Captain Frederick Marryat (continued 5)

Chapter Twenty Five.

In which Bramble points out to me that singing is part of the profession of a pilot.

In about a fortnight from the time that Bramble commenced his tuition, I was quite perfect with the compass; his method certainly was very good, for by such reiterated catechising what you had to learn was graven on your memory. All day long the same system was pursued. Even if dinner was on the table, the compass was on a chair close by, and as I was putting my fork to my mouth, much to Bessy’s amusement, out would come the question, “How’s her head, Tom?” Bramble soon gained his point; I could answer like lightning. But whether I was by the fire indoors, or on the shingle beach, his system was ever the same: every time that Bramble opened his lips I gained some information; he was never wearying, and often very amusing.

One morning we were out on the beach—we had been conversing with the other pilots, and examining the vessels in the offing with my glass—when he pointed out to me, it being low neap tide, that the Goodwin Sands were partially dry. “Tom,” continued he, “of all the dangers, not only of the Channel, but in the wide ocean, there is none to be compared with those sands:— the lives that have been lost on them, the vessels that have been wrecked, and the property that has been sucked into them, would be a dozen kings’ ransoms; for, you see, Tom, they are quicksands, and the vessel which goes on shore does not remain to be broken up, but in two tides she disappears, sinking down into the sands, which never give her or her cargo up again. There must be a mighty deal of wealth buried there, that is certain. They say that once they were a flourishing fertile island, belonging to an Earl Godwin, whose name they now bear; it may be so—the sea retreats from one place while it advances at another. Look at Romney Marshes, where so many thousands of sheep are now fed; they run up many miles inland; and yet formerly those very marshes were an arm of the sea, which vessels rode in deep water, and sea-fights, I am told, took place. Howsomever, when the sea took the Godwin island to itself, it made the best trap for vessels that old Neptune now possesses, and he may consider it as the most productive spot in his dominions. Lord help us! what a deal of gold and merchandise must there be buried below you yellow patch!”

“Do you never save anything when vessels are run on shore there?”

“When they only tail on, we occasionally get them off again; but when once fixed, there’s an end of it. Yes, we save life occasionally, but at great risk of our own. I saved little Bessy from a vessel ashore on these sands.”

“Indeed! Pray tell me how it was.”

“Why, you see, Tom, it was just at the breaking out of the war. It was in this very month of October, ’93, that I was out in a galley with some others, looking for vessels. I had just then left off privateering, and got my warrant as pilot (for you know I did serve my ’prenticeship before I went a-privateering, as I told you the other night). Well, it was a blowing night, and we were running in for the Downs, intending to beach the galley and sleep on shore, for we had been out five days, and only put a pilot on board of one vessel. We were just to windward of the Sands, out there, where I am now pointing: the sea was very rough, but the night was clear, and the moon shone bright, when we saw a brig running down before the wind, under foresail, and close-reefed topsails. ‘Why, Bill, as she steers she’ll be right between the Calipers,’ said I to the man sitting by me. ‘There’s no mistake about that,’ replied he: ‘let’s haul the fore-sheet to windward, and lay to, to hail him; he’s coming right down upon us.’ Well, we did so, and we hailed some time without any answer. At last a man looked over the gunnel, just as she was flying past us, and told us in Dutch to go to the devil. ‘I think you’ll go there if you don’t look sharp,’ replied Bill. ‘Come, my lads, we may as well follow, her, and see if we cannot prevent mischief.’ So we bore up after her, and hailed her several times, for we sailed very fast, and there was a scuffling on deck: I think that the captain was drunk. All this passed in less than five minutes; and then, as I knew would be the case, she struck on the sands, and with such force that all her masts went over the side immediately. Now, the sea rolls awfully over the shallow water of those sands, Tom. We had kept with her as far as we dared, and then hove-to about two cables’ lengths to windward of her, when she struck, for the ebb was still running strong under our lee, which only made the sea more cross and heavy. The waves made a clean breach over her, and we knew that she would go to pieces in less than half an hour; but we did not like to leave so many to perish without a trial to save them; so we kept away, so as to get abreast of them, and then lowered our sails and got out our oars. We pulled close to them, but it was impossible to board: we should have been stove to pieces and swamped immediately. The moon still shone bright, and we saw them as plain as we could wish,—and we made every attempt to save them, for they were all crowded together forward. Once the sea drove the boat so close that we touched her sides, and then a woman pressed before the men, and reached over the gunnel, extending her arms which held the child, while several others attempted to get in; but the return of the wave carried us back so quick from the vessel, that, as they attempted to jump in, they all went to the water, and never appeared again; but I had caught hold of the child, and laid it down in the stern-sheets. We made a second and third attempt, but in vain. At last the vessel broke up, as it were, all at once—there was one loud cry, and all was still, except the roaring and breaking waves which buried them. It wasn’t a scene to make us very lively, Tom: we hoisted the sail, and ran on to the beach in silence. I took the child in my arms—it had been snatched out of its warm bed, poor thing, and had nothing on but a calico night gown. I took it up to the cottage, which was then Maddox’s (I bought it afterwards of the widow with the money I made a-privateering), and I gave it in charge to Mrs Maddox. I did intend to have sent it to the workhouse, or something of that sort; but Mrs Maddox took a fancy to it, and so did I, and so I thought I would take care of it, and I christened it by the name of Betsy Godwin.”

“You have no idea who she may be?”

“Not a half one: her cotton gown and cap told nothing; the vessel was Dutch, that’s all I know. She may be the child of the Stadtholder or the child of the ship’s cook. What’s the matter?”

“But did you notice any marks upon her person by which she might be reclaimed?”

“Not I. I only axed Mrs Maddox whether it were a boy or a girl.”

“How old was she then?”

“Well, how can I tell? that’s not in my way; but the knowing ones in these matters said that she must be about eighteen months old, so we have taken that for a departure as to her age. I love her now as if she were my own child, and so will you, Tom, like, a sister, when you know her. She calls me her father, and you may do the same, Tom, if you like, for I will be as good as a father to you, if you are as good a boy as you now seem to be. I like to be called father, somehow or another—it sounds pleasant to my ears. But come in now, I think you have compassed the compass, so you must learn something else.

“There is another way, Tom,” said Bramble, as he seated himself in his large chair, “in which a smart ’prentice may be useful to his master, and it is of quite as much importance as the compass, which is in heaving the lead. You see, Tom, the exact soundings being known will often enable a pilot to run over the tail of a bank and save a tide; that is, when he knows that he can trust the man in the chains. Some seamen are very particular in giving exact soundings, but all are not; they care more for the song than they do for anything else, and though the song is very musical, yet it won’t get a ship off when she’s on shore. Now, two-thirds of the seamen who are sent in the chains will not give the soundings within half a fathom, and, moreover, they do not give them quick enough for the pilot in many cases; if, therefore, you learn to heave the lead well, be correct in your soundings and quick in giving them, you will become of great use to me. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yes,” replied I.

“Well, go up into my room, and hanging on the nail behind the door you will see a lead-line—bring it me down here.”

I did so, and then Bramble explained to me how the fathoms were marked on the line, and how the soundings were given out.

“You see,” said he, “wherever there is a mark with a piece of leather or bunting, whether it be white or red, it is called a mark; and if you had five fathoms of water, you would cry out by the mark five; but at the other depths there are no marks, but so many knots tied as there are fathoms, as here at nine; and then you would say by the deep nine. Now run the line through your hand, and see if you can repeat the marks and deeps as they pass.”

I did so.

“Very well. Now for the song, for there is a sort of tune to it.” Bramble then again passed the line through his hands, giving the song to each fathom, half-fathom, and quarter-fathom, and making me sing them after him, after which I had to repeat them by myself. The next day he took out the marks and knots from the whole line, and, giving me a two-feet rule to re-measure it, made me put them all in again. This I had to repeat three or four times. By this plan they were fully impressed on my memory; and as for the song, he made me sing it almost every half-hour for three or four days, Bessy generally repeating, in her clear voice, from the back kitchen or upstairs, “and a quarter seven—by the deep nine.”

On the fourth day Bramble said, “Well, Tom, I think both you and Bessy may leave off singing now. You have yet to learn the most important part, which is to heave the lead; but we must wait till we get on board of a vessel for that. Observe, Tom, it’s all very well singing when you’ve plenty of water, and I like it, for it sounds musical and pleasant to the ear; but in shallow water the pilot’s answer must be much shorter and quicker, as you will find out by-and-bye.”

Chapter Twenty Six.

In which I go afloat, and obtain some knowledge of the English Channel.

