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Title: Mother's golden guineas
Author: Annette Lyster
Illustrator: Frederic George Kitton
Release date: August 2, 2025 [eBook #76620]
Language: English
Original publication: London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1889
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MOTHER'S GOLDEN GUINEAS ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
[Illustration: "ONE MIGHT DO," THOUGHT TOM, LOOKING AT THE BRIGHT COINS.
_Frontispiece._]
MOTHER'S GOLDEN GUINEAS.
BY
ANNETTE LYSTER
AUTHOR OF "GRANNIE," "FAITHFUL," "OUT IN THE COLD,"
"THE WHITE GIPSY," "ALONE IN CROWDS," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY F. G. KITTON.
—————————————
PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE COMMITTEE
OF GENERAL LITERATURE AND EDUCATION APPOINTED BY THE
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE.
—————————————
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, CHARING CROSS, W.C.;
43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET. E.C.
BRIGHTON: 135, NORTH STREET.
NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG AND CO.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER
I. BURDECK
II. TOM MAKES A HORSE-SHOE
III. TOM GOES TO SEA
IV. PRESSED
V. OLD GIDEON
VI. THE ARTICLES OF WAR
VII. "THREE CHEERS FOR CAPTAIN EGERTON!"
VIII. A "CUTTING-OUT" EXPEDITION
IX. PAID OFF
X. TOM'S ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY GUINEAS
XI. THE JOURNEY HOME
XII. BETTER THAN GOLDEN GUINEAS
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
MOTHER'S GOLDEN GUINEAS.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
BURDECK.
SOMEWHERE between Wakefield and Doncaster, but much nearer Wakefield,
there is a little village called Burdeck, which even in these days of
progress is but a small place, and of no importance in any way. But in
the days of which I am about to tell you something, it was so utterly
insignificant, so little known except to the few who lived there,
and to the nobleman of whose estate it formed part, that had it been
swallowed up by an earthquake, some time might have elapsed before
it was missed. Yet to the twenty or thirty families who lived there,
Burdeck was just as interesting and important as London is to such of
my readers as may happen to live there; nay, perhaps more important,
because you know other places as well as London, while to the people of
Burdeck, Burdeck was the world—with Wakefield at a distance. No coach
came near Burdeck; it returned no member to Parliament; a newspaper
would have been of little use, for there were few who could read, and
fewer still who cared to do so.
In Burdeck it was held to be not quite commendable to do anything but
what one's parents had done in their day. The farms were not very
extensive, but the farmers throve and employed a good deal of labour,
the labourers living in the little village. There was almost no actual
poverty, and no discontent. Things were as they had always been, and
therefore were as they ought to be. I do not mean that there was no
grumbling; the Burdeckers were Englishmen, and they grumbled heartily
at many things. At the weather, at the charges Giles the blacksmith
made for shoeing horses, etc., at the extortion practised at the one
little shop, at the length of time the cobbler took to "welt" the
shoes; oh yes, they grumbled, but then they enjoyed it. If all these
small afflictions had been removed, if the weather had always suited
them, the blacksmith had lowered his prices, the bread, bacon, and
cheese had been cheaper, and the cobbler more punctual, Burdeck would
have been at a loss for something to talk about. There were many things
they could have better spared than their little grumbles.
All this took place early in the present century, now growing very old.
Of course in these enlightened days no one grumbles.
It was a lovely evening in June; the work of the day was done, and the
labourers had reached home, and were most of them employed in making
a solid meal, each in his own clean and comfortable kitchen. Burdeck
was a very clean place. The good women, not being overworked, kept a
bright look-out on each other, and to have a dirty, untidy house, or to
send out one's children ragged and unwashed, were sins soon visited by
general condemnation.
But if there was one cottage more trimly-neat, inside and outside,
one garden better stocked with vegetables of the common sorts, and
brighter with the sweet old common flowers than the rest, that cottage
and garden belonged to Thomas Adderley, ploughman at the Hill Farm.
For Thomas was a sober, industrious man, and he had a wife who was a
treasure in herself; a good, busy, thrifty woman, who found time for
many small industries, besides bringing up her family carefully and
comfortably.
There was a certain peddler who went his rounds regularly in that part
of the country, and he always brought to Mrs. Adderley a quantity of
woollen yarn, which she knit up into stockings, mittens, cuffs, and
comforters, all of which he bought from her at his next visit. Then,
too, she kept bees, and every autumn a dealer from Wakefield came out
with his light cart, and bought all her honey and spare wax. She also
kept a few hens, and if she did not make money by her eggs, she saved
money by them, which is as good; she seldom sold eggs, but the bacon
went twice as far when there was a fine dish of fried eggs with it.
She worked in the garden herself, and taught the children to help her,
so that honest Thomas could rest after his hard day's work, instead of
having to turn out after supper to dig his garden. There was a fine
apricot on one side of the cottage door, and a pear on the other, and
the Wakefield shopkeeper bought all the fruit. Mrs. Adderley pruned and
trimmed those trees herself, and woe betide the child who should be so
misguided as to touch the fruit.
"I'm saving up against a rainy day," she said, "and you must help
instead of hindering. Look, now—I'll take down the box and show you my
golden guineas. One of these days you may be very glad to get help from
that box, and when you want it, you'll be welcome to it. But you must
not waste our substance now. Health and strength don't last for ever,
and I mean to have something saved against a rainy day."
But even before a "rainy day" came, mother's golden guineas were called
upon for help. When Sam, the eldest son, set up the horse and cart by
which he now earned such good wages, mother gave him every penny she
had to help him, the rest he had saved himself. When Dolly, the only
girl, married Harry Sands, mother's golden guineas bought some useful
furniture for the young couple. And when poor Harry was killed by a
kick from a vicious horse, within a year of his marriage, and Dolly
broke her heart and died, leaving her baby to her mother's care, the
guineas had to pay for the two funerals. Poor mother! Little joy had
she in that expenditure, though you may be sure she was pleased to do
things "creditably."
You may imagine that, with all these calls upon the hoard, the number
of guineas was not at any time very great. There would often be only
one, with a few silver coins on their way to be transformed into a
second by-and-by. Mrs. Adderley always got her friend the peddler to
take her silver and give her gold, for, she said, "one might be tempted
to spend a shilling or two, when one would not break into a guinea."
Sometimes there were three, and more than once there had been five—but
at the time when my story opens there were actually ten! For Sam had
saved up by degrees, and had repaid his mother what she had given
him when he bought his horse, and the fruit and honey had been very
abundant last year. They promised well now, and Mrs. Adderley, standing
in her doorway on the evening in June of which I spoke, mentioned this
pleasing fact to her good man Thomas, who was steadily eating bread,
bacon, and eggs, and drinking milk, in the cheery kitchen.
Beside him sat his son Sam, and on his knee was perched little
Dolly, his grandchild, now three years old, and the pet of the whole
household. Mrs. Adderley's cup and plate showed that she had been
partaking of the meal; and there were another cup and plate on the
table, not used as yet.
"Come your ways in, woman," said Thomas, as he popped a specially crisp
morsel of bacon into Dolly's ready mouth, "and finish your supper. I
doubt Tom wants no supper to-night."
"Dear, dear, Thomas, I wish the lad was home! I don't know how he
expects to keep a place if he behaves like this!"
"If he behaves like what?" inquired Thomas. "Come, my woman, you'll
have to tell me."
"Well—but you won't be hard upon him, Thomas, for he's a spirity,
wild lad, and hardness will only harden him.—Oh, there's old Jerry
Dwight. Tom's always after him, with his talk of Hull and Liverpool and
sea-going that he's always gabbling about. Maybe he'll know.—Master
Dwight! Master Dwight! Stop a bit!" She ran to the little gate. "Did
you see our Tom to-day, Master Dwight?"
"Did I see who?" said old Dwight, putting his hand up to his ear—only
to gain time, for he heard well enough.
"Our Tom! He hasn't come home yet."
"Your Tom? Ah yes, Tom—young Thomas Adderley. A fine, strapping,
stirring lad, is Tom. And don't you believe, Mrs. Adderley, that you'll
ever make such another as Sam out of Tom. Tom has notions. You just
give him a little money, and let him go seek his fortunes. Tom would—"
"Master Dwight, I'm not one bit obliged to you for giving words to such
a notion. Seek his fortunes, indeed! Seek a halter, you mean. Your
wanderers do mostly end like that. Since I can remember, only two lads
left Burdeck, and one of them 'listed for a soldier, and was shot dead
in forran parts. The vicar rode over on a week-day to tell his mother,
and you might have heard her screams a mile off. And the other was
hanged in York city for sheep-stealing. Tom's a little bit idle and
rampagious, but he'll settle down and be a comfort yet, if you'll let
him alone with your talk of seeking fortunes. If fortunes are so easy
to come by, why didn't 'you' get one with all your wandering? You just
leave my Tom alone—do now, Master Dwight; I ask it as a favour."
"I leave your Tom alone?" old Dwight piped up in his shrill, cracked
voice. "You get Tom to leave 'me' alone, and 'tis little I shall run
after him. Your Tom is just the plague of my life. I be three score
and ten years old, and 'twould become me to be thinking frequent of
my latter end. And just when I'm set down in a sunny corner most
conformable for a quiet think, with maybe a little nap to rest me after
it, comes your Tom, begging and praying to hear of my adventures when
young. Not that I blame him, for he's got some spirit and is clever
beyond most Burdeck folk, and no doubt he finds me better company than
a lot of fellows that never saw anything but Burdeck, and can scarce
believe that the sun shines on other places.
"I've been to Hull, I have; and was born in Liverpool, and was once in
London. If you disbelieve me, ask my darter. No doubt Tom likes to hear
what one like me can tell him. But, anyhow, I didn't eat him alive this
time, for here he comes. Good evening, Mrs. Adderley. I must be getting
towards home."
Mrs. Adderley looked, and beheld her hopeful Tom just parting from a
boy and girl of about his own age—Lucy Trayner and one of her numerous
brothers, part of a family which lived in the next cottage. Tom stood
talking to Lucy for a few moments, then came on, meeting old Dwight on
his way.
"You'll catch it, my boy," said Dwight; "there's your mother on the
look-out for you."
Tom laughed and ran on—a fine, well-grown, handsome lad of about
fifteen, tall for his age, and strong and active beyond the common.
"Tom, where have you been all this day? Master Minchin sent a lass to
see about you, at twelve—and I thinking you had gone to your work like
a good lad!"
"Well, mother, I told old Minchin last night that I'd never take hold
of a hay-fork again for him at fourpence a day. I do a man's work, and
he must give me a man's wages. I want to save some money. So, you see,
it's not my fault I wasn't at work. And I've had a grand day in the oak
wood with Lucy Trayner, and I'm as hungry as a wolf, so come along and
give me my supper."
"Supper's over," she said, "and father's ill-pleased, and said you'd
get no supper to-night."
Tom whistled a lively tune as they both walked up to the house.
Thomas Adderley was now standing in the doorway.
"Where have you been, Tom?" said he.
"In the wood, father."
"Not at your work at all, then? I suppose Farmer Minchin will be
dismissing you now—as Farmer Bell did at Christmas, and Farmer Cunlip
at Hallowmass! Tom, I never lifted my hand to one of ye yet, but seems
to me you'd be the better for a leathering."
"Farmer Bell dismissed me because I said 'twasn't fair to make me work
Christmas Day, minding his horses, without paying me for it. Farmer
Cunlip said I was idle, but 'twas his own son was idle. Old Minchin
didn't dismiss me—'I' dismissed him."
At these audacious words the whole family—father, mother, and
Sam—exclaimed, "Oh, laws!" Even little Dolly said it, but she was a
little late with it, and ended by a delighted burst of baby laughter.
"I haven't said aught to surprise you so. I told old Minchin I would
not work for him any more at fourpence a day. I do as much as any of
the men, and he knows it, and I want to be saving money. He said he'd
see me further, so I didn't go to-day."
"Mother," said Thomas, "this boy of yours will be a credit to us yet.
He'll come to the gallows as sure as eggs is eggs. The boldness of him!
I've had too much patience with you, Tom, that's how 'tis. Go to bed
this moment, without any supper, not so much as a crust. I'll go to
Farmer Minchin, and see if he'll overlook your folly just this once.
You're a boy till you're eighteen, as all Burdeck knows, and, boy or
man, you're bound to do as good a day's work as you can. Let me hear
no more of this nonsense. If Farmer Minchin won't take you back, I'll
go to Giles the blacksmith. Little Ben that blows the bellows is sick,
and I'll hire you to him. It's small pay, and Giles is as like to give
you a blow as a word—but 'twill do ye good. Now, mother, not a bite
of anything is he to get, but go to bed empty. Idle, saucy fellow, as
doesn't know when he's well off!"
It was not often that quiet Thomas Adderley made so long a speech, and
that he should scold one of his children was a thing unheard of, as he
"left all that to the missus" generally.
Accordingly, every one was much impressed. Dolly cried; Mrs. Adderley
looked vexed and sorry; Sam made his escape from the scene, and went to
visit Jane Waters, the girl he was slowly "courting;" even Tom failed
to whistle as he stole off to bed, and lay down, hungry and weary, to
think over his evil doings.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
TOM MAKES A HORSE-SHOE.
ADDERLEY came home late that night, and found his wife waiting
for him, with a pint of beer warming on the hob, and a "bite" of
bread-and-cheese on the table, ready for him.
"I thought you'd be hungry, Thomas," said she. "And now tell me, what
did Master Minchin say?"
"Says Tom will come to the gallows yet."
