I must cut my stick, or they may put me into limbo. As soon as I have cleared out, do you run for a doctor to look at your mother; and mind you don’t forget to tell that old chap who was boozing with me last night everything which has happened, and the people will say, come what will on it, that I was aggravated sufficient; and, Jack, if there he a crowner’s inquest, mind you tell the truth. You know I didn’t want to kill the old woman, don’t you, my boy? for didn’t I say that I’d keep the tail to give her another dose when I came back again?—that proves I didn’t intend that she should slip her wind, you know, boy. I said I’d give her another dose, you know, Jack—and,” continued my father, “so I will, if I find her above ground when I comes back again.”

My father then went downstairs. Little Virginia had fallen asleep again on the sofa; my father kissed her softly, shook hands with me, and put a crown in my hand. He then unlocked the door, and, thrusting the end of his pigtail into his breast, coiled it, as it were, round his body, hastened down the alley, and was soon out of sight.

Chapter Eight.In which the doctor pays a visit and receives no fee; and I am obliged to work very hard to procure myself a livelihood.I did not forget my father’s injunctions, for I was very much frightened. There was a doctor who lived half-way up Church Street, a short distance from Fisher’s Alley. He was a little man with a large head sunk down between two broad shoulders; his eyes were small and twinkling, his nose snubbed, his pate nearly bald; but on the sides of his head the hair was long and flowing. But if his shoulders were broad, the rest of his body was not in the same proportion—for he narrowed as he descended, his hips being very small, and his legs as thin as those of a goat. His real name was Todpoole, but the people invariably called him Tadpole, and he certainly in appearance somewhat reminded you of one. He was a facetious little fellow, and, it was said, very clever in his profession.“Doctor Tadpole,” cried I, out of breath with running, “come—quick, my mother is very bad indeed.”“What’s the matter?” said he, peering over a mortar in which he was rubbing up something with the pestle. “External or internal?”Although I did not know what he meant, I replied, “Both, doctor, and a great deal more besides.”“That’s bad indeed,” replied Tadpole, still rubbing away.“But you must come directly,” cried I. “Come along—quick!”“Festina lente, good boy—that’s Latin for hat and boots. Tom, are my boots clean?”“Ye’es, sir,” replied a carroty-headed boy, whom I knew well.The doctor laid down his pestle, and taking his seat on a chair, began very leisurely to pull on his boots, whilst I stamped with impatience.“Now, do be quick, doctor, my mother will be dead.”“Jack,” said the doctor, grinning, as he pulled on his second boot, “people don’t die so quick before the doctor comes—it’s always afterwards:— however, I’m glad to see you are so fond of your mother. Tom, is my hat brushed?”“Ye’es, sir,” replied Tom, bringing the doctor’s hat.“Now then, Jack, I’m all ready. Tom, mind the shop, and don’t eat the stick-liquorice—d’ye hear?”“Ye’es, sir,” said Tom, with a grin from ear to ear.The doctor followed me very quick, for he thought from my impatience that something serious must be the matter. He walked up to my mother’s room, and I hastened to open the door; when, to my surprise, I found my mother standing before the glass arranging her hair.“Well!” exclaimed my mother, “this is very pretty behaviour—forcing your way into a lady’s room.”The doctor stared, and so did I. At last I exclaimed, “Well! father thought he’d killed her.”“Yes,” cried my mother, “and he’s gone away with it on his conscience, that’s some comfort. He won’t come back in a hurry; he thinks he has committed murder, the unfeeling brute! Well, I’ve had my revenge.”And as she twisted up her hair, my mother burst out screaming—“Little Bopeep, she lost her sheep,And couldn’t tell where to find him;She found him, indeed, but it made her heart bleedFor he left his tail behind him.”“Why, then, doctor, it was all sham,” exclaimed I.“Yes; and the doctor’s come on a fool’s errand—“‘Goosey, Goosey Gander,Whither dost thou wander?Upstairs and downstairs,And in a lady’s chamber.’”The doctor shrugged up his shoulders so that his head disappeared between them; at last he said, “Your mother don’t want me, Jack, that’s very clear. Good morning, Mrs Saunders.”“A very good morning to you, Doctor Tadpole,” replied my mother with a profound courtesy; “you’ll oblige me by quitting this room, and shutting the door after you, if you please.”As the doctor and I went down, my mother continued the song—“‘And then I met a little man,Couldn’t say his prayers,I took him by the left legAnd sent him downstairs.’”As soon as we were in the parlour, I acquainted the doctor with what had happened. “I’m sure I thought she was dead,” said I, when I had finished the story.“Jack, when I asked you where your mother was bad, external or internal, you replied both, and a great deal more besides. So she is—internally, externally, and infernally bad,” said the doctor, laughing. “And so she amputated your father’s pigtail, did she, the Delilah? Pity one could not amputate her head, it would make a good woman of her. Good bye, Jack; I must go and look after Tom, he’s swallowed a whole yard of stick-liquorice by this time.”Soon afterwards Ben the Whaler came in to inquire after my father, and I told him what had occurred. He was very indignant at my mother’s conduct, and, as soon the affair was known, so were all the tenants of Fisher’s Alley. When my mother went out, or had words with any of her neighbours, the retort was invariably, “Who sent the press-gang after her own husband?” or, “Who cut off the tail from her husband’s back? Wasn’t that agenteeltrick?” All this worried my mother, and she became very morose and ill-tempered; I believe she would have left the alley, if she had not taken a long lease of the house. She had now imbibed a decided hatred for me, which she never failed to show upon every occasion, for she knew that it was I who had roused my father, and prevented her escape from his wrath. The consequence was, that I was seldom at home, except to sleep. I sauntered to the beach, ran into the water, sometimes rowed in the wherries, at others hauling them in and holding them steady for the passengers to land. I was beginning to be useful to the watermen, and was very often rewarded with a piece of bread and cheese, or a drink of beer out of their pots. The first year after my father’s visit, I was seldom given a meal, and continually beaten—indeed, sometimes cruelly so—but as I grew stronger, I rebelled and fought, and with such success that, although I was hated more, I was punished less.One scene between my mother and me may serve as a specimen for all. I would come home with my trousers tucked up, and myhigh-lowsunlaced and full of water, sucking every time that I lifted up my leg, and marking the white sanded floor of the front room, as I proceeded through it to the back kitchen. My mother would come downstairs, and perceiving the marks I had left, would get angry, and as usual commence singing—“‘A frog he would a-wooing go,Heigho, says Rowly.’“I see here’s that little wretch been here—“‘Whether his mother would let him or no,Heigho, says Rowly.’“I’ll rowly him with the rolling-pin when I get hold of him. He’s worse than that beastly water-spaniel of Sir Hercules’, who used to shake himself over my best cambric muslin. Well, we’ll see. He’ll be wanting his dinner; I only wish he may get it.“‘Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,Eating his Christmas pie;He put in his thumb and pull’d out a plum,And cried, What a good boy am I!’“‘Good boy am I!’ good-for-nothing brat, just like his father. Oh, dear!—if I could but get rid of him!“‘There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,She’d so many children she didn’t know what to do;She gave them some broth without any bread,She whipped them all round, and sent them to bed.’“And if I don’t whip him, it’s fault, that’s all. Virginia, my love, don’t spit—that’s not genteel. It’s only sailors and Yankees who spit. Nasty little brute! Oh! here you are, are you?” cried my mother, as I entered. “Do you see what a dirty mess you have made, you little ungrateful animal? Take that, and that, and that,” continued she, running the wet bristles of the long broom into my face, with sufficient force to make my nose bleed. I stood the first push, and the second; but the third roused my indignation—and I caught hold of the end of the broom towards me, and tried to force it out of her hands. It was push against push, for I was very strong;—she, screaming as loud as she could, as she tried to wrest the broom from my clutches;—I, shoving at her with all my force—like Punch and the devil at the two ends of the stick. At last, after she had held me in a corner for half a minute, I made a rush upon her, drove her right to the opposite corner, so that the end of the handle gave her a severe poke in the body, which made her give up the contest, and exclaim as soon as she recovered her breath,—“Oh! you nasty, ungrateful, ungenteel brute! You little viper! Is that the way you treat your mother—and nearly kill her? Oh, dear me!”“Why don’t you leave me alone, then? you never beats Jenny.”“Who’s Jenny, you wicked good-for-nothing boy? you mean your sister Virginia. Well, you’ll have no dinner, I can tell you.”I put my hand in my pocket, took out a sixpence which I had received, and held it up between my thumb and finger. “Won’t I?”“You oudacious boy! that’s the way you’re spoiled by foolish people giving you money.”“Good bye, mother.” So saying, I leaped over the board fixed up at the door, and was again down at the beach. Indeed, I was now what is termed a regularMud-larker, picking up halfpence by running into the water, offering my ragged arm to people getting out of the wherries, always saluting them with, “You haven’t got never a half penny for poor Jack, your honour?” and sometimes I did get a halfpenny, sometimes a shove, according to the temper of those whom I addressed. When I was not on the beach, I was usually in company with Ben the Whaler, who, after my father’s visit, was more kind to me than ever; and there were several other pensioners who were great friends of mine; and I used to listen to their long yarns, which were now becoming a source of great delight to me; at other times I would be with the watermen, assisting them to clean out their wherries, or pay the seams. In fact, I was here, there, and everywhere except at home—always active, always employed, and, I may add, almost always wet. My mother used to scold whenever I came in; but that I did not mind: her greatest punishment was refusing me a clean shirt on a Sunday. At last I picked up halfpence enough to pay, not only for my food, such as it was, but for my own washing, and every day I became more independent and more happy.There were other ways by which money was to be obtained during the summer season, which were from the company who used to come down to the whitebait parties at the Ship and other taverns. There were many other boys who frequented the beach besides me, and we used to stand under the windows, and attract attention by every means in our power, so as to induce the company to throw us halfpence to scramble for. This they would do to while away their time until their dinner was ready, or to amuse themselves and the ladies by seeing us roll and tumble one over the other. Sometimes they would throw a sixpence into the river, where the water was about two feet deep, to make us wet ourselves through in groping for it. Indeed, they were very generous when they wished to be amused; and every kind of offer was made to them which we thought suited to their tastes, or likely to extract money from their pockets.“Dip my head in the mud for sixpence, sir!” would one of us cry out; and then he would be outbid by another.“Roll myself all over and over in the mud, face and all, sir—only give me sixpence!”Sometimes I would perceive a lovely countenance, beaming with pity and compassion at our rags and apparent wretchedness, and then the money thrown to me gave me much more pleasure; but the major portion of those who threw us silver for their own amusement would not have given us a farthing, if we had asked charity for the love of God.It must not, however, be supposed that I gained the enviable situation ofPoor Jackuntil I had been some time on the beach. There are competitors for every place, even the most humble; and there was no want of competitors for this office among the many idle boys who frequented the beach. When I first plied there, I was often pushed away by those who were older and stronger than myself, with a “Go along with you! He’s not poor Jack—I’m poor Jack, your honour.” This, at first, I submitted to; taking my chance for a stray halfpenny, which was occasionally thrown to me, trusting to my activity in being the first down to the boat, or to my quickness in a scramble. I never quarrelled with the other boys, for I was remarkable for my good temper. The first idea I had of resistance was from oppression. One of the boys, who was older and taller than myself, attempted to take away a sixpence which I had gained in a scramble. Before that, I had not resented being pushed away, or even when they threw water or mud at me; but this was an act of violence which I could not put up with: the consequence was a fight; in which, to my surprise (for I was not aware of my strength), as well as to the surprise of the bystanders, I proved victorious, beating my opponent until he reeled into the water, following him up until he tumbled, and then holding his head down in the mud until he was almost stifled. I then allowed him to get up, and he went home crying to his mother. For this feat I was rewarded with the plaudits of the old pensioners and others who were looking on, and with a shilling which was thrown to me from the window of the inn. Ben the Whaler, who had witnessed the fray, told me, the next day, that I handled my fists remarkably well, and that I had but to keep a higher guard and I should fight well. He was an old pugilist himself, and he gave me a few directions which I did not forget. I soon had occasion to put them into practice; for, two days afterwards, another boy, bigger than myself, as I was plying as “Poor Jack,” pushed me back so hard that I fell off the steps into the deep water, and there was a general laugh against me. I did not care for the ducking, but the laugh I could not bear: as soon as I gained the steps again, I rushed upon him and threw him off, and he fell into the wherry, and, as it afterwards appeared, he strained his back very much; nevertheless he came out to thrash me; and this time it was a regular fight, as the pensioners and watermen interfered, taking us both up on the higher ground, and seeing that it was fair play. Ben the Whaler acted as my second, and we set to. The boy was too powerful for me, had it not been for the hurt he had received, and the instructions I obtained from Ben every time that I sat on his knee between each round. Still it was a very hard fight, and I was terribly beaten; but I could not give up, for so many betted upon my winning, and Ben told me, at the end of every round, that, if I only stood up one more, I should be certain to beat him, and that then I should bePoor Jack for ever! The last inducement stimulated me to immense exertion: we closed and wrestled, and my antagonist was thrown; and, in consequence of the strain he had before received, he could not stand up any more. Poor fellow! he was in great pain; he was taken home, and obliged to have a doctor, and an abscess formed in his side. He was a long while getting well, and, when he came out of doors again, he was so pale. I was very sorry for him, and we were always the best friends afterwards, and I gave him many a half penny, until I had an opportunity of serving him.I mention these two fights, because they obtained for me a greater reputation than I deserved: this reputation perhaps saved me a great deal more fighting, and obtained me the mastery over the other boys on the beach. Indeed, I became such a favourite with the watermen, that they would send the other boys away; and thus did I become, at last, the acknowledged, true, lawful, and legitimate “Poor Jack of Greenwich.”