It may be as well here to remark that the system of pilotage is different now from what it used to be at the period of which I am writing. The Cinque Port pilots now carry vessels from the Downs to the river, and from the river to the Downs. Their pilotage extends no farther. Vessels seldom require pilots for the Channel, and do not take them unless they are bound to some port in the Channel with which they are unacquainted, and those pilots who ply in the Channel are termed Hoblers; but at the time I refer to, the regular pilots used to go out in their galleys to the chaps of the Channel, and take charge of vessels all the way up, which, by the new regulations, they do not do. The arrangements for pilotage have been much improved of late years, and those employed are better qualified.

I had remained at Deal about three weeks when an outward-bound Indiaman anchored in the Downs: her pilot came on shore, and she made the signal for another. It was Bramble’s turn, a galley was launched, and we went on board.

The ship was bound to Plymouth, from whence she was to sail with convoy to a certain latitude. The weather was now fine and frosty, and we made sail when the tide served. As soon as we were fairly out in the Channel, Bramble went with me into the main-chains, and showed me how to heave the lead. After several attempts, in which I sometimes would hit the spare topsail-yard upon which I stood, sometimes would nearly break my own head, and once contrived to throw the lead over the hammock-rails in board, I succeeded in getting it round over my head; and when I had once gained that point, I made fewer mistakes. In two days we arrived at Plymouth; and as Bramble kept me at it till my arms ached, nearly half the day, I could by that time heave the lead pretty fairly, that is to say, without danger to myself or other people. The day after we arrived at Plymouth we got into a pilot boat and went out in search of employment, which we soon found, and we continued chiefly taking vessels up to Portsmouth and down to Plymouth, or clear of soundings, for some time. During this time my practice at the lead was incessant, and I became very perfect. When I was not at the lead Bramble would make me stand at the binnacle and watch the compass, so that, by the time we arrived at Deal again, I was pretty competent in those two branches of my art, except that, having practised the lead mostly in deep water, I had not acquired accuracy and expedition in giving the soundings. But I learnt a great deal more of my profession; Bramble explaining to me the sails, rigging, and names and uses of the ropes, and the various manoeuvres practised, all of which he would catechise me in afterwards, to ascertain if I was perfect, and had remembered what he told me. I was, therefore, under excellent tuition. Whatever port we entered Bramble would point out the landmarks to me, state the distances from point to point, and the dangers to be avoided. These I could not so well retain perfectly, and required occasional reminding, but altogether I gave him satisfaction. It was on New Year’s Day, 1800, that we boarded a large homeward-bound Indiaman, which had just struck soundings. She was a thousand ton ship, with a rich cargo of tea on board, and full of passengers, besides more than one hundred invalids from the regiments out there, who had been sent home under the charge of two officers.

What a difference there appeared to me to be between the Indiaman going out and this one coming home! the first so neat and clean in her decks, and this so crowded and so weatherworn by her long voyage. What with troops in old jackets, which had once been scarlet, Lascars with their curly black hair, and dark handsome features, yellow men, sickly women, and half-caste children, with their Hindoo Ayahs, tigers, lions, turtles, cows, sheep, goats, and pigs, on the booms and main deck, the vessel was in a strange motley of confusion.

As soon as we were put on board, the captain, officers, and passengers crowded round to inquire the news. Bramble, according to pilot custom, had brought off one or two late Plymouth papers (one of which, I recollect, gave the account of the cutting out of the Hermione by Captain Hamilton); but the people on board were eight months behindhand at least as regarded what had passed. They had not even heard of Sir Sydney Smith’s defence of Acre against Bonaparte, or anything else which had subsequently occurred; so that as soon as Bramble had taken charge, and put the ship’s head the right course (for the wind was fair), there was no end to question and answer. And while Bramble was questioned by the captain and passengers, I was attacked by the midshipmen, or guinea-pigs as they are called. Having a fair wind, we ran right for the Downs, where we arrived on the morning of the second day. Here the purser of the ship went on shore with his despatches, and the ship anchored to await orders, by the next post, to go up the river.

“Tom,” said Bramble, as the vessel anchored, “I cannot quit the ship, but you may, so just get on shore in one of the boats, and see how little Bessy is, and poor old Mrs Maddox’s leg; and, Tom, take our dirty linen on shore and bring off clean.”

I was glad enough to obey his orders, for I was very anxious to see dear little Bessy again; so I dropped into a boat that was going on shore for fresh beef, taking with me two or three little presents for Bessy, out of the many which I had received when on board, for the officers and men were very kind to me, and had given me many things which they did not value, but which I did very much, as they were quite new to me.

The custom officers at Deal were not very particular at that time.

I was not searched, and arrived at the cottage, where I found Bessy sitting at her needle. She threw down her work and ran to me, and as I kissed her the tears ran down her cheeks.

“Where is father, Tom? I’m so glad to see you; but where is father? I’ve been so frightened, the winter has been so rough.”

“He’s on board of the Indiaman, but being in charge he cannot come on ashore, so he sent me.”

“Oh! I’m so glad. You have been away so long, and we have had nothing but gales of wind; and do you know that Williams and Steers are both drowned?”

“No, indeed, we know nothing; but father will be sorry to hear of it, for they were friends of his.”

“Well, Tom, it’s not fair to leave a little girl like me alone here, for Mrs Maddox has kept her bed ever since you left. Her leg is better, but she has pains in her limbs, and groans so all night, and here I am left by myself, to hear her groan and the wind roar.”

Here Bessy began to cry, and I to console her as well as I could, although I did feel that it was hard that such a child should be left so lonely. The presents I brought her made her wipe away her tears, and she was very soon as lively and joyous as ever.

“I heard father say, Bessy” (I always called Bramble my father, as he had said I might), “that he had picked up something this winter, for he has had none but heavy vessels, and you know pilotage is paid by the draught of water.”

“Well, he may have made money, but I’m sure we haven’t spent any to matter, for I have hardly been once a week to Mrs Maddox for money since you have gone. She eats hardly anything, and I can’t eat my meals when I’m alone down here. Will father come home after he has been up the river?”

“Yes, Bessy, he said that we should take a spell on shore.”

“Tom, don’t you think I might go on board and see him for half an hour?”

“Yes, I don’t see why not; speak to Mrs Maddox.”

Bessy ran upstairs, and came down with the required permission, provided a neighbour’s girl would remain in the house, and that she went under my escort. Her bonnet was soon on, and we obtained a passage in one of the Indiaman’s boats which was shoving off, for the water was quite smooth, and the ship’s boats could lie on the shingle without difficulty. The officer took Bessy under his boat cloak, and we were soon on board. Bramble was not on deck at the time, and when I went down to look for him, Bessy remained on the quarterdeck in admiration of all she saw. But Bramble was not below as I supposed—he had gone into the cuddy with the captain; and when he came out, his first knowledge of Bessy’s being on board was being embraced by the waist with her little arms.

“Why, Bessy, my child,” said Bramble, just as I returned on deck. “This is Master Tom’s doing,” continued he, kissing her; “so you have come to see your father?”

“Why, you would not come on shore to see me, father,” said Bessy, as Bramble took her up and kissed her again.

“Well, Tom, have you brought the clean things?”

“No, I must go on shore again with Bessy, father.”

“Very true, so you must.”

Bessy was taken much notice of by the captain and all on board. No wonder: her fair skin and clear transparent red and white were in such contrast with the bilious-looking passengers that she appeared as if she was not of the same race. She was much admired, and received many little presents; and when she left the ship, after staying on board an hour, she was much delighted with her trip, and still more so with the promise of Bramble that he would stay ashore for some time as soon as he came back from the river. I remained with her on shore till dusk, and then, having collected the clean linen, as we were expected to sail early the next morning, I returned on board the Indiaman.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Showing the importance on board ship of a rope’s end well applied.

The next morning, as we expected, the orders came down for the Indiaman to go round to the river. The wind was fair, but light; we hove up and made sail, stemming the last of the ebb. When the flood made, the wind died away, so that we made but little progress, much to the annoyance of those on board, who were naturally impatient to land after so tedious a voyage. Towards the evening it fell calm, and a fog-bank rose on the horizon to the eastward. There were still two hours of daylight, when, as I was sweeping the horizon with my glass, I discovered the three masts of a vessel with no sails set on them. As she was a long way off I went half-way up the main rigging to have a better view of her, and made her out to be a large lugger. I went down to the poop, where Bramble stood smoking a cheroot with some of the officers of the ship. “Father,” says I, “there’s a large lugger on our beam, with her sails lowered down. I caught her masts with the glass just now.”

“Then she’s a French privateer, you may depend upon it,” replied Bramble, “and she means to try to take us by surprise to-night.”

The officers went down and reported it to the captain: the glasses were fixed upon her, and there was little doubt as to what she was.

“Lucky you discovered her, boy, for we might have been surprised, that’s a fact,” said the captain; “however, now she shall catch a Tartar.”