"O mercy! My fine boy! But I don't mind Master Minchin. He's a
hot-tempered man, and maybe he's angered at losing Tom."
"Maybe, but he 'says' he's glad to be rid of him. Says as Tom puts the
other lads up to mischief, and gives impudence when spoken to. Only two
days gone, when he was helped to his dinner, he took his plate in his
two hands and walked all up the room to where Mrs. Minchin was cutting
the bacon, and holds out the plate to her, and says, 'Ma'am, will ye
please to show me the bacon?' says he. 'I see the cabbage and the
bread,' says he. Mrs. Minchin, she up'd and boxed his ears, and says
he, 'That's no argument,' and the men and lasses all sniggering."
Mrs. Adderley turned her face away, and her voice shook a little as she
said—
"O laws, how could he have the face? No wonder you look grave over it,
Thomas."
"Mother, you're laughing."
"Well," said she, "but will the Minchins take him back?"
"No. 'He' would, but 'she' wouldn't have it. So I saw Giles, and 'tis
true he wants a boy. It's a poor place for a strapping fellow like
Tom—only twopence a day and his dinner. But it will take the conceit
out of him, and I'm not set on his earning money to save. Don't you be
soft with him, now, and say he may keep part of that twopence. Say he
eats more than twopence, but that it's better than nothing. I don't
believe it's for any good he wants to be saving. He ain't like Sam."
"No, but you can't deny, Thomas, he's cleverer than Sam. See how he
mended them stools. Carpenter couldn't do it handier. See how he
patched his shoes t'other day. Cobbler couldn't beat it. And can tell
every letter, though he got no more schooling than the others, and Sam
can't tell the letters of his own name on his cart, no more than I can
myself. Oh, he's clever both with his head and his fingers, and if we
could 'prentice him in Wakefield, Thomas, he'd do well."
"'Prentice him in Wakefield! Woman dear, are ye losing your wits? Why,
Master Bell's sons, two of 'em, is 'prenticed there, and I wonder what
Farmer Bell and my own master would say if I tried to do the like with
'my' son? Little work I'd get, I do expect. Set Tom up, forsooth! Let
him work honest for his daily bread, as his father, and my father, and
'his' father, ay, and 'his' father again, if so be he had one, did
before him. No good comes of being proud and above your station. I'll
keep Tom's nose to the grindstone for a goodish bit, and then maybe
master will take him on, under me, and I'll teach him to plough, and
have my eye upon him."
With these words, Thomas swallowed the last morsel of bread-and-cheese,
and took up the pot of beer.
"Here, mother, take your share; and don't fret about Tom—I'll soon
bring him in. Why, you've took no more than if you was a sparrer. Take
another drop. Ye won't? Well, here's your health, then. We can't waste
the good beer."
He finished the beer slowly, the better to enjoy it, and then said in a
lower voice—
"I think I'll have a look at Tom. If I find him awake and hungry, a
crust of bread won't set him up too much."
He crossed the kitchen, and opened the door of the little room where
the boys slept. And finding Tom in bed and snoring, he never suspected
how nearly he had caught him wide awake and listening eagerly at the
keyhole.
"He's asleep. He'll make up for it at breakfast, never fear," said
Thomas. "Sam isn't in bed."
"No; he's not in yet. You go off to bed, and I'll wait for Sam. He
won't be long. Reg'lar as a clock, Sam is."
"Jenny Waters is a lucky young maid," remarked Thomas.
Mrs. Adderley said nothing—privately she thought her Sam a great deal
too good for Jane Waters.
In a very short time, the house was shut up and every one was asleep,
save Tom. He was hungry, and could not get to sleep, so he lay thinking.
"Reg'lar as clockwork, Sam is! Of course he is! He's just such another
as father. It's my belief father wouldn't rise in life if he could. I'm
not so. I want to get rich and have a farm, like old Minchin—only never
will I be such a screw. And I want to see the world, and to have a
chance to be something but a ploughman or a carter, and I will too. Old
Dwight says if I had a few guineas, but I'd go if I had a few shillings
saved. And I'm to blow the bellows—work fit for a four-year-old—for
twopence a day, and I'm not to be let save! Well, I'm glad I know it's
a set plan, for, if not, I might have gone on from day to day till I
got to be as stupid as the rest of them. To work with Giles till the
conceit is taken out of me, and then to learn ploughing under father's
eye! Well, we'll see."
He fell asleep at last. When he had eaten a most tremendous breakfast
next morning, he asked very innocently—
"Am I to go to Master Minchin's, father?"
Father, very naturally, improved the occasion.
Tom listened dutifully. Having heard that he was to go to the forge, he
said not one word of remonstrance, but walked off, whistling. He was
always whistling or singing.
Tom kept his place for about a week, and if Giles had cared to teach
him his craft, this story would probably never have been written. For
Tom took a fancy to the blacksmith's work, and longed to try his hand
at it. And one day Giles, coming in suddenly, found his own hopeful
son, a lazy young giant, blowing the bellows, and Tom Adderley working
manfully at a horse-shoe. Moreover, at a better shoe than young Giles
had yet made, though he was supposed to be learning. Giles dismissed
Tom that night.
"Little Ben," he said, "is all right now, and you will easily get work.
I don't want you about the forge, mind. Don't be coming here after my
boys—I won't have it."
Tom whistled, and walked home.
"Father, Giles has dismissed me."
"And why, Tom?"
"'Cause I made a better horse-shoe than young Giles can, and he's
afraid I'll learn the trade and set up for myself."
"The conceit of this boy!" cried Thomas Adderley, much moved. "I must
go to Giles and see what he says."
"I don't know what he'll say, father, but I've told you the truth. I
went to work to-day while he was out—young Giles is lazy and was glad
to give up the hammer to me. Old Giles came in, and when he looked
at the shoe, and then at me, I guessed how 'twould be. Three days,
mother—there's sixpence."
Adderley went to the forge. Giles told him that Tom was idle, and had
spoilt a horse-shoe, fiddling at it with the hammer, because his eye
was off him for a moment. He preferred having little Ben, who was quite
well again.
"My boy says he made a good horse-shoe," said Adderley.
"Judge for yourself; there 'tis," answered Giles.
But he did not say that he had heated the shoe and beaten it out of
shape since Tom's departure.
"Tom Adderley's too clever for me," Giles said to his wife that night.
"He'd be a better smith in six months than our boy will ever be; it
wouldn't do at all."
Thomas Adderley went home, much grieved at this fresh instance of
Tom's conceit. He hated to do it, but Tom really wanted a flogging so
badly that he must have one; and he had one, and was sent off to bed
afterwards. It was by no means a severe beating, and Tom was none the
worse—except mentally. He had told the truth, and father would not
believe him. He would have liked to be a blacksmith, and Giles would
not let him. He had lost one place after another, and knew that it
would be very hard to get work.
"I'll run away," muttered Tom. "I'll go to sea, and be a sailor, and
see the world. I've good brains and strong arms, and I won't stay here
to be treated like a baby. Let me see now; I must have 'some' money.
Maybe Master Dwight would lend me some. He has savings, I know. I'll
ask him, anyhow."
Tom was sent, next day, to work in the garden, as his father had
nothing better to propose. He worked for an hour or so, and then jumped
over the fence into the Trayners' garden. Peeping in at the window, he
saw his friend Lucy alone in the kitchen, so he ran round to the door
and went in.
"Lucy dear, if you hear that I've run away, don't you believe it—I
mean, I'm going to run away, but I'll surely come back. I can't stay
here, Lucy. I'll go, and I'll see the world, and get a lot of money,
and then I'll come home and buy a farm, and marry you, Lucy, for I'm
very fond of you. Don't you tell any one that I said a word to you, but
I couldn't go with saying good-bye."
Lucy, a pretty, gentle girl, not burdened with more brains or more
learning than her neighbours, was terribly frightened. She was sure
he'd be caught and brought home, and beaten. She was sure he'd be lost,
and starved to death. She was sure he'd get to be a great man, and
forget every one at Burdeck, including herself. Tom combated all these
predictions one by one; to the last, his reply was perhaps more sincere
than gallant.
"That's impossible," said he, "for though I might forget you, Lucy, and
every one else, I never could forget mother—nor father, though he did
not believe me. Well, good-bye, Lucy; you'll see me again one of these
days—maybe riding in my carriage, or on a fine horse. 'Then' you'll be
proud of me. Mind now, keep my secret."
He ran off, leaving Lucy in tears.
Tom found old Dwight in his usual summer retreat, a warm corner in his
son-in-law's garden. It is to be hoped that he had reflected duly on
his latter end, for he was certainly taking the little doze which he
had mentioned as being refreshing after that exercise. However, he woke
up, and said he was glad to see Tom.
"I like you, Tom. You've got some brains, and you know the difference
between a man like me and these fellows, honest fellows all of 'em, but
that never saw the tenth milestone out o' Burdeck."
"I 'do' know the difference," said Tom, eagerly, "and I've made up my
mind, Master Dwight, that I'll do as you did. I'll see the world. I'm
going to run away. I'll be a sailor, and I'll make my fortune. I know I
shan't do it all at once, but you'll see, I'll do it. And I want your
advice and help."
"Seems to me," said old Dwight, "as you've pretty well made up your
mind without my advice."
"Yes—to go. But tell me what you would advise me to do."
"Go to Hull—there's your place. How to get there, you say. Well, go to
Wakefield—you know the road that leads to Wakefield. There's a coach
goes through Wakefield, and at the coach office they'll tell you how to
get to Hull. But let me tell you, my lad, you might do better than go
for a sailor."
"Oh, but I must see the world!" cried Tom. "I'm that tired of
everything here that it's like a hunger in me—the wish to see the
world. And, Master Dwight, would you lend me money enough to pay the
coach, and just to live till I get to Hull?"
"Oh, that's a very different matter," said Master Dwight, slowly. "Tom,
I don't see how I could do that. To give you money to run away—when
your father found it out, he'd have me in Wakefield Jail, he would.
It's against the law, my boy. That's the plain truth. Only for that, I
should be very glad to oblige you, and I think you're quite right to
go, but I can't break the law for you."
It did not occur to Tom, at the moment, to doubt Master Dwight's
assertion about the law. He looked very downcast.
"D'ye mind, my boy, what you told me once about your mother having some
money saved? You talk her over, and get her to give you a guinea or so.
If she lent you a good sum—say, 'ten' guineas for argument's sake—you'd
be able to set up in some small way o' business, and you're sharp
enough to make money, if you once had a decent start. Tell her it's
only a lend, and that you'll surely pay it back. You'll do well, Tom;
and when you're a rich man, you'll remember poor old Jeremiah Dwight
that taught you, and heartened you up, and helped you all he could."
Master Dwight seemed quite affected, no doubt by his own generosity
with Mrs. Adderley's money. If you ask me why he encouraged Tom to
run away, I must confess that it was partly because he had so often
sneered at the Burdeck people for their contented stupid ways that he
felt ashamed to say a word against the result of his own words. Again,
he found Burdeck very dull, and the row that would ensue when Tom was
missed promised to be amusing.
"Well," remarked Tom, after a short pause for reflection, "you'll keep
my secret, Master Dwight, though you can't help me? For I shall go,
even if I go with only this—" holding out twopence—"in my pocket. I
must run home now, or I may be missed. Good-bye, Master Dwight; I'm
thankful to you for all you've taught me."
He ran off, and found that he had not been missed. For the rest of the
day he worked very hard in the little garden.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER III.
TOM GOES TO SEA.
ALL that afternoon, as Tom hoed and thinned the growing crops in the
tiny garden, he was thinking over his difficulties, and determining
upon his future course of action.
Not determining to run away, that was already a settled thing. That
very night should see him on his way. But not to Hull. Reflecting
over what had passed between himself and old Dwight, Tom did not feel
satisfied with the conduct of that old humbug, and it struck him that
old Dwight would, perhaps, give his father a hint to search for him on
the Wakefield road, and might even mention Hull. Dwight had told him
that there was a great seaport town on "the other side," as Tom put
it, called Liverpool. It was further off, Dwight said, but even if he
walked the whole way, he would get there in time.
To walk he had no objection, but then he had no idea how long it would
take to get there, and to depend on twopence-worth of bread was not
to be thought of. Money "must" be had somehow. If he asked mother to
lend it, she would not only refuse, but she would tell his father all
about it. This would put an end to the whole thing, he would be so
well watched. To tell mother was out of the question. But when she saw
him back again with a pocketful of money, and dressed like the sailor
in Master Dwight's song-book—a volume out of which the old man had
taught the boy many a song—in blue jacket, loose trousers, blue cap,
and a knife with a twisted string to it, then she would forgive him,
no matter how he got the money, particularly as he would restore it to
her, and as much again as—well, as she had lent him.
To come back a sailor, with plenty of money and grand stories about
foreign countries, such as he had heard from Master Dwight, who,
however, had never seen foreign countries himself—this was the least
unlikely of Tom's visions concerning his future return home. To drive
up to his father's door in a grand coach with six horses and four
servants—such as Master Dwight had seen in London—to ask,—
"Does Master Adderley live here?"
And then, when father, mother, Sam, and little Dolly had all gazed with
respectful admiration at this wonderful apparition, to say,—
"Don't you know me? I'm Tom; and, mother, here's your money, and a lot
more—"
This also was among those foolish visions. And before you laugh at him
and say that no boy of fifteen could have been such a fool, remember
that Tom, though naturally a clever, active-minded fellow, was more
ignorant than any boy of fifteen in these days could well imagine.
The only school in Burdeck was kept by an old woman, who could read
(after a fashion), but who could not write at all. She kept the
smaller children out of their mothers' way for a couple of hours every
day; some of them learned their letters, some did not. Tom knew all
the letters, both capital and small, and that was literally all the
knowledge for which he was indebted to his school-days.