I did not forget my father’s injunctions, for I was very much frightened. There was a doctor who lived half-way up Church Street, a short distance from Fisher’s Alley. He was a little man with a large head sunk down between two broad shoulders; his eyes were small and twinkling, his nose snubbed, his pate nearly bald; but on the sides of his head the hair was long and flowing. But if his shoulders were broad, the rest of his body was not in the same proportion—for he narrowed as he descended, his hips being very small, and his legs as thin as those of a goat. His real name was Todpoole, but the people invariably called him Tadpole, and he certainly in appearance somewhat reminded you of one. He was a facetious little fellow, and, it was said, very clever in his profession.

“Doctor Tadpole,” cried I, out of breath with running, “come—quick, my mother is very bad indeed.”

“What’s the matter?” said he, peering over a mortar in which he was rubbing up something with the pestle. “External or internal?”

Although I did not know what he meant, I replied, “Both, doctor, and a great deal more besides.”

“That’s bad indeed,” replied Tadpole, still rubbing away.

“But you must come directly,” cried I. “Come along—quick!”

“Festina lente, good boy—that’s Latin for hat and boots. Tom, are my boots clean?”

“Ye’es, sir,” replied a carroty-headed boy, whom I knew well.

The doctor laid down his pestle, and taking his seat on a chair, began very leisurely to pull on his boots, whilst I stamped with impatience.

“Now, do be quick, doctor, my mother will be dead.”

“Jack,” said the doctor, grinning, as he pulled on his second boot, “people don’t die so quick before the doctor comes—it’s always afterwards:— however, I’m glad to see you are so fond of your mother. Tom, is my hat brushed?”

“Ye’es, sir,” replied Tom, bringing the doctor’s hat.

“Now then, Jack, I’m all ready. Tom, mind the shop, and don’t eat the stick-liquorice—d’ye hear?”

“Ye’es, sir,” said Tom, with a grin from ear to ear.

The doctor followed me very quick, for he thought from my impatience that something serious must be the matter. He walked up to my mother’s room, and I hastened to open the door; when, to my surprise, I found my mother standing before the glass arranging her hair.

“Well!” exclaimed my mother, “this is very pretty behaviour—forcing your way into a lady’s room.”

The doctor stared, and so did I. At last I exclaimed, “Well! father thought he’d killed her.”

“Yes,” cried my mother, “and he’s gone away with it on his conscience, that’s some comfort. He won’t come back in a hurry; he thinks he has committed murder, the unfeeling brute! Well, I’ve had my revenge.”

And as she twisted up her hair, my mother burst out screaming—

“Little Bopeep, she lost her sheep,And couldn’t tell where to find him;She found him, indeed, but it made her heart bleedFor he left his tail behind him.”

“Little Bopeep, she lost her sheep,And couldn’t tell where to find him;She found him, indeed, but it made her heart bleedFor he left his tail behind him.”

“Why, then, doctor, it was all sham,” exclaimed I.

“Yes; and the doctor’s come on a fool’s errand—

“‘Goosey, Goosey Gander,Whither dost thou wander?Upstairs and downstairs,And in a lady’s chamber.’”

“‘Goosey, Goosey Gander,Whither dost thou wander?Upstairs and downstairs,And in a lady’s chamber.’”

The doctor shrugged up his shoulders so that his head disappeared between them; at last he said, “Your mother don’t want me, Jack, that’s very clear. Good morning, Mrs Saunders.”

“A very good morning to you, Doctor Tadpole,” replied my mother with a profound courtesy; “you’ll oblige me by quitting this room, and shutting the door after you, if you please.”

As the doctor and I went down, my mother continued the song—

“‘And then I met a little man,Couldn’t say his prayers,I took him by the left legAnd sent him downstairs.’”

“‘And then I met a little man,Couldn’t say his prayers,I took him by the left legAnd sent him downstairs.’”

As soon as we were in the parlour, I acquainted the doctor with what had happened. “I’m sure I thought she was dead,” said I, when I had finished the story.

“Jack, when I asked you where your mother was bad, external or internal, you replied both, and a great deal more besides. So she is—internally, externally, and infernally bad,” said the doctor, laughing. “And so she amputated your father’s pigtail, did she, the Delilah? Pity one could not amputate her head, it would make a good woman of her. Good bye, Jack; I must go and look after Tom, he’s swallowed a whole yard of stick-liquorice by this time.”

Soon afterwards Ben the Whaler came in to inquire after my father, and I told him what had occurred. He was very indignant at my mother’s conduct, and, as soon the affair was known, so were all the tenants of Fisher’s Alley. When my mother went out, or had words with any of her neighbours, the retort was invariably, “Who sent the press-gang after her own husband?” or, “Who cut off the tail from her husband’s back? Wasn’t that agenteeltrick?” All this worried my mother, and she became very morose and ill-tempered; I believe she would have left the alley, if she had not taken a long lease of the house. She had now imbibed a decided hatred for me, which she never failed to show upon every occasion, for she knew that it was I who had roused my father, and prevented her escape from his wrath. The consequence was, that I was seldom at home, except to sleep. I sauntered to the beach, ran into the water, sometimes rowed in the wherries, at others hauling them in and holding them steady for the passengers to land. I was beginning to be useful to the watermen, and was very often rewarded with a piece of bread and cheese, or a drink of beer out of their pots. The first year after my father’s visit, I was seldom given a meal, and continually beaten—indeed, sometimes cruelly so—but as I grew stronger, I rebelled and fought, and with such success that, although I was hated more, I was punished less.

One scene between my mother and me may serve as a specimen for all. I would come home with my trousers tucked up, and myhigh-lowsunlaced and full of water, sucking every time that I lifted up my leg, and marking the white sanded floor of the front room, as I proceeded through it to the back kitchen. My mother would come downstairs, and perceiving the marks I had left, would get angry, and as usual commence singing—

“‘A frog he would a-wooing go,Heigho, says Rowly.’

“‘A frog he would a-wooing go,Heigho, says Rowly.’

“I see here’s that little wretch been here—

“‘Whether his mother would let him or no,Heigho, says Rowly.’

“‘Whether his mother would let him or no,Heigho, says Rowly.’

“I’ll rowly him with the rolling-pin when I get hold of him. He’s worse than that beastly water-spaniel of Sir Hercules’, who used to shake himself over my best cambric muslin. Well, we’ll see. He’ll be wanting his dinner; I only wish he may get it.

“‘Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,Eating his Christmas pie;He put in his thumb and pull’d out a plum,And cried, What a good boy am I!’