“She’s waiting for the fog, captain,” said Bramble, “which will come rolling down with the shift of wind in about an hour or two, I expect; and then we must allow her another hour to get alongside of us. Depend upon it she has plenty of men, and intends to try to board us in the fog.”

Everybody was now on the qui vive; the women were, as usual, frightened; the men passengers looked grave, the Lascars rather unsteady; but we had forty English seamen and a hundred invalid soldiers on board, who could all be depended upon. The guns were loaded and shotted, and the invalid soldiers were mustered; muskets and ammunition handed up; the bayonets fixed, unfixed again; and then they were ordered to remain on the booms with their accoutrements on and their muskets by their sides. The officers still kept their glasses on the lugger, until at last the fog came down and we could see her no more.

The officers who commanded the invalids, after a consultation with the captain, at which Bramble assisted, told off their men into two parties, one of them being appointed to assist the seamen with their bayonets in repelling the boarders (should the attempt be made), and the other to fire upon them and into the deck of the vessel when she came alongside. The Lascars were stationed at the guns, in case they might be required; but no great dependence was placed upon their services.

By the time that these arrangements had been made, the fog had reached the Indiaman, and we were at the same time taken aback with the easterly breeze which brought it down to us: being near to the land, we put the ship’s head off shore. The wind continued light and the water smooth, but the fog thickened every minute: at last we could hardly see as far as the foremast of the vessel.

“He’ll be puzzled to find us, I think,” said the captain.

“He’ll find us, never fear,” replied Bramble. “He has calculated the time of the fog reaching us, and he knows that we must lay our head off-shore—to be sure, we might give him the go-by if we bore up and ran back again to the Downs.”

“I think I see myself bearing up and running away from a rascally French privateer,” said the captain. “Keep a sharp look-out there forward.”

“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the chief officer.

Half an hour more passed, and by our calculation the privateer should have been on board of us, but we could see nothing of her, although the fog had cleared up a little. The soldiers were now ordered to load their muskets. I was on the poop with Bramble, when, happening to turn and look aft (the very opposite direction from which the privateer was to be expected), I saw her three lug-sails looming in the mist, just on the quarter, not half a cable’s length from us. I jumped down to where the captain was standing, and said to him, “There she is, sir, close on our lee quarter.” The captain sprang on the poop, saw the vessel, and ordered the men to come aft in silence. The tramp of the soldiers’ feet was scarcely over when the lugger was alongside of us, her masts banging against our main and mizen chains as she rolled with the swell under our lee. The Frenchmen gave a cheer, which told us how very numerous they were: they climbed up the side and into the chains like cats, and in a few seconds all was noise, confusion, and smoke. It was impossible to know what the result was to be for about a minute, when the cheers from our own men announced that the assailants had been beaten back. But hardly had the cheering ceased on our side when another cheer was heard from the lugger, and the attempt to gain our decks was repeated. This time the Frenchmen fought more obstinately than before, and it was nearly five minutes before they were repelled. It was not yet dark (although the fog was thick), and you could make out their countenances pretty clear: a more wild reckless set of fellows I never beheld, and they certainly fought very gallantly, but they were driven back again; and once more were the cheers from the British seamen and soldiers mixed up with the execrations and shouts of the still contending, although retreating, Frenchmen.

Just at this period of the conflict I was standing on the poop by Bramble, who had been watching the result, when he said, “Tom, come with me: do you jump into the main chains with a double part of the topsail halyards fall, and when the lugger’s mast strikes against the chains as she rolls into us, pass the tail round it underneath the rigging, and hand the end in to me.”

We both leapt off the poop; he gave me the bight of the halyards. I crept out of the port into the chains and passed it round the lugger’s main-mast, as he told me, handing in the bight to him, which he belayed slack to the main-sheet kevel. At the time I perceived a man lying wounded or dead in the main chains, but I paid no attention to him until, as I was about to get on board, he attracted my attention by seizing my leg, and making his teeth meet in the small part of it, above the ankle. I could not help crying out, I was so taken by surprise with the pain; however, I kicked him off, and turning to look at him, I found it was a wounded Frenchman, who, perceiving what I was about, had paid me that compliment. As soon as I was on board I heard the captain say to Bramble, “Well, pilot, he has had enough of it.”

“Yes, and he won’t escape, captain, for Tom has got him fast by the masthead, and they dare not climb up to cut themselves adrift. All that you have to do now is to let the soldiers fire on his decks until they run below, and then our men can board and take possession of her.”

The captain, perceiving that the vessel was made fast, gave the necessary orders. The soldiers lined the hammock nettings and chains, and such a shower of musketry was poured into her decks that the Frenchmen were soon driven below, and our seamen then slipped down her rigging, boarded, and took possession of her. The prisoners having been ordered up and passed into the forehold, the wounded men were then looked after. We had eleven wounded, but none killed; the Frenchman had eight killed and seventeen wounded; among others, the captain, who had headed the second attempt to board. She was called the Pucelle d’Orleans, of twelve guns and a hundred and twenty-five men.

It was two or three hours before we were again aft to rights, and a party sent on board of the prize; and then there was again another kind of confusion, from the congratulations, drinking healths, the women coming up on deck, etcetera; however, the weather continued light, so it was of no consequence. That Frenchman bit very hard, and I limped for three or four days afterwards.

“Well, Tom,” said Bramble, “I see you’ve got nerve, so all’s right. You had better go and lie down now, for you must be tired; I’ll call you in the morning.”

Very glad was I to limp to bed. All night I dreamt of nothing but volleys of musketry, and boarding and reboarding, and being wounded in the leg, and then I would awake with the smart of the Frenchman’s teeth.

The next morning when I came on deck, the captain thanked me for my services, and said that the lugger would have escaped had it not been for me. I replied that it was Bramble who prevented her escape, as I should not have thought of making her fast if I had not been told.

“That’s all true enough,” replied the captain; “but how many of your age, having been told to do it, would have done it, Tom? I shall not forget you.”

I went on the poop to Bramble, who, as usual, had his short pipe in his hand; and I certainly was pleased when I saw what a beautiful craft we had helped to capture. She sat like a swan on the water, and sailed round and round us with the greatest ease.

In the afternoon we anchored at the Nore, and sent away all the prisoners to Sheerness. I must not forget to say how very kind and generous the passengers were to me. They made a great many presents, some of value, as I afterwards found out; and I was glad to receive them that I might give them to Virginia and those who had been friendly to me.

The next morning we arrived off Greenwich, and Bramble told me to go on shore and remain with my father and mother until he came down, which he would do in a few days, and pay a visit to his old friend Anderson. I landed with all my contraband articles in the boat, but no one thought of stopping or searching the former “Poor Jack.” My insignificance was my protection; and I arrived safely at Fisher’s Alley with all my curiosities and prohibited effects. When I entered the house, I perceived that there was a third person sitting in company with my mother and Virginia; but Virginia sprang to me, and I threw down my bundles with which I was loaded, and pressed her in my arms. Although I had been absent but four months, she appeared to be very much grown, and in every way improved. As soon as I had released her, I offered my hand to my mother, who took it very coldly, and then observed, “Tom, you will be so ungenteel; don’t you see there is a gentleman here?”

“I beg his pardon, mother,” replied I; “but I could only see my sister just then.”

“And I admire your feeling, Tom,” replied the party. “Mrs Saunders, you must not scold him for that. How do you do, Tom, and how do you like your profession?” continued he, holding out his hand.

I took his hand, and looking at him I recognised him. “Oh, sir! you are the gentleman who was sitting in the room when we called upon Sir Hercules and her ladyship.”

“I am so, Tom, and I promised Sir Hercules that I would have an eye to you all, and be of any use to you that I could. My name is Wilson, and I’m what the sailors call a shark, that is, I’m a lawyer.”

“Well, you don’t appear as if you would bite, sir,” replied I, as I looked at his venerable and kind face.

“No, no, we never frighten people by our looks. We don’t carry our teeth with us; but I have several rows of them, all upon shelves in my chambers, called the ‘Statutes at Large,’ and by other names.”

He then entered into conversation with me, and I told him most of what had passed, of course not forgetting that the Indiaman we had brought up the river had captured a privateer. He sat about an hour, and then went away, desiring me to call upon him. I was not sorry when he went, as I wished to show my presents to Virginia, and give her those which she liked best. When Virginia had selected for herself, or rather I had forced upon her all she most admired, I gave a cut ivory card-case, a filigree needle-case, and a small red scarf to my mother, who, for the first time in her life, appeared pleased with me, and said that they were very genteel, and she was much obliged to me. The remainder I put away in my room upstairs, intending to keep some for Bessy, and give the others to Mrs St. Felix, the doctor, and old Nanny.