Things that we learn so early in life that I think some of us forget
that we did not know them by nature—that England is an island, for
instance, and what an island is; that all the world does not speak the
same language; that in some places it is very hot, and in others very
cold;—of all these common facts Tom was utterly ignorant, and very
ignorant people are very childish in their ideas. So you need not laugh
at poor Tom, who had bright, quick-working brains, and nothing for them
to work on.
Then, again, he had hardly any knowledge of religion. Things were in a
sad state in England then, and Burdeck, like many another place, had no
resident clergyman. The little old grey church was opened for service
every Sunday at four o'clock, a gentleman who had two other churches to
serve read the service and preached a short sermon. Mrs. Adderley was
a God-fearing woman, and lived up to her light—would that we all did
the same. She taught Tom that if he was good, he would go to heaven, if
bad, to hell; that it was wrong to lie or steal; and that he ought to
say "Our Father" every morning and every night—at night adding the old
lines about "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—" and she could teach him no
more, for she knew no more.
Well, to go back to Tom. He did not say to himself, in so many words,
"This night I'll open mother's hiding-place and take some of her golden
guineas." But, for all that, he had the thought in his mind, and
planned everything carefully. When night came, and he had been informed
that Farmer Bell would give him a few days' work gathering stones off a
field (Tom felt quite insulted), the family went to bed, and every one
was soon asleep. Every one but Tom, and he was particularly wide awake.
He waited a good long time. Comfortable snores resounded through the
house—Sam snored nearly as loudly as his father. Tom got up and dressed
himself, but did not put on his shoes. The moon was bright, and there
were neither shutters nor curtains to any of the windows, so that he
had plenty of light. He got out his small stock of clothing and made it
up into a neat bundle, which he tied up in a gay red handkerchief. Then
he ventured out into the kitchen.
On the top shelf of the dresser stood an old, old pot—so old that no
tinker would attempt the mending of it. In the pot there was a box, in
the box a cunningly tied up parcel, in the parcel a smaller box, and in
that box were "mother's golden guineas." There was no lock on either
box, Mrs. Adderley trusting for safety to the exceeding ingenuity of
her hiding-place. A worn-out iron pot! Who would think of searching in
it for her golden guineas?
Tom quietly and cautiously lifted a stout stool, placed it before the
dresser, and took down the pot. He descended carefully from the stool,
and placed the pot on the floor. Then he lifted off the lid. After a
pause, he removed the various coverings, until he came to the little
wooden box which formed as it were the kernel of this big nut.
"One might do," thought Tom, looking at the bright coins, "but then I
should be ever so much longer about making my fortune. It's better to
take—half. Yes, I'll take half. No, I'll take all! Mother won't mind my
taking all a bit more than if I take only half. It's only borrowing,
and when I pay it back double, as I mean to do, she'd rather get twenty
than only ten. Yes, but I do wish I could let her know that it's only
borrowing. It can't be helped; she'll know when I come back."
And Tom took the ten golden guineas; then suddenly put one back into
the box, muttering—
"I'll never 'say' I did that. I'll call it ten all the same."
Well, do you know, for some time Tom felt more surprised at his own
moderation in replacing one guinea than at his bad conduct in taking
the rest! Surely it is true that "the heart is deceitful."
He replaced the packings exactly as he found them, tied the money into
the corner of his neck-kerchief and hid it in his bosom, lifted the
pot to the old place, replaced the stool by the fire, and crept back
into his bedroom. Sam still slept profoundly. This was lucky, as Tom
had determined to leave the house by the little window just over his
own bed, as the house door creaked so much that to open it might be
dangerous. It was a very small window, but to judge by the ease and
quickness with which Tom, having first tossed out his bundle, crept
through and closed it from the outside, one might have been led to
conclude that it was not the first time he had used it as a means of
leaving the house. And indeed he had found it handy, in the apple
season.
In the morning, great was the commotion. Tom was gone; so were his
clothes. Adderley, poor dull good man, would never have remarked
the footprints under Tom's window, but Mrs. Adderley saw them. She
insisted on going to question old Dwight, who, however, gave her no
real help, for he remarked that no doubt the lad would make for Hull,
by Wakefield. Thomas Adderley lost a day's work by walking to Wakefield
to make inquiries. Tom had not gone by any coach; that, he thought, he
could feel sure of. And Mr. Trotter, the shopkeeper who bought Mrs.
Adderley's fruit and honey, promised to write to a cousin in Hull and
have inquiries made there. But, as we know, Tom had gone in quite the
other direction, and so, of course, nothing came of these efforts.
If Thomas lost a day's work looking for Tom, his wife lost many a
night's sleep thinking of him. But she did not discover the loss of her
golden guineas for some time. She never dreamed that Tom would touch
them.
If I were to recount all Tom's adventures on his journey, my space
would be full. So I must content myself with saying that he got on much
better than he deserved, and that he reached Liverpool safely. So far
was he from feeling sorry for his conduct, that he had never been so
happy in all his life. The world was so large, the people so amusing,
and every morning he was laying up knowledge and experience for future
use.
His natural shrewdness enabled him to behave prudently, and he
was fortunate in falling in with honest people when he arrived in
Liverpool. He asked a man who was painting some shutters in a small
street to tell him where he could get decent lodgings, and the man
pointed out a respectable place. The woman who managed this house took
a fancy to Tom's handsome face, and had many a talk with him. Finding
that he wished to go to sea, she introduced him to her cousin Peter
Robins, a man who had been a sailor all his life. Robins took the lad
to his captain, and finally Tom was transformed into "ship's boy" on
board the "Star of the Sea," commanded by Captain George Collins,
belonging to the great firm of Parker and Co., and trading to the West
Indies.
Tom was very fortunate in his captain; indeed, in everything he was
more fortunate than he knew himself at the time. Those were rough days;
and many terrible tales are told of the sufferings of ship's boys, and
even of full-grown sailors, whose captain chanced to be a bad, cruel
man. But Captain Collins was a good, even-tempered man, very particular
about his men, and very just in all his dealings with them. Some
merchant captains allowed their men to bring with them a few articles
to sell on their own account, at the various ports at which they
touched; and Captain Collins was one of these. Robins had made quite a
nice sum of money in this way; and when Tom confided to him that he had
a little money and wished to do the same, Robins gave him all the help
he could.
Tom became the happy proprietor of a little box filled with goods of
the most tempting description. Very much surprised was Tom when Robins
laughed heartily at his desire to "have a few warm woollen things for
the winter."
"There's no winter out there, Tom!"
"No winter? Mr. Robins, you're laughing at me."
"For all that, 'tis very true. It's never cold there, and those black
fellows cannot stand cold at all. Our cook died at Port Royal one
voyage, and the captain hired a free black man to fill his place,
promising to bring him back without charge next voyage. Well, he never
had to do that; poor Quashy—he had a name, but we called him Quashy—he
died a day or so after we landed. Just the cold—nothing else."
"Did you say 'black' people?" said Tom. "Not really black, for sure?"
"Black as my shoe; and they'll always buy crimson or yellow
handkerchiefs to wear on their heads."
"Well, I'm longing to be there," said Tom. And he paid for his goods,
but carefully concealed the rest of his money. However, Robins must
have perceived that he had some money left, for he presently said—
"Tom, you had no need to go to sea. Why are you going?"
"Oh, I want to see the world and make my fortune," replied Tom.
"Well, I've made up my mind to go on with Captain Collins till I have a
certain sum of money saved. Then I mean to buy a good boat—a Portsmouth
wherry, maybe—and—set up for myself. You'll be a smart sailor by that
time, Tom, and I like your looks. If you turn out as I expect, I'll
give you a chance of making a fortune as 'is' a fortune. Not only a few
guineas saved up, but—" and Robins made a gesture, flinging out both
arms to indicate the immense size of the fortune "he" meant to make.
Tom thought Mr. Robins a very nice man.
The "Star of the Sea" sailed the next day—one of a number of vessels
which were convoyed by three frigates and a few smaller armed ships.
Without such protection no ships ventured far out of port in those days
of war and plunder.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IV.
PRESSED.
FOUR years have passed since Tom Adderley began his new career. He has
made four voyages with Captain Collins, and has risen from being ship's
boy to being coxswain of the captain's boat. This gave him plenty of
opportunities of landing and carrying on his own little trade; and Tom
had made thirty pounds, which he kept tied up in a little canvas bag.
He could pay his mother three times over, and she would be proud of her
sailor son.
The Tom Adderley who was coming back to England with what seemed to
him a large sum of money, intending at last to visit his home and
repay the ten guineas (faithful to his resolution, he always thought
of them as ten) threefold, was a very different person from the slip
of a boy who had popped out so easily through the little window in his
father's cottage. He had grown a good deal, he was strong and brown
and sturdy, he walked with a little roll or swagger, call it which you
like, as sailors do; and he was more changed in mind and ideas than
in person. He could not read nor write, but he could keep accounts by
means of nicks in a stick, and never make a mistake in them. He had
learned to be a good sailor, for a merchant sailor; and he loved his
profession, and had not a wish beyond it. So that he was now as steady
and painstaking as he had once been idle and troublesome, he was well
thought of by others, and exceedingly well pleased with himself.
As to being ashamed of having taken his mother's money, he was nothing
of the kind. The guineas had increased under his care. Whereas his
mother would probably have kept them locked up, laid up rather (Tom
laughed to himself as he remembered the old iron pot), idle and
useless, waiting for a "rainy day" that might never come. As to the
actual arrival of that rainy day, the idea never troubled his head.
Nothing ever happened in Burdeck, and nothing ever would happen. Father
and mother would live on, just as they had always lived, until he had
made enough to buy a farm and stock it. And for this, he would begin to
work and save as soon as he had been home and paid mother threefold.
Yet Tom could remember the deaths of poor Harry Sands and his own
pretty sister Dolly. The remembrance might have been a warning to him,
but it was not.
Tom was picturing to himself his return—his mother's delight, Sam's
half-envious admiration, his father's surprise—as he stood one day in
the top, holding lightly by the rigging, doing duty as "look-out man."
The merchant fleet, about forty ships of varying tonnage, some of them
carrying a couple of guns for self-defence, was sweeping along with a
favouring breeze; the four ships of war forming the convoy sailed two
on one side and two on the other of the fleet. They had had a splendid
voyage, and would, if the weather continued to favour them, soon see
England again. Some of them could have sailed much faster, had they
dared to leave the convoy, but this they could not do.
Suddenly Tom's quick eye caught sight of an unexpected movement on
board the "Dauntless," the three-decker commanded by the senior captain
present. Presently up ran little coloured balls, which soon shook
themselves out into little flags. They were signalling, and not to the
fleet. Therefore Tom knew that the signals were intended to reach some
vessel seen from the tall mast of the great line-of-battle ship, but
not as yet visible to him.
"'Dauntless' signalling!" he called out.
And Mr. Boland, first mate, after a look through his glass, sent for
the captain.
Tom saw that the captain was uneasy. Something seemed to worry him a
good deal.
Presently Tom called again, "A sail!"
"Where away?" called Captain Collins.
"Coming up with 'Dauntless.' Starboard quarter, sir. 'Dauntless'
signalling!"
The captain raised his long glasses, looked steadily, and then grunted
as if vexed. "Orders to lay to," said he; "and that means that the
stranger is a Frenchman, and that there are others at her heels. I
thought we were getting off without a fight this time."
He then gave the necessary orders, and in ten minutes every ship had
furled sails and lay as nearly motionless as could be managed.
"I don't understand this," Captain Collins presently remarked, "The
ships are not getting ready for action; they are remaining in their
stations. Aloft there! Any more sail?"
"No, sir, none."
"I don't like this; I don't like it at all," muttered Captain Collins.
Meantime the stranger had overtaken the "Dauntless," and a boat was
seen to leave her and row towards the big ship. The new-comer was a
frigate, and Captain Collins pronounced her English.
"Oh, then we're all right, sir," said Boland.
"I hope so," replied the more experienced captain.
Presently Tom gave notice that several boats were leaving the
"Dauntless." Captain Collins stood watching them as they swept over
the frisky little waves, steadily impelled by the skilful arms of
men-o'-war's men. The boats separated, each going towards one of the
merchant ships. The boat from the stranger steered straight for the
"Star of the Sea."
"Yes," said Captain Collins; "I thought so! Robins, go aloft and send
Adderley down. You're safe; you're too old for them, if they can get
younger. Adderley, go below and stay there, if you're let. Brown, Carr,
Jones, and Seacombe, you go too. I must not overdo it; the rest must
remain and take their chance."
The wary captain, shrewdly suspecting the errand on which the boat
came, had now sent the pick of his crew below. One of these men
enlightened Tom.
"It's a press-gang, that's what 'tis. Yon frigate has lost some men,
and some of us will have to go."
"Oh," cried young Carr, "and me that is to be married the week after I
get home. Poor Kitty, she has waited for me so faithful. Look ye, boys;
I'll hide here behind this barrel, and maybe they won't see me."
"Whatever you do," said Seacombe, the eldest among them, "make no sort
o' resistance if you're took. For there's captains in the navy that
would flog ye for it at once."
Tom felt very angry. He could hear, when this conversation ceased,
what was going on, on deck, and he stood listening with a miserable
conviction in his heart that he would be one of those selected.
He heard the boat touch the ship's side. The next sounds proved that
several men had boarded the "Star."
"Captain George Collins, I suppose?" said the young officer in command.
"At your service," replied Captain Collins in a somewhat sulky voice.