“‘Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,Eating his Christmas pie;He put in his thumb and pull’d out a plum,And cried, What a good boy am I!’

“‘Good boy am I!’ good-for-nothing brat, just like his father. Oh, dear!—if I could but get rid of him!

“‘There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,She’d so many children she didn’t know what to do;She gave them some broth without any bread,She whipped them all round, and sent them to bed.’

“‘There was an old woman who lived in a shoe,She’d so many children she didn’t know what to do;She gave them some broth without any bread,She whipped them all round, and sent them to bed.’

“And if I don’t whip him, it’s fault, that’s all. Virginia, my love, don’t spit—that’s not genteel. It’s only sailors and Yankees who spit. Nasty little brute! Oh! here you are, are you?” cried my mother, as I entered. “Do you see what a dirty mess you have made, you little ungrateful animal? Take that, and that, and that,” continued she, running the wet bristles of the long broom into my face, with sufficient force to make my nose bleed. I stood the first push, and the second; but the third roused my indignation—and I caught hold of the end of the broom towards me, and tried to force it out of her hands. It was push against push, for I was very strong;—she, screaming as loud as she could, as she tried to wrest the broom from my clutches;—I, shoving at her with all my force—like Punch and the devil at the two ends of the stick. At last, after she had held me in a corner for half a minute, I made a rush upon her, drove her right to the opposite corner, so that the end of the handle gave her a severe poke in the body, which made her give up the contest, and exclaim as soon as she recovered her breath,—“Oh! you nasty, ungrateful, ungenteel brute! You little viper! Is that the way you treat your mother—and nearly kill her? Oh, dear me!”

“Why don’t you leave me alone, then? you never beats Jenny.”

“Who’s Jenny, you wicked good-for-nothing boy? you mean your sister Virginia. Well, you’ll have no dinner, I can tell you.”

I put my hand in my pocket, took out a sixpence which I had received, and held it up between my thumb and finger. “Won’t I?”

“You oudacious boy! that’s the way you’re spoiled by foolish people giving you money.”

“Good bye, mother.” So saying, I leaped over the board fixed up at the door, and was again down at the beach. Indeed, I was now what is termed a regularMud-larker, picking up halfpence by running into the water, offering my ragged arm to people getting out of the wherries, always saluting them with, “You haven’t got never a half penny for poor Jack, your honour?” and sometimes I did get a halfpenny, sometimes a shove, according to the temper of those whom I addressed. When I was not on the beach, I was usually in company with Ben the Whaler, who, after my father’s visit, was more kind to me than ever; and there were several other pensioners who were great friends of mine; and I used to listen to their long yarns, which were now becoming a source of great delight to me; at other times I would be with the watermen, assisting them to clean out their wherries, or pay the seams. In fact, I was here, there, and everywhere except at home—always active, always employed, and, I may add, almost always wet. My mother used to scold whenever I came in; but that I did not mind: her greatest punishment was refusing me a clean shirt on a Sunday. At last I picked up halfpence enough to pay, not only for my food, such as it was, but for my own washing, and every day I became more independent and more happy.

There were other ways by which money was to be obtained during the summer season, which were from the company who used to come down to the whitebait parties at the Ship and other taverns. There were many other boys who frequented the beach besides me, and we used to stand under the windows, and attract attention by every means in our power, so as to induce the company to throw us halfpence to scramble for. This they would do to while away their time until their dinner was ready, or to amuse themselves and the ladies by seeing us roll and tumble one over the other. Sometimes they would throw a sixpence into the river, where the water was about two feet deep, to make us wet ourselves through in groping for it. Indeed, they were very generous when they wished to be amused; and every kind of offer was made to them which we thought suited to their tastes, or likely to extract money from their pockets.

“Dip my head in the mud for sixpence, sir!” would one of us cry out; and then he would be outbid by another.

“Roll myself all over and over in the mud, face and all, sir—only give me sixpence!”

Sometimes I would perceive a lovely countenance, beaming with pity and compassion at our rags and apparent wretchedness, and then the money thrown to me gave me much more pleasure; but the major portion of those who threw us silver for their own amusement would not have given us a farthing, if we had asked charity for the love of God.

It must not, however, be supposed that I gained the enviable situation ofPoor Jackuntil I had been some time on the beach. There are competitors for every place, even the most humble; and there was no want of competitors for this office among the many idle boys who frequented the beach. When I first plied there, I was often pushed away by those who were older and stronger than myself, with a “Go along with you! He’s not poor Jack—I’m poor Jack, your honour.” This, at first, I submitted to; taking my chance for a stray halfpenny, which was occasionally thrown to me, trusting to my activity in being the first down to the boat, or to my quickness in a scramble. I never quarrelled with the other boys, for I was remarkable for my good temper. The first idea I had of resistance was from oppression. One of the boys, who was older and taller than myself, attempted to take away a sixpence which I had gained in a scramble. Before that, I had not resented being pushed away, or even when they threw water or mud at me; but this was an act of violence which I could not put up with: the consequence was a fight; in which, to my surprise (for I was not aware of my strength), as well as to the surprise of the bystanders, I proved victorious, beating my opponent until he reeled into the water, following him up until he tumbled, and then holding his head down in the mud until he was almost stifled. I then allowed him to get up, and he went home crying to his mother. For this feat I was rewarded with the plaudits of the old pensioners and others who were looking on, and with a shilling which was thrown to me from the window of the inn. Ben the Whaler, who had witnessed the fray, told me, the next day, that I handled my fists remarkably well, and that I had but to keep a higher guard and I should fight well. He was an old pugilist himself, and he gave me a few directions which I did not forget. I soon had occasion to put them into practice; for, two days afterwards, another boy, bigger than myself, as I was plying as “Poor Jack,” pushed me back so hard that I fell off the steps into the deep water, and there was a general laugh against me. I did not care for the ducking, but the laugh I could not bear: as soon as I gained the steps again, I rushed upon him and threw him off, and he fell into the wherry, and, as it afterwards appeared, he strained his back very much; nevertheless he came out to thrash me; and this time it was a regular fight, as the pensioners and watermen interfered, taking us both up on the higher ground, and seeing that it was fair play. Ben the Whaler acted as my second, and we set to. The boy was too powerful for me, had it not been for the hurt he had received, and the instructions I obtained from Ben every time that I sat on his knee between each round. Still it was a very hard fight, and I was terribly beaten; but I could not give up, for so many betted upon my winning, and Ben told me, at the end of every round, that, if I only stood up one more, I should be certain to beat him, and that then I should bePoor Jack for ever! The last inducement stimulated me to immense exertion: we closed and wrestled, and my antagonist was thrown; and, in consequence of the strain he had before received, he could not stand up any more. Poor fellow! he was in great pain; he was taken home, and obliged to have a doctor, and an abscess formed in his side. He was a long while getting well, and, when he came out of doors again, he was so pale. I was very sorry for him, and we were always the best friends afterwards, and I gave him many a half penny, until I had an opportunity of serving him.

I mention these two fights, because they obtained for me a greater reputation than I deserved: this reputation perhaps saved me a great deal more fighting, and obtained me the mastery over the other boys on the beach. Indeed, I became such a favourite with the watermen, that they would send the other boys away; and thus did I become, at last, the acknowledged, true, lawful, and legitimate “Poor Jack of Greenwich.”

