Alfred laughed heartily, as he replied, "Haven't I though! What with being up in the morning foddering cattle, milking cows, then out in the field ploughing and harrowing, I've had a terrible hard time of it!"
The captain took one of Alfred's hand in his own. It was as white and soft as an infant's, and gave the lie direct to all he had been saying.
"Those hands have always been my misfortune," cried the boy, the slightest tinge of color being perceptible, as he saw the gentleman mistrusted him. "You see they're naturally small, and the old woman was kind of proud of 'em, and do what I would, she'd always make me wear gloves or mittens. The old man scolded and stormed about it, and said my hands were no better than his; and so that's why—"
"Well, you wont be compelled to wear gloves, now," said the captain, interrupting him; "the boatswain will soon cure you, my lad;" and there was a sly twinkle in his eye, which showed he was willing the youth should be thus cured.
Before he had been one day on the water, poor Amos, as he was called, became dreadfully sea-sick, and began to regret most heartily the hasty step he had taken. He lay down on the deck, feeling too utterly helpless to get into his berth. He thought he was going to die; and his disobedience to his parents, his unkindness to his only sister, his unruly conduct at school, his bad example to his schoolmates, came up in dreadful array before him, like so many witnesses, to send him to everlasting ruin. In his distress he cried aloud; but there was no one to soothe his pain, or even to sympathize with his grief;—no kind mother to hold his aching head, or administer medicine to relieve the deadly sickness which so awfully oppressed him;—no one to bind up his swollen, bleeding hands. The rough tars who saw him lying, pale and weeping, upon the deck, only laughed at his misery, or gave him a kick to arouse him, while they offered to give him a junk of salt pork.
The only one who showed him any kindness was the black cook, who brought him warm water in a small tin pot, and told him if he would drink it he would soon be relieved.
In three days he was as well as ever, in bodily health; but in morals he had sadly deteriorated, bad as he was before. He was now forced to work, and work hard. He was obliged to stand his watch like the older sailors; to go aloft, to reef and furl the sails, to slush or grease the masts, sweep and clear up decks, coil up rigging, pass the balls of spun-yarn, or otherwise assist the older sea-men.
Then when it was fair weather, and no particular work going forward, he was required to learn to draw and make knots in the spunyarn or ropes, to set the top-gallant sail, to reef or reduce a sail, to reeve the gear, or pass the end of a rope through a block or hole in the vessel, and to learn the names and uses of the ropes.
In addition to all this, if any man wanted help in his job, or there was any duty to be done aloft or about decks which did not require the strength or skill of a seaman, he was expected to start promptly, and do it without waiting to be called upon.
Poor Alfred! He looked back upon his school-life, which, except as an opportunity for some wicked sport, he had heretofore considered as in the highest degree irksome, as a life of bliss compared with what he now endured. "What a fool I was!" he repeated to himself many times in a day. But now there was no escape for him.
Then the contrast between the luxurious fare of his home and the vile rations, as he called them, of his mariner's life was, so disgusting to him that for a long time he could scarcely bring himself to eat at all. There his richly-cooked food was served in elegant china, cut glass, and splendid service of plate, while here his ration of salt beef, bean porridge and ship-bread, cooked for him at the galley, must be eaten from a small wooden tub called a kid, his tea or coffee from a tin pot. There were no tables, knives or forks in the forecastle, unless the latter were furnished by the sailor himself; and, as Alfred knew nothing of this necessity, he was obliged to get along as best he could.
The strict discipline on board ship he found almost intolerable. At sea, the time is marked by bells. At noon, eight strokes are made upon the bell, and from that time it is struck every half-hour, beginning at half-past twelve, which is one bell. One o'clock is two bells, half-past one three bells, and so on until four o'clock, which will be eight bells, when what is called the watch is out, a term used for dividing the time, and also for a division of a crew.
As soon as eight bells are struck, the officer of the watch on duty gives orders to call the watch below, who, if it is the night, are probably asleep. There is no opportunity for the boy to turn himself in bed and get a comfortable nap. As soon as he hears the sound, "Eight bells!" or the hour, "Do you hear, sleepers?" or something of that kind, he must turn out at once, in order that the other watch may go below.
While at school, Alfred had always been notorious for disorderly conduct during study hours. With entire disregard of the rules, he would whisper, whistle, pinch his companions, or do anything to draw their attention from their books.
On board ship no conversation was allowed while the men were performing their work,—certainly not in the presence of an officer. Occasionally, when two men were by themselves on deck, he had observed that a little low talk had not been noticed, unless it took their attention from their business.
On one occasion, when he and one of his messmates, that is, one who ate with him, were aloft, he began, to joke and laugh, for which he was immediately reprimanded; and, as he had never learned to be silent when reproved, he replied, in an insolent tone, "The other men talk, and why can't I?" For this disrespect of authority, he was condemned to forfeit half his next ration.
In working ship, when the men were at their stations, the same silence and decorum were enforced. But when the sailors were together on the forecastle, at night, and no work was going forward, considerable noise was allowed.
Smoking, singing, laughing, telling yarns, which means repeating long stories, made that part of the vessel quite lively. It was during these hours that Alfred had rapidly advanced in sin. He always put himself in the way of those who were noted for their profane and lewd conversation. Here he became skilled in every kind of impurity; so that his obscene talk was a wonder even to his wicked companions. But every week he grew more unhappy. There was not an hour in the day that he did not curse the captain, the crew, his own hard lot, and sometimes even his Maker. His hands were frightfully torn and blistered by the rigging; but whenever he complained, he only brought upon himself a hearty laugh, and the ever-recurring joke of the gloves. This had no other effect upon him than to curse himself for a fool, in not being able to invent a more plausible story. No thought of the sin of lying entered his mind. No sorrow at having violated the commands of God; nothing but regret that he had not told a more cunningly-devised tale.
The Dolphin, in which he sailed, was bound for Calcutta, and was to touch at some small islands for fresh provisions and water. Long before they reached this port, he had resolved to run away. He learned from the sailors that banannas and bread-fruit grew wild upon the islands, and that the natives passed their lives in idleness and ease. He pleased himself with the fancy that this was exactly the place for him.