I then went to the hospital and found out my father, old Anderson, and Ben. I narrated to them much more circumstantially than I did to the old lawyer the particulars of the capture of the privateer. Anderson put a great many inquiries to me, as to my liking my profession, and also concerning little Bessy, whose history I communicated to him. After my father and Ben had left, he gave me a great deal of advice, all of which I trust that I treasured up.

“I hear,” said he, “that Spicer has been talking a good deal about you, and inquiring very often when you were expected to return. Were you very intimate with that man?”

I replied in the negative, and then narrated the whole history of the spy-glass, the erasure of the name by Mrs St. Felix, and the recognition of it by Spicer.

“You did right to leave him in his error relative to where you received the glass from,” said Peter Anderson; “there is some mystery there which time may unravel, but do not say a word of it to any one, Tom. I am glad that you have told me, as in case you are away, and anything should occur, I shall know how to act.”

I must acknowledge that I now walked proudly through the streets of Greenwich. I was no longer Poor Jack, but I was earning my livelihood in my profession. I had reason to be still prouder when, two days afterwards, Mr Wilson came to my mother’s with the newspaper in his hand in which there was a long account of the capture of the privateer, and the conduct of Bramble and of me spoken of in the highest terms. This he read aloud to my mother and Virginia. I watched my sister. The tears filled her eyes as she listened, and when Mr Wilson had done, her arms were round my neck, and her smiles were mixed with her tears, and sometimes she would laugh as she cried. Oh! how I loved her then, for I felt how dearly she loved me; even my mother appeared gratified, although she said nothing, but continued to repair the lace veil upon which she had been employed. That evening I went with Virginia to call upon Mrs St. Felix, taking with me the presents I had laid aside for her. She welcomed me as usual, and accepted what I brought for her without hesitation and with many thanks.

“Well, Mr Tom,” said she, “I’ll just put away all your nice little remembrances, and then I’ll tell you that I’ve heard all about your behaviour in the fight with the privateer, and I’ve no doubt but that, if you continue to go on as you’ve begun, you will one day have a leg the less, as your father has before you.”

“I hope not,” replied I; “two legs are better than one.”

“Yes, when you want to run away, that’s true. I see now why you’re so anxious to save your legs.”

“But, Mrs St. Felix, if it had not been for that good spy-glass you gave me, I never should have discovered the privateer, and we should not have been prepared for her.”

“Well, that’s fortunate; it didn’t prove a glass too much, anyhow, or you’d have seen double. I suppose, then, all these pretty things are my share of the prize-money.”

“No, they are no value, except to prove to you that Poor Jack has not forgotten your kindness, and never will.”

“That I believe; and believing that, I suppose you have not forgotten old Nanny.”

“No; but I have not seen her yet. I intend to go to-morrow; but I have something for the doctor. He is not at home, will you give it to him?”

“Certainly: you know I am as good as a mother to him.”

“I think the doctor would rather you’d be a wife to him.”

“That’s a foolish idea that’s in many people’s heads, Tom, which I’ll thank you to contradict. I never intend to change my name.”

“Don’t make too sure,” replied I; and I added at a venture (why, I know not, but I had formed the idea in my mind that St. Felix was not her proper name), “you may change it yet for your real name.”

“Tom, Tom,” cried the widow, “what do you mean?”

“Nothing,” replied I, “I was only joking.”

“Well then, don’t talk such nonsense, or I shall send you out of the shop.”

I had, however, it appeared, struck upon a chord which jarred, and all the spirits of Mrs St. Felix vanished at once. So Virginia and I wished her a good evening, and returned home.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Some little difference in the proceeds of this chapter, and my former “copper for Poor Jack, your Honour.”

On our arrival at my mother’s, I found a letter from Bramble, stating that he would be at Greenwich in two days, and, further, informing me that the honourable company had been pleased, in consequence of the report made of our good behaviour, to award to him the sum of two hundred pounds, and to me the sum of one hundred pounds, as a remuneration for our assistance in the capture of the privateer.

This was news indeed. One hundred pounds! I never thought that I should possess such a sum in my life. One hundred pounds! what should I do with it? My mother was astonished, and then fell into a very grave mood. Virginia was pleased, but appeared to care less about it than I thought she would have done. My father came in as usual with Ben the Whaler, and I read the letter.

“Why, Tom, that’s about as much prize-money as I have made in all my sarvice,” said my father, “and you’ve been afloat only four months. Come, missis, send for some beer, and let us drink Tom’s health, and success to him. God bless you, my boy! the papers say you deserved it, and that’s better than your getting it. I’m proud of you; I am, indeed, my boy: your father’s proud of you, Tom”—and here my father showed more emotion than ever I witnessed in him before; however, he put his lips to the porter-pot, and when he had drained it nearly to the bottom, he had quite recovered himself.

“Well, Tom,” said Ben, after he had finished the small modicum of beer left him by my father, “and what do you mean to do with all that money?”

“I’m sure I don’t know—I have no want of it—I have everything I wish for.”

“Come, missis,” said my father, “we must have another pot, for I drank deep, and Ben has been shared out.” My mother very graciously sent for another pot of porter, which, with the newspaper, occupied Ben and my father till it was time for us to break up and go to bed.

The next morning when I went down I found Virginia alone, my mother having returned to her room.

“Tom,” said she, “what do you think my mother said to me when we were going to bed last night?”

“Tell me.”

“She said, ‘Tom says he don’t know what to do with his money. I only wish I had it; I would turn it into three times the sum in three years, and have a better home for you, my dear.’”

“Did she say how?”

“Yes, I asked her how; she said that she should take a new house with a shop up the town, and set up as a milliner, with apprentices; that, as soon as she was fairly employed, she should give up getting up fine linen, and only take in laces to wash and mend, which was a very profitable business.”

“Well,” says I, “Virginia, my mother is a hard-working woman, and a clever woman, and I dare say she would do very well, and, as she says she would have a better home for you, I think I shall let her have the money; but I won’t say so yet. I must talk about it to Peter Anderson, and if he don’t say no, she shall have it with pleasure.”

“That will be very kind of you, Tom; and I hope mother will feel it, for you don’t owe her much.”

“Never mind that; after breakfast I’ll see Peter Anderson: don’t say a word about it till I come back.”

At breakfast-time my mother still appeared to be very thoughtful: the fact was, that the idea of what advantage the money would be had taken possession of her mind; and perhaps she thought that there was no chance of obtaining it. Perhaps she felt that, had she treated me better, she would have had it without difficulty—it was impossible to say exactly.

After breakfast I walked with Virginia to her school, and then set off to Anderson, to whom I immediately imparted what had taken place. His answer was decided—

“I think, Jack, you can’t do better; but, at the same time, let us go to your father and hear his opinion.”

My father coincided with Anderson and me; and he added, “I tell you what, your mother is not parfect exactly—though I say it, as shouldn’t say it—but still she does work hard, and she will work hard; she has paid my little girl’s schooling out of her own arnings, and, moreover, she has found me one pot of porter at least every night, which has made me very comfortable. Now, I’ve still a matter of forty pounds in the lieutenant’s hands; I’ll add it to Tom’s hundred pounds, and then she will have a fair start. What d’ye think, Peter?”

“I think you are both right; and, Tom, you are doing your duty.”

I knew what Anderson meant. I thanked him for his advice, and my father and I went to my mother’s house. I requested my father to stand spokesman, which he did, ending by telling my mother that my hundred pounds and his forty pounds were very much at her sarvice, and good luck to her. Virginia’s eyes glistened as she took me by the hand. My mother replied, “Very well, if we pleased, she would do her best for us all.”

The answer was hardly gracious, but I watched her countenance, and saw she was moved. Her thin lips quivered as she turned away and went upstairs, which she did immediately after her reply. In about half an hour, during which I was laughing with Virginia, my mother came downstairs in her shawl and bonnet.

“Tom,” said she, in a kind manner, “will you walk with Virginia to school this afternoon, as I am going to have some conversation with Mr Wilson?”

The alteration in her tone of voice to me was immediately perceived by Virginia.

“You are a dear good Tom,” said she, kissing me, as soon as my mother had left the house.

As soon as I had left Virginia at school, I went to call upon old Nanny, whom I found quite brisk and lively, sorting old keys and rusty hinges.

“Well, Jack,” said she, “so you are come at last! I thought you would have been here yesterday, but nobody cares about an old woman like me. I heard all about you, and how you took the privateer, and how the Company have given you a hundred pounds; and when I heard that, I said, ‘Now Jack (Poor Jack that was, who came begging to old Nanny to lend him money) will not come to see me, he’ll be too proud. Besides, I said, his family is getting up in the world: there’s a baronet and his lady who have taken them under their protection, and there’s lawyer Wilson calls at the house. Oh, dear me! it’s the way of us all.’”

“And so you said all that to yourself, did you?” replied I.

“Yes, and a great deal more too.”