Chapter Nine.In which I take a cruise contrary to the received rules of navigation—On my return from a cold expedition, I meet with a cold reception.As soon as I was fairly in possession of my office, I gained sufficient money to render me almost entirely independent of my mother. Occasionally I procured an old jacket or trowsers, or a pair of shoes, at the store of an old woman who dealt in everything that could be imagined; and, if ever I picked up oakum or drifting pieces of wood, I used to sell them to old Nanny,—for that was the only name she was known by. My mother, having lost her lodgers by her ill temper and continual quarrelling with her neighbours, had resorted to washing and getting up of fine linen, at which she was very expert, and earned a good deal of money. To do her justice, she was a very industrious woman, and, in some things, very clever. She was a very good dress-maker, and used to make up the gowns and bonnets for the lower classes of people, to whom she gave great satisfaction. She worked very hard for herself and my sister, about whose dress and appearance she was more particular than ever; indeed, she showed as much affection for her as she did ill-will towards me. To look at me, with my old trowsers tucked up above my knees, my ragged jacket, and weatherbeaten cap; and then to see Virginia, so neatly and even expensively dressed, no one could have believed that we were brother and sister. My mother would always try to prevent Virginia from noticing me, if we ever met when she was walking out with her. But my sister appeared to love me more and more; and, in spite of my mother, as soon as she saw me, would run up to me, patting my dirty jacket with her pretty little hand; and, when she did so, I felt so proud of her. She grew up handsomer every day, and so sweet in disposition, that my mother could not spoil her.It was in the autumn that I gained undisputed possession of the office of “Poor Jack”; and that winter I had an adventure which nearly occasioned my making a vacancy for somebody else, and which, the reader will agree with me, was anything but pleasant.It was in the month of January,—the river was filled with floating ice, for it had frozen hard for several days; and, of course, there were but few people who trusted themselves in wherries,—so that I had little employment, and less profit. One morning, as I was standing on the landing-steps, the breath coming out of my mouth like the steam of a tea-kettle,—rubbing my nose, which was red from the sharpness of the frost,—and looking at the sun, which was just mounting above a bank of clouds, a waterman called to me, and asked me whether I would go down the river with him, as he was engaged to take a mate down to join his ship, which was several miles below Greenwich; and, if so, he would give me sixpence and a breakfast. I had earned little for many days, and, hating to be obliged to my mother, I consented.In an hour we started: there was no wind,—the water was smooth, and the sun’s rays glittered on the floating patches of ice, which grated against the sides of the wherry as we cut through them with our sharp prow. Although we had the tide with us, it was three hours before we gained the ship. The mate paid the fare, and gave us something to drink; and we passed an hour or more warming ourselves at the caboose, and talking with the seamen. At last a breeze sprung up, and the captain ordered the men to get the ship under weigh. We shoved off, the tide having flowed some time, expecting to be back to Greenwich before dark.But it clouded over, and a heavy snow-storm came on, so that we could not see in what direction we were pulling; the wind blew very fresh, and it was piercing cold; however, we pulled as hard as we could, not only to get back again, but to keep ourselves from freezing. Unfortunately, we had lost too much time on board of the vessel; and, what with that, and the delay arising from the snow-storm preventing us pulling straight back, the ebb-tide made again before we had gained mere than two-thirds of our way. We were now nearly worn out with the severe cold and fatigue, but we pulled hard, keeping as close in-shore as we could. It was necessary, at the end of one reach, to cross over to the other side of the river; and, in so doing, we were driven by the tide against a large buoy, when the wherry filled and upset in an instant. We both contrived to cling on to her, as she was turned bottom up; and away we were swept down among the drifting ice, the snow-storm still continuing to beat down on our heads. I was nearly frozen before I could climb on the bottom of the wherry; which I at last contrived to do, but the waterman could only hold on. There we both were, shivering and shaking; the wind piercing through our wet clothes,—the snow beating down on us, and our feet freezing among the drifting ice—borne away with the tide towards the mouth of the river—not able to see two yards before us, or likely to be seen by any one, so as to be assisted. We were too cold to speak, but remained in silence, looking at each other, and with no pleasant forebodings as to our fate. The ice now formed in large masses; the icicles hung from our clothes, and all sense was lost in our extremities. It was now dark as pitch; and so feeble were we that it was with difficulty we could keep in our positions. At last the storm abated, the sky cleared up, and the bright full moon shone in the heavens; but our case appeared hopeless,—we felt that before morning we must perish. I tried to say what prayers I had learnt by hearing my sister say them; but my teeth chattered, and I could only think them. At last I perceived a vessel at anchor: the tide was sweeping us past,—we were close to her, and I contrived to cry out; but there was no reply. Again I screamed, but it was in vain. They were all in their warm beds, while we floated past, freezing to death. My hopes, which had been raised, and which had occasioned my heart to resume its beating, now sank down again, and I gave myself up in despair. I burst into tears; and, before the tears had rolled half-way down my cheeks, they had frozen hard. “I am indeed ‘Poor Jack’ now,” thought I; “I shall never see my father or Virginia any more.” As I thought so, I saw another vessel ahead of us. I summoned all my strength, and called out long before we floated past her. The light wind bore my voice down; there was a man on deck, and he heard it; he walked forward, and I perceived him looking over the bows. I hallooed again, to direct his attention to where we were; for our wherry was so encrusted with ice that she might have been taken for a larger piece floating by. I saw him turn away, and heard him thump with a handspike on the deck. How my heart bounded! I almost felt warm. As we were passing the vessel, I cried out again and again, and the man answered me—“Ay, ay, hold on for a minute or two, and I’ll send for you.”“We are saved,” I cried to the waterman; but he was quite insensible, apparently frozen stiff where he was clinging. In a few minutes I heard the sound of oars, and then they stopped; the boat came quietly alongside, that they might not by the shock throw us off into the water; they dragged us both in, and took us on board, poured a glass of brandy down our throats, stripped off our frozen clothes, chafed our limbs, and put us between the hot blankets which they had just left. As soon as I was in bed the mate made me drink a tumbler of hot grog, and left me. I soon fell into a deep sleep, long before they had ceased their attempts to restore vitality to my companion, which at last they did. When I awoke the next morning I was quite well, and the waterman was also recovering, although not able to leave his hammock. The mate who had had the watch and had saved us, told me that the wherry was safe on board, and, as the ship was bound up the river, that we had better remain where we were. I narrated our accident; and my clothes having been dried at the caboose, I dressed myself and went on deck. My companion, the waterman, did not escape so well; his foot was frostbitten, and he lost four of his toes before he recovered. It was singular that he, who was a man grown up, should suffer so much more than I did. I cannot account for it, except that my habit of always being in the water had hardened me more to the cold. We remained on board two days, during which we were treated with great kindness.It was a fine bright morning when, as the ship was passing the hospital, we shoved the wherry off, and landed at the steps; and when we jumped out we were greeted by all who were standing there. We had very naturally been given up for lost. They supposed that we had perished in the snow-storm. Old Ben was among those who were standing at the steps, and he walked up with me towards my mother’s house.“I did go to the old woman and break the matter to her in a becoming way, Jack,” said Ben; “but I can’t say that she appeared to take it much to heart, and that’s the truth. Had it been little Jenny, she’d have cried her eyes out.”I arrived at Fisher’s Alley, and the neighbours looked out; and as I nodded to them, they cried, “Why, here’s Jack come back again. Where have you been to, Jack?” This passing from mouth to mouth at last reached my mother’s ears; she looked out and saw me and old Ben close to the door.“Here be your son, misses,” said Ben; “so you may thank God for His mercy.”But my mother did not appear to be very thankful. She turned round and went in; I followed her, while Ben was standing at the door in amazement at her not flying to me and kissing me. On the contrary, she must have been angry at my return, for she commenced singing:“Jack and Gill went up the hillTo fetch a pail of water;Jack fell down and broke his crown,And Gill came tumbling after.”And then she broke out: “And where have you been, you good-for-nothing boy, all this time? putting me to all this useless expense that you have; all my money thrown away for nothing.” I looked at the table, and perceived that she had been making a black dress and bonnet, to put little Virginia into mourning; for she never let slip an opportunity to dress out my sister.“Fifteen good shillings thrown away and lost, all by your coming back. Your sister would have looked so beautiful and interesting in it. Poor child! and now she will be disappointed. Never mind, my darling,—you may have to wear them soon yet, if he goes on this way.”Virginia did not seem to mind it at all; she was kissing and patting me, and was delighted to see me again. But my mother took her by the hand, and catching up the half-made dress and bonnet in her other, walked away upstairs to her room, singing:“There was an old man who lived under a hill,And if he’s not dead, he lives there still.”“So much for motherly love! Dang it, what’s her heart made of?” said a voice. I turned round; it was old Ben, who had been an unobserved spectator of the scene.

As soon as I was fairly in possession of my office, I gained sufficient money to render me almost entirely independent of my mother. Occasionally I procured an old jacket or trowsers, or a pair of shoes, at the store of an old woman who dealt in everything that could be imagined; and, if ever I picked up oakum or drifting pieces of wood, I used to sell them to old Nanny,—for that was the only name she was known by. My mother, having lost her lodgers by her ill temper and continual quarrelling with her neighbours, had resorted to washing and getting up of fine linen, at which she was very expert, and earned a good deal of money. To do her justice, she was a very industrious woman, and, in some things, very clever. She was a very good dress-maker, and used to make up the gowns and bonnets for the lower classes of people, to whom she gave great satisfaction. She worked very hard for herself and my sister, about whose dress and appearance she was more particular than ever; indeed, she showed as much affection for her as she did ill-will towards me. To look at me, with my old trowsers tucked up above my knees, my ragged jacket, and weatherbeaten cap; and then to see Virginia, so neatly and even expensively dressed, no one could have believed that we were brother and sister. My mother would always try to prevent Virginia from noticing me, if we ever met when she was walking out with her. But my sister appeared to love me more and more; and, in spite of my mother, as soon as she saw me, would run up to me, patting my dirty jacket with her pretty little hand; and, when she did so, I felt so proud of her. She grew up handsomer every day, and so sweet in disposition, that my mother could not spoil her.

It was in the autumn that I gained undisputed possession of the office of “Poor Jack”; and that winter I had an adventure which nearly occasioned my making a vacancy for somebody else, and which, the reader will agree with me, was anything but pleasant.

It was in the month of January,—the river was filled with floating ice, for it had frozen hard for several days; and, of course, there were but few people who trusted themselves in wherries,—so that I had little employment, and less profit. One morning, as I was standing on the landing-steps, the breath coming out of my mouth like the steam of a tea-kettle,—rubbing my nose, which was red from the sharpness of the frost,—and looking at the sun, which was just mounting above a bank of clouds, a waterman called to me, and asked me whether I would go down the river with him, as he was engaged to take a mate down to join his ship, which was several miles below Greenwich; and, if so, he would give me sixpence and a breakfast. I had earned little for many days, and, hating to be obliged to my mother, I consented.

In an hour we started: there was no wind,—the water was smooth, and the sun’s rays glittered on the floating patches of ice, which grated against the sides of the wherry as we cut through them with our sharp prow. Although we had the tide with us, it was three hours before we gained the ship. The mate paid the fare, and gave us something to drink; and we passed an hour or more warming ourselves at the caboose, and talking with the seamen. At last a breeze sprung up, and the captain ordered the men to get the ship under weigh. We shoved off, the tide having flowed some time, expecting to be back to Greenwich before dark.

But it clouded over, and a heavy snow-storm came on, so that we could not see in what direction we were pulling; the wind blew very fresh, and it was piercing cold; however, we pulled as hard as we could, not only to get back again, but to keep ourselves from freezing. Unfortunately, we had lost too much time on board of the vessel; and, what with that, and the delay arising from the snow-storm preventing us pulling straight back, the ebb-tide made again before we had gained mere than two-thirds of our way. We were now nearly worn out with the severe cold and fatigue, but we pulled hard, keeping as close in-shore as we could. It was necessary, at the end of one reach, to cross over to the other side of the river; and, in so doing, we were driven by the tide against a large buoy, when the wherry filled and upset in an instant. We both contrived to cling on to her, as she was turned bottom up; and away we were swept down among the drifting ice, the snow-storm still continuing to beat down on our heads. I was nearly frozen before I could climb on the bottom of the wherry; which I at last contrived to do, but the waterman could only hold on. There we both were, shivering and shaking; the wind piercing through our wet clothes,—the snow beating down on us, and our feet freezing among the drifting ice—borne away with the tide towards the mouth of the river—not able to see two yards before us, or likely to be seen by any one, so as to be assisted. We were too cold to speak, but remained in silence, looking at each other, and with no pleasant forebodings as to our fate. The ice now formed in large masses; the icicles hung from our clothes, and all sense was lost in our extremities. It was now dark as pitch; and so feeble were we that it was with difficulty we could keep in our positions. At last the storm abated, the sky cleared up, and the bright full moon shone in the heavens; but our case appeared hopeless,—we felt that before morning we must perish. I tried to say what prayers I had learnt by hearing my sister say them; but my teeth chattered, and I could only think them. At last I perceived a vessel at anchor: the tide was sweeping us past,—we were close to her, and I contrived to cry out; but there was no reply. Again I screamed, but it was in vain. They were all in their warm beds, while we floated past, freezing to death. My hopes, which had been raised, and which had occasioned my heart to resume its beating, now sank down again, and I gave myself up in despair. I burst into tears; and, before the tears had rolled half-way down my cheeks, they had frozen hard. “I am indeed ‘Poor Jack’ now,” thought I; “I shall never see my father or Virginia any more.” As I thought so, I saw another vessel ahead of us. I summoned all my strength, and called out long before we floated past her. The light wind bore my voice down; there was a man on deck, and he heard it; he walked forward, and I perceived him looking over the bows. I hallooed again, to direct his attention to where we were; for our wherry was so encrusted with ice that she might have been taken for a larger piece floating by. I saw him turn away, and heard him thump with a handspike on the deck. How my heart bounded! I almost felt warm. As we were passing the vessel, I cried out again and again, and the man answered me—

“Ay, ay, hold on for a minute or two, and I’ll send for you.”