"I am Lieutenant Carteret, of his Majesty's ship 'Imogene.' We've been
in action and lost some of our men. We cannot leave the station, and we
cannot be short-handed. Captain Egerton regrets very much being obliged
to take such a step, but we must ask you to give us three men. Captain
Strayn, of the 'Dauntless,' says you can spare three. We mean to take
some from several ships, so as not to distress any."
"What must be, must," said Captain Collins, "and I won't deny there's
justice in it. You defend us, and—My men, you heard what this gentleman
said?"
"Will any of you volunteer?" said Mr. Carteret, who liked his present
duty as little as did Captain Collins.
"Yes, sir; I may as well go willing," said that sly old fox, Robins,
knowing very well that the officer would take younger men.
"No one else volunteers? Well, then, I must choose. But first, Mr.
Collins, do I see all your crew?"
"Are ye all on deck, boys?" inquired Collins.
"We're here," answered several voices. But Mr. Carteret, after looking
at the men for a moment, said to a little pink-and-white midshipman who
stood by his side—
"Mr. Egerton, take two men and go below. Bring up any men you find
there."
Mr. Egerton, aged twelve, thought it all great fun. He ran gleefully
down the ladder, and presently the sound of a scuffle was heard.
At a word from Mr. Carteret, three more sailors went below, and very
soon the five young men were brought on deck, Dick Carr in custody, as
he had resisted when dragged out of his hiding-place.
"Five skulkers, Mr. Carteret; and this fellow resisted."
"Ah, well, we'll overlook that. Let him go, Collier. These are the men
for us. I'll take you—" pointing at Tom—"and you—" Dick Carr—"and you—"
the last being Jones. "Now, my lads, I'm sorry this duty fell to me,
for I hate having to do it. But I must do my duty, and you must submit.
You'll find yourselves better off in many ways than you are here;
plenty of fighting—every Englishman likes that—plenty of prize-money,
and a very comfortable ship. If I give you five minutes to get your
kits, will you keep faith with me, and give me no further trouble?"
Tom stepped forward and said, "Captain Collins, must we go?"
"No help for it, Adderley. Go below and get your kit."
Tom lingered for a moment, but catching little Egerton grinning at him,
he walked off in sulky silence. Carr followed him. In a few minutes
they all reappeared, each man carrying a bundle. Tom had his precious
canvas bag tied up in his bundle, for as a sailor from the stranger's
boat had gone below with the "Star's" men, apparently to keep an eye on
them, Tom had not cared to be seen concealing it about his person.
Captain Collins shook hands with each man as he went over the side.
Carr asked him to give a message to his Kitty, and Jones gave him some
money to carry to his old mother. Tom for a moment thought of doing
the same. He knew that Captain Collins would spare no trouble about
it. But then, how terribly the honour and glory of his return would be
impaired—to go home with no store of golden guineas, and causing no
surprise in Burdeck! No, a year or two could make no real difference to
mother, so he merely shook hands and went over the side.
As Mr. Carteret was about to follow, Robins came up to him. "What about
me, sir? I volunteered."
"I have a great mind to take you, you old humbug!" said the young
officer, laughing.
The men laughed too—all except the three pressed men. And Robins
retreated very hastily.
As they rowed to the frigate, Dick Carr, who was sitting beside Tom,
suddenly cried out, "I can't bear it, and I won't. Good-bye, Tom." And,
quick as light, he flung himself overboard.
Tom grasped at him as he sprang, caught him by the leg, and held on.
Help was promptly given, and Carr was dragged into the boat again, and
handcuffed, but the plunge seemed to have brought him to his senses,
for he sat quite quiet. Tom now stooped to pick up his precious bundle,
which he had dropped at his feet when he saw what Carr was about. It
was gone!
"My kit—my money!" he cried.
"Your kit!" said Mr. Carteret. "What is the matter about it?"
"It is gone!" said Tom.
"It went overboard in the scuffle, sir," said one of the rowers.
"Summat heavy it seemed, too, for it went down like lead."
"Are you 'sure' it went overboard?" cried Tom despairingly.
"Never mind, my man," Mr. Carteret said kindly. "We'll rig you out on
board the 'Imogene.'"
"But maybe you took it," Tom said to the rower who had spoken. "You're
the man that followed me below, and maybe you saw—"
"Keep a civil tongue in your head, youngster," said the man, "or you'll
find the mess a little too hot for you. 'I' take your kit, forsooth! A
lubberly merchant sailor!"
Tom sank down, utterly wretched. What followed, he did not know. When
he recovered himself a little, he was one of a long row of men, all
like himself taken from the merchant ships, and now standing before
a naval officer in the undress uniform of a post captain. A man of
middle height, with dark hair, grizzled here and there, and very curly;
handsome clear features, bronzed by many a burning sun, and strangely
light grey eyes.
He looked at his new men kindly and gravely, and after a few minutes
spoke to them.
"My lieutenants have done well; you are all fine fellows, and look
sailor-like and ship-shape. Nov, my lads, listen to me for a moment.
Necessity knows no law, and this was a plain case of necessity. I could
not leave the station; no ship on the station could spare me a single
man, and I can't have the old 'Imogene' short-handed, and see her towed
into a French port some fine day. I'm sorry for you, lads, and yet I'm
a little ashamed of you, too. Ashamed to find that Englishmen pull a
long face over having to serve their king and their country, to do
which is the bounden duty of every able-bodied man in times like these.
You'll live, I hope, to be proud of being king's men. And I'll see that
you have fair play, and share and share alike with the rest, of work
and of play, of grog and of prize-money, and—what some of you will
think best of all—the chances of winning honour and glory for your king
and Old England. Come now, three cheers for the king—King George and
Old England! And if you do your duty by me, you shall find that I'll do
mine by you."
Three cheers, tolerably hearty ones, were raised. The little mite of a
middy who had been with Mr. Carteret was standing close to the captain,
whose son he was.
"That fellow did not cheer," said he, pointing at Tom, "all because he
lost his kit!"
"Mr. Egerton, go below," said the captain, shortly enough. "When you
are a little older and a little wiser, you will know that sometimes it
is well to be blind and deaf."
Little Mr. Egerton coloured all over his pretty little impudent face,
and made off as fast as he could go.
"What is your name?" Captain Egerton asked of Tom.
"Adderley—Tom Adderley."
"Say 'sir;' we must have no merchant ship manners here. Touch your cap
and say 'sir.' You lost your hit in saving this half-drowned lad here?"
"Yes."
Captain Egerton waited. Something in his cool, quiet eyes made Tom's
hand find its way to his cap, and forced him to add "sir," after a very
perceptible pause.
"Well, go to the purser and tell him to rig you out comfortably. You
look a sailor, every inch of you, but don't ruin your chances by
showing temper.—You are Richard Carr, I think?"
"Yes, sir."
"If I overlook your silly conduct in the boat, will you promise better
behaviour for the future? I can make allowance for the surprise."
"Yes, sir; I won't do the like no more."
"That's right. Now go below and get dry."
The captain turned away, and as soon as he was out of hearing, Tom
Adderley uttered a few words in a low, hissing tone—if his good mother
could have seen his face and heard those words, she would have cried
out in fear and amazement. An old sailor who stood near turned round
and said gently—
"Don't thee use words like that, my lad. It's clear against the law of
God and the rules of the service. Come along, both of ye, and I'll show
you where to go. You'll like the life after a bit. I wouldn't change,
not to be a bishop!"
Now, Gideon Terlizzeck was a fine-looking old salt, and a very good
man, but he was not exactly one's idea of a bishop, as he stood before
the two young men, hitching up his trousers and shaking his head
amiably at them, so that his stiff pigtail flew about, describing a
half-circle in the air. Many sailors of the Royal Navy still wore
pigtails, and Gideon had a splendid one—long and thick and nearly
white. Tom did not know what a bishop was, and replied roughly—
"What's that to me? I say it's a shame, a cruel shame; it's unjust—it's
not to be put up with. I'll never do a stroke of work aboard this
prison of a frigate."
"My lad," said old Terlizzeck, after a glance all round, "be you
thankful as none heard that but me. You've served aboard a trader all
your life, but maybe you know what I mean when I makes mention of the
boatswain's mate and the cat?"
Tom started. "Let me see the man that will lay a hand on me!" said he,
with a flash in his eyes.
"There's three hundred odd on board this here frigate would do it as
soon as look at you, if the captain gave the word. Now, don't you
be a fool, my lad. I'm sorry, for you—you seem to have some private
reason for being angry, but you'll only knock your own head against a
bulkhead, if you set yourself against discipline."
Tom was silent, but his heart was very full, more of anger than of
sorrow.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER V.
OLD GIDEON.
TOM Adderley, for the first time in his life, had been forced to do
what he did not like. One way or another, he had generally had his own
way at home, and since he had gone to sea, all things had prospered
with him. All through his last voyage he had been looking forward to
his visit to Burdeck; wondering if Sam had married Jane Waters that
he was so sweet on; if little Dolly promised to be as pretty as her
poor mother; if old Dwight were still alive; if father would heartily
sanction his going to sea again (which he quite meant to do, anyhow);
above all, if mother would throw her arms round his neck, kiss his
brown face, and be proud of her sailor. Nay, he had even sent an
occasional thought in the direction of Lucy Trayner. Lucy must be quite
a woman now—would she have forgotten him? Ah, well! He would soon know.
And by thus thinking of home, he had begun to feel more real love for
his people than he had ever felt before; and added to this was the
pride of showing them how he had succeeded in life—how he could pay
thirty guineas for ten, and yet still have enough in hand to replenish
the box for his next voyage.
And they had been so nearly home, too. And no one had a right to make
a man-o'-war's man of him against his will. So, being thoroughly out
of temper and disgusted with his lot, Tom vowed that the king should
have a bad bargain of him; he would be as useless, troublesome, and
disobedient as he could be, without actually getting punished.
Well! He kept his word. No one knew what a smart sailor he really was,
and no one would have found it out from his proceedings now. He obeyed
orders, of course—he must indeed have been a reckless man who had
disobeyed orders on board a king's ship in those days, or, for that
matter, should try it in these, though flogging is no longer the order
of the day. But he did everything badly and slowly, and in a slovenly
way, causing Mr. Carteret to regret that he had been taken in by the
fellow's good looks, and Mr. Duncan, first lieutenant, to remark that
merchant captains seldom trained smart sailors.
"That fellow hasn't sense enough to coil a rope," one sailor said to
another, while watching Tom at work one day.
"Do you mean Tom Adderley?" cried Dick Carr, standing near. "Why, he's
the best sailor, all round, that ever I saw."
"Oh, very like, but you're another of the same kidney," was the reply.
"Carr's not a bad man," said Gideon Terlizzeck.
"I couldn't hold a candle to Tom," replied Carr, laughing.
"Did well enough aboard the 'Lively Polly,' or whatsoever you called
your old tub," said the first speaker. "But here, aboard the old
'Imogene,' he ain't up to the mark, that's plain."
Old Gideon walked away and stood thinking—about Tom.
"'Twould be a Christian deed to bring that poor lad to a better mind,"
said he to himself, "before he makes himself a bad name and gets
punished, 'and' takes to drink, as lads do sometimes when they're
crossed in love or the like."
So Gideon watched for an opportunity, and soon found one. Being on deck
one afternoon, he saw Tom, who was one of the men on duty, standing
alone, leaning over the taffrail, staring down into the water. Going
to his side, Gideon pulled out a couple of pieces of tobacco, and
said—just to start a conversation—
"We can't smoke here, Tom, but do you chew? Hev a bit, if so."
"I don't chew, nor yet smoke," Tom answered ungraciously.
"I smoke, but I allow it's wasteful," answered Gideon. "Still, I don't
mind. A man must have some little comforts, and I have none depending
on me."
Tom remained silent, keeping his shoulder turned to the speaker so as
to hide his face.
"When I were a youngster, Tom Adderley," said the old man, approaching
his subject in what he considered a most diplomatic and delicate
way, "it befell me, as it do befall a many, for to fall in love. And
although it came to nothing, seeing the lass took up with a soldier
while I were at sea, and I found her a married woman and the mother
of three when I got back, still it caused me a deal o' thought—an
uneasiness, a pining in myself for some one that I could talk to about
her. Ay, in all the troubles of life, a friend is a help and a comfort.
You go with me so far?"
"Oh yes," said Tom, carelessly.
"And you're in trouble. And why I don't know, but you don't seem to
take overmuch to your old messmates, Carr and Jones. So it did seem to
me as you might find a relief in talking to one as has known trouble
and knows the way out of it."
"There's no way out of mine," replied Tom.
"Is it a love affair, Tom?"
"Not it! I leave that balderdash to Dick Carr. No—and you can do
nothing for me, though I believe you mean kindly. I'd rather be left
alone."
"Well, if I must. But, Tom, I do truly know a cure for all troubles. If
it's not love, Tom—Have you a mother at home?"
The question was unexpected, and Tom was young and unhappy. He stood
quite still, with his back to Gideon, but his eyes filled, and a
strangled sob presently escaped him.
"Can't ye let me alone?" he growled. "See now, you've made a baby of
me—me, that's been a sailor these four years! Yes, I have a mother, as
good a mother as ever lived; and I was going home to her, when—Well,
never mind."
And Tom rubbed his eyes, and then put his hands into his pockets and
began whistling.
Gideon listened to the clear, sweet sounds, and said when they ceased—
"You've a sweet pipe, Tom; for all the world like a thrush. There was
one used to sing in an old elder-bush just over my mother's cottage,
away in Devonshire; and I do seem to hear that bird now, along o' you."