Though the youngest on board ship, Alfred prided himself in being able to swear as roundly, or talk in as vulgar a strain, as the most degraded of his companions. They delighted to lead him on in sin, but secretly despised him for his easy adaptation to their vile habits. Whether he expressed too much interest in the fact that the vessel was to touch at the island, or whether the captain had seen enough of the lad to convince him that no confidence could be placed in his fidelity, certain it is, that both the first and second mates had orders to watch him closely while in port; and if he showed a design to leave the ship, to lock him up in the hold of the vessel.
Totally unsuspicious of this, Alfred asked leave to accompany some of the men along the shore in search of eggs. He was refused. His eyes flashed fire; and he muttered a dreadful oath, as he turned away.
"Give me leave to take him in hand!" exclaimed Mr. Bond, the second mate; "I'll soon break him of swearing at his officers."
"You're welcome to the dirty job," replied the first mate; "I don't relish such business."
So Alfred was delivered over to the tender mercies of a man whose dignity as an inferior in command had often been offended by the lad's insolence and disrespect, though, warned by his messmates, the boy had been careful to keep within certain limits, to escape his well-merited punishment.
The captain was on board another vessel, which was being loaded with palm oil and provisions, where he was to dine; and the first mate, with some of the crew, were just starting for an expedition to the island. The coast was, therefore, clear; and Mr. Bond ordered Harding, as he called him, to appear on deck.
The lad at first refused to obey. He was burning with rage and indignation that he was not allowed the same liberty as his messmates. He also began to fear that the vessel would sail again before he should have an opportunity to escape. While cherishing such feelings, he could not brook the idea of appearing on deck to answer to any charge which might be made against him.
"You'll not find me carrying such a message as that for you," said the sailor; "and, though I owe you no favors, yet I advise you to start at once, if you don't want to be shut up in the hold."
Alfred started at this; for his present life of labor and restraint had become intolerable to him; and, if confined while in port, there was an end of his chance to escape from it.
"How dare you have the impudence to swear at your officers?" began the mate, in an angry tone.
Alfred glanced at him from under his half-closed eyelids, and sullenly remained silent.
"Dogged, are you!" shouted the other, springing forward, and giving the sailor a cuff across his face.
At this insult, Alfred bounded forward like a tiger, and endeavored to catch Mr. Bond by the throat; but the other was more than a match for him; and, before the wicked fellow had come to his senses, his arms were confined, he was dragged along to the hatch-way, and pushed down into the hold of the vessel. Here he was left to reflect upon the consequences of his conduct, the mate meanwhile nursing his wrath to keep it warm until the arrival of the captain.
The whole affair was then related to him in an exaggerated form, the personal attack upon his life having aggravated the rage of his officer to the last degree.
The captain, who had from the first taken a dislike to the boy, gave orders to have him remain in confinement until the ship sailed, and to be kept on water-gruel.
Through the remainder of the voyage, Alfred showed that he considered himself a much abused and injured lad. He was so surly and ill-natured that he was disliked by the crew; and, though his tedious confinement had led him to beware of offending the officers, yet his manners showed that it was only fear which restrained him from offering them every species of insult.
He went regularly to work, and formed a plan by which he might deceive the captain and mates with regard to his intention of returning with them. He took advantage of various opportunities to ask the mate how long the Dolphin would remain in Calcutta before she would return to America,—whether she would sail directly for home, or go by the way of England. And one day, after having tried, by strict attention to his duties, to propitiate favor, he inquired of the captain whether he might not ship on the return voyage as a sailor, confessing that he was heartily sick of a seafaring life, and wanted to earn enough to buy decent clothes and return home.
The captain encouraged him to learn all that he could from the helmsman, and notice particularly the seamen in their work of mending the rigging, with the hope of promotion if he did well.
But all this time the wicked boy did not for a moment intend to return with the Dolphin, or even to go another voyage in any vessel. He fancied if he could but once be on shore, he should be able to find some employment far more congenial to his tastes; or rather that, in some unexplained way, he should be able to live without working at all. These questions were only to serve as a blind, to ward off any suspicion that he wished to desert, which he resolved to do the first opportunity.
Ascertaining from some of the crew the length of time which the ship usually remained in port, he calculated his chances of success to be greater if he remained in her until near her time of sailing. He listened with apparent indifference, but with real interest, to the sailors as they recounted their various plans for the disposal of their time, plans, many of them too revolting to mention.
At length the cheerful sound, "Land ahead! land, ho!" was heard; and both officers and crew began to prepare for the end of their voyage. Though there was often a tedious delay, on account of the dangerous sand-banks, in proceeding up the river to Calcutta, in the present case they were so fortunate as to make a quick passage.
THE City of Calcutta is situated on the Hoogly river, which is a branch of the Ganges, navigable to ships of the largest size. The Dolphin was a merchant ship, and was laden with ice and provisions, which the captain wished to exchange for leather, saltpetre, and other heavy commodities. The crew were required to remain and assist in unloading the vessel; but, after this had been accomplished, they were allowed to wander about the city, provided they returned to the vessel at the expiration of forty-eight hours.
Alfred was not slow to avail himself of this privilege. He visited the part of the city occupied by the English, and was delighted to see the elegant houses, many of them like palaces. These, he found, were not built in rows, or blocks, as in cities at home, but stood apart, at some distance from each other, on account of the intense heat. They were built with high, airy apartments and flat roofs, and surrounded with verandahs.
From this part of the city he went to what is called the Black town, occupied by the natives. This presented a striking contrast with the former. The houses, which are formed of mud, bamboo, or straw mats, stand upon narrow and crooked streets, interspersed with small gardens and tanks of water.
