TOM BROOKES.

No cannon peal’d his knell,No shout that gain’d the day,Gave his frail spirit one farewell,To waft it on its way.He rush’d all life into the wave,And found at once his death and grave!

No cannon peal’d his knell,

No shout that gain’d the day,

Gave his frail spirit one farewell,

To waft it on its way.

He rush’d all life into the wave,

And found at once his death and grave!

’Twas in the days of my boyhood, and though since that time many years have rolled their burdens on my head,—years that, like billows on the sand, have smoothed the traces which memory once had made, yet I can remember the circumstances as if it was but yesterday and the tears still wet upon my cheek; for I had known Tom Brookes from my infancy, and he had often brought me home some curiosity from distant lands, where the cedar and the pine-tree grow in rich luxuriance. Indeed it was his tales of the ocean, when the spreading sail was filled to waft the gallant ship to foreign climes, that first excited my desires to become a sailor.

Poor Tom had been brought up in expectation of a genteel fortune, and had been educated mostscrupulously to revere a rigid sense of virtue, and to maintain that independency of spirit, which can only be fully appreciated by a noble mind. But ah! how soon can adversity cloud the fairest prospects! And here it came, not like the rising gale that gives a timely warning of its approach; no, it resembled the wild tornado, bursting with sudden vengeance on its victim, without a moment’s space to tell that death rides on the blast.

His father was ruined by an unforeseen reverse in trade; he could not stand against the shock, and he sank broken-hearted to the grave, leaving a widow and one child to mourn the unexpected change in their prosperity, but still more to grieve for him who could never return again.

Mrs. Brookes had a brother, who had been nearly all his life at sea; and to him poor Tom was consigned, to brave the perils of the briny deep. “Don’t cry, mother,” he exclaimed at the parting, “don’t cry; I shall soon come back, and be enabled to provide for your support. Providence may smile upon us yet, and your last days be your best.”—“Go, my child,” replied the mother, whilst her heart swelled almost to bursting, “go, my child; I will resign you to the merciful care of that Being who is a father to the fatherless, and the widow’s God and Judge.”

After his departure, poor Tom received one letter from his mother before he sailed. It inculcatedall the moral and religious duties; requested him to peruse his bible, and near the close were the following lines, which he committed to memory; and in after years, when an infant sitting on his knee, he repeated them to me so often, that they became deeply impressed upon my mind:—

TO MY SAILOR BOY.

“When sailing on the ocean,In foreign climes you roam,Oh, think with fond emotion,upon your distant home;And never strive to smother,But treasure up with joy,Remembrance of a mother,Who loves her Sailor Boy.When thunders loud are roaring,And vivid lightning flies,The rain in torrents pouring,Sleep will depart my eyes;Tears will bedew my pillow,You all my thoughts employ,Tossed on the angry billowA little Sailor Boy.Kind Providence protect you,And bring you back again;Your mother will expect you,Safe from the troubled main.No, Heaven will not distress me,The widow’s hope destroy;Return once more to bless me,My little Sailor Boy.”

“When sailing on the ocean,

In foreign climes you roam,

Oh, think with fond emotion,

upon your distant home;

And never strive to smother,

But treasure up with joy,

Remembrance of a mother,

Who loves her Sailor Boy.

When thunders loud are roaring,And vivid lightning flies,The rain in torrents pouring,Sleep will depart my eyes;Tears will bedew my pillow,You all my thoughts employ,Tossed on the angry billowA little Sailor Boy.

When thunders loud are roaring,

And vivid lightning flies,

The rain in torrents pouring,

Sleep will depart my eyes;

Tears will bedew my pillow,

You all my thoughts employ,

Tossed on the angry billow

A little Sailor Boy.

Kind Providence protect you,And bring you back again;Your mother will expect you,Safe from the troubled main.No, Heaven will not distress me,The widow’s hope destroy;Return once more to bless me,My little Sailor Boy.”

Kind Providence protect you,

And bring you back again;

Your mother will expect you,

Safe from the troubled main.

No, Heaven will not distress me,

The widow’s hope destroy;

Return once more to bless me,

My little Sailor Boy.”

In the course of a few years, Tom became mate of a fine ship in the merchants’ service, and his efforts seemed crowned with success. He enjoyed the sweet satisfaction of seeing his mother comfortably situated, and his heart whispered it was the reward of virtue.

But who can arraign the will of Heaven, or say to Omnipotence, “What doest thou?” War with all its attendant horrors broke out, and the cruel system of impressment was adopted for the purpose of manning our fleets.

At this critical juncture, Tom received information that his parent was rapidly hastening to the mansions of immortality,—“where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” He had recently arrived in England full of joyous anticipation; but he found the silver cord of existence was loosened, and the golden bowl dashed from his lips:—he reached his home just time enough to receive the last farewell benediction of his dying mother.

Before the earth had closed over the remains of his parent,—before she had become mingled with the clods of the valley, the press-gangs were actively on the alert, and poor Tom fell into their hands. No time was allowed to lay his mother in the silent grave;—he kissed the clay-cold bosom on which he had hung in infancy, and with stern serenity yielded himself a prisoner. Heloved his country, and would not have shrunk from its service in the hour of battle; but at such a moment to be forced away!—it was draining the cup of anguish to the very dregs.