“We are saved,” I cried to the waterman; but he was quite insensible, apparently frozen stiff where he was clinging. In a few minutes I heard the sound of oars, and then they stopped; the boat came quietly alongside, that they might not by the shock throw us off into the water; they dragged us both in, and took us on board, poured a glass of brandy down our throats, stripped off our frozen clothes, chafed our limbs, and put us between the hot blankets which they had just left. As soon as I was in bed the mate made me drink a tumbler of hot grog, and left me. I soon fell into a deep sleep, long before they had ceased their attempts to restore vitality to my companion, which at last they did. When I awoke the next morning I was quite well, and the waterman was also recovering, although not able to leave his hammock. The mate who had had the watch and had saved us, told me that the wherry was safe on board, and, as the ship was bound up the river, that we had better remain where we were. I narrated our accident; and my clothes having been dried at the caboose, I dressed myself and went on deck. My companion, the waterman, did not escape so well; his foot was frostbitten, and he lost four of his toes before he recovered. It was singular that he, who was a man grown up, should suffer so much more than I did. I cannot account for it, except that my habit of always being in the water had hardened me more to the cold. We remained on board two days, during which we were treated with great kindness.

It was a fine bright morning when, as the ship was passing the hospital, we shoved the wherry off, and landed at the steps; and when we jumped out we were greeted by all who were standing there. We had very naturally been given up for lost. They supposed that we had perished in the snow-storm. Old Ben was among those who were standing at the steps, and he walked up with me towards my mother’s house.

“I did go to the old woman and break the matter to her in a becoming way, Jack,” said Ben; “but I can’t say that she appeared to take it much to heart, and that’s the truth. Had it been little Jenny, she’d have cried her eyes out.”

I arrived at Fisher’s Alley, and the neighbours looked out; and as I nodded to them, they cried, “Why, here’s Jack come back again. Where have you been to, Jack?” This passing from mouth to mouth at last reached my mother’s ears; she looked out and saw me and old Ben close to the door.

“Here be your son, misses,” said Ben; “so you may thank God for His mercy.”

But my mother did not appear to be very thankful. She turned round and went in; I followed her, while Ben was standing at the door in amazement at her not flying to me and kissing me. On the contrary, she must have been angry at my return, for she commenced singing:

“Jack and Gill went up the hillTo fetch a pail of water;Jack fell down and broke his crown,And Gill came tumbling after.”

“Jack and Gill went up the hillTo fetch a pail of water;Jack fell down and broke his crown,And Gill came tumbling after.”

And then she broke out: “And where have you been, you good-for-nothing boy, all this time? putting me to all this useless expense that you have; all my money thrown away for nothing.” I looked at the table, and perceived that she had been making a black dress and bonnet, to put little Virginia into mourning; for she never let slip an opportunity to dress out my sister.

“Fifteen good shillings thrown away and lost, all by your coming back. Your sister would have looked so beautiful and interesting in it. Poor child! and now she will be disappointed. Never mind, my darling,—you may have to wear them soon yet, if he goes on this way.”

Virginia did not seem to mind it at all; she was kissing and patting me, and was delighted to see me again. But my mother took her by the hand, and catching up the half-made dress and bonnet in her other, walked away upstairs to her room, singing:

“There was an old man who lived under a hill,And if he’s not dead, he lives there still.”

“There was an old man who lived under a hill,And if he’s not dead, he lives there still.”

“So much for motherly love! Dang it, what’s her heart made of?” said a voice. I turned round; it was old Ben, who had been an unobserved spectator of the scene.