Here, I am sorry to say, he was led by his companions into all species of low dissipation. In this way, day after day was passed, until the captain announced the time of sailing. His conduct had been such since his arrival in port that no suspicion was entertained of his wish to desert. Now was his chance to do so, if ever. The next time he went out he put on a double suit of clothes, and carfully securing the small sum of money which remained from his wages, he took his final leave of the vessel. On several occasions he had purposely separated himself, for a short time, from his companions, that they might not suspect him of wishing to do so eventually. But now, as soon as an opportunity occurred, he ran away and secreted himself, trembling with fear, until he thought the vessel must have sailed. Here in a strange laud, unable to comprehend a word of the language, he suffered so much that he almost wished he had returned home with the ship. But when he came forth from his concealment, and ventured to ask if the vessel was still in port, he was too late. The Dolphin had sailed. Now he returned to the haunts of vice which had attracted him when he first came to the city, where, in pandering to his wicked passions, he soon spent every copper he had in the world, and when night came on he found himself homeless and penniless. Many times in the course of the next week did the words of Harrison, so long forgotten, come to his mind, "the wages of sin is death." Many times he thought he should starve, and probably would have done so had it not been for the kindness of sailors whom he accidentally met.
One day when he was so extremely reduced by want that he could scarcely stand, he tried to crawl along toward the port of Calcutta, and endeavor to find a vessel ready to sail for America. "I may as well die in one place as another," he said to himself, "and I shall certainly die if I remain here."
At length, when he had nearly reached the shipping, he was accosted in his native tongue by a youth near his own age.
"You look ill, my poor follow; what is the matter?"
"I am dying of hunger," replied Alfred, feebly.
"Come with me, then; I think we can soon cure him. Don't you think so?" turning to his companion. "Here, let me help you;" and placing a strong arm around the emaciated, boy, he led him on to the side of a vessel lying at the harbor. After requesting him to wait a minute, he darted away, and soon returned with a fine fresh cocoa nut, which he gave the famishing youth. He seemed to the poor forsaken boy like an angel of mercy. He had often in his distress fallen asleep to dream that tempting fruit, such as he now held in his hand, was placed within his reach, but he had not strength to take it. Now he feared he should awake and find this also but a dream.
Feeling greatly revived by this seasonable supply of food, he readily consented to accompany his new friend to the captain of the vessel, and endeavor to obtain a berth in the barque, which was named Josephine.
Though he had been so long on board ship; yet here everything seemed new and strange. The youth, who was called Frank, approached the captain with the ease, vivacity, and confidence of a child; while in return the gentleman appeared to feel for him the affection of a father. Leaving Alfred standing near the forecastle, Frank went on to tell his tale, and interest the officer in the distressed youth.
"Bring him here," said the gentleman, with a smile; "I'm afraid your warm heart has led you away, as usual, on some wild-goose chase."
Frank obeyed, and summoned Alfred aft.
Sad to relate, the wicked boy commenced this new acquaintance by a false tale. He said that he had been sick ever since he was in port, so sick that he could not reach the vessel; that the captain sent one of the crew the day before they sailed, to say that they were ready for sea, and that as he was so unwell he had better remain on shore for another ship. Since that time, which he alleged was some months previous to this, he had not been able to work enough to obtain food sufficient to restore him to health, though his fever had long ago left him.
The marks of vice were too visible in the countenance of Alfred for Captain Monroe to mistake his real character; but he saw no reason to doubt the story of the lad, and, after ascertaining from him that he knew something of the business of a sailor, he promoted him from the duties of a boy to those of an ordinary seaman.
This is one who, from want of sufficient age or strength or experience, or all of these, is not competent to perform all the duties of an able seaman, and therefore receives less wages. He is expected to be well acquainted with all the rigging of a ship, to be able to steer under ordinary circumstances, to furl a top-gallant sail, or a royal, which is a light sail next above it. It is commonly expected that he should be able to make spun-yarn, formed by twisting two or three rope yarns together, and sennet, a braid plaited together of ropes or spun-yarn; that he should understand the art of splicing ropes, forming the rigging, and making a great variety of knots commonly termed sailors' knots.
Alfred, as we have seen, had never tried to fit himself for the performance of these duties, though his former captain had recommended him to do so if he wished to be promoted. Indeed, he had determined never to go another voyage, so that he had not been at sea many hours before the mate reported him entirely unfit for a seaman, and, therefore, degraded him to the rank of what is termed a green hand.
* * * * * * *
Here we will leave him, while we give a brief account of the youth named Frank, who first introduced him on board the Josephine; and who, notwithstanding Alfred's disgrace, took every opportunity to prove to him that he was his real friend.
Frank, or Francis Greyson, was the son of a gentleman residing near the large city which was the birthplace of Alfred. He was rather a sickly boy, and caused his parents great anxiety lest he should never live to reach maturity. His mother had a brother who was a seaman, a noble, Christian man, an ornament to the profession he had chosen. When on shore this gentleman made his home with his sister. It was not strange, therefore, that, hearing his uncle's lively descriptions of the sea, and having constantly before his view—hung as it was between the front windows of his mother's parlor—a picture of the Sea-shell, the vessel which his uncle commanded, that he should conceive a desire to accompany him on a voyage.
To this Mrs. Greyson at first absolutely refused her consent, but finally yielded to her brother's solicitations, and the advice of their family physician that a voyage round the world would do more for the strong physical development of the boy than a whole case of medicine.
I have not space to describe any of the incidents of the voyage, except one which occurred near its close. It is enough for our present purpose to say that Frank shipped as cabin-boy, without pay, and therefore was not subjected to the hard work required of Alfred. By his prompt and cheerful obedience to orders, and his readiness to lend a hand to any one in need of his services, he rendered himself a favorite with all on board. From the captain in his office to the boy-of-all-work, each one was pleased with the opportunity to do Frank a kind turn.
Every morning and evening when the weather would admit, all hands, except those absolutely necessary for steering the ship, were called together to hear the beautiful service of the Episcopal Church; and often during the day the noble boy might be seen relieving the tedious watch of the sailor by reading to him the word of God.
On the Sea-shell, an oath or impure word was punished as severely as any other breach of the rules of the ship, and the captain had more than once appealed to the sailors, by their affection for the beautiful boy, who was the pride of the whole crew, to help him keep his promise to his sister. This was, that Frank, by the blessing of God, should be returned to her as pure in heart and life as he left her. There was not an honest tar on board but would have felt the blush of shame burn his rough cheek to have Frank hear from his lips a word that could defile his ear.