"There was thrushes in Burdeck, too," said Tom.
"Where's Burdeck? 'Your' place, I suppose. Is it in Cornwall?"
"I—don't rightly know," answered Tom. "It's ten days from Liverpool,
but maybe I didn't go the shortest way."
"Liverpool! Oh, I've been there," said Gideon. "Your ship belonged
there, I suppose?"
"She does. She's there by this, and—Ah, well, never mind."
"Four year at sea, and never saw your mother! It's hard to bear. But
we'll be going home—Plymouth, most like—and then you can work your
passage round to Liverpool, make sail for Burdeck, and—Eh, what's that
you say?"
"That I'll never go now."
Gideon stared. "Why so, mate?" said he.
Tom put his arms on the top rail of the taffrail, and laid his head
down on them.
"No use going now. I had my earnings, my savings—thirty golden
guineas!—to take to her; now they're at the bottom of the sea, they
tell me. No use going home now."
"Why, lad, you said your mother were a good woman!"
"Just as good a woman as ever lived," Tom replied.
"And yet you think she'd fail to welcome her son, because he brought
her no money? Well, I wouldn't expect that, even of a bad mother.
Mostly, they do love their sons."
"You don't understand," muttered Tom.
"I understand this much, Tom. When I went home from my first voyage,
my mother—she's in heaven these thirty years—just catched me in her
two arms and cried hearty. And 'twas not till next day that I so much
as gave a thought to the handful of money I had for her. And, you may
believe me, 'twould be the same with your mother."
"No, no; you don't know. Did your mother give consent to your being a
sailor?"
"'Course she did. Father had been a sailor, my brothers were sailors;
it runs in the family," said Gideon.
"But—mine didn't; nor yet father. We're inland folks. I ran away—if you
must know."
"And I'm sorry to know it, Tom. And so you worked and saved, thinking
to buy forgiveness? Oh, boy, it's never to be bought; you'd get it
free! Listen to this here."
He pulled out a small and shabby Bible.
"What! Can you read?" said Tom, full of admiration.
"A little, when I know what's coming. Luke fifteen—that's the place."
And, without further preface, he read the parable of the Prodigal Son.
But it had by no means the effect he expected. Tom listened
attentively, but his face grew red and his eyes full of scorn.
"And do ye think I'm going to do like he—a fellow as wasted his money,
and lived like a pig? I never did the like. No; till I can take mother
her golden guineas, I won't go anigh her. And since I lost them, I keep
thinking, thinking, she may be wanting them."
"She lent you money, then? I thought you ran away?"
"So I did. I—borrowed ten guineas she had saved. She lent Sam—that's my
brother—five or six to buy a horse and cart, and he paid her back. She
would have lent it to me, willing, for anything of that kind, but not
for going to sea to seek my fortune, because that's a thing our folk
don't understand. So I saved and worked for to pay her threefold, and I
had it—thirty golden guineas—in a canvas bag; and it was lost with my
kit when that everlasting booby, Dick Carr, wanted to drown himself,
and I wish I'd let him do it. My kit went in the kick-up—and that's all
about it."
Gideon looked at him sadly.
"Tom Adderley," said he, "I seem to see that you stole that money from
your mother?"
"I did 'not!' I borrowed it—without leave."
"Which is just stealing," said the old man. "And you thinking yourself
better than the son in the parable, who only spent what was his own!"
"Wasted it shameful," said Tom, "and I never wasted a penny. Kept it
all for mother. And now they tell me the mermaids has it. And never
will Burdeck see me any more. 'I'll' never go home, snivelling to be
forgiven."
"Truly then, Tom, you do need forgiveness as sorely as he, or any man,
ever did! And till you give up your wicked pride, and confess that
you've sinned, you're in a very bad way, Tom. And I'll pray for you, my
lad, for I misdoubt you don't pray for yourself."
"No," said Tom. "I used to, but I've forgotten how. It don't matter.
Praying won't give me back my gold."
"No, perhaps not, but it may make you content to lose it," said Gideon.
"All hands to shorten sail!" sang out Mr. Carteret at this moment.
And Tom, excited by this long talk, forgot to crawl unwillingly up the
rigging, and to handle the ropes as if they burnt his fingers. He was
one of the first on the yard, and did his work in splendid style, until
he saw Carr nudge one of the men and point at him. He relapsed into
stupidity and laziness at once.
But Mr. Carteret, watching the men at their work, could not fail to
perceive this little incident, and from that time Tom had really a
hard life of it. Of course, he deserved it. I am not defending him.
What Captain Egerton had said was perfectly true; every man is bound
to defend his country and to obey his king, and this was what Tom
was asked to do. But he was very ignorant, and the loss of his money
embittered him. Without being actually insubordinate or impertinent, he
was a most troublesome, uncomfortable sort of sailor.
Gideon Terlizzeck alone seemed inclined to befriend him, and for this
Tom was really grateful, though he never showed it. Gideon insisted
upon reading the Bible to him, and more than once asked him to join him
in prayer. But Tom kept up a sulky, distant air, and only seemed to
listen because he could not well help it.
But in his own mind, he wondered why a man like Gideon, a favourite
both with officers and men, should take so much trouble about a sulky
cub like himself. Tom used those very words—"a sulky cub;" he chose to
appear like a sulky cub, and no one could deny that he succeeded to
perfection.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
THE ARTICLES OF WAR.
OLD Gideon Terlizzeck, as the men all called him, was not really an
old man; he did not know his age exactly himself, so that I cannot
be expected to do so. There could hardly be a more striking evidence
than that afforded by his life, of what the grace of God can do for
us, even in very adverse circumstances. His mother had been one of the
earliest followers of John Wesley, when he preached in the fields near
her native place, which was in Cornwall. She married young, and was
early left a widow. She brought up her boys most carefully, and with
wonderful success—they all turned out well. If in many respects she was
but an ignorant woman, no wiser than others, she had the best learning
and the highest wisdom—she could read her Bible, and she loved it; she
could pray, and prayer brought her wisdom.
You will find plenty of people in these days to tell you that the
Bible can teach you nothing, and that prayer is a superstitious waste
of time. But you will generally find that these are people who do not
read the Bible, and who do not pray. Those who do will tell you a very
different story. And surely common sense teaches us that these last
must know more about it than the others. Of religion only, among all
the studies pursued by man, does the world believe that those who have
only an outside acquaintance with it are better judges of the truth or
falsehood of its assertions, than those who know it well and love it
better than their lives.
Well, to return to Gideon's mother. Her husband was a Plymouth man and
a sailor, and her sons were all sailors. As Gideon said, it ran in the
family. They were all dead now, except Gideon, who had been the eldest.
He had gone to sea as a boy, and had served afloat, with intervals of a
month or two, ever since. He had seen much hard fighting, had endured
much hardship; he had witnessed much sin, and heard much swearing and
bad language. Yet now, with his hair white, and his strength beginning
to be touched by the hand of age, Gideon had still the child's heart,
the child's faith, and the child's hope, with which he had left his
mother's cottage. I know he called himself a grievous sinner; that is
one of the contradictions of which outsiders can make nothing. But
though human, and therefore, of course, often going wrong, he was,
like the prophet Samuel, one who, having been given to God by a pious
mother, walked with God all the days of his life.
Gideon was a shy man, and very humble. He was no great talker when the
men were all together, though to one companion he would talk freely.
The men liked him—he was always so kind and helpful; to be in trouble
was to have Gideon's hand held out to help you. They respected him;
his presence restrained the worst of them in the use of bad language,
and on Sundays they would often let him read the Bible to them. The
"Imogene" being a frigate, did not carry a chaplain, but the captain
read the Church service to the men every Sunday. It was the first time
that Tom had ever been brought into contact with religion since he left
his mother, and he was interested and impressed, in spite of himself.
But he did not show it in any way, and Gideon, who had taken a fancy to
him, was quite distressed about him.
Tom's discontent was not lessened when he discovered that the "Imogene"
had only just come to the station, so that, for three or four years at
the least, he would be kept out of England. Though he said he would not
go home, yet now that he certainly 'could' not go, he longed to hear
something of his people.
The "Imogene" was one of the small fleet employed in defending
England's West Indian possessions against being surprised by the
French, with whom, at that time, we were at war. Formerly the French
had made constant attempts at these surprises, but since the great
battle of Trafalgar, France had not so many ships to send to distant
stations, and encounters between our ships and those of France were
less frequent. Still, an occasional cruiser would appear, and it was in
a very tough encounter with a French frigate that Captain Egerton had
lost so many men that he had to take some from the merchant ships.
Of course, a good look-out was of the utmost importance. And when Tom
had been some time on board, the look-out man, from some unaccountable
carelessness, allowed a ship to come near enough to be seen by those on
deck, before he gave notice of her approach.
She proved to be English, but this did not alter the fact that a grave
offence had been committed; and the man who had offended was condemned
to be flogged, according to the Articles of War in that case made and
provided.
Captain Egerton seldom flogged, but in this case he thought it
necessary. People in those days did not think of such things as we do,
but Tom had never seen a man flogged, and the sight made a terrible
impression upon him.
All hands were piped on deck; the Article of War dealing with the
offence was read aloud by the captain, who looked very stern in his
cocked hat, and then John Callcutt, able seaman, received four dozen
lashes, and, if the truth must be told, did not think half as much of
it as we are apt to fancy. But Tom was like one in a frenzy. He was
faint and sick, angry and frightened, and, in fact, did not know what
he was about. Gideon, with Dick Carr's assistance, hustled him away and
took him below. Carr returned on deck, but Gideon stayed with Tom, and
tried to calm him.
"Why, Tom," said he, "what a fellow you are! Here's a pother about a
four dozen, well deserved, as we must all own! Why, if you'd served
with Sir Lucas Cochrane as I did, you'd have seen six, ay, and seven
dozen, given for half that. He'd flog a man for being last up the
rigging! Ah, he were a bad-tempered man, but a grand officer. Now, our
captain never is severe; and you'll see Callcutt about again in a week
or so, not a hair the worse."
"Were you ever flogged?" asked Tom, looking up with white face and
gleaming eyes.
"N—no, Tom, I can't say I ever was. I've been always very fortunate;
and as to you, it's all in your own hands. You do your duty, and you
and the cat will never come together."
"Now, look here," said Tom. "John Callcutt shipped with Captain Egerton
of his own free will, and has been a man-o'-war's man all his life, so
that he knew what lay before him. Equally, so did you. Maybe you like
being treated like slaves or dumb beasts, but I was never asked my
consent to being here. And I just tell you, what is no more than the
truth, that if the like is ever done to me, I'll end my life the very
first time I get the chance. I'll manage better than Dick Carr did,
too. Do you think that I'm going back to my people, to tell them I was
flogged like a hound? Never! I mean what I say, and—"
"Tom, be quiet; not so loud. No one's going to flog you unless 'you' go
and deserve it."
"Deserve it! How can I deserve it, for not keeping rules I never
promised to keep? You drag me away from my ship and my captain; you
read me a lot of rules and laws that I know nothing about; I'm robbed
of my hard-earned money, and—"
"Nonsense, Tom. My lad, you're off your head. Your money went to the
bottom, as you yourself told me."
"I told you they all said so. But it's my belief that they grabbed it
while I was laying hold of Carr."
"You're beside yourself. Tom, be quiet; here's an officer."
Gideon stood up; Tom jumped up too.
"The captain wants to know what is wrong with Adderley," said Mr.
Carteret.
"First punishment he ever saw, sir; that's all," answered Gideon.
"Ay? Mr. Egerton fainted; so, you see, you're not the only one. I hope
you're all right again, Adderley?"
"Yes—sir."
"What were you saying about being robbed, as I came in?"
"Nothing, sir," said Tom, sullenly.
"That's no answer; I heard you plainly. It is the first that has been
heard of it. Were you robbed?"
"Greg Collier saw the kit go overboard," remarked Gideon.
But Mr. Carteret waited for Tom to reply, and he had to speak at last.
"I had my money in my kit, sir—a good deal of money—and when Carr
jumped overboard and I caught hold of him, my kit disappeared. I
dropped it at my feet as Carr passed me, and I don't see how it got
overboard."
"Terlizzeck, were you with me? I forget."
"No, sir. But Greg Collier sat on the next bench, and he saw the kit go
overboard."
"What made it go? No one had any call to touch it," said Tom, doggedly.
"Why did you not speak of this at once?" inquired Mr. Carteret.
"Because I knew 'twould be no use; they'd all stick together."
"The captain must be told of this," said Mr. Carteret.
And the captain was told, and inquired carefully into the matter.
Three of the best men in the ship deposed to having seen the bundle go
overboard and sink at once, and one said that Carr had kicked it as he
made his spring. There was no reason to doubt this testimony, and all
that Tom gained by his foolish suspicions was the dislike of Collier
and of some others, and a good deal of joking about his "fine fortune
that was in Davy Jones's locker."
All this combined to make Tom more miserable every day, until at last
he was really in a very desperate humour; and just at this time the
ship touched at Jamaica.
Captain Egerton found it necessary to get water, and as the beef and
biscuits were getting low, he determined to make for Port Royal, as
there he was sure of getting what he wanted.
Often had Tom been in Port Royal before; many a bright kerchief and gay
ribbon had he sold there to black damsels, who used to declare that
"Massa Add'ley had de lubly taste!"
The "Imogene" was detained for several days, getting in water and
shipping stores, but at last she was ready to sail. Tom was one
of several who went ashore on the morning of the last day, on the
understanding that they would be ready when the boat came up for them
in the afternoon. Captain Egerton wished to get them all on board
early, as he meant to sail in the morning.