Chapter Ten.In which I narrate what I consider the most fortunate incident in my life; and Ben the Whaler confides to me a very strange history.Among the pensioners there was one with whom I must make the reader acquainted, as he will be an important person in this narrative. His name was Peter Anderson, a north countryman, I believe, from Greenock; he had been gunner’s mate in the service for many years, and, having been severely wounded in an action, he had been sent to Greenwich. He was a boatswain in Greenwich Hospital; that is, he had charge of a ward of twenty-five men, and Ben the Whaler had lately been appointed one of the boatswain’s mates under him. He was a very good scholar, and had read a great deal. You could hardly put any question to him, but you would get from him a satisfactory sort of an answer; and he was generally referred to in all points of dispute, especially in matters connected with the service, which he had at his fingers’ ends; and, moreover, he was a very religious good man. I never heard him swear, but correct all those who did so in his presence. He had saved some money in the service, the interest of which, with his allowances as boatswain, enabled him to obtain many little comforts, and to be generous to others. Before Ben was shifted over to Anderson’s ward, which he was when he was appointed boatswain’s mate under him, they had not been well acquainted; but, since that time, they were almost always together; so that now I knew Anderson, which I did not before, except by sight. He was a very venerable-looking old man, with grey locks curling down on his shoulders, but very stout and hearty; and, as Ben had told him all about me, he took notice of me, and appeared also to take an interest. When I came back, after the providential escape I have mentioned in the last chapter, Ben had narrated to him the conduct of my mother; and a day or two afterwards, when the frost had broken up, and they were both sitting down, basking in the sun, which was shining bright, I went up to them.“Well, Jack,” said old Ben, “are you ready for another trip down the river?”“I hope I shall earn my sixpence at an easier rate, if I do go,” replied I.“It was wonderful that you were saved, boy,” said Peter Anderson, “and you ought to be very thankful to the Omniscient.”I stared; for I had never heard that term applied to the Deity. “You mean God, don’t you?” said I, at last; for I thought he couldn’t mean any other.“Yes boy; has not your mother taught you that name?”“She never would teach me anything. All the prayers I know I have stolen from my sister.”“And what do you know, Jack?”“I know ‘Our Father,’ and ‘Now I lay down to sleep,’ and I believe that is all.”“How old are you now, Jack?”“I am three years older than Virginia; she, I heard my mother say, was six the other day,—then I suppose I’m nine.”“Do you know your letters?”“Yes, some of them; I learnt them on the boats.”“But you cannot read?”“No, not a word.”“Has your mother ever told you of the Bible?”“Not me; but I’ve heard her tell Virginia about it.”“Don’t you ever go to church?”“No, never. Mother takes little Virginia; but she says I’m too ragged and ungenteel.”“Why does your mother neglect you? I suppose you are a bad boy?”“That he’s not,” interrupted Ben; “that’s not the reason. But we must not talk about that now; only I must take Jack’s part. Go on, Peter.”“Would you like to learn to read, Jack?” said Anderson; “and would you like to hear me read the Bible to you, until you can read it yourself?”“Indeed I would,” replied I. “There’s many of the boys on the beach, smaller than me, who can both read and write.”Peter Anderson then told me that he would teach me, provided I behaved myself well. He desired I would come to his cabin every afternoon at six o’clock, a time which interfered little with my avocation of “Poor Jack,” and that he would give me a lesson. Before he had finished talking, one of the lieutenants of the hospital sent for him; and Ben remained behind, to point out to me how valuable my knowing how to read and write might one day prove to me.“I’ve no larning myself Jack,” said he; “and I know the loss of it. Had I known how to read and write, I might have been something better than a poor Greenwich pensioner; but nevertheless I’m thankful that I’m no worse. Ever since I’ve been a man grown I’ve only regretted it once,—and that’s been all my life. Why, Jack, I’d give this right arm of mine—to be sure, it’s no great things now, but once it could send a harpoon in, up to the hilt—but still a right arm is a right arm to the end of your days!—and I’d give it with pleasure, if I only knew how to read and write;—nay, I wouldn’t care about the writing; but, if I could only read print, Jack, I’d give it; for then I could read the Bible, as Peter Anderson does. Why, Jack, when we do go to chapel on Sunday, there’s not one in ten of us who can follow the parson with his book; all we can do is to listen; and when he has done speaking, we are done also, must wait till he preaches again. Don’t I feel ashamed, then, Jack, at not being able to read? and ought not they to feel proud who can;—no, not proud, but thankful? (Ben’s observations were true at the time he spoke; but this is no longer the case. So much more general has education become, that now, in a ship’s company, at least five out of seven can read.) We don’t think of the Bible much in our younger days, boy; but, when we are tripping our anchor for the other world, we long to read away our doubts and misgivings; and it’s the only chart you can navigate by safely. I think a parent has much to answer for, that don’t teach its child to read; but I must not blame my father or mother, for I never knew them.”“Never knew them?”“No, boy, no. My father and mother left me when I was one year old: he was drowned, and my mother—she died too, poor soul!”“How did your mother die, Ben?”“It’s a sad, sad story, Jack, and I cannot bear to think of it; it was told me long afterwards, by one who little thought to whom he was speaking.”“Do tell me, Ben.”“You’re too young, boy, for such a tale; it’s too shocking.”“Was it worse than being froze to death, as I nearly was the other day?”“Yes, my lad, worse than that; although, for one so young as you are, that was quite bad enough.”“Well, Ben, I won’t ask you to tell me, if it pains you to tell it. But you did not do wrong?”“How could a baby of two years old do wrong, and five thousand miles off at the time, you little fool? Well, I don’t know if I won’t tell you, Jack, after all, because you will then find out that there’s a comfort in reading the Bible; but you must promise me never to speak about it. I’m a foolish old fellow to tell it to you, Jack, I do believe, but I’m fond of you, boy, and I don’t like to say ‘no’ to you. Now come to an anchor close to me. The bells are ringing for dinner—I shall lose my meal, but you will not lose your story, and there will be no fear of interruption.“My father was brought up to the sea, Jack, and was a smart young man till he was about thirty, when a fall from the main-yard disabled him from hard duty and going aloft; but still he had been brought up to sea, and was fit for nothing on shore. So, as he was a clean likely fellow, he obtained the situation of purser’s steward in an Indiaman. After that he was captain’s steward on board of several ships. He sailed originally from Yarmouth, and going home after a voyage to see his relations, he fell in with my mother, and they were spliced. He was very fond of his wife, and I believe she was a very true and good woman, equally fond of him. He went to sea again, and I was born. He made another voyage to India, and when he came back I was two years old. I do not recollect him or my mother. My father had agreed to sail to the West Indies as captain’s steward, and the captain, with whom he had sailed before, consented that he should take his wife with him, to attend upon the lady passengers; so I was left at Yarmouth, and put out to nurse till they came back. But they never came back, Jack; and, as soon as I can recollect, I found myself in the workhouse, and, when old enough, was sent to sea. I had been told that my father and mother had been lost at sea, but no one could tell me how, and I thought little more about it, for I had never known them, and those we don’t know we do not love or care for, be they father or mother.“Well, I had sailed four or five voyages to the north in the whalers, and was then about twenty-five years old, when I thought I would go back to Yarmouth and show myself, for I was ‘harpooner and steersman’ at that early age, and not a little proud. I thought I would go and look at the old workhouse, for it was the only thing I could recollect, and see if the master and mistress were still alive, for they were kind to me when I was living with them. I went to Yarmouth, as I said. There was the workhouse, and the master and mistress both alive; and I made myself known to them, and the old people looked at me through their spectacles, and could not believe that I could possibly be the little Ben who used to run to the pump for water. I had money in my pocket, and I liked the old people, who offered me all they could give without hopes of receiving anything in return, and, as I knew nobody else, I used to live much with them, and pay them handsomely; I gave the old man some curiosities and the old woman a teapot, and so on, and I remained with them till it was time for me to sail again. Now, you see, Jack, among the old folk in the workhouse was a man who had been at sea; and I often had long talks with him, and gave him tobacco, which he couldn’t afford to buy,—for they don’t allow it in a workhouse, which is a great hardship, and I have often thought that I should not like to go into a workhouse because I never could have a bit of tobacco. This man’s hair was as white as snow, much too white for his age, for he was more decrepit and worn out than, perhaps, he was old. He had come home to his parish, and, being unable to gain his living, they had sent him to the workhouse. I can’t understand why a place should be called a workhouse where they do nothing at all. Well, Charley, as they called him, got very ill, and they thought he would not last long; and, when the old people were busy, I used to talk a great deal with him. He was generally very quiet and composed, and said he was comfortable, but that he knew he was going fast.“‘But,’ says he, ‘here’s my comfort;’ and he pointed to a Bible that he had on his knees. ‘If it had not been for this book,’ said he, ‘I do think, at times, I should have made away with myself.’“‘Why,’ says I, ‘what have you done? Have you been very wicked?’“‘We are all very wicked,’ said he; ‘but that’s not exactly it. I have been haunted for so many years, that I have been almost driven mad.“‘Why,’ said I, ‘what can you have done that you should have been haunted? You haven’t committed murder, have you?’“‘Well, I don’t know what to say,’ replied he; ‘if a man looks on and don’t prevent murder, is it not the same? I haven’t long to live, and I feel as if I should be happier if I made a clean breast of it; for I have kept the secret a long while, and I think that you, as a sailor, and knowing what sailors suffer, may have a fellow-feeling; and perhaps you will tell me (for I’m somewhat uneasy about it) whether you think that I am so very much to blame in the business? I’ve suffered enough for it these many years, and I trust that it will not be forgotten that I have so, when I’m called up to be judged—as we all shall, if this book is true, as I fully believe it to be.’“Here he appeared to be a good deal upset; but he took a drink of water, and then he told me as follows:—“‘About twenty-three years ago I was a seaman on board of the William and Caroline, West Indiaman, bound to Jamaica. We had two or three passengers on board, and the steward’s wife attended upon them. She was a handsome tall young woman; and when she and her husband came on board, they told me they had one child, which they had left at home. Now Yarmouth, you see, is my native place, and, although I did not know her husband, I knew her family very well; so we were very intimate, and used to talk about the people we knew, and so on. I mention this in consequence of what occurred afterwards. We arrived very safe at Jamaica, and remained, as usual, some time at the island before the drogers brought round our cargo, and then we again sailed for England.“‘Well, we got clear of the islands, and were getting well north, when there came on a terrible gale of wind which dismasted us; and for three weeks we were rolling about gunnel under, for we were very heavily laden, and we lost our reckoning. At last we found out that we had been blown down among the reefs to the southward of the Bahama Isles. We had at one time rigged jury-masts, but unfortunately the gale had blown up again, and carried them also over the side; and we had no means of doing anything, for we had no more small spars or sails, and all our hopes were of falling in with some vessel which might assist us.“‘But we had no such good fortune; and one morning, when a heavy sea was running, we discovered that it was bearing us down upon a reef of rocks, from which there was no chance of escape. We had no resource but to get the boats out, and take our chance in them. The captain was very cool and collected; he ordered everything in which might be requisite; called up the men, and explained to them his intentions. All the water and provisions were put into the launch, for the sea ran so high that the small boats could not carry them; and it was intended that all the boats should keep company till it moderated, and then each boat should have its own supply. When all was ready, we weretold offto our respective boats. The steward and his wife were to be in the same boat with me, and I had put her carefully in the stern-sheets, for I was her great friend. Now the steward was called out by the captain to go for something which had been forgotten; and while he was away the ship was struck by a heavy sea, which occasioned such a breach over her that all was in confusion; and, to prevent the small boats from swamping, they were pushed off. The launch still held on for the captain, who hastened in with the mate and the steward, for they were the only three left on board; and away we all went. I mention this as the cause why the steward was separated (only for a time, as we supposed) from his wife. We had not been clear of the ship more than five minutes before we found that we, in our boat, could hardly make head ’gainst the wind and swell, which bore down on the reef close to us; the launch, which was a heavy-pulling boat and deeply laden, could not; and in a quarter of an hour we had the misery to see her in the breakers, swallowed up with all hands, together with all the provisions and water for our sustenance. I will not attempt to describe the agony of the steward’s wife, who saw her husband perish before her eyes. She fainted; and it was a long time before she came to again; for no one could leave his oar for a minute to assist her, as we pulled for our lives. At last she did come to. Poor thing! I felt for her. Towards night the wind lulled, and we had every appearance of fine weather coming on; but we had nothing to eat, and only a barrico of water in the boat, and we were quite exhausted with fatigue.“‘We knew that we must pull to the northward, and try and fetch the Bahama Isles, or, perhaps, some of the small quays to the southward of them, where we might procure turtle, and, perhaps, water; and when the sea had gone down, which it did very fast, we put the head of our boat in that direction, pulling all night. At daybreak the other boat was not to be seen; it was a dead calm, but there was still a long heavy swell. We shared out some water and rested till the evening, and then we took to our oars again.“‘We rowed hard till the morning, but when the sun rose it scorched us up; it was impossible for us to keep to our oars without drinking, and, there being no one to take the command, our water was all gone, and we had not gained fifty miles to the northward. On the third morning we laid down exhausted at the bottom of the boat—we were dying not only with thirst but with hunger; we had agreed that when night came on we would take to the oars again; but some would and some would not; so that, at last, those who had taken to their oars would pull no longer.“‘The steward’s wife at times sang psalms, and at times wept; she had a very sweet voice; but her lips were soon glued together for want of water, and she could sing no longer.“‘When the sun rose on the fourth day, there was no vessel to be seen: some were raving for water, and others sat crouched under the boat’s thwarts in silent despair. But, towards evening, the sky clouded over, and there fell a heavy rain, which refreshed us. We took the gown from off the steward’s wife, and spread it, and caught the water; and we all drank until our thirst was quenched—even our wet clothes were a comfort to us; still we were gnawed with hunger. That night we slept; but the next morning every man’s eyes flashed, and we all looked as if we would eat each other; and there were whisperings and noddings going on in the bow of the boat; and a negro who was with us took out his knife, and sharpened it on the boat’s gunnel. No one asked him why. We spoke not, but we all had our own thoughts. It was dreadful to look at our hollow cheeks—our eyes sunken deep, but glaring like red-hot coals—our long beards and haggard faces—every one ready to raise his hand against the other. The poor woman never complained or said a word after she left off singing; her thoughts appeared elsewhere. She sat for hours motionless, with her eyes fixed on the still blue water, as if she would pierce its depth.“‘At last the negro came aft; and we were each upon our guard as he passed us, for we had seen him sharpen his knife. He went to the stern-sheets, where the poor woman sat, and we all knew what he intended to do, for he only acted our own thoughts. She was still hanging over the gunnel, with her eyes fixed downwards, and she heeded not his approach: he caught her by the hair, and dragged her head towards him. She then held out her arms towards me, faintly calling me by name; but I—shame on me!—remained sitting on the after thwart. The negro thrust his knife into her neck, below the ear; and, as soon as he had divided the artery, he glued his thick lips to the gash, and sucked her blood.“‘When the deed was done, others rose up and would have shared; but the negro kept his white eyes directed towards them—one arm thrust out, with his knife pointed at them, as he slaked his thirst, while, with his other round her waist, he supported her dying frame. The attitude was that of fondness, while the deed was—murder. He appeared as if he were caressing her, while her life’s blood poured into his throat. At last we all drew our knives; and the negro knew that he must resign his prey or his life. He dropped the woman, and she fell, with her face forward, at my feet. She was quite dead. And then—our hunger was relieved.“‘Three days passed away, and again we were mad for want of water,—when we saw a vessel. We shouted, and shook hands, and threw out the oars, and pulled as if we had never suffered. It was still calm, and, as we approached the vessel, we threw what remained of the poor woman into the sea; and the sharks finished what we had left. We agreed to say nothing about her, for we were ashamed of ourselves.“‘Now, I didnotmurder, but I didnotprevent it; and I have ever since been haunted by this poor woman. I see her and the negro constantly before me, and then I think of what passed, and I turn sick. I feel that I ought to have saved her—she is always holding out her arms to me, and I hear her faintly call “Charles”—then I read my Bible—and she disappears, and I feel as if I were forgiven. Tell me, what do you think, messmate?’“‘Why,’ replied I, ‘sarcumstances will make us do what we other wise would never think possible. I never was in such a predicament, and therefore can’t tell what people may be brought to do. But tell me, messmate, what was the name of the poor woman?’“‘The husband’s name was Ben Rivers.’“‘Rivers, did you say?’ replied I, struck all of a heap.“‘Yes,’ replied he; ‘that was her name; she was of this town. But never mind the name—tell me what you think, messmate?’“‘Well,’ says I (for I was quite bewildered), ‘I’ll tell you what, old fellow—as far as I’m consarned, you have my forgiveness, and now I must wish you good bye—and I pray to God that we may never meet again.’“‘Stop a little,’ said he; ‘don’t leave me this way. Ah! I see how it is—you think I’m a murderer.’“‘No I don’t,’ replied I; ‘not exactly—still, there’ll be no harm in your reading your Bible.’“And so I got up, and walked out of the room—for you see, Jack, although he mayn’t have been so much to blame, still I didn’t like to be in company with a man who had eaten upmy own mother!”Here Ben paused, and sighed deeply. I was so much shocked with the narrative that I could not say a word. At last Ben continued:— “I couldn’t stay in the room—I couldn’t stay in the workhouse. I couldn’t even stay in the town. Before the day closed I was out of it, and I have never been there since. Now, Jack, I must go in—remember what I have said to you, and larn to read your Bible.”I promised that I would, and that very evening I had my first lesson from Peter Anderson, and I continued to receive them until I could read well. He then taught me to write and cipher; but before I could do the latter, many events occurred, which must be made known to the reader.