“Then, mother, you did me injustice. I could not well come before; I had to see my father and mother and my sister, and I had business to transact.”

“Mercy on us! business to transact! Poor Jack had business to transact! Here’s a change from the time that his whole business was to touch his hat for coppers, and dip his head, in the mud for a penny.”

“Nevertheless, what I say is true, and you are very unjust to accuse me as you have done. I have always thought of you, and have now with me several things that I have collected for you.”

“Yes, you promised me. Jack, you do keep your promises; I will say that for you. Well, what have you got?”

I opened my handkerchief, and pulled out several little articles, such as fine worked baskets, shells, etcetera, and, among the rest, a pound of tea in a leaden canister.

“There, mother, I have brought you them as a present, and I hope you will take them.”

Old Nanny turned them over one by one, rather contemptuously, as I thought, until she came to the tea. “That may do,” said she. “Why, Jack, those are all very pretty things, but they are too pretty for my shop. Why didn’t you bring me some empty gingerbeer bottles? I could have sold them this very morning.”

“Why, mother, I really did not like to ask for such things.”

“No, there it is; you’ve grown so fine all of a sudden. These are no use, for nobody will come to my shop to buy them.”

“I thought you would like to keep them yourself, mother.”

“Keep them? Oh, they are keepsakes, are they? Look you, Jack, if they are to be kept you had better take them away at once, and give them to the young girls. Girls like keepsakes, old women like money.”

“Well, mother, sell them if you please; they are your own.”

“Sell them? let me see—yes, I think I know where there is a sort of curiosity-shop, in Church Street; but it’s a long way to walk Jack, and that—let me see,” continued she, counting the different articles, “one, two, three—seven times, Jack.”

“But why not take them all at once.”

“All at once, you stupid boy! I should get no more for two than for one. No, no; one at a time, and I may make a few shillings. Well, Jack, it’s very kind of you after all, so don’t mind my being a little cross; it was not on account of the things, but because you did not come to see me and I’ve been looking out for you.”

“If I had thought that, I would have come sooner, mother, although it would not have been convenient.”

“I believe you, Jack, I believe you; but you young people can’t feel as an old woman like I do. There is but one thing I love in the world, Jack, now, and that’s you; and when I get weary of waiting for that one thing, and it don’t come, Jack, it does make a poor old woman like me a little cross for the time.”

I was touched with this last speech of old Nanny’s, who had never shown me any such a decided mark of kindness before. “Mother,” said I, “depend upon it, whenever I return to Greenwich, you shall be the first person that I come to see after I have been to my mother’s.”

“That’s kind, Jack, and you keep your promise always. Now sit down; you don’t want to go away already, do you?”

“No, mother, I came to spend the whole morning with you.”

“Well, then, sit down—take care, Jack, you’ll knock down that bottle. Now tell me, what do you intend to do with your hundred pounds?”

“I have settled that already, mother. I have given it away.”

“Already! Why, the boy has one hundred pounds given him on the morning, and he gives it away before night. Mercy on us! who would ever think of leaving you any money?”

“No one, mother; and I never expect any except what I earn.”

“Why, Jack, do you know how much one hundred pounds is?”

“I think so.”

“Now, Jack, tell me the truth, who did you give it to, your father, or your little sister; or who? for I can’t understand how a person could give away one hundred pounds in any way or to anybody.”

“Well, then, I gave it to my mother.”

“Your mother! your mother, who has hated you, wished you dead, half-starved you! Jack, is that possible?”

“My mother has not been fond of me, but she has worked hard for my sister. This hundred pounds will enable her to do much better than she does now, and it’s of no use to me. Mother may love me yet, Nanny.”

“She ought to,” replied old Nanny, gravely; and then she covered her face up with her hands. “Oh, what a difference!” ejaculated she at last.

“Difference, mother, difference? in what?”

“Oh, Jack, between you and—somebody else. Don’t talk about it any more, Jack,” said Nanny, casting her eyes down to the presents I had brought her. “I recollect the time,” continued she, evidently talking to herself, “that I had plenty of presents; ay, and when it was thought a great favour if I would accept them. That was when I was young and beautiful; yes, people would laugh if they heard me,—young and very beautiful, or men’s smiles and women’s hate were thrown away—

“‘Why so pale and wan, fond lover; Prithee, why so pale?’

“Yes, yes, bygones are bygones.”

I was much surprised to hear old Nanny attempt to sing, and could hardly help laughing; but I restrained myself. She didn’t speak again, but continued bent over one of the baskets, as if thinking about former days. I broke the silence by saying:—

“What part of the country did you live in when you were young, mother?”

“In the north part. But never ask questions.”

“Yes, but, mother, I wish to ask questions. I wish you to tell me your whole history. I will not tell it again to any one, I promise you.”

“But why should you wish to know the history of a poor old thing like me?”

“Because, mother, I am sure you must have seen better days.”

“And if I have, Jack, is it kind to ask me to bring up to memory the days when I was fair and rich, when the world smiled upon me, and I was fool enough to think that it would always smile? is it kind to recall what was to an old, miserable, deserted wretch like me, struggling to keep out of the workhouse? Look at me now, Jack, and see what I now am: is it not cruel to bring to my mind what I once was? Go to, Jack, you’re a selfish boy, and I don’t love you.”

“Indeed, mother, if I thought it would have given you pain, I never would have asked you; but you cannot wonder at me. Recollect that you have ever been my best friend; you trusted me when nobody else would; and can you be surprised at my feeling an interest about you? Why, mother, I don’t even know your name.”

“Well, Jack, you have put things in a better light. I do believe that you care for me, and who else does? But, Jack, my name you never shall know, even if I am to tell you all the rest.”

“Were you ever married, mother?”

“Yes, child, I was married. Now, what’s the next question?” continued she, impatiently.

“Had you any children?”

“Yes, boy, I had one—one that was a source of misery and shame to his doting mother.” Old Nanny pressed her eyeballs with her knuckles as if in agony.

“I won’t ask you any more questions,” said I mournfully.

“Not now, Jack, that’s a good boy; some other day, perhaps, I’ll tell you all. There’s a lesson in every life, and a warning in too many. You’ll come again, Jack—yes, I know you’ll come to hear my story, so I shall see you once more before you leave: go now.” Old Nanny rose and went indoors, taking her stool in her hand, and leaving the presents where they lay, outside—a proof that she was in great agitation. I put them inside the threshold, and then went homewards.

I could not help remarking, as I walked home, that old Nanny’s language and manner appeared very superior when she broke out in these reminiscences of the past, and I felt more interest in her then I ever had before. On my return, I found Bramble, who had come down sooner than he was expected, sitting in the parlour with Peter Anderson and my father, all smoking, with porter on the table.

“Well, Tom,” said Bramble, “here I am two days before my time, but that’s better than being two days after it, and, what’s more, I’ve got the money, both yours and mine. They told me I should not get it for three months at least; but I sent up my name to the Board, and explained to them that a pilot could not wait like a purser while they were passing accounts, so the gentleman laughed, and gave me an order for it; and I’ve got all my pilotage too, so I’m a rich man just now. Come, I’ll give you yours at once, and I hope it may not be the last hundred pounds that you’ll pick up.”

Bramble pulled his leathern case out of his pilot jacket, and counted out ten ten-pound notes. “There, Jack, you ought to give me a receipt, for I signed for you at the India House.”

“Oh, you’ve plenty of witnesses,” replied I, as I collected the notes, and giving them to Virginia, told her to take them to my mother, who was upstairs in her room.

“To tell you the truth, Jack, this two hundred pounds, which I earned so easily, has just come in the right time, and with it and my pilotage I shall now be able to do what I have long wished.”

“And what’s that?” inquired I. “Something for Bessy, I suppose.”

“Exactly, Tom, it is something for Bessy; that is, it will be by-and-bye. I’ve a good matter of money, which I’ve laid by year after year, and worked hard for it too, and I never have known what to do with it. I can’t understand the Funds and those sort of things, so I have kept some here and some there. Now, you know the grass land at the back of the cottage: it forms part of a tidy little farm, which is rented for seventy pounds a year, by a good man, and it has been for sale these three years; but I never could manage the price till now. When we go back to Deal, I shall try if I can buy that farm; for, you see, money may slip through a man’s fingers in many ways, but land can’t run away; and, as you say, it will be Bessy’s one of these days—and more too, if I can scrape it up.”

“You are right, Bramble,” said Peter Anderson, “and I am glad to hear that you can afford to buy the land.”

“Why, there’s money to be picked up by pilotage if you work hard, and aren’t afraid of heavy ships,” replied Bramble.

“Well, I never had a piece of hand, and never shall have, I suppose,” said my father. “I wonder how a man must feel who can stand on a piece of ground and say, ‘This is my own!’”

“Who knows, father? it’s not impossible but you may.”