But when the midshipman in command counted his passengers, one was
missing. And when he had called over the names, that one proved to be
Tom Adderley. Gideon, who had been sent to ensure the discretion and
safety of the mid, advised his commanding officer to wait a while. But
Tom did not come, and a gun from the frigate warned them that they
were delaying too long. It was very unwillingly, and with a foreboding
heart, that Gideon heard the orders given, though he knew that there
was no help for it.
All that night he kept hoping that the morning would see Tom alongside
in a shore-boat, for then, of course, he would escape with a severe
reprimand—what Gideon called "a proper wigging."
But the morning came, and Tom did not. Captain Egerton was not going to
delay on account of the loss of Tom's not very valuable services. He
communicated the fact that one of his men was "absent without leave" to
the proper authorities, and sailed a little after daybreak.
This was just what Master Tom wished and expected. He was hidden in
the house of an old negro, who was also an old acquaintance of his. He
meant to discard his sailor dress and lie quiet until Captain Collins
came into port. Then he would get on board the old "Star of the Sea,"
and be happy again.
Of course Captain Collins would have had nothing to say to him;
equally, of course, he would have been arrested the first time he
ventured out. But, as it happened, he never had time to experience
these disappointments.
The "Imogene" met a French privateer before she was quite out of sight
of Port Royal, took her, and came back into port with her, Captain
Egerton not caring to spare men and officers to form a prize crew. Mr.
Carteret, with a number of the "Imogene's" men, had just marched the
few prisoners to the barracks, when Greg Collier caught sight of old
Agamemnon, the negro, peeping nervously round a corner. Collier laid
hold of him and took him to Mr. Carteret.
"This here knows where Adderley is, I'm pretty certain, sir. I've seen
them discoursin' each other. Scouting round the corner, he were; and
frightened out of his wits, as all may see!"
"Do you know where Thomas Adderley, able seaman, belonging to his
Majesty's ship 'Imogene,' is hiding?" said Mr. Carteret, blandly.
But Agamemnon shook and shivered, and turned from black to a livid
grey, so certain did he feel that this gentleness covered fearful
designs. Still, Tom had been kind to him; and the poor old fellow was
divided between fear for himself and a desire to save Tom. So, not
being particular as to truth, he replied—
"Hidin'! Oh no, capta'n, not hidin'. Sick! Oh, he were berry sick—sick
'nuff to die nearly! When de ship sailed he were lyin' dar, most dead."
"Drunk, I suppose?" said Mr. Carteret.
Agamemnon rolled his eyes in a way which might mean yes or no, just as
you liked to take it.
"Show me where he is!" Mr. Carteret went on.
And poor Agamemnon, all unworthy to bear the name of the "king of men,"
obeyed very meekly, so that in a few minutes, Tom was in custody,
and was marched down to the landing-place, and conveyed on board the
'Imogene.' He was put in irons, and kept in strict confinement; and it
is easy to imagine that he was very miserable. Now that he had tried
and failed, he saw plainly enough the utter folly of his attempt to
escape. Gideon's warnings came back to him; his entreaties that Tom
would submit to what 'must' be, and try to do his duty in his new
position. Now, too, that to see it was of no use to him, he saw that he
had been leniently treated—that his officers had been very patient with
him; and always he saw before him the punishment he had brought upon
himself. Oh, if only he could begin again, and be once more the newly
pressed man, how differently he would behave!
Even the loss of his money seemed nothing to him now; he felt that he
had lost everything that made life worth having. It seemed to him that
the only thing to be done was to get rid of his wretched life as soon
as he could. I do not know that he would have kept to this resolution,
but these were his thoughts as he sat there, alone, in his terrible
misery. What! Go home, not only penniless, but disgraced? Go home
to see his father ashamed of him, and his mother trying to keep his
disgrace a secret? Never! He would die twenty times over, sooner than
do that. Why, even to face the men of the "Imogene" after they had been
witnesses of his degradation, was more than his proud heart could bear!
There he sat, poor Tom! almost in the dark, with heavy irons on his
ankles, his face hidden in his hands. And all the time his imprisonment
lasted, he never once looked up when any one spoke to him, or when his
meals were brought to him, but just sat without a sound or a movement,
and with black despair in his heart.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VII.
"THREE CHEERS FOR CAPTAIN EGERTON!"
"IF you please, Captain Egerton, may I say a few words to you,
private?" said Gideon Terlizzeck to the captain, who was standing by
the side, gazing down into the dark blue water.
The "Imogene" was at sea again.
"Eh, Terlizzeck? Yes, of course. Here—or will you come to my cabin?"
"I'll come to your cabin by-and-by, sir, if I may."
"No time like the present, Gideon. We'll go there now."
The captain led the way and Gideon followed, both silent. But Gideon's
lips were moving, and if his captain did not hear his voice, it was
heard by Him to whom the old man spoke.
The captain laid aside his sword and cap and seated himself.
"There's a chair close to you, Gideon," said he. "Well, old friend,
what do you want?"
Gideon did not sit down. He had taken off his straw hat, and now stood
passing it absently round and round in his hands. At last he said—
"I don't think, sir, that I'm over-doing of it when I say that what I
want you to give me is a life—and a soul."
"What do you mean, Gideon?"
"That there unfortunate boy, Tom Adderley, sir."
"Why, surely you know that his life is in no danger?"
"Not in the way you mean, sir. But if I may be so bold as speak out,
sir, I think I can show you that what I said is true."
"Speak out, Gideon. I have known you all my life; you've sailed with
me four times, and I rather think I owed you my life in that brush
with the Malay pirates when I was a lieutenant. I know what a good old
fellow you are, and I'm quite ready to listen to whatever you have to
say. But I am rather surprised to find you interested in this young
Adderley."
"Well, I am, sir. The boy has good in him, and he's been unfort'nate.
Just let me tell you his story, sir. He comes from a place some days'
journey inland from Liverpool; and being set on, seems to me, by an old
man as lived there, to want to see the world and make a fortune, Tom
ran off and shipped on that there merchant ship."
With this beginning Gideon told the tale of Tom's saving, and its
object; his determination after four years of sailoring to go home,
and his misery when he was not only prevented doing so, but lost his
precious hoard. Very simply, but not unskilfully, was the story told.
"Now, sir, I took to the lad from the first; seemed to me he wanted a
friend so bad. And I've talked to Carr and the other fellows that know
him, and I find he was held to be the best and smartest man, all round,
on board of that there trader, and Carr's a good man himself and knows
what he is talking of. And—you'll acknowledge this, captain—the lad got
hard lines."
"Very unlucky his losing that money—very."
"And being pressed, captain? You know I love the service, but I came of
my own free will."
"Oh, come, Gideon," said the captain, laughing; "I can't allow that,
you know. We 'must' get men."
"Yes, but one willing man is worth ten pressed men. And, captain, if
you'd be so good as overlook this—this—folly of poor young Tom's,
it's a willing man I do believe you might make of he. He's far from a
bad lad. If you'd jaw him a bit, and get his promise to do better if
you let him off; I'll be his surety he'll keep his word. And if Tom
Adderley's flogged, sir, there's an end of he. He won't be alive in
a month; he won't, indeed. If you'd 'a seen and heard him the time
Callcutt was punished! Why, he were mad for a bit, and said plain and
out that he'd never outlive such disgrace. He's proud, poor fellow,
and—oh, sir, I do beseech you, spare him if you can."
"But how can I, Gideon? The fellow hides and lets us sail without him,
and from what I can hear he was quite sober, and fully meant to escape
altogether. Think of the example. You know I am not inclined to punish
severely, but I really think Adderley must be made an example of. I'll
give him only two dozen?"
"Oh, sir, one dozen would be as bad as six. It's the disgrace. There's
some that never seem to think about it; there's some it kills, or
drives to death, anyhow. I saw that long ago, before you entered the
service, sir. 'Twas a man from my own place, and he were above the
common, being one as had some education. Sir, he drowned himself,
though we was watching him because we didn't like his looks. And this
boy is such another for pride; and he's not twenty yet, and has a
mother at home!"
"I don't see that I can do it, Terlizzeck."
"Sir, the old nigger that showed where he was hid told Mr. Carteret
that when Tom stayed ashore the night before, it was because he was too
ill to stir. Now, if you had him up private, and gave him a wigging,
and then offered him another chance, why, Tom isn't likely to talk
about it all, and the story that he was ill would come for to be
believed."
"'You' don't believe it, Gideon?"
"No, sir, I'm sorry to say, I do not. But if you saw him, sir, sitting
there silent—hardly eats a bit and never speaks—if he isn't ill, he's
in a fair way to be. I do believe he were mad to try such a fool's
trick, and that he's mad with himself now for having done it."
There was a short silence; then Gideon spoke again.
"Captain Egerton, I'm sorry I said that. You've the right to judge,
sir, whether you can overlook his fault or not, and I know that the
good of one lad must give way to the good of the ship's company and
the service. Besides, if it's right to do it, it won't need hiding.
Moreover, that wasn't an upright notion of mine, and I'm ashamed of
it. But, captain, I've served man and boy, forty-seven years and three
months, and did never ask a favour before that I can call to mind,
beyond a day's leave at times; and my heart is wonderful set on Tom
Adderley."
Captain Egerton got up, and walked up and down the very limited space
at his command, once or twice. Then, sitting down again, he said—
"Terlizzeck, I will not refuse your request. I wish it to be known that
Adderley is spared because you interceded for him. I fear I shall more
than ever get the credit in the service of being too lenient, but I'll
risk that, as you think it may be the saving of this young fellow.
You'll keep an eye on him, Gideon."
"Sir, I do truly not know how to thank you!"
"If the lad turns out well, it is I that shall have to thank you. Just
pass the word for the prisoner to be brought here, will you? And say to
knock off the irons."
Gideon went and gave the necessary orders, and in about ten minutes the
door was again opened, and Tom Adderley, being shoved into the cabin,
stood where his guard left him, apparently not seeing where he was.
[Illustration: TOM STARTED, AND CRIED OUT HURRIEDLY, "AM I TO BE
FLOGGED?"]
"You may go, my men. Leave Adderley here."
Captain Egerton looked at the prisoner for a few moments without
speaking. Poor Tom! It was hard to believe just now that he had ever
been a bright, active, intelligent sailor. His curly hair was all
matted over his forehead; his face was deadly white, with a dull look
of despair in it; his eyes were dazzled by the sudden light, so that he
could scarcely open them.
"Adderley," began the captain.
Tom started, and cried out hurriedly, "Am I to be flogged?"
"What do you expect?" asked the captain.
Tom's head sank upon his breast.
"It don't matter what I expect," he said. "They'll never hear of it at
home."
"Adderley, Gideon Terlizzeck has been speaking to me for you. Now, if
I were to offer you another chance, will you promise me solemnly to
behave so well that I may feel justified in having spared you?"
"I don't understand," said Tom, looking up.
"If I forgive you, and let you go back to duty, will you for the future
do your best, and work willingly and well?"
"Forgive me? Do you mean that you won't flog me?"
"I do. At Gideon's earnest request, I have promised to overlook this
offence. He answers for you, that for the future you will do better."
Tom staggered back, and, but for coming against the cabin door, would
have fallen. His chest heaved; he covered his face with his hands and
stood silent for a few moments. Then his arms fell; he straightened
himself, and looked full in his captain's face.
"If ever I can die for you, or for Gideon, I'll do it, willing and
free. It's not the pain—I'm not afraid of that—it's the shame of it.
Yes, sir; I'll do my very best from this hour."
"Very good, Adderley. Take him with you, Terlizzeck. I'll give orders
about him. Now, mind, Adderley; no more sulking."
"Never no more, sir," said Tom, half crying. "Oh, Gideon, you've saved
my life."
From that hour, the only trouble with Tom Adderley was a fear that in
his new-born zeal he would get himself killed by some too venturesome
proceeding. As to the way in which his eyes followed the captain's
movements, and the frequency of his "Yes, sir," even to the smallest
mid, these were only to be equalled by his patience in listening to
Gideon's reading, and to the rather long-winded and misty homilies
the dear old man preached for his benefit. These poor Tom only dimly
understood, but there was nothing he would not have done to please
Gideon.
And he was surprised to find how much happier he was, too. He was busy,
and every one was pleased with him. This was pleasanter than sulking
and idling. Then, too, he felt the warmest gratitude to both Gideon
and Captain Egerton. And, fallen as man is, there is this much of the
original "Image" left in him—he is happier when his good feelings are
called into play, than when his poor dark heart is full of hatred.
One day, about a fortnight or three weeks after Tom's release, the
look-out man proclaimed that he saw a sail. Great was the excitement.
Was it a Frenchman? But it proved to be a little English brig. "The
wickedest little gun-brig in the service, and the sauciest," as old
Gideon said, when she came near enough to be recognized—the "Warspite,"
commanded by a young lieutenant named Yeo, who signalled that he wanted
to come on board and speak to Captain Egerton.
A little boat was soon spinning over the water, and Mr. Yeo came on
board. He sprang up the side followed by a very small midshipman, who,
with a somewhat older youth, represented Mr. Yeo's "officers."
"Look," whispered Gideon to Tom, "how Mr. Carteret and Mr. Bullen do
gaze at Mr. Yeo."
"So I see. But why? Seems to me he's only a lieutenant, too."
"But has a separate command, Tom, and he only five and twenty. Nephew,
he is, to our admiral. Our two junior lieutenants would give ten years
to stand in his shoes. What's that? What are they cheering for?"
Gideon was cleaning the captain's fowling-piece, and did not like to
leave it.
"I'll go forward and see," said Tom.
He came back with Greg Collier and a lot more of the men in a few
minutes.