At this period I had commenced my career as a sailor, and was then lying in a ship of war at Plymouth under sailing-orders for a foreign station, but waiting for a full complement of hands;—indeed, men were so scarce, that some of the ablest felons had been selected from the jails to make up the crews.

I was walking the deck, when a party of these convicts came alongside with a draught of seamen from the flag-ship, and among the latter I recognised Tom Brookes; he was dressed in deep black, and his fine and manly countenance betrayed the indignation and agony that struggled in his heart. Surely it was impossible to mistake his character, for when called before the captain he behaved with a gentlemanly respect that commanded admiration. But Captain S——[4]was one of those (happily there were but very few in the service) who were tyrannical and brutal by nature; and when poor Tom approached, he exclaimed, “Well, fellow, whose pocket have you been picking?”

Surely this might have been spared; for Tom’scountenance was an index to an honest and an upright mind; his attire was most respectable, and every action bespoke the experienced seaman. Never shall I forget his look; it showed the conflicting struggles of a proud spirit; but it was only for a moment. He fixed his steady gaze upon the inquirer, who shrank before it. Captain S—— seemed to read his thoughts, and he was a man that never forgave.

A boatswain’s-mate was directed to cut off the tails of his coat,[5]so as to render it more like a seaman’s jacket. The man approached, but this coat was the mourning he wore for his mother, and bitter recollections crossing his mind, he threw the boatswain’s-mate from him to the opposite side of the deck. This was considered an act of mutiny, and poor Tom was put in irons, with his legs stapled to the deck. Being, however, a good seaman, his services were required; so that he was shortly afterwards released, and sent to do his duty on the forecastle.

We sailed in a few days, and after being some time at sea, the captain remembering what had taken place in harbour, ordered poor Tom, by way of punishment, to perform most of the menial offices of his station, and at length insisted on hisexecuting the most degrading duty in a ship of war,—that of sweeping the decks. This he refused with a respectful firmness; and in that he certainly was wrong, for obedience is the first test of duty—no matter from what motive the order proceeds, and in refusing to obey, Tom acted improperly as a seaman; but who can condemn him, having the feelings of a man? His refusal, however, was of no avail; the broom was lashed by small cords to his hands, and a boatswain’s-mate stood ready with a rope’s end to enforce command. Tom obstinately declared that he would die rather than submit to unmerited oppression; the blows fell heavy on his back, but they could not change the purpose of the heart. In the moment of his anguish, whilst smarting from the stripes, but writhing still more with inward torture that bowed his spirit, he uttered some severe invectives upon the tyranny of his commander. The hands were immediately turned up, the gratings were seized to the gangway, and poor Tom was ordered to strip for flogging. Resistance was useless, his outspread arms and extended legs were lashed to the gratings, and after reading the Articles of War for disobedience of orders, the captain directed the boatswain’s-mate to give him two dozen.

This was not the first time I had witnessed punishment at the gangway, for scarcely a dayhad passed without it since my joining the ship. But poor Tom had been my early friend; I called to mind the happy hours we had passed together, and now to see him with his back lacerated and bleeding, the cat o’ nine tails cutting deep into his flesh,—oh, it was too much for me to endure, and I fell at the captain’s feet. He spurned me from him, and the first dozen having been given, a fresh boatswain’s-mate was called to give the second.

Tom never flinched; he remained immovable as a rock, and the only indication of bodily pain, was occasionally a contraction of the muscles of his face,—a deeper, an all-absorbing agony seemed to have triumphed over mere corporeal suffering,—an agony arising from the desperate struggles of his soul. I looked at the countenances of the men, but the generality seemed to have sunk into a settled apathy, and only a few, who had recently joined us from the Barfleur, displayed the workings of determined minds. They gazed at each other and tried to catch the sentiments of the crew; and it was plain, that had a corresponding feeling animated the whole, consequences the most fatal and desperate must have ensued. But the ship’s company had not been long together, and mutual distrust prevented an open declaration of discontent.

The flogging ceased, and poor Tom was consignedto the master-at-arms, and his legs once more fixed in the shackles. I tried to approach him, but was prevented by the marine who stood sentinel over him; my attempt was not however unnoticed, and the unfortunate victim gave me a look, and even a smile of grateful acknowledgment. Ah! then my heart sunk within me. I retired to the dark recess of the cable-tier,[6]and gave vent to my tears,—for what could a child in his twelfth year do to save the sufferer from the strong arm of power? I consoled myself with the idea that Tom would soon be released, but in this too I was mistaken; for on the following morning he persisted in his refusal to sweep the decks, was again seized up to the gangway, and two dozen lashes more were inflicted upon his already scored and mangled back.