“Impossible! No, nothing’s impossible, as they say on board of a man-of-war. It’s not impossible to get an apology out of a midshipman, but it’s the next thing to it.”

“Why do they say that, father?”

“Because midshipmen are so saucy—why, I don’t know. They haven’t no rank as officers, nor so much pay as a petty officer, and yet they give themselves more airs than a lieutenant.”

“I’ll tell you why,” replied Anderson. “A lieutenant takes care what he is about. He is an officer, and has something to lose; but a midshipman has nothing to lose, and therefore he cares about nothing. You can’t break a midshipman, as the saying is, unless you break his neck. And they have necks which aren’t easily broken, that’s sartain.”

“They do seem to me to have more lives than a cat,” observed my father, who, after a pause, continued, “Well, I was saying how hard it was to get an apology out of a midshipman. I’ll just tell you what took place on board of one ship I served in. There was a young midshipman on board who was mighty free with his tongue; he didn’t care what he said to anybody, from the captain downward. He’d have his joke, come what would, and he’d set everybody a-laughing; punish him as much as you please, it was all the same. One day, when we were off Halifax Harbour, the master, who was a good-tempered fellow enough, but not over bright, was angry with this young chap for something that he had not done, and called him a ‘confounded young bear,’ upon which the youngster runs to the jacob-ladder of the main rigging, climbs up, and as soon as he had gained the main rattlings he cries out, ‘Well, if I’m a bear, you aren’t fit to carry guts to a bear.’ ‘What, sir?’ cried the master. ‘Mutiny, by heavens! Up to the masthead, sir, directly.’ ‘Don’t you see that I was going of my own accord?’ replied the midshipman; for, you see, he knew that he would be sent there, so he went up the rigging on purpose. Well, this was rather a serious affair, and so the master reports it to the first lieutenant, who reports it to the captain, who sends for the youngster on the quarter-deck, at the time that the ship’s company were at quarters. ‘Mr —’ (I forget his name), said the captain (drawing himself up to his full height, and perhaps an inch or two above it, as they say), ‘you have been guilty of disrespect to your superior officer, in telling him that he was not fit to carry guts to a bear’ (the captain could hardly help laughing). ‘Now, sir,’ continued he, recovering himself, ‘I give you your choice: either you will make an apology to Mr Owen on this quarter-deck, or you must quit my ship immediately.’ ‘Sir,’ replied the midshipman, ‘I don’t think it quite fair that the master should first punish me himself and then complain to you afterwards. He has taken the law into his own hands already by mastheading me for eight hours, and now he makes a complaint to you; but I am always ready to do as you wish, and, to please you, I will make an apology.’ ‘There is some truth in your observation,’ replied the captain, ‘and I have pointed the same out to the master; but still, this is a breach of discipline which cannot be passed over, and requires a public retraction before the whole ship’s company. I therefore insist upon your retracting what you have said.’ ‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the youngster. ‘Mr Owen,’ continued he, turning to the master, ‘I said that you were not fit to carry guts to a bear. I was in the wrong, and I retract with pleasure, for I am perfectly satisfied that you are fit to carry them.’ ‘Sir!’ cried the captain. ‘Oh, Captain G—!’ interrupted the master, who did not take the joke, ‘I’m perfectly satisfied. The young gentleman sees his error, and has retracted; I ask no more.’ ‘If you are satisfied, sir,’ replied the captain, biting his lips, ‘of course I have nothing more to say. Youngster, you may go to your duty, and recollect that you never again use such expressions to your superior officer,’ and, said he in a low tone, ‘I may add, never venture in my presence to make such an apology as that again.’”

I never saw old Anderson laugh so much as he did at this story of my father’s. They continued to talk and smoke their pipes till about nine o’clock, when my father and he went to the hospital, and Bramble took possession of a bed which had been prepared for hints in my mother’s house.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

In which I learn the history of Old Nanny.

The next day, as soon as I had finished a letter to Bessy, in which I gave her a detail of what had passed, I went to old Nanny’s to persuade her, if possible, to tell me her history. She was not at home, the door of her house was locked, and the shutters of the shop fastened. I was about to return to Fisher’s Alley, when I perceived her hobbling down the street. I thought it better to make it appear as if I met her by accident; so I crossed over the way and walked towards her. “Well, mother,” said I, “are you out so early?”

“Ah, Jack, is it you? Yes, it is through you that I have had to take so long a walk.”

“Through me?”

“Yes, those presents you brought me. I’m almost dead. Why do you bring such things? But I did not do badly, that’s the truth.”

I knew from this admission that old Nanny had sold them for more than she expected; indeed, she proved it by saying, as she arrived at her house, “Well, Jack, it’s very troublesome to have to walk so far; but as you cannot get me bottles or those kind of things, you must bring me what you can, and I must make the best of them. I don’t mind trouble for your sake, Jack. Now take the key, unlock the door, and then take down the shutters; and mind how you walk about, Jack, or you’ll break half the things in my shop.” I did as she requested, and then we sat down together at the door as usual.

“I think I shall go away to-morrow, or early the next morning, mother,” said I, “for Bramble is here, and he never stays long from his work.”

“That’s all right, he sets a good example; and, Jack, if you do go, see if you can’t beg a few more shells for me: I like shells.”

“Yes, mother, I will not forget; but, as this is the last day I shall see you for some time, will you not keep your promise to me, and tell me your history?”

“Jack, Jack, you are the most persevering creature I ever did see. I’m sure I shall be worried out of my life until I tell you, and so I may as well tell you at once, and there’ll be an end of it; but I wish you had not asked me, Jack, I do indeed. I thought of it last night when I was in bed, and at one time I made up my mind that I would not tell you, and then I thought again that I would; for, Jack, as I said yesterday, there’s a lesson in every life, and a warning in too many, and maybe mine will prove a warning to you, so far as to make you prevent a mother from being so foolish as I have been.

“Now, Jack, listen to me: mine is an old story, but in most cases the consequences have not been so fatal. I shall not tell you my name; it was once a fair one, but now tarnished. I was the only daughter of a merchant and shipowner, a rich man, and the first person in consequence in the seaport town where I was born and brought up. I never knew my mother, who died a year after I was born. I was brought up as most girls are who have no mother or brothers; in short, I was much indulged by my father and flattered by other people. I was well educated, as you may suppose; and, moreover, what you may not credit quite so easily, I was very handsome. In short, I was a beauty and a fortune, at the head of the society of the place, caressed, indulged, and flattered by all. This, if it did not spoil me, at least made me wilful. I had many offers, and many intended offers, which I nipped in the bud, and I was twenty-three before I saw any one who pleased me. At last a vessel came in consigned to the house and the captain was invited to dinner. He was a handsome careless young man, constantly talking about the qualities of his ship, and, to my surprise, paying me little or none of that attention which I now considered as my due. This piqued me, and in the end I set my affections on him; either he did not or would not perceive it, and he sailed without showing me any preference. In six months he returned, and whether it was that he was told of by others, or at last perceived, my feelings towards him, he joined the crowd of suitors, made a proposal in his offhand manner, as if he was indifferent as to my reply, and was accepted. My father, to whom he communicated the intelligence as carelessly as if he were talking about freight, did not approve of the match. ‘Very well,’ replied he, ‘I shall say no more; as long as a man has a ship he does not want a wife.’ He returned and stated what had passed, and my father also spoke to me. I was self-willed and determined, and my father yielded. We were married, and I certainly had no reason to complain of my husband, who was very kind to me. But I was jealous of—what do you think? Of his ship! For he cared more for it than he did for me; and three months after our marriage, notwithstanding all my tears and entreaties, and the expostulations of my father, he would sail again. He offered to take me with him, and I would gladly have gone, but my father would not listen to it. He sailed, and I never saw him again; his vessel, with all hands, foundered, with many others, in a heavy gale. The news did not arrive until many months afterwards, and I had not been a mother more than six weeks when I found that I was a widow. I have passed all this over quickly, Jack, because it is of less moment—my trials had not commenced.

“The loss of my husband, as may be supposed, only endeared my child the more to me, and I wept over him as he smiled upon me in his cradle. My father had reverses in his business, but those I cared little for. He did, however: he had been the richest man in the town, he was now comparatively poor; his pride was crushed, it broke his heart, and he died; the whole of his assets at the winding up of his affairs not exceeding ten thousand pounds. This was, however, quite enough, and more than enough, for me. I thought but of one object—it was my darling boy; he represented to me all I had lost; in him I saw my husband, father, and everything. I lived but for him. He was my idolatry, Jack. I worshipped the creature instead of the Creator.