The voyage had been a successful one, and already the seamen began to feel the breezes of home fan their cheeks, when on a dark and tempestuous night, the awful cry of "Ship ahoy! right upon us!" sounded loud and fearful through the roaring of the tempest. The shock came so suddenly that before the officers could give any orders the bowsprit passed over the bulwarks, tearing through shrouds and rigging. The vessel had parted, and the ship's company were either clinging to the broken pieces of their vessel or thrown into the water. Fortunately for them aid was soon at hand. The ship Josephine, which had been the cause of this dreadful disaster, threw over buoys, her coops and ropes, and let down boats, to rescue the poor drowning sailors; but as they were so near home, they, of course, preferred being taken on board other boats, which carried them to vessels lying in the harbor, from which they safely reached the shore.
The noise and tumult in both vessels was beyond description. In the midst of all the horror and confusion caused by this dreadful accident, nothing distressed the captain more than the loss of his nephew. Uniformly calm and self-possessed, he seemed now almost beside himself with fear and grief as one company after another reached the ship, and no one could give the least information with regard to Frank. He tried to realize the truth of what his mates and others told him so hopefully, that probably Frank had been picked up by some other vessel, but there was a heart-sinking fear which predominated above all other emotions, and that was, that his lovely boy lay at the bottom of the sea.
How should he ever dare to convey to the mother such sorrowful tidings? How could he meet her anxious inquiries, "Oh, where is my son?"
He reached the shore, no longer hailed with delight as his native soil. He forgot that in one moment the savings of his lifetime had been engulphed by the treacherous waves. Ho forgot everything in his wild searchings for his boy; and at last was forced to carry bitter, bitter sorrow and anguish to the hearts waiting with buoyant expectation for the coming of their loved ones.
In the mean time Frank was not dead. When he felt the terrible crash which rent the vessel asunder, with one bound he sprang from the parted ship on board the Josephine, which caused the fatal catastrophe.
It was not until the sun was several hours high that Captain Monroe, who commanded the vessel bound to Calcutta, discovered a boy leaning over the side of the ship, weeping bitterly.
He approached him quickly, inquiring, "What is the matter, my lad; and how did you come on board the Josephine?"
Frank narrated his wonderful escape from the parted vessel, and was then led on to give an account of himself and the bitter disappointment he had experienced in being obliged to go to sea again without visiting his parents.
"They will think I am dead!" exclaimed the boy, in a passion of grief; "and my uncle, if he is alive, will blame himself that he persuaded mother to let me go with him."
"What is your uncle's name?" asked the sympathizing captain.
"His name is James Taylor. The commander of the vessel."
"Ah! why, he is one of my dearest friends!"
"Do you think he was drowned?"
"Oh no! he was picked up and carried on shore."
Frank began to cry again.
"It is a misfortune, certainly," said the good mans his eyes becoming dewy with sympathizing tears; "but we will try to make it as easy for you as we can. In the first place, you must write a letter to your parents, which I will enclose in one to my owners, that it may be delivered with due caution, and have them ready for the first vessel we meet. I am sorry to say, though, it is an uncommon circumstance to speak vessels in the latitude to which we are going; and therefore you must not be disappointed if we do not have an opportunity to send home until near the end of our voyage." This proved to be the case; but in the mean time Frank, with the natural buoyancy of youth, had recovered his spirits, and had rendered himself almost as much beloved on board the Josephine as during his former voyage. With the captain his influence was almost unbounded. He regarded the sad catastrophe which had brought him in close proximity to such a youth as one of the greatest blessings of his life. He had been blessed with a pious mother, and he had a praying wife; but the influence of worldly cares had gradually dissipated whatever seriousness he might once have had, though he still entertained a great respect for religion.
The first thing that particularly interested him in Frank was observing the soothing effect which prayer had upon him. During the early part of the voyage, the boy would often give way to bursts of irrepressible sorrow that he could not have seen his parents and sister before going again on so long a voyage. In vain his friend tried to soothe him by promises of presents they would purchase in Calcutta for the absent ones; his tears would flow like a river. At length he would go into his little cabin, next to the captain's, and pour out his griefs before his sympathizing Saviour. In a few minutes he would return, with a calm, serious air, certainly, but with his sorrow quite subdued.
On one occasion, Captain Monroe, curious to know the secret of such an influence, followed the boy and listened at the door of his room.
It was a touching picture: the child upon his knees, wrestling with his heavenly Father for more submission to his holy will, for the cheerful acquiescence in his lot, which should prove him to be following the example of him who drank, without murmuring, the cup of sorrow to the dregs; for grace to live so humbly that all who saw him might be won to his Saviour; for the dear ones who were mourning his loss at home. The officer also appeared, wiping the fast-flowing tears, at the half-open door.
Frank was not slow to notice the change in the captain's deportment; and his sorrow for himself decreased as he began to plead with God for a blessing upon his friend.
Nor was it long before the answer came. One day Captain Monroe called Frank into his cabin and said, "I have found out why you were subjected to so bitter a disappointment. God sent you to me, as a means of leading me to a knowledge of my Saviour's love."
"I was sure," answered the boy, in his simple, trusting manner, "that God did it for the best; and that was why I tried so hard to say, 'Thy will be done.'"
AS they gradually approached their native land, Frank asked, "Do you think father and mother will be at the wharf to meet me?"
The Captain was silent. He was not at all certain that they had received the letters sent by a vessel five days out from Calcutta. He knew the moment they reached the shore, in case his friends were not there to receive him, the ardent boy would wish to fly to their embrace. He determined, if this were so, to accompany the lad at once, as it would involve but a few hours absence from his ship, which he could consign to the care of his mate.
It happened as he had feared. Amidst the crowd assembled at the wharf, Frank searched in vain for one familiar face. Sympathizing in his disappointment, Captain Monroe at once ordered a carriage to convey him to Mr. Greyson's residence, which, as I have stated, was only a few miles from the city. On the way, he endeavored to impress upon the mind of the excited youth that his parents might not have heard of his rescue; and therefore that extreme caution was necessary in imparting such joyful tidings.
Frank could not realize the danger, but acquiesced in the suggestion of his friend.
It was just at dusk when the carriage drove slowly into the yard. His heart bounded with joy. He could scarcely contain himself. He must scream or do something to relieve his over-burdened feelings. Meantime Captain Monroe had alighted, rung the bell, and was presently admitted within the door.