Among the pensioners there was one with whom I must make the reader acquainted, as he will be an important person in this narrative. His name was Peter Anderson, a north countryman, I believe, from Greenock; he had been gunner’s mate in the service for many years, and, having been severely wounded in an action, he had been sent to Greenwich. He was a boatswain in Greenwich Hospital; that is, he had charge of a ward of twenty-five men, and Ben the Whaler had lately been appointed one of the boatswain’s mates under him. He was a very good scholar, and had read a great deal. You could hardly put any question to him, but you would get from him a satisfactory sort of an answer; and he was generally referred to in all points of dispute, especially in matters connected with the service, which he had at his fingers’ ends; and, moreover, he was a very religious good man. I never heard him swear, but correct all those who did so in his presence. He had saved some money in the service, the interest of which, with his allowances as boatswain, enabled him to obtain many little comforts, and to be generous to others. Before Ben was shifted over to Anderson’s ward, which he was when he was appointed boatswain’s mate under him, they had not been well acquainted; but, since that time, they were almost always together; so that now I knew Anderson, which I did not before, except by sight. He was a very venerable-looking old man, with grey locks curling down on his shoulders, but very stout and hearty; and, as Ben had told him all about me, he took notice of me, and appeared also to take an interest. When I came back, after the providential escape I have mentioned in the last chapter, Ben had narrated to him the conduct of my mother; and a day or two afterwards, when the frost had broken up, and they were both sitting down, basking in the sun, which was shining bright, I went up to them.

“Well, Jack,” said old Ben, “are you ready for another trip down the river?”

“I hope I shall earn my sixpence at an easier rate, if I do go,” replied I.

“It was wonderful that you were saved, boy,” said Peter Anderson, “and you ought to be very thankful to the Omniscient.”

I stared; for I had never heard that term applied to the Deity. “You mean God, don’t you?” said I, at last; for I thought he couldn’t mean any other.

“Yes boy; has not your mother taught you that name?”

“She never would teach me anything. All the prayers I know I have stolen from my sister.”

“And what do you know, Jack?”

“I know ‘Our Father,’ and ‘Now I lay down to sleep,’ and I believe that is all.”

“How old are you now, Jack?”

“I am three years older than Virginia; she, I heard my mother say, was six the other day,—then I suppose I’m nine.”

“Do you know your letters?”

“Yes, some of them; I learnt them on the boats.”

“But you cannot read?”

“No, not a word.”

“Has your mother ever told you of the Bible?”

“Not me; but I’ve heard her tell Virginia about it.”

“Don’t you ever go to church?”

“No, never. Mother takes little Virginia; but she says I’m too ragged and ungenteel.”

“Why does your mother neglect you? I suppose you are a bad boy?”

“That he’s not,” interrupted Ben; “that’s not the reason. But we must not talk about that now; only I must take Jack’s part. Go on, Peter.”

“Would you like to learn to read, Jack?” said Anderson; “and would you like to hear me read the Bible to you, until you can read it yourself?”

“Indeed I would,” replied I. “There’s many of the boys on the beach, smaller than me, who can both read and write.”

Peter Anderson then told me that he would teach me, provided I behaved myself well. He desired I would come to his cabin every afternoon at six o’clock, a time which interfered little with my avocation of “Poor Jack,” and that he would give me a lesson. Before he had finished talking, one of the lieutenants of the hospital sent for him; and Ben remained behind, to point out to me how valuable my knowing how to read and write might one day prove to me.

“I’ve no larning myself Jack,” said he; “and I know the loss of it. Had I known how to read and write, I might have been something better than a poor Greenwich pensioner; but nevertheless I’m thankful that I’m no worse. Ever since I’ve been a man grown I’ve only regretted it once,—and that’s been all my life. Why, Jack, I’d give this right arm of mine—to be sure, it’s no great things now, but once it could send a harpoon in, up to the hilt—but still a right arm is a right arm to the end of your days!—and I’d give it with pleasure, if I only knew how to read and write;—nay, I wouldn’t care about the writing; but, if I could only read print, Jack, I’d give it; for then I could read the Bible, as Peter Anderson does. Why, Jack, when we do go to chapel on Sunday, there’s not one in ten of us who can follow the parson with his book; all we can do is to listen; and when he has done speaking, we are done also, must wait till he preaches again. Don’t I feel ashamed, then, Jack, at not being able to read? and ought not they to feel proud who can;—no, not proud, but thankful? (Ben’s observations were true at the time he spoke; but this is no longer the case. So much more general has education become, that now, in a ship’s company, at least five out of seven can read.) We don’t think of the Bible much in our younger days, boy; but, when we are tripping our anchor for the other world, we long to read away our doubts and misgivings; and it’s the only chart you can navigate by safely. I think a parent has much to answer for, that don’t teach its child to read; but I must not blame my father or mother, for I never knew them.”

“Never knew them?”

“No, boy, no. My father and mother left me when I was one year old: he was drowned, and my mother—she died too, poor soul!”

“How did your mother die, Ben?”

“It’s a sad, sad story, Jack, and I cannot bear to think of it; it was told me long afterwards, by one who little thought to whom he was speaking.”

“Do tell me, Ben.”

“You’re too young, boy, for such a tale; it’s too shocking.”

“Was it worse than being froze to death, as I nearly was the other day?”

“Yes, my lad, worse than that; although, for one so young as you are, that was quite bad enough.”

“Well, Ben, I won’t ask you to tell me, if it pains you to tell it. But you did not do wrong?”

“How could a baby of two years old do wrong, and five thousand miles off at the time, you little fool? Well, I don’t know if I won’t tell you, Jack, after all, because you will then find out that there’s a comfort in reading the Bible; but you must promise me never to speak about it. I’m a foolish old fellow to tell it to you, Jack, I do believe, but I’m fond of you, boy, and I don’t like to say ‘no’ to you. Now come to an anchor close to me. The bells are ringing for dinner—I shall lose my meal, but you will not lose your story, and there will be no fear of interruption.

“My father was brought up to the sea, Jack, and was a smart young man till he was about thirty, when a fall from the main-yard disabled him from hard duty and going aloft; but still he had been brought up to sea, and was fit for nothing on shore. So, as he was a clean likely fellow, he obtained the situation of purser’s steward in an Indiaman. After that he was captain’s steward on board of several ships. He sailed originally from Yarmouth, and going home after a voyage to see his relations, he fell in with my mother, and they were spliced. He was very fond of his wife, and I believe she was a very true and good woman, equally fond of him. He went to sea again, and I was born. He made another voyage to India, and when he came back I was two years old. I do not recollect him or my mother. My father had agreed to sail to the West Indies as captain’s steward, and the captain, with whom he had sailed before, consented that he should take his wife with him, to attend upon the lady passengers; so I was left at Yarmouth, and put out to nurse till they came back. But they never came back, Jack; and, as soon as I can recollect, I found myself in the workhouse, and, when old enough, was sent to sea. I had been told that my father and mother had been lost at sea, but no one could tell me how, and I thought little more about it, for I had never known them, and those we don’t know we do not love or care for, be they father or mother.