"Gideon, there's great news," said he.
"Eh, old Gid! What d'ye think? But we're at war with America!" cried
Collier. "Think of 'that' for impudence, and she without a big ship
belonging to her!"
"Well, well," said Gideon, "I be sorry. They can fight, I can tell you
that; ay, as dogged as we can. And it do not seem Christian-like to
kill and slay men as speaks English like ourselves."
"I don't know about that," said Collier. "But you're not the old Gid
Terlizzeck if you don't feel your anger rise at the next bit of news.
What do you think? But a Yankee frigate attacked the old 'Corinna,'
thirty-four guns, Captain Harry Hervey—just let 'em know they was at
war, and then went bang at her; ay, and towed her into New York after
a blazin' fight. Captain badly wounded and a prisoner—he's out of the
way. Then Admiral Sir George Kinnaird is dead—yellow Jack it was—and
Captain Egerton, of this here blessed old 'Imogene,' is senior officer
on the station, till a new admiral comes out."
"You don't say so, Collier!" cried Gideon. "Why, it's a great change
for our captain. You do take my breath away."
"Three cheers for Captain Egerton!" shouted Tom, flinging his hat
into the air with such good will that it went overboard, and probably
disagreed terribly with the fishes.
But the men took up the cheers, and they were really hearty ones; and
of all the spirit-stirring sounds that ever you will hear, three cheers
coming from the hearts of a set of British sailors is the most stirring.
"We've not heard all the news yet," said Collier. "There's more to
tell, or I'm a Dutchman."
"Yes," said another man, "Mr. Yeo, he told all that, for all to hear.
And then he says, says he, 'What more I have to say is for your private
ear, Captain Egerton.' And so they went to the captain's cabin."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VIII.
A "CUTTING-OUT" EXPEDITION.
YOU may be sure that both officers and men kept a bright look-out for
the opening of the door of the captain's cabin. It was surprising how
many of the officers found themselves on deck, though it was a broiling
day, and they would have been cooler in the wardroom. Little Charlie
Egerton, the youngest midshipman, so far forgot himself as to presume
upon being the captain's son, and went to the door, knocking timidly.
But he probably heard something not pleasant to his feelings, for he
ran away with more haste than dignity.
Presently Mr. Duncan, first lieutenant (and in those days a frigate
carried no commander, so that the "first luff" was second in command),
was sent for, which greatly increased the excitement on board.
After some time, Mr. Duncan and Mr. Yeo came on deck together. Mr.
Duncan briefly gave the order, "Pipe the side," and while Mr. Yeo's
boat was being brought into position, these two talked together very
earnestly.
Captain Egerton came on deck before Mr. Yeo departed. He looked about
for a moment, and then said—
"We shall have to beat up against the wind the whole way. The 'Imogene'
is pretty lively, so I dare say we shall keep together easily.
Good-bye, Yeo; we shall have fine weather, I think."
"I think so, sir; good-bye."
And with a last shake hands, Mr. Yeo was gone.
"Mr. Duncan, I wish the men to come aft. I want to speak to them."
Mr. Duncan passed the order on to the boatswain, "All hands aft, Mr.
Kenyon."
And in no time, so eager were they, every man not actually busy was
ready for the captain's speech.
Mr. Duncan, who knew all about it, went and took the place of the man
at the wheel—one of those small acts of good fellowship by which the
English naval officer makes his men ready to follow him anywhere.
"My men," said the captain, "the 'Warspite' has brought us great
news—some of it sad enough. The United States have declared war; rather
unexpectedly, for it was supposed that we had arranged that difficulty.
The American frigate 'Ontario' met, fought, and captured our frigate
the 'Corinna.' Admiral Kinnaird has died of yellow fever. Thus the two
officers senior to me on this station are removed, and the command is
in my hands for the present. But I cannot rejoice in this, for Admiral
Kinnaird is a terrible loss to the service, and Captain Hervey, of the
'Corinna,' is one of my dearest friends, and they say he is wounded.
"It becomes our duty, of course, to fight the Yankees wherever we can
find them, and Mr. Yeo has brought me intelligence on which I mean to
act. He had an encounter with an American brigantine two days ago, when
they pounded at each other for some hours, until night overtook them.
The brigantine was getting the worst of it, and she made off during the
night. Mr. Yeo, after some searching, found that she had slipped into
a certain creek on the north side of the little French island of S.
Grégoire. She is larger and carries more men than the 'Warspite,' and
there was the chance that the French officer in the fort might be able
to send some men to help her. So Mr. Yeo thought it imprudent to follow
her in, but knowing that we were not far off, he came down here in the
hope of meeting us. And I have determined to attempt the capture of the
brigantine; if possible, to surprise her and cut her out."
Tremendous cheering.
"What's cutting-out?" asked Tom, as soon as Gideon could hear him.
"I'll explain by-and-by. Hark, what more?"
"I am going to ask for volunteers," said the captain. "Mr. Duncan will
command—"
"Three cheers for Mr. Duncan!" roared some one.
More cheering.
"He'll command. There will be our pinnace, yawl, and gig, and Mr. Yeo's
gig—I want sixty men."
Sixty! He might have had every man there. But as all could not go, the
captain proceeded to make his selection. And, to the unbounded pride
and delight of Tom Adderley, he was chosen as one of the sixty.
After a while, Gideon and he being again together, Tom asked him for
the promised explanation of the mysteries of "cutting-out."
"You get to know," said Gideon, "that the enemy is lying in some
harbour or creek, as this here brigantine is said to do. You get as
near as may be after dark. You send your boats, full of well-armed
men—picked men—it's a thing for you to be proud of, Tom. Quiet—no
noise, no cheering—you rows up alongside that ship, and you boards
her. Then, mostly, there's a scrimmage, even if they don't see you and
begin before you get alongside—though once I helped to cut out a small
privateer, and every soul on board was asleep, and showed no fight at
all. You beats them, claps them under hatches, let the anchor slip, and
h'istes sail and away."
"What fun!" cried Tom, his eyes brightening.
Gideon looked approvingly at him.
"You're a chip of the old block," said he. "No fear but there'll be
plenty of sailors, even when me and my mates are gone."
The love of fighting is, I think, one of the strangest things in our
strange nature. Here was Tom, hitherto a youth of peaceful pursuits,
and a particularly good-tempered one. Yet he no sooner hears that he
is going to have a chance of being knocked on the head, than he is in
such a state of delight and impatience that every hour seems four times
as long as usual. And here is good, kind-hearted old Gideon, highly
pleased to see his dear Tom in such a courageous frame of mind! Men are
certainly very strange creatures.
Captain Egerton kept the "Imogene" beating up to the north-west all
that day. Late in the evening she had got as far in that direction as
he thought necessary, and now ran gaily before the wind for the tiny
French island of S. Grégoire. The "Warspite" was not far off. Darkness
fell just as they sighted the island, which was defended by a small
fort on the south side, where there was a little harbour. The creek
into which the American ship had crept, was not known to be fortified
or defended in any way.
By nine o'clock the boats were ready. Every man had his cutlass,
pistol, and knife, and the rowers were armed as well as the others. The
"Warspite's" boats were with them, Mr. Yeo in command. Captain Egerton
stood looking at his men as they went over the side one by one, saying
a few words of encouragement and caution.
The oars were all muffled—a device quite new to Tom. His heart was
beating wildly with excitement when his turn came to pass the captain.
But he paused, for little Charlie Egerton had rushed up to his father
in excitement even greater than Tom's.
"Father, Geering has fallen and hurt himself; the surgeon is with him
now. I've got my dirk and my pistols; I can go at once. Let me go! Oh,
do let me go instead of Geering."
Geering, the somewhat older mid, who was to have gone, had, indeed,
contrived in his hurry to get a very bad fall, and could by no means
go. Captain Egerton looked at his son. The words in his heart were,
"What will his mother say to me?" The words on his lips were, "Off with
you, then. Now, remember, my lads, no noise, and—and good-bye, Charlie."
Charlie tumbled into Mr. Duncan's boat as fast as he could. Tom looked
in the captain's set, stern face, and said, half ashamed of himself—
"I'll be there, sir."
The captain gave him a quick glance and nodded. Tom took his place
in the boat, almost wishing that he might be killed in saving Mr.
Midshipman Egerton for his father's sake.
Away over the dark water, with here and there a strange light shining
on the surface, some phosphorescent appearance with which they were
quite familiar, but it has an eerie look to those who see it for the
first time. They soon lost sight of the ships; then they were near
enough to see the land by the soft starlight. The creek had a narrow
mouth, and there was a tiny basin, and then a sudden turn to the west;
the boats could only enter one by one. Not a word was spoken—there
was no noise to betray them; three boats had entered by the narrow
passage, when suddenly a blaze of light burst upon them. On the flat
rock, on one side of the passage, a flame shot right up to the sky,
and at the same moment a little battery, which must have been built
quite recently, opened a brisk fire on the leading boat. This was the
pinnace, and in it were Mr. Duncan, little Egerton, and Tom Adderley.
A yell burst from the sailors; the boat's advance was checked, for
several of her rowers were killed or wounded. Mr. Duncan had fallen,
and lay senseless in the bottom of the boat. The next boat nearly
ran the pinnace down before it could be checked. The confusion was
frightful. Mr. Yeo, who was in the third boat, was luckily a cool,
clear-headed man. He took in the situation at a glance, called to his
men to follow him, ran his boat close to the rocks, and landed. In five
minutes he had driven the handful of Frenchmen out of the battery.
Young Egerton, gazing round, hardly knowing what had happened, heard an
old sailor say in a low voice—
"Give the order to put back, Mr. Egerton. It's all up; we can do naught
to-night."
The fair little face flushed. The boy looked at Mr. Duncan, and
realized what had happened.
"I'm in command of this boat," said he. "Give way, my men; we'll do it
yet."
But, very fortunately, poor Mr. Duncan had begun to come to his senses,
and heard these words. He stretched out his hand and caught hold of the
boy.
"No, Egerton, no. We must run for it."
All this passed very quickly, far more quickly than it can be told.
None of the other boats had suffered as much as the pinnace, though
when the "Warspites" came tumbling back into their boat, they had
several wounded among them. Some unhurt men took the place of the
rowers who could do no more, and Mr. Yeo gave his orders with perfect
coolness. Poor Mr. Duncan had fainted again. The confusion was over;
one by one the boats made for the passage, but as each boat reached it,
a fire of musketry was opened on them from both sides.
The "Imogene's" pinnace was the last but one to pass through (Mr. Yeo,
of course, remained to the last), and in the narrowest part of the
passage, little Egerton, who had been bending over Mr. Duncan, suddenly
raised himself, gave a faint cry, and fell into the water. And Tom
Adderley was after him before the gleam of the fatal fire, which still
blazed high, had ceased to glint on the boy's golden hair.
The last boat was close behind; there was no possibility of pausing,
even for a moment.
Presently a rocket shot up from the "Imogene" to guide them; for,
of course, the light had made Captain Egerton aware that there was
something wrong.
When the pinnace lay alongside, Captain Egerton was there, giving
his orders as quietly as if his heart had been at rest, instead of
torn with cruel anxiety for his boy. Mr. Duncan was got up the side,
and carried to his cabin; the other wounded were all brought up as
carefully as possible. Then those who were unhurt began to follow, but
the brave fellows came slowly, and not one of them could look at the
captain.
"Is that all?" he said, after a pause.
"Captain, 'twere in the narrow place; 'twere a musket-shot did it."
The speaker, a big strong man, was crying like a child.
"Is—he—in the boat?" said the captain.
"No, sir. He fell overboard; and some one jumped after him, but I could
not see who 'twas."
"'Twould be my poor Tom," said old Gideon. "Well, he did right."
"Mr. Egerton never blenched, sir. When the fire began, and Mr. Duncan
fell, he took command of the boat as if he'd been a man grown, as
bright and as cool."
Here the man broke off with a sudden shout—
"Hullo! Look at that!"
The "Warspite's" boat had come alongside during this conversation, and
at this moment a small figure rushed into Captain Egerton's arms.
"Father, I'm safe!"
"My boy!"
For a few moments, I do not think there was a dry eye among the
onlookers. Then the captain, making a tremendous effort to recover
himself, set the boy on his feet, and said, in a voice that 'would' not
be steady—
"Not wounded, Mr. Egerton?"
"No, sir. I don't know yet why I fell into the water."
But he knew presently, when he found his watch perfectly ruined, with a
bullet well embedded in its works!
"How were you saved?"
"Some one caught hold of me, and the 'Warspite's' boat picked us both
up. Here he is. I haven't seen his face yet."
It was a very red face, but it was the face of Tom Adderley. Captain
Egerton shook hands with him then and there, and broke down in trying
to thank him. Then Mr. Yeo came on board, and he, with the captain and
Mr. Carteret, retired for a consultation. Gideon bore Tom off. It would
be hard to say which of them was the happier at that moment.
It is not to be supposed that British sailors were going to put up
with a rebuff like this! Next day, as many men as could be safely
spared entered that creek in broad daylight, under Captain Egerton's
command. They landed, routed the small force of men armed with muskets,
who proved to be sailors from the brigantine, carried the battery,
spiked the guns, and blew up the place. They took the brigantine, and,
being fairly started on a career of conquest, they dashed across the
little island to the fort, carried it by storm, and made the garrison
prisoners. It was a very small fort, and the garrison consisted of
forty half-starved looking Frenchmen, with two or three elderly
officers, who swore such strange oaths that it was as well that there
were few who understood them. Thus S. Grégoire became a part of the
British empire.