Frank cautiously put aside the curtain and peeped out, saying to himself, "They wouldn't shut the door so quickly if they knew who was here!"
The family had just assembled for tea, and Captain Monroe, knowing that Frank could not be trusted to remain long in the carriage, proceeded, in rather a blunt manner, to inquire for his friend Captain Taylor.
"He has gone to sea again," replied Mrs. Greyson, in a sad tone.
The gentleman noticed at a glance that the lady was dressed in deep mourning; and he inquired, rather abruptly, "Have you heard nothing from your son who sailed with him?"
Every particle of color vanished from the lady's face, and Mr. Greyson, who approached quickly to her side, answered,
"Alas! Nothing."
"Can you bear good news, my friends?" Before either of them could reply, the door softly opened, and Frank, who thought he had been left alone for an hour, burst into the room and rushed into his mother's arms.
It was as the gentleman had feared. Such an excess of joy overpowered her senses; and she would have fallen to the floor but for the aid of her husband and son. It was not long, however, that she lay unconscious. She opened her eyes to the happy conviction that "He whom we mourned as dead is alive again; he that was lost is found."
No such emotions of pleasure existed in the breast of Alfred at the idea of returning to his native land and visiting his mother, whom he had left in her hour of bitterest woe. His vices had effectually weaned him from kindred and home. When he went on shore, he bent his steps to that house which Solomon has described as the house of death.
Two days later Captain Monroe met him staggering along the streets in company with two drunken fellows, with a pipe in his mouth, and a terrible oath upon his lip.
The good man remonstrated kindly with him upon his wicked course, which he assured him would lead to swift destruction.
Alfred hung down his head, but made no reply.
"Are you going to sea again?" asked the gentleman.
"Not if I know it."
"What then shall you do?"
"Oh, I can find employment enough on shore."
"Would you like to go into the country and work on a farm?"
"No; work don't suit my constitution," replied the boy, with an ugly leer at his companions.
"I would be your friend, young man," continued the captain, "but you will not allow me. But let me warn you that idleness leads to vice, and that if you do not seek honest employment you will sink deeper and deeper in sin."
He turned away sick at heart, saying to himself, "I will not tell Frank that I saw him, he would grieve so over the poor God-forsaken fellow."
But this precaution proved useless. A few weeks after this, Mr. Greyson and his son were walking on the wharves, when they saw just before them a police officer arrest a company of drunken men for fighting in the streets. Frank gazed at them with great compassion, when suddenly he recognized Alfred. With a start of surprise he left his father, ran and seized the hand of the poor degraded fellow.
"O, Amos!" he cried, the only name by which he had known him; "don't go with those wicked men; come with me, father will find you something to do."
"He has been arrested for engaging in a drunken brawl," said the police officer, "and must come with me to prison."
"To prison! O Amos!" exclaimed Frank with horror.
"You see you can do nothing for him now," suggested Mr. Greyson, "and you are detaining the officer from his duty."
Frank then ascertained to what place he would be conveyed, and having obtained a promise from his father to accompany him there, turned sorrowfully away.
The next day they visited the prison, and found Alfred sullen, and not disposed to converse. Mr. Greyson endeavored to draw from him an account of his former life. He appealed to him by his love for his mother to turn from his evil ways, and become an industrious, useful man.
But there was no answering sign. No tear dimmed his bloodshot eyes at the recollection of her who had given him birth. There seemed to be nothing to appeal to. The moral principle had all gone; and Frank, who had sat silently gazing at his companion, arose when his father ceased speaking, and turned away, hopeless of softening so hard a heart.
Nearly a year later, Mrs. Haven and her daughter were one evening seated in their pleasant parlor. The lady was sewing, while Ella read aloud, when they were suddenly startled by seeing a man's face pressed close up to the window.
The child screamed, but Mrs. Haven, with quiet presence of mind, bid her run and lock the doors, and call Hannah, a stout maid servant, from the kitchen.
It had always been Hannah's boast that she feared nothing; and now she delighted in this opportunity to show her courage.
Feeling protected by her presence, Mrs. Haven threw up the window, and asked the man what he wanted.
He made no reply, but stood with his insolent eyes fixed upon her face.
At first she only noticed a frightfully bloated countenance, long tangled hair hanging from underneath an old soiled cap, and rude, insolent eyes staring at her and Ella in a dreadfully familiar and disgusting manner. But suddenly she grew pale and staggered back-against Hannah, with a shriek of agony crying out, "O, my God! can this be my son?"
At these words, Ella, who had regarded the man with horror, burst into a loud cry.
"Open the door, Hannah," sobbed Mrs. Haven, making a dreadful effort to recover herself. "It is my son! my only son!"
But Hannah, who had always supposed Ella to be the only child, absolutely refused. "It's imposing upon, ma'am, he is. Sure and the likes of ye could never have so awful a cratur to call ye kin, let alone saying he's your son." Mrs. Haven arose from the couch upon which she had helplessly sunk, and walking feebly to the door, drew the bolt, and admitted her wayward boy. Ella covered her face with her hands and sobbed aloud.
"Pretty welcome for a fellow who has been gone two years, I'm thinking," muttered Alfred. "Ella, do hold your tongue; what are you making such a great baby of yourself for?"
Hannah stood with an air of defiance, ready to spring at the uncouth, shabbily-dressed fellow the moment her mistress would consent. But finding that there was no appearance of relenting, and that she seemed reluctlantly indeed, to admit the relation, she exclaimed, "And sure, ma'am, I'd better be turning him out entirely, though it's many a day since I've done so dirty job. But I'm thinking it'll be a disgrace to ye all, let alone me, who allus was called a dacent girl, to have the wicked cratur in it."
Ella started up and ran from the room, and Mrs. Haven motioned Hannah to follow her.
Meanwhile the most dreadful struggle was taking place in her own mind. Her heart had yearned over her son; and since she had learned to pray, his name and Ella's had always been associated in her daily supplications. But with her whole soul she shrank from companionship with such a sin-polluted wretch as this one seemed to be. It was not that he was poorly clad; it was the unmistakable marks of dissipation and vice that made him so revolting. She looked at him again; she scanned him closely to see if there was one trait that was not wholly depraved. But, alas! she grew more sick at heart every moment.