“Well, I had sailed four or five voyages to the north in the whalers, and was then about twenty-five years old, when I thought I would go back to Yarmouth and show myself, for I was ‘harpooner and steersman’ at that early age, and not a little proud. I thought I would go and look at the old workhouse, for it was the only thing I could recollect, and see if the master and mistress were still alive, for they were kind to me when I was living with them. I went to Yarmouth, as I said. There was the workhouse, and the master and mistress both alive; and I made myself known to them, and the old people looked at me through their spectacles, and could not believe that I could possibly be the little Ben who used to run to the pump for water. I had money in my pocket, and I liked the old people, who offered me all they could give without hopes of receiving anything in return, and, as I knew nobody else, I used to live much with them, and pay them handsomely; I gave the old man some curiosities and the old woman a teapot, and so on, and I remained with them till it was time for me to sail again. Now, you see, Jack, among the old folk in the workhouse was a man who had been at sea; and I often had long talks with him, and gave him tobacco, which he couldn’t afford to buy,—for they don’t allow it in a workhouse, which is a great hardship, and I have often thought that I should not like to go into a workhouse because I never could have a bit of tobacco. This man’s hair was as white as snow, much too white for his age, for he was more decrepit and worn out than, perhaps, he was old. He had come home to his parish, and, being unable to gain his living, they had sent him to the workhouse. I can’t understand why a place should be called a workhouse where they do nothing at all. Well, Charley, as they called him, got very ill, and they thought he would not last long; and, when the old people were busy, I used to talk a great deal with him. He was generally very quiet and composed, and said he was comfortable, but that he knew he was going fast.

“‘But,’ says he, ‘here’s my comfort;’ and he pointed to a Bible that he had on his knees. ‘If it had not been for this book,’ said he, ‘I do think, at times, I should have made away with myself.’

“‘Why,’ says I, ‘what have you done? Have you been very wicked?’

“‘We are all very wicked,’ said he; ‘but that’s not exactly it. I have been haunted for so many years, that I have been almost driven mad.

“‘Why,’ said I, ‘what can you have done that you should have been haunted? You haven’t committed murder, have you?’

“‘Well, I don’t know what to say,’ replied he; ‘if a man looks on and don’t prevent murder, is it not the same? I haven’t long to live, and I feel as if I should be happier if I made a clean breast of it; for I have kept the secret a long while, and I think that you, as a sailor, and knowing what sailors suffer, may have a fellow-feeling; and perhaps you will tell me (for I’m somewhat uneasy about it) whether you think that I am so very much to blame in the business? I’ve suffered enough for it these many years, and I trust that it will not be forgotten that I have so, when I’m called up to be judged—as we all shall, if this book is true, as I fully believe it to be.’

“Here he appeared to be a good deal upset; but he took a drink of water, and then he told me as follows:—

“‘About twenty-three years ago I was a seaman on board of the William and Caroline, West Indiaman, bound to Jamaica. We had two or three passengers on board, and the steward’s wife attended upon them. She was a handsome tall young woman; and when she and her husband came on board, they told me they had one child, which they had left at home. Now Yarmouth, you see, is my native place, and, although I did not know her husband, I knew her family very well; so we were very intimate, and used to talk about the people we knew, and so on. I mention this in consequence of what occurred afterwards. We arrived very safe at Jamaica, and remained, as usual, some time at the island before the drogers brought round our cargo, and then we again sailed for England.

“‘Well, we got clear of the islands, and were getting well north, when there came on a terrible gale of wind which dismasted us; and for three weeks we were rolling about gunnel under, for we were very heavily laden, and we lost our reckoning. At last we found out that we had been blown down among the reefs to the southward of the Bahama Isles. We had at one time rigged jury-masts, but unfortunately the gale had blown up again, and carried them also over the side; and we had no means of doing anything, for we had no more small spars or sails, and all our hopes were of falling in with some vessel which might assist us.

“‘But we had no such good fortune; and one morning, when a heavy sea was running, we discovered that it was bearing us down upon a reef of rocks, from which there was no chance of escape. We had no resource but to get the boats out, and take our chance in them. The captain was very cool and collected; he ordered everything in which might be requisite; called up the men, and explained to them his intentions. All the water and provisions were put into the launch, for the sea ran so high that the small boats could not carry them; and it was intended that all the boats should keep company till it moderated, and then each boat should have its own supply. When all was ready, we weretold offto our respective boats. The steward and his wife were to be in the same boat with me, and I had put her carefully in the stern-sheets, for I was her great friend. Now the steward was called out by the captain to go for something which had been forgotten; and while he was away the ship was struck by a heavy sea, which occasioned such a breach over her that all was in confusion; and, to prevent the small boats from swamping, they were pushed off. The launch still held on for the captain, who hastened in with the mate and the steward, for they were the only three left on board; and away we all went. I mention this as the cause why the steward was separated (only for a time, as we supposed) from his wife. We had not been clear of the ship more than five minutes before we found that we, in our boat, could hardly make head ’gainst the wind and swell, which bore down on the reef close to us; the launch, which was a heavy-pulling boat and deeply laden, could not; and in a quarter of an hour we had the misery to see her in the breakers, swallowed up with all hands, together with all the provisions and water for our sustenance. I will not attempt to describe the agony of the steward’s wife, who saw her husband perish before her eyes. She fainted; and it was a long time before she came to again; for no one could leave his oar for a minute to assist her, as we pulled for our lives. At last she did come to. Poor thing! I felt for her. Towards night the wind lulled, and we had every appearance of fine weather coming on; but we had nothing to eat, and only a barrico of water in the boat, and we were quite exhausted with fatigue.

“‘We knew that we must pull to the northward, and try and fetch the Bahama Isles, or, perhaps, some of the small quays to the southward of them, where we might procure turtle, and, perhaps, water; and when the sea had gone down, which it did very fast, we put the head of our boat in that direction, pulling all night. At daybreak the other boat was not to be seen; it was a dead calm, but there was still a long heavy swell. We shared out some water and rested till the evening, and then we took to our oars again.

“‘We rowed hard till the morning, but when the sun rose it scorched us up; it was impossible for us to keep to our oars without drinking, and, there being no one to take the command, our water was all gone, and we had not gained fifty miles to the northward. On the third morning we laid down exhausted at the bottom of the boat—we were dying not only with thirst but with hunger; we had agreed that when night came on we would take to the oars again; but some would and some would not; so that, at last, those who had taken to their oars would pull no longer.

“‘The steward’s wife at times sang psalms, and at times wept; she had a very sweet voice; but her lips were soon glued together for want of water, and she could sing no longer.

“‘When the sun rose on the fourth day, there was no vessel to be seen: some were raving for water, and others sat crouched under the boat’s thwarts in silent despair. But, towards evening, the sky clouded over, and there fell a heavy rain, which refreshed us. We took the gown from off the steward’s wife, and spread it, and caught the water; and we all drank until our thirst was quenched—even our wet clothes were a comfort to us; still we were gnawed with hunger. That night we slept; but the next morning every man’s eyes flashed, and we all looked as if we would eat each other; and there were whisperings and noddings going on in the bow of the boat; and a negro who was with us took out his knife, and sharpened it on the boat’s gunnel. No one asked him why. We spoke not, but we all had our own thoughts. It was dreadful to look at our hollow cheeks—our eyes sunken deep, but glaring like red-hot coals—our long beards and haggard faces—every one ready to raise his hand against the other. The poor woman never complained or said a word after she left off singing; her thoughts appeared elsewhere. She sat for hours motionless, with her eyes fixed on the still blue water, as if she would pierce its depth.

“‘At last the negro came aft; and we were each upon our guard as he passed us, for we had seen him sharpen his knife. He went to the stern-sheets, where the poor woman sat, and we all knew what he intended to do, for he only acted our own thoughts. She was still hanging over the gunnel, with her eyes fixed downwards, and she heeded not his approach: he caught her by the hair, and dragged her head towards him. She then held out her arms towards me, faintly calling me by name; but I—shame on me!—remained sitting on the after thwart. The negro thrust his knife into her neck, below the ear; and, as soon as he had divided the artery, he glued his thick lips to the gash, and sucked her blood.

“‘When the deed was done, others rose up and would have shared; but the negro kept his white eyes directed towards them—one arm thrust out, with his knife pointed at them, as he slaked his thirst, while, with his other round her waist, he supported her dying frame. The attitude was that of fondness, while the deed was—murder. He appeared as if he were caressing her, while her life’s blood poured into his throat. At last we all drew our knives; and the negro knew that he must resign his prey or his life. He dropped the woman, and she fell, with her face forward, at my feet. She was quite dead. And then—our hunger was relieved.

“‘Three days passed away, and again we were mad for want of water,—when we saw a vessel. We shouted, and shook hands, and threw out the oars, and pulled as if we had never suffered. It was still calm, and, as we approached the vessel, we threw what remained of the poor woman into the sea; and the sharks finished what we had left. We agreed to say nothing about her, for we were ashamed of ourselves.

“‘Now, I didnotmurder, but I didnotprevent it; and I have ever since been haunted by this poor woman. I see her and the negro constantly before me, and then I think of what passed, and I turn sick. I feel that I ought to have saved her—she is always holding out her arms to me, and I hear her faintly call “Charles”—then I read my Bible—and she disappears, and I feel as if I were forgiven. Tell me, what do you think, messmate?’

“‘Why,’ replied I, ‘sarcumstances will make us do what we other wise would never think possible. I never was in such a predicament, and therefore can’t tell what people may be brought to do. But tell me, messmate, what was the name of the poor woman?’

“‘The husband’s name was Ben Rivers.’

“‘Rivers, did you say?’ replied I, struck all of a heap.

“‘Yes,’ replied he; ‘that was her name; she was of this town. But never mind the name—tell me what you think, messmate?’

“‘Well,’ says I (for I was quite bewildered), ‘I’ll tell you what, old fellow—as far as I’m consarned, you have my forgiveness, and now I must wish you good bye—and I pray to God that we may never meet again.’

“‘Stop a little,’ said he; ‘don’t leave me this way. Ah! I see how it is—you think I’m a murderer.’

“‘No I don’t,’ replied I; ‘not exactly—still, there’ll be no harm in your reading your Bible.’

“And so I got up, and walked out of the room—for you see, Jack, although he mayn’t have been so much to blame, still I didn’t like to be in company with a man who had eaten upmy own mother!”

Here Ben paused, and sighed deeply. I was so much shocked with the narrative that I could not say a word. At last Ben continued:— “I couldn’t stay in the room—I couldn’t stay in the workhouse. I couldn’t even stay in the town. Before the day closed I was out of it, and I have never been there since. Now, Jack, I must go in—remember what I have said to you, and larn to read your Bible.”

I promised that I would, and that very evening I had my first lesson from Peter Anderson, and I continued to receive them until I could read well. He then taught me to write and cipher; but before I could do the latter, many events occurred, which must be made known to the reader.

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