“As he grew up I indulged him in everything; he never was checked; I worried myself day and night to please him, and yet he never was pleased. He was so spoilt that he did not know what he wanted. He was a misery to himself and all about him, except to me, who was so blinded by my love. As he advanced to manhood his temper showed itself to be violent and uncontrollable; he was the terror of others, and prudent people would shake their heads and prophesy. He would not submit to any profession; the only wish that he had was to go to sea, and that was my terror. I implored him on my knees not to think of it, but in vain; at first he used to threaten when he wanted money for his extravagancies, and it was a sure way to obtain it; but one day I discovered that he had quitted the port without saying farewell, and that he had sailed in a vessel bound to the coast of Africa. A short letter and a heavy bill was received from Portsmouth, and I did not hear of him for two years. I was heartbroken, but not weaned from him; I counted the days for his return. At last he came—browned by the climate, full of oaths, savage in his bearing, and occasionally referring to scenes which made me shudder; but he was my son, my only son, and I loved him as much as ever. He was now but seldom at home, for he lived almost at the gaming-tables; if he came to me, it was to extort money, and he never failed. I sold out my property to support his extravagance, and by degrees it was rapidly diminishing. I begged him, I entreated him, to be more prudent, but he laughed, and promised to return me all the first lucky hit he should make;—but that lucky hit never came, and at last I had but two thousand pounds left. This I positively refused to part with: the interest of it was barely sufficient for my wants; I asked no more, but I expostulated and I reasoned with him in vain. He only begged me for five hundred pounds; if I sold the money out, he would tell me where I might have as good interest for the fifteen hundred pounds as I now received for the two thousand pounds. He begged and entreated me, he kissed, and he even wept. I could not withstand his importunities: I sold out the money, and gave him the sum he wanted; the fifteen hundred pounds I put by in my desk, to invest as he had pointed out. That very night he forced the lock, took out the money, and left me without a sixpence in the world.”

“What a villain!” exclaimed I.

“Yes, you may say so, Jack; but who made him such a villain but his foolish doting mother? Had I done him justice, had I checked him when young, had I brought him up as I ought to have done, he might now have been a happiness and a blessing to his mother. I was the person to blame, not he; and many years of anguish have I lamented my folly and my wretchedness.”

“You loved him too much, mother, but it was a fault on the right side.”

“No, Jack, that is an error of yours; it was a fault on the wrong side. There is no credit to a mother in loving her children, for she cannot help it. It is a natural instinct implanted in the mother’s heart by the Almighty, and in following this instinct we do no more than the beasts of the field. The duty of a mother is to check that feeling as far as it interferes with the happiness and well-doing of her children, and it is her duty to do so, and to punish herself in correcting her children. Jack, it is a selfish feeling which induces mothers to spoil their children.”

“At all events my mother has never spoilt me,” replied I.

“No, Jack, she has not; but observe the consequence. You said just now that excessive tenderness was a fault on the right side; now, how completely have you proved the contrary! I do not intend to defend your mother’s conduct towards you; she has been unkind to you in your childhood, and has never shown the affection that a mother ought; but is not her fault a fault on the right side? Jack, you recollect my saying ‘what a difference,’ when you told me what you had done for your mother; I then referred to my son and to you. I indulged him in everything, sacrificed everything, and he robbed me and left me a beggar. Your mother has been severe upon you, and yet the first time you have the means of showing your duty you give her all the money you have in the world. Your mother may not be right, Jack, but I was dreadfully wrong, and the result has proved it.”

“Well, mother, go on, pray.”

“My story is now soon told. I struggled on how I could for more than two years by selling my furniture and a few ornaments, then the blow came. When I heard it I would not remain in the town; I left for London, picked up my living how I could and where I could, till at last I came down here. Time was as a dream; reflection was too painful. I felt that it was all my fault, all my own doing. My heart became hardened, and continued so till I loved you, Jack; and now I have better feelings, at least I think so.”

“But, mother, what was the blow? Is he dead?”

“Yes, Jack, dead—dead on the gibbet. He was hanged for piracy at Port Royal, Jamaica. Jack,” said Nanny, seizing my hand, and pressing it in her long fingers, “this is a secret; recollect, a secret deep as the grave; promise me, as you hope for heaven!”

“I do, mother, as I hope for heaven.”

“Now, Jack, leave me. Good bye. You will come and see me when you return, and never bring this subject up again. Bless you, my child! bless you!”

I left poor old Nanny with her face buried in her apron; and it was in a very melancholy mood that I returned home: I could not help thinking of the picture in the spelling-book, where the young man at the gallows is biting off the ear of his mother, who, by her indulgence, had brought him to that disgrace.

Chapter Thirty.

Strong symptoms of mutiny, which is fortunately quelled by granting a supply.

It was a beautiful sunshiny warm morning when I arose, and, as Bramble intended that we should leave Greenwich the next day, I thought I might as well call at the house of Dr Tadpole, and try if I could see him before I went. When I arrived there he was not at home, but my namesake Tom was, as usual, in the shop. Tom was two or three years older than me, being between seventeen and eighteen, and he had now grown a great tall fellow. We always were very good friends, when we occasionally met, and he generally appeared to be as good tempered and grinning as ever; but when I now entered the shop I found him very grave and dejected, so much so that I could not help asking him what was the matter.

“Matter enough, I think,” said Tom, who was pounding something in the mortar. “I’ll not stay here, that’s flat. I’ll break my indentures, as sure as my name’s Tom Cob, and I’ll set up an opposition, and I’ll join the Friends of the People Society, and the Anti-Bible Society, and every other opposition Anti in the country.”

“Why, what has happened, Tom?”

“I’ll make speeches against Church and against State, and against the Aristocracy, and Habeas Corpus, and against Physic, and against Standing Armies, and Magna Charta, and every other rascally tyranny and oppression to which we are subjected, that I will!” Here Tom gave such a thump with the pestle, that I thought he would have split the mortar.

“But what is it, Tom?” inquired I, as I sat down. “What has the doctor done?”

“Why, I’ll tell you, the liquorice is all gone, and he won’t order any more.”

“Well, that is because you have eaten it all.”

“No, I haven’t; I haven’t eaten a bit for these five weeks: it’s all been used in pharmacopey, honestly used, and he can’t deny it.”

“Who used it?”

“Why, I did: he said he wouldn’t stand my eating liquorice; and I told him that I shouldn’t eat any more. No more I have, but I ain’t well, and I prescribes for myself. Haven’t I a right to do that? Mayn’t I physic myself? I am a doctor as well as he is. Who makes up all the medicine, I should like to know? who ties up the bottles and writes directions? Well, my insides are out of order, and I prescribes for myself—black draughts ‘omnes duas horas sumendum;’ and now he says that, as the ingredients are all gone, I shan’t take any more.”

“And pray what were the ingredients, Tom?”

“Why, laxative and alterative, as suits my complaint—Extract. liquor.—aqua pura—haustus.”

“And what is that?”

“Liquorice and water, to be sure; there’s nothing else I can take: I’ve tasted everything in the shop, from plate powder to aqua fortis, and everything goes against my stomach.”

“Well, Tom, it’s a hard case; but perhaps the doctor will think better of it.”

“He’d better, or I’ll set up for myself, for I won’t stand it any longer; it ain’t only for myself but for others that I care. Why, I’ve a hankering for Anny Whistle (you know her, don’t you?) a pretty little girl with red lips—lives in Church Street. Well, as long as I could bring her a bit of liquorice when I went to see her all was smooth enough, and I got many a kiss when no one was nigh; but now that I can’t fork out a bit as big as a marble, she’s getting quite shy of me, and is always walking with Bill, the butcher’s boy. I know he gives her bulls’-eyes—I seed him one day buying a ha’porth. Now, ain’t that hard?”

“Why, certainly, the affair becomes serious; but still, how you are to set up for yourself I don’t know. You are not qualified.”

“Oh! ain’t I? Just as much as most doctors are. There must be a beginning, and if I gives wrong medicine at first, then I’ll try another, and so on, until I come to what will cure them. Soon learn, Tom.”

“Well, but how will you do about surgery?”

“Surgery? Oh, I’ll do very well; don’t know much about it just now—soon learn.”

“Why, would you venture to take off a man’s leg, Tom? Do you know how to take up the arteries?”

“Would I take off a man’s leg? To be sure I would, as quick as the doctor could. As for, the arteries, why, I might puzzle a little about them; but by the time I had taken off three or four legs I should know something about them. Practice makes perfect—soon learn, Tom.”

“But all your first patients would die.”

“I don’t know that. At all events I should do my best, and no man can do more, and if they did die, why, it would be by the visitation of God, wouldn’t it?”

“Not altogether, I’m afraid. It won’t do, Tom.”

“It has done from the beginning of the world, and will do. I say there’s no learning without practice. People spoil at first in every trade, and make afterwards, and a man ain’t born a doctor any more than he is a carpenter.”

“No, but if I recollect right, to be a surgeon you ought to walk the hospital, as they term it.”