At length, feeling that she must say something, she inquired, "How long have you been ashore, my son?"
"Just landed," he replied, glancing up from under his eyebrows. "Got anything to eat in the house?" then adding, with an oath which made her shudder, "haven't tasted a mouthful since morning."
The lady told him to follow her into the next room, where she set before him food sufficient to make a hearty meal.
He ate voraciously; and then, when he thought he was not perceived, slipped the silver fork which lay by his plate into his pocket.
His mother, who had been closely watching him, saw the action and sighed heavily. But it led her to be more cautious in future.
"Got any loose change?" he inquired, starting from his seat; "s'pose I'd better be going?"
"We are poor, you know, Alfred," was her reply, "and it is only by close economy that we are enabled to live."
"Ella's rich enough."
"She does not come into possession of her property until she is of age; but if you are really suffering, lay down the fork you have taken from the table and I will give you what it is worth. You could not sell it without risk to yourself, for it is marked."
Alfred poured out a volley of oaths, until his mother pressed her hand upon his eyes, exclaiming, "How can I endure this!"
The fork was thrown angrily upon the table; then, holding out his hand for the money, lie strode rudely from the house, slamming the door after him.
When Ella ran back into the room, she found her mother weeping convulsively in a fit of hysterics; and it was a long time before the united efforts of Hannah and herself could restore her to any degree of composure. At last the poor mother retired to rest, but no sleep visited her eyelids. She reviewed the past; and oh, how bitterly she reproached herself that she had not earlier taught her boy his duty to his Maker. She looked into the future, and could readily foresee that, having once obtained the means of gratifying his wicked passions, he would not be slow to return. Should she thus encourage him in sin? Should she permit his presence to bring a blight upon the youth of her lovely daughter? Ah, no! It could not be her duty! If he were repentant, how gladly would she take him to her arms and endeavor to lead him back to virtue. Then she was aware, judging from this one short interview, that he was wholly devoid of honesty, and that if she admitted him to the house nothing would be safe from his grasp. Before she arose the next morning she resolved that if he visited the house again she would let the cottage, and remove to some other place until he had lost sight of them.
Ella arose from her bed pale and nervous. She took her accustomed seat at the table, but she could not eat; and at length, with a gush of tears, sobbed out, "O, mamma, isn't it dreadful!"
Just at this moment a shadow crossed the window, and the poor girl, with a look of horror, sank back in her chair, trembling like a leaf, while even her mother shook visibly. But it was only the postman with letters.
"This will never do," said the lady, glancing at her daughter's cheeks, which alternately flushed and turned pale. "We will leave the cottage and hide ourselves from him. I hope we may never see him again, unless God in his infinite mercy converts his soul."
Through the day they watched with trembling anxiety; but he whom they much dreaded to see did not return. They would have been relieved could they have known that he had passed the time in close confinement, his board and expenses being paid by the State.
At the close of the third day, however, Hannah, who had been sent by her mistress on an errand, was returning home, when she was suddenly caught by a man who had come softly up behind her, and before she could release herself he had beat her unmercifully upon the head. Her screams at length brought a gentleman from his house who caught the drunken brute, and detained him until assistance could be procured to take him to a station-house. The next morning Hannah was summoned to appear in court, and state his offense. She was delighted to go, for though she said not a word of her suspicions, yet she was sure she had recognized the voice of the loathsome fellow who had tried to impose himself upon her mistress as a son.
Having narrated the circumstances to the judge in her own quaint manner, which had caused a smile to run all round the court-room, his honor was beginning to state the sum which the criminal was fined, when she suddenly interrupted him. "Sure, yer honor, it's not money I want from the rascal."
"And how should you like him to be punished," asked the gentleman, much amused at her earnestness.
"Och, yer honor, if ye'd have the goodness to bid some one to howld the man, and let me whip him forenenst the court, I'd pay him his dues, I'm thinking. I would have done it at wonct hadn't he come upon me so unknowst and treacherous like."
A burst of laughter followed this unusual plea.
The prisoner was fined the cost of court, and was bound over to keep the peace for six months. Failing to produce the sum, he was put in prison for a certain term, his honor gravely remarking that it was, indeed, sad to witness the moral degradation of one so young, and that, as his countenance had become quite too familiar in court, he was recommended to commence at once a thorough reformation.
Hannah returned to the cottage undecided whether to inform her mistress that, in the prisoner she had recognized the villain who had given Miss Ella such a fright. She gave an animated account of the trial, and the mode of punishment recommended by herself, at which the lady laughed heartily; but when the honest girl, growing warm by the interest she excited proceeded to say, "and who, ma'am, do you think the villian was, but the likes of him who intruded hisself by appearing befere yees like a ghost at the window, and not ringing the door-bell, like a dacent man." The lady clasped her hands, and suddenly left the room.
Presently. Hannah, with a flash of joy illuminating her whole face, followed. She knocked softly at the mistress's room. There was no reply. She gently opened the door, and found the distressed mother upon her knees.
At so unusual an interruption, the lady turned her woe-stricken face toward the door.
"I've good news for ye, ma'am," exclaimed Hannah; "and so I made bowld to intrude. The prisoner's name is Amos Harding, and not Haven, at all. So don't be bothering your dear heart about the vile scoundrel."
It was indeed a relief to know that the name of Haven would not be associated with such villainy; but still the widowed mother's heart was heavy. Before the close of the day, she found a sympathizing friend and adviser in Mr. Cowles, who readily accompanied her to the prisoner, to make one more appeal to him to abandon his evil ways.
This effort, like the preceding ones of Mr. Greyson and Captain Monroe, proved wholly unavailing. Indeed, he seemed determined to render himself as loathsome to his mother as possible. She plead with him by the memory of his father, by the compassionate love of the Saviour, who (vile as he was) would pardon and sanctify him. But he laughed her to scorn. As soon as she found that her prayers and entreaties were useless, she arose at once to leave him, when he poured out such a strain of profanity and lewdness that she was ready to sink to the floor.
Before the close of another week, the pleasant cottage, which had sheltered her in her widowhood, was let for a year; and she, with Ella and the faithful Hannah, had gone to live in the country.