The torture was beyond human endurance, and though no shriek betrayed the anguish of the smart, yet a convulsive spasm too clearly indicated the rending of the wounds. Still his firmness did not forsake him, and whilst the cat fell heavy on his shoulders, he remonstrated with his persecutor, and appealed to the officers whether he had not always performed his duty. No voice was raised in his behalf, though looks spoke, as forcibly as looks could speak, the detestation ofevery one for such merciless cruelty. At this moment, Will Scott stepped from among the assembled crew; he looked wildly upon his shipmates, particularly upon his old messmates, the Barfleurs; but all remained motionless as statues, and he resumed his station. Again the lash descended, and again the instrument of punishment was stained with the blood of the wretched man. Imprecations on the captain burst from his lips, and madness seemed to dictate his wild incoherent ravings; he was no longer passive, his mind gave way, and at the last stroke he hung senseless by the cords which bound his wrists to the gratings.

He was cast loose, and on his reviving, was again shackled in the irons, with the promise of a renewal of punishment on the morrow if he still disobeyed. In fact, the captain found his authority was at stake; he saw that he had excited disaffection; he knew that the principal portion of his crew (many of them desperate characters,) were not to be trusted, and the very men on whom he placed reliance—the Barfleurs—were disgusted with his treatment. To have receded, he considered, would have been an acknowledgment of error, and one triumph of the people would have been the prelude to more humiliating concessions. Thus he argued, and his very existence seemed to depend upon the issue.

It was one of those beautiful evenings in June, when the setting sun upon the verge of the horizon tinges the whole expanse of ocean with its golden brightness, that I stood upon the forecastle contemplating the glories of creation, and presumptuously arraigning Divine Providence for what I foolishly deemed an unequal distribution of good and ill. The seamen were formed in groupes along the gangway and waist, and the officers were pacing the larboard side of the quarter-deck, leaving the starboard side to the captain, who walked sullenly and alone. The lieutenant of the watch stood on the gangway, and did not join him; and there he strode, pale discontent upon his cheek and keen mistrust in the restless glancing of his eye.

The evening was indeed lovely, and calculated to calm the raging passions of the soul. The sea was beautifully smooth, the sails slept deep and still, and though scarcely a breath was felt, yet the breeze upon the quarter was carrying the vessel almost imperceptibly at the rate of five knots[7]an hour. I was but a boy,—a mere child, and whilst looking at the mild blue sky I thought of my home and of my mother. Poor Tom, too,he whose arms had cradled me in infancy! but what could I do? Whilst my thoughts were thus occupied, a marine with his drawn bayonet appeared ascending the fore-ladder; close behind came poor Tom Brookes, and every tongue was hushed. The captain caught sight of him and stopped; the officers continued their walk, but their eager gaze alternately changed from the captain to the suffering victim of his austerity; but no voice gave utterance to thought.

Poor Tom, I think I see him now! Ah! well do I remember the ghastly dolor of his look as he approached me; his eyes cast down, and his whole thoughts apparently rivetted on one object alone,—but it is impossible to describe it. I touched his arm, for nature spoke within me, and I could not help it. He paused for one moment, and a roseate flush suffused his cheeks; he seized my hand, and I felt that his was burning. I looked in his face, it was lightened up by a smile—but such a smile! It struck me he was thinking of his mother.

“Henry,” he said, whilst grasping my hand, “Henry, your parents! Do me justice, I ask no more.” He drew his hand away, passed it over my face as he was wont to do when I was an infant, and as his features contracted with a long convulsive sob he added, “Henry, your mother!Be good, be kind, be dutiful!” and turning round, he walked forward to the bows.[8]

I felt as if something was strangling me; my blood rushed to my head, and a dread of I knew not what sickened my very soul. A death-like stupor pervaded my faculties; but I was aroused from this state by the voice of the marine shouting “A man overboard! a man overboard!” The truth flashed upon my mind, and as the ship rounded-to (for the helm was instantly put down) I ran to the lee cat-head,[9]and saw the dark body as it sank in the gurgling eddy which the plunge had made. Yes, it was Tom Brookes, and he never rose again. Some heavy shot were missing from the place where he had been confined, and these he had no doubt concealed about his person to facilitate the work of destruction. Poor Tom, the waters closed above his head, and who can read his doom!

May my young readers learn, from his untimely end, to temper judgment with mercy; and if power should ever be placed in their hands, to receive it as a sacred deposit for which they must render an account. May they use, but not abuse it; for a day is coming when theoppressor and the oppressed will meet before the same tribunal; when the individuals of whom I have been writing will stand with them at the bar of Omnipotence, and hear the sentence of that Judge from whose tribunal there is no appeal!

Footnotes[4]He was afterwardsdismissed by the navyfor cruelty.[5]This was a common practice in the service when men were first impressed.[6]The place where the cables are coiled away.[7]Five miles.[8]The head of a ship.[9]A piece of timber projecting from the bows, by which the anchor is hoisted up for security.

[4]He was afterwardsdismissed by the navyfor cruelty.

[5]This was a common practice in the service when men were first impressed.

[6]The place where the cables are coiled away.

[7]Five miles.

[8]The head of a ship.

[9]A piece of timber projecting from the bows, by which the anchor is hoisted up for security.

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