“Well, and haven’t I for these last four years? When I carries out my basket of physic I walks the hospital right through, twice at least every day in the week.”

“That’s Greenwich Hospital.”

“Well, so it is, and plenty of surgical cases in it. However, the doctor and I must come to a proper understanding. I didn’t clean his boots this morning. I wish, if you see him, Tom, you’d reason with him a little.”

“I’ll see what I can do, but don’t be rash. Good bye, Tom; mind you tell the doctor that I called.”

“Well, I will; but that’s not in my indentures.”

I called in at the widow’s after I left the doctor’s shop, and communicated the intended rebellion on the part of Tom.

“Well,” said Mrs St. Felix, “I shall not forget to make the Spanish claim, and prevent Tom from walking Spanish. The doctor is very inconsiderate; he forgets that Tom’s regard for liquorice is quite as strong as his own liking for a cigar. Now, if the doctor don’t promise me to have a fresh supply for Tom, I won’t let him have a cigar for himself.”

The doctor was compelled to surrender at discretion. The next wagon brought down one hundredweight of liquorice, and Tom recovered his health and the smiles of Anny Whistle.

When I left the widow’s I proceeded to the hospital to find Anderson and my father. As I walked along I perceived Dick Harness on a bench, who hailed me.

“Well, Tom, I haven’t seen anything of you for I don’t know how long, since you’ve taken to a seafaring life. This is a beautiful day, is it not? It makes one feel so happy and cheerful such a day as this. Everybody and everything looks gay; the birds seem so merry, and the little clouds seem to scud away as if their hearts were as light as themselves. Come, sit down a minute; here’s a song for you you’ve never heard, one I don’t often sing, because they say it’s all about myself.”

“Well, then, I should like to hear that.”

“Here goes, then.

“Sam Swipes, he was a seaman true As brave and bold a tar As e’er was dressed in navy blue On board a man-of-war. “One fault he had—on sea or land He was a thirsty dog; For Sammy never could withstand A glass or so of grog. “He always liked to be at sea, For e’en on shore, the rover, If not as drunk as he could be, Was always ‘half seas over.’ “The gunner, who was apt to scoff, With jokes most aptly timed, Said Sam might any day go off, ’Cause he was always ‘primed.’ “Sam didn’t want a feeling heart, Though never seen to cry; Yet tears were always on the start, ‘The drop was in his eye.’ “At fighting Sam was never shy, A most undoubted merit; His courage never failed, and why? He was so full of ‘spirit.’ “In action he had lost an eye, But that gave him no trouble; Quoth Sam, I have no cause to sigh, I’m always ‘seeing double.’ “A shot from an unlucky gun Put Sam on timber pegs; It didn’t signify to one Who ne’er could ‘keep his legs.’ “One night he filled a pail with grog, Determined he would suck it: He drained it dry, the thirsty dog! Hiccupped, and ‘kicked the bucket.’”

“There’s Bill’s fiddle, Dick,” said I, getting up; “I thought you would bring him out.”

“Yes, I was sure of that. I’ll sing another verse or two, and then be off to the park, and leave him in the lurch.”

“I can’t wait any more, Dick; I must go to my father,” said I. “Well, off with you, then, and I’m off too. Sing tura ha, tura ha, tura lura ha. Bill’s coming down. How savage the nigger will be!”

Chapter Thirty One.

In which my father proves he can give good advice as well as Peter Anderson.

I found my father under the colonnade, and inquired of him if Anderson was there.

“No, he’s not,” replied my father; “he has been sent for by the officers; so stop, Tom—that is, if you can spare a minute for your own father.”

“Of course I can,” replied I, taking my seat by him.

“Why, you see, boy,” said my father, “I have but very little of your company, and I feel it, Tom, I do indeed. I’m not jealous, and I know that Peter Anderson has done more for you than ever I could, for I’ve no larning to signify; but still, Tom, I am your father, and I don’t think Peter, although he may be proud of your turning out so well, can feel exactly for you what a father does. I’m proud enough of you, Heaven knows, and it does hurt me a little when I find that, whenever you come here, it is for Peter Anderson, and it makes me wish sometimes that I had been Peter Anderson instead of your father.”

“Indeed, father,” replied I, “I hope you don’t think that I like Anderson better than I do you; but you recollect that I have been accustomed all my life to take his advice.”

“I know it, boy, I know it. I was serving my country and doing my duty on board of a King’s ship, and you were left here, and therefore lucky it was that you fell in with old Peter; but, Tom, I could not be in two places at the same time, and if I did not do my duty as a father towards you, at all events I was doing my duty to my country.”

“To be sure you were, and it was of more importance than looking after a brat like me,” replied I, soothingly, for I really never had the idea that my father could have showed so much feeling.

“Why, Tom, I can’t say that I thought so, for the fact is I didn’t think about it; indeed, I thought about nothing. Sailors afloat have little time to think, they can’t think when it’s their watch on deck, for they are too busy; nor at their watch below, for they’re too tired; nor at meal-times, for they must look after their share of the victuals; indeed, there is not any time to think on board ship, and that’s a fact. But, Tom, since I’ve been laid up here I have thought a good deal; all is calm and quiet, and one day passes just like the other, and no fear of interruption when one don’t wish it,—and I have thought a good deal. At first I thought it a hard case to be shoved on the shelf at my age, but I don’t think so now,—I’m quite satisfied.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so, father.”

“Yes, Tom. And then, you see, when I was afloat, I didn’t think any good of your mother, and I was glad to keep out of her way; and then I didn’t care about my children, for I didn’t know them; but now I’ve other thoughts, Tom. I don’t think your mother so bad, after all; to be sure, she looks down upon me ’cause I’m not genteel; but I suppose I aren’t, and she has been used to the company of gentlefolks; besides she works hard, and now that I don’t annoy her by getting tipsy, as I used to do, at all events she’s civil; and then I never knew what it was to have children until I came here, and found Virginia and you; and I’m proud of you both, and love you both better than anything on earth; and, although I may not be so well brought up or so well taught as you both are, still, Tom, I’m your father, and all I can say is, I wish for your sakes I was better than I am.”

“Don’t say so, father: you know that Virginia and I are both as fond of you as you are of us.”

“Well, mayhap you are; I don’t say no: you are both good children, and at all events would try to like me; but still I do feel that you can’t look up to me exactly; but that’s my misfortune, Tom, more than my fault. I haven’t larning like Anderson, or gentility like your mother: I’ve only a true heart to offer to you. You see, Tom, I’ve said all this because you are always after Anderson; not but that I like Anderson, for he’s a good man, and has been of sarvice to me, and I don’t think he would ever say anything to you that would make you think less of me.”

“No, indeed, father; on the contrary, I once asked him his opinion about you, and he spoke most highly of you; and whenever I go to him for advice, he always sends me to you to approve of what he has said.”

“Well, he is a good man, and I’m very sorry to have any feeling of envy in me, that’s the truth; but still a father must have a father’s feelings. Don’t let us say anything more about it, Tom; only try next time, when you want advice, whether I can’t give it. You can always go to Peter afterwards, and see whether I’m right or wrong.”

“I will indeed, my dear father, now I know that you wish it.”

I never felt so warm towards my father as after this conversation; there was so much affection towards me, and yet so much humility shown by him, as respected himself, that I was quite touched with it, and I began to think that he really had had occasion to complain, and that I had not treated him with that respect which he deserved.

“Now, Tom, I’ve something to say to you. When Anderson, Bramble, and I were taking a pipe together last night, Bramble said that he had a letter from the captain of the Indiaman, offering you a berth on board as guinea-pig, or midshipman. He said that he had not shown it to you as yet, because it was of no use, as he was sure you would not accept it. Well, Anderson and I said that at least you ought to know it, and have the refusal; and your mother pricked up her ears and said that it was much more genteel than being a pilot; so I now put the question to you.”

“Thank you, father; but Bramble was right. I shall not accept of it, although I am much obliged to the captain.”

Here my father stopped me. “First, Tom,” said he, “we must overhaul the pros and cons, as people call them. Old Anderson weighed them very closely, and now you shall hear them.” Here my father commenced a long story, with which I shall not tire the reader, as to the prospects on either side; but as soon as he had finished I replied:—

“That all he said was very true; but that I had made up my mind that, if ever I were regularly to serve, it should be in a man-of-war, not in a merchant vessel; that it was certainly possible that I might, after serving many years, become a captain of an Indiaman, which was a high position, but I preferred being a pilot, and more my own master; that if there were no other objections, that of being absent for three years at a time from him and Virginia would be more than sufficient, and that I was very happy where I was, as Bramble and little Bessy were almost equal to another father and another sister. A rolling stone gathers no moss, they say, father. I have entered into the pilot service, and in that I hope to remain.”