BEFORE we close, we will sketch briefly some of the leading events in the life of our hero, and then take a final glance at the principal characters of our story.
Harrison continued in the employ of Mr. Kilby until the business of the firm of Grant & Co. was finally settled, and proved himself not only so faithful, but so well adapted to mercantile life, that, young as he was, the gentleman offered to take him into his store at the West, and give him a share of the profits, if he would consent to leave his native State.
But the youth could not for a moment entertain the question of leaving his mother in her feeble health, and he hesitated about assuming such a trust as would there devolve upon him until he had thoroughly learned the principles of the trade.
"If you will not accept my proposition," said his kind friend, with a smile, "I must do the next best thing for you, and find you a good place here."
He made many inquiries among his business friends, but found some objection to every situation that offered until he happened to meet an acquaintance at a public dinner, when the following conversation took place:
"Do you know of a good opening for a young man every way unexceptionable in character and habits?"
"We have a vacancy in our store; but I am anxious to find a youth to whom I promised to apply in case such an event should occur. Unfortunately I have lost his address."
"I can recommend my young friend highly," urged Mr. Kilby; and he related briefly the connection Harrison maintained to him.
"A fine fellow, I have no doubt," was the warm reply; "but I took a fancy to this lad, and I really want to find him. He had an open, ingenuous countenance, and eyes that did not quail when you looked him square in the face. He told me he supported his mother, too; and I like boys that do that. So, much as I should like to oblige you, I'll make a thorough search for my friend before I give him up."
"At any rate, you wont object to my calling with him?"
"Certainly not," was the laughing retort; "but don't encourage him about the vacancy."
The next morning, Harrison, in company with Mr. Kilby, walked to the wharf, and entered the store of Lombard & Lamb, the gentleman motioning the youth to walk forward to the counting-room, where he saw Mr. Lombard writing at the desk, while he stopped a moment to speak to the other partner.
Harrison instantly recognized the gentleman who had been so kind to him at the time he was looking for a place. He stood near the counting-room door, hesitating whether to enter, when the old gentleman looked up.
"Ah!" he said, holding out his hand, in the most cordial manner, "I'm glad to see you again. Walk in here; I want to talk with you!"
At this moment Mr. Kilby came forward, when Mr. Lombard said, quickly, much to the youth's surprise, "This is the one I mentioned. If he is not engaged, your protegé will have no chance."
The gentleman smiled as he said, "Your description was so good that I suspected we were talking of the same individual. Before you engage him, however, I shall wish to be consulted, as he is under my care."
The preliminaries being most happily arranged, Harrison entered the store of Lombard & Lamb, as salesman, this firm being in the same general business as that of Grant & Company. Here he maintained the same character for industry and honesty as when connected with the other firm, and rose step by step in the confidence and esteem of his employers, until he joined the firm as junior partner. A few years later, Mr. Lombard, now at an advanced age, declared his intention of retiring from active business. He did so; but not until he had testified by his conduct, his high appreciation of the energetic habits and the high business qualifications of his young partner, by giving him an equal share in the profits of the firm.
In all his prosperity, Mrs. Danforth shared, and was often cheered by her son's assurance that to her faithful instructions, under God, he owed all his success.
"You early taught me to work, mother," he would say, with a smile of filial affection, "and it is right you should reap the reward of my industry."
Mrs. Haven continued to reside in the country for many years, occupying herself in completing her daughter's education, for which employment she was well fitted. At length, having entirely lost all knowledge of Alfred, she ventured to yield to Ella's desire, and moved back to her pleasant cottage, which had been thoroughly repaired for her use.
And now, my young reader, if, as I hope, you have followed the fortunes of my humble hero with interest, let me invite you to visit with me that fine mansion reared upon the spot where once stood Mrs. Haven's cottage. It is Christmas eve; and, as we approach, we see that the house is brilliantly illuminated. It is evident that company is expected. In a spacious parlor on the right of the hall stands a fine, noble-looking man, in whom it would be difficult to recognize our young favorite, Harrison Danforth. Yet, when he turns to the lady on his left, with a smile, we see that his mouth has lost none of its sweetness, though the predominent expression is firmness. In his whole character and bearing, he exemplifies the text which so animated him in his youth, "Seest thou a man diligent in his business, he shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men."
The lady just referred to, is of that beautiful fairness of complexion which is usually found only in children. As she stands there by her life's chosen companion, with her soft hair partly shading her fair forehead, her lips parted in a smile, she looks too young to have taken upon herself the cares of a matron. Then, again, have you never before seen that bright, laughing face, with the deepening color coming and going like a cloud in a summer sky? Yes, it is Ella Haven, fulfilling more than the promise of her childhood, for she has received humbly the chastening rod of her Heavenly Father, and has come forth from the furnace refined like silver. For nearly three years the mortal remains of her mother have been reposing in the quiet church yard; but her soul, through faith in Christ, rested safely in the bosom of her God.
Near the happy pair, in a quiet corner, sits Mrs. Danforth, with a look of calm happiness upon her features. She is now receiving a rich reward, in the usefulness and happiness of her son, for all her labors, instructions, and prayers in his behalf, and every day realizes in her own experience the truth of the precious promise, "Train up a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not depart from it."
Presently the expected company begin to arrive. Carriage after carriage drives to the door, is disburdened of its living freight, and rolls away to make room for still others. Truly, this is a goodly gathering.
And now the guests have all advanced to their host and hostess, exchanged cordially with them the compliments of the evening, and scattered themselves around the room to discuss the topics of the day. But they have scarcely formed themselves into groups before a little urchin of three summers is led into the room by his nurse, from whom he escapes the moment he espies his parents among the crowd.
"Papa, come! Mamma, see! pretty angels here for Harry," and taking his father's hand, attempted to pull him from the room. Mr. Danforth laughingly yielded to the little fellow, though this was not exactly the programme for the evening; and, after a moment's consultation with his wife, in a raised voice, requested any of the company who liked to do so, to proceed to the next room.
Most of those present quickly followed. Upon the doors being opened, a large Christmas-tree was seen standing in the further corner of the apartment, the branches hung with small, colored candles, interspersed with a great variety of children's toys. Suspended above the tree was the angel referred to by Harry. Its arms were folded lovingly across its breast; but its wings were spread, as if on this auspicious eve it hovered over the scene.
But the prettiest tableaux of all was the twenty little boys and girls, under six years of age, who, in their holiday attire, stood with raised eyes and clasped hands, apparently entranced by the heavenly vision. There was a sudden hush among the company to gaze at them.
Presently the angel's wings began to flutter, as if she wished to take her flight. But no; she descended and rested on the topmost branch of the tree, when, wonderful to relate, another angel appeared, and began to distribute the Christmas gifts. With outstretched pinions she seemed scarcely to touch the earth, as she beckoned to one and another of the awe-struck group, and placed some beautiful trinket within their hands. Not a word was spoken while the scene lasted, and the silence was becoming almost embarrassing to the principal actor, when Harry, who had stood watching the angel with his large, earnest eyes, suddenly cried out, "Oh, it's my mamma! I see her curls tucked under the cap," clapping his tiny hands, in his joy.
Seeing herself discovered, Ella lifted her light crown, and her hair falling to its natural position, the children gave a sigh of relief, and the company burst into a merry laugh.
The little ones then were invited to a number of pleasant games, in which Master Johnny Cowles Marland, a little youngster claimed by our old friend Mary Jane, quite distinguished himself. They were playing button, button, who has the button? when he arose at once, and proudly declared himself to be the favored possessor. Neither, when the game was explained to him, could he be made to understand that it was right for him to guess, "Harry or Nelly have the button," while he held it between his own fingers. "No, no!" he cried; "I has got the button, and danpa dives me oranges when I tell the truth."
There was quite a shout at this, and one of the gentlemen remarked to Alderman Cowles, "He is a chip of the old block, I see."
After the games, the ladies and gentlemen walked to the supper-room to see the children partake of refreshments, when the little ones were consigned to the care of their nurses, and sent home to their pillows, to dream of the angels, while the older company returned to the parlors to seek further entertainment.
From these innocent amusements we must carry the reader to far graver scenes.
During the evening in question, the mind of Mr. Danforth more than once reverted to a cold, damp dungeon, not a dozen miles from his house, where, awaiting his trial for murder, lay a prisoner,—the brother of his beloved wife. He tried to throw it off and mingle gaily in the scene; but there would ever and anon come up to his remembrance thoughts of other days, when Alfred, the haughty, proud, and idle boy delighted to domineer over him, the poor but diligent youth. How strikingly in contrast was the meeting of that very day. God had rewarded the honest exertions of the poor youth, and he was rich and esteemed among men; while the idle, slothful boy had become a contemner of God, and had been cast away among the very lowest dregs of society.
The Monday following Christmas, Mrs. Danforth, wholly unconscious that her only brother was that day to be brought to trial for his life, proposed to her husband to improve the first sleighing by a ride. "Only think!" she exclaimed, with something of the enthusiasm of her girlhood, "How funny it will be for Harry! You know he can't remember riding in a sleigh."
"I should enjoy it extremely," said her husband, in a serious tone; "but I shall be very much engaged to-day, in fact all the week; but that need not prevent you and Harry from enjoying this fine winter weather. Robert can be spared from the store, and if you say so, I'll send him out."
"But what have you to do?" she asked, playfully. "Some public business, T dare say. I'm almost sorry that people like you so very well, for I don't see you half as much as I want to."
"Thank you, my dear. The knowledge of your affection will strengthen me in the performance of one of the most painful duties I have ever discharged. I am to-day to sit in judgment upon one of my fellow-creatures who is on trial for his life. I tremble lest I should judge him wrongfully."
"Dreadful!" cried the lady. "Who is he, and what is his crime?"
"He professes to be a Spaniard, from Cuba," responded the gentleman; "but I confess that I have my doubts upon that point. He pretends, too, that he cannot understand a word of English; but when I was conversing with the gentleman who accompanied me to the prison, the man listened as if he comprehended as well as any of us. The crime for which he was arrested is murder upon the sea. It seems that there was a very bad set among the crew; and they formed a conspiracy, headed by this man, to kill the captain, two mates and the cabin-boy, and then seize the vessel."
"Oh shocking!" exclaimed Ella. "But did they succeed?"
"Only in part. They murdered one of the mates and the poor boy, who could not be persuaded to join them. The captain by some means found them out in time to save his own life. Sandoval, as he calls himself, was put in irons, and the others closely watched until they reached the port from which they were all sent here for trial."
"Who went with you, Harrison?"
"A gentleman by the name of Captain Greyson,—a fine man, whom I like extremely. I shall want you to become acquainted with him. He seems quite sure that he once returned from Calcutta in a ship with the prisoner, and that he is not a Spaniard, as he pretends. He also is to be one of the jury men."
"Well, whoever he is," sighed the lady, "I'm sure I pity him with all my heart. I wonder whether he has any friends. When I hear of a very bad man, I always think what mamma and I suffered about poor Alfred. Husband," she added, after a moment's pause, "you needn't send Robert out; I don't think I could enjoy riding when I thought of you in the jury-box."
"Nonsense, dear!" he exclaimed, patting her head fondly. "It will be a comfort to me to know that you are enjoying yourself. I would not have told you, but I was afraid you might be anxious, as I may be detained overnight."
"What for?" she inquired, in alarm.
"In a case of capital crime, my dear, the jury are never allowed to converse with any one from the time they are impanelled, or sworn into their office, until the case is decided."
"Oh, I hope you'll be able to vote for him to be released," she urged, gazing earnestly in his face.
"I hope so, indeed, Ella!" he said, turning away, faint and sick at heart.
"Oh, what would she say!" he exclaimed when by himself, "if she knew the prisoner was her own brother. I cannot tell her. No; I must bear this dreadful burden of grief alone. Situated as she is, it might kill her."
On his way to the court-room he met Captain Greyson, whom we formerly knew and loved as Frank. "How strange," said he, "that the prisoner holds out so. Sometimes I am almost tempted to think I am mistaken in supposing that I once knew him."
"God grant that it may be so," replied Mr. Danforth, in a thrilling tone; and then recovering himself, added, "it seems to me tenfold worse to be the means of convicting a countryman."