N.B.*—Do not look for S. Grégoire on the map. But much of what this
chapter contains really occurred.
* [N.B.—nota bene]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX.
PAID OFF.
SPACE, or rather the want of it, forbids me to give you any more of
Tom's adventures in the West Indies. Suffice it to say that he laid
up materials enough for the entertainment of Burdeck for many years,
should he ever return there to tell his story.
And to return no longer seemed impossible to him. He had redeemed
his character, and had begun to understand his position and to love
his profession. He knew now that he would receive all arrears of pay
and a good little sum of prize-money when the "Imogene" went out of
commission. You see, Tom still loved to lay by his money for his
mother, but when Captain Egerton wanted to make him a handsome present
for his good service to his son, Tom refused to receive it.
"Let me do it for nothin' but—because I owe you more than my life,
sir," he said.
At last three years had passed away since the day when Tom became
one of the "Imogene's" crew, and the "Imogene" was on her way home.
Captain Egerton had, of course, long since handed over the command of
the station to an admiral, and since that time the frigate had been in
action several times. Once, indeed, she had been all but captured by
two American frigates, and was only saved by a sudden storm, in which
Captain Egerton, by his splendid seamanship, escaped from both the
enemy's ships. Generally, the "Imogene" was successful, but she had
been a good deal knocked about, and repairs were absolutely necessary.
For these repairs she was going home, and it seemed likely that she
would be paid off. For, in the interval, peace had been made with the
United States, and Napoleon had been conquered and sent to Elba, so
that for the future it would not be necessary to keep so many ships in
commission.
They were nearly at home. They had met with rough weather, and had been
forced out of their intended course, so that they were very near the
coast of France, though they did not actually enter the Bay of Biscay.
Tom was on duty as look-out man, and Gideon Terlizzeck had joined him
in his airy quarters, just for the pleasure of being with him. Gideon
had become very fond of Tom, and Tom returned his affection.
"A sail!" shouted Tom.
And when he had answered all the questions of the officer on duty as to
the whereabouts of the said sail, Gideon said—
"See what 'tis to have young eyes! 'I' see no sail yet. Ah, well, it do
not matter now, as it would have mattered last year, when she might be
an American or a Frenchman, layin' wait for us here."
Presently the ship Tom has espied afar off came much nearer. Captain
Egerton came on deck with his telescope, and he looked at the stranger,
whose movements puzzled him. Why was she bearing down upon him in
this way? Had England been still at war, he would have understood the
matter perfectly. But the war was over. However, the ship, a great
three-decker, kept on her course, and Captain Egerton wondered more
and more. When, to complete his amazement, she fired a shot across the
"Imogene's" bows, and at the same time ran up the imperial colours of
France.
"What on earth does the fellow mean?" cried Captain Egerton, angrily.
"I'm afraid there's something wrong that we haven't heard of," said Mr.
Duncan, anxiously. "Can that fiend have escaped and taken the field
again? I always said we ought to have shot him!"
Captain Egerton laughed, for he had argued that question with Mr.
Duncan many and many a time.
"Shorten sail, Duncan; we'll stand off and on a bit. She's lowering
a boat, so we shall know all about it soon. Carteret, you understand
French—don't let them board us; just find out what they are at."
The boat drew near. A French officer stood up and made a polite bow,
begging to know what ship this was.
"'Imogene,' Captain Egerton," Mr. Carteret replied. Then in French,
"What do you mean by flying the imperial flag?"
"His Imperial Majesty the Emperor Napoleon has returned to France,"
was the reply. "This is the 'Monarque,' 130 guns. May I hope that your
captain will see the necessity of surrendering to such superior force,
thereby sparing useless bloodshed?"
The force was even more superior than the speaker supposed it to be.
For the "Imogene" was known to be in a bad way, for want of a thorough
overhauling, one of her masts was spliced, and she was somewhat
short-handed, several of her men having consented to be transferred to
other ships when she was ordered home. For all that, there was but one
opinion on board the "Imogene."
"Surrender," said Captain Egerton, quietly, "without a gun fired?
What does the fellow take us for? Send him about his business,
Carteret.—Duncan, beat to quarters."
The Frenchman made a flourishing bow, and said, "Au revoir," which
meant, "You will all be prisoners on board the 'Monarque' by-and-by, if
we don't sink you."
But the "Imogene's" drums were beating to quarters before his fine bow
was quite finished.
"I'd like to send a shot after that fellow," growled Mr. Carteret.
All was now activity on board the "Imogene;" activity, but not
confusion. It is in a case of this kind that one sees what discipline
is worth. Every man knew exactly what he had to do, and did it. Cheer
after cheer was heard as the men ran to their stations.
"Duncan," said Captain Egerton, "if we get her broadside, we are done
for. We'll board her, now—at once. Get the boarders ready as fast as
you can. I'll lay her alongside, yardarm to yardarm; we have the wind,
and we'll carry her before she has well gone to quarters. There, that's
her drum now."
"Who shall lead the boarders?" said Mr. Duncan.
"You," said the captain. "Shake hands, Duncan. God bless you!"
Well, if those Frenchmen never knew before what British sailors can do
and will do, they found it out that day. Before the last tap of the
"Monarque's" drums, beating to quarters, had ceased to echo "'tween
decks;" before the men were all in their stations, the little "Imogene"
was upon them.
"Boarders, away!"
To his dying day, Tom was proud to say, "And I was one of them."
Tom had seen a good deal of fighting, but such a fight as this never
before. The Frenchmen, surprised as they were, fought like brave
men—fought desperately and furiously. The Englishmen fought as if each
had at least six lives, and was prepared to lose them all. To be made
prisoners almost in sight of home? Never!
The "Monarque" fired one broadside, but the greater number of her guns
were too high above the "Imogene" to injure her, and the frigate's fire
silenced the lower deck. After a fearful struggle, the upper deck was
cleared and the Frenchmen driven below. Charlie Egerton pulled down the
imperial flag, and this practically ended the fight. The French captain
lay dead upon his own deck, and in neither ship was there an officer
unwounded. Mr. Duncan was hurt, but not very seriously; Mr. Carteret
was badly wounded; Captain Egerton lost an arm; and even gallant young
Charlie had a cut over his right eye, of which, if the truth must be
told, he was exceedingly proud. Tom Adderley escaped untouched, though
he had been in the thickest of the fight from first to last. Old
Gideon, too, was safe, but they had lost many a comrade, both among the
boarders and the men who had served the guns.
A victory is not all pleasure, as many a man has acknowledged as well
as poor Tom Adderley, as he helped to clear the decks that afternoon.
This engagement, which lasted for less than an hour, took place on the
10th of May, 1815, and on the 13th of May the "Imogene" and her big
prize sailed into Cawsand Bay, near Plymouth.
The "Imogene" was paid off as soon as possible, the men receiving their
arrears of pay and all their prize-money, except, of course, what they
had won by taking the "Monarque."
And then Tom saw some comical scenes—comical in one way, but sad enough
in another. For instance, he saw a dozen sailors, not quite as sober as
they ought to have been, driving about in and on a hearse, which they
had hired for the day. There was great struggling for seats on the top,
the tars saying that they preferred to be on deck. They drove about the
streets, visiting all the public-houses, where they not only got very
drunk themselves, but insisted upon "treating" every one they could lay
hold of. He saw a man, whom he had believed to be a quiet, sensible
fellow, but who actually bought four watches, melted them down in a
frying-pan, and wanted to try to eat them, but was prevented by old
Gideon at considerable personal risk.
Tom was utterly surprised and shocked at these and similar scenes, but
Gideon said that this kind of thing always went on when men were paid
off, and that he had witnessed worse doings than these. There were no
"Sailors' Homes" or "Sailors' Reading-rooms" in those days, and, little
as either Gideon or Tom liked the life, they could not quite keep out
of the way of their old comrades.
"Why," said Tom, "they won't have a guinea left out of all their money,
at this rate."
"Not a silver shilling," said Gideon; "and then they'll all go to sea
again."
"Well, if I hadn't seen it, I could never have believed that men could
be such fools. What's the good of working hard to earn money, only to
fling it away like this?"
"Worse than no good, Tom, if so be the poor souls could only see it.
Soul and body they do injure. Why, already you'd hardly know Greg
Collier; and as to your old shipmate, Dick Carr, 'twill be months
before he is himself again."
"Dick has some excuse. You know he found out accidental, from a man he
met in the dockyard, that his girl is married. But the rest—such a set
of fools!"
"Well, Tom, no one ever taught 'em better, poor dear souls. Such
rioting is not your temptation, and I'm thankful for that. Indeed, I
think you're a good lad, Tom, and wish to do what's right, but don't
ye be proud and despise your neighbours. It leads to no good. It's not
only because it's in the Bible that I say that pride goes before a
fall; it is likeways my own experience. We're all poor creatures, and
each one has his own temptation. Tom, I do suppose you're going home
for a sight of your good father and mother—when and how do you think to
go?"
"I'm not going, Gideon. I mean to go to sea again. I met an old friend
yesterday—a man by the name of Robins, who was aboard the 'Star of the
Sea' with me. This fellow has a boat of his own now, and is making
a heap of money. He says if I'll trust him with my savings, he'll
double them for me. I have only twenty-five guineas—you know my share
was a good bit less than those that served the whole time with the
'Imogene.' And I won't go home till I can do so with credit—pay my
mother threefold, or even four. What I'd like would be to find some
ship that's been a couple of years in commission, so that I could be
free again, say, in two years. Then I could go home."
"Take my advice and go now," said Gideon. "You've been brought to see
that you did very wrong to take that money from your mother. Go home
and tell her so; for, you may believe me, those words will be more to
her than all the gold in Solomon's temple—and you'll mind, Tom, there
was a lot of gold in that there. Do now, my boy. Something tells me
that if you don't, you'll be sorry for it."
"I don't like to go against your advice, Gideon. But you see, I've
promised Robins. He used to talk of my being his partner long ago, but
I shouldn't care for that now. And what ill can come of it? My father
and mother are not to say old—I've heard her say she was seventeen
when they were married, and he very little more. My poor sister that
died was the oldest of us. Let me see; she was eighteen when she
died, and little Dolly was three when I ran away—that's twenty-one
years. Twenty-one and seventeen—" Tom paused and knit his brow—"that's
thirty-eight. And four years aboard the old 'Star'—that's forty-two;
and three in the 'Imogene'—that's forty-five; and that ain't old.
Neither father nor mother can be much more than that."
"It's not to say old, but that's not the question. You owe it to them
to go as soon as you can, and tell them you're sorry you disobeyed them
and took what you'd no right to take. It's the principle of the thing,
Tom; it's because you ought."
"I don't see it as you do, Gideon. I want to make amends to them, and
what's twenty-five guineas? Now, if Robins goes on being as lucky as he
has been, I'll soon have what would stock a small farm, and that would
be worth talking about. And indeed, I may as well tell you, there's no
use in talking, because I never thought you'd see things so different,
and—I gave Robins the money."
"If you'd told me that at once, my lad, I'd have saved my breath to
whistle for a wind. Well, I hope Robins is an honest man. I do declare,
Tom, you're very risky."
"Why, I've known Robins this long time! 'Twas he first taught me to
trade a little on my own account, and taught me to add up, and reckon,
and all that. See, he gave me a reg'lar receipt, as he called it. Oh,
the money is safe enough. And I was telling him of you, Gideon, and all
your goodness to me. And he said if you'd trust him with a few guineas,
he'll do as well for you as for me."
"Ay, ay; all that sounds very well, but before I do anything of the
kind, I'd like to know something about the kind of trade he carries on.
'Twas that I mean, not that your money isn't safe; though I'm not so
sure it be safe either. We'll see this Robins and make inquiry. I wish
you'd 'a gone home, Tom; I wish you'd go even now."
"I couldn't do that. Don't ask it, Gideon."
"Well, come along, and let's see if we can get sight of this Robins."
But, curious to relate, this was what they could not do! They could by
no means find Mr. Robins. Tom met him once again, when he was alone,
and received an earnest assurance that his trade was "all fair and
above-board." But when Gideon was with him, Tom was very unlucky in
always missing his friend Robins.
The chance of meeting him was soon over, for happening to meet Mr.
Duncan, now a commander, he told them that he had been appointed
to the "Juno" (Captain Parkhurst), going out with Lord A—, the new
Governor-General of India, to Calcutta. The ship was to come home and
be paid off as soon as this duty was performed, and it would take a
year or fourteen months.
This seemed to be the very thing Tom wanted, so both he and Gideon
offered themselves, and were accepted. The "Juno" sailed in June, and
the last thing Tom heard from his native land was the thunder of the
guns firing for the great victory over Napoleon at Waterloo.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER X.
TOM'S ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY GUINEAS.
THE "Juno" was back in Plymouth in less than two years. And when Tom
and Gideon were paid off, Tom was in a fever of anxiety to see Robins
and hear how his venture had prospered. He chose to go alone. Robins
had a house in the Barbican, where his wife and children lived, and
there Tom found him, and was informed that his twenty-five guineas had
been turned and turned again to such advantage that one other voyage
would make him the owner of one hundred and fifty guineas.
Now, Tom Adderley, though ignorant, was no fool, and Gideon's words had
opened his eyes. He knew as well as any one could that money is not
made thus rapidly in honest, lawful trade. Robins told him nothing,
and he asked no questions, but he knew perfectly that the man was
a smuggler, and that he ought to have nothing to say to him. But—a
hundred and fifty guineas! Fancy walking into Burdeck the owner of such
a sum as that! Why, no one in Burdeck had ever seen so much money! Very
likely there were few that could count it. Tom felt that he could not
give up the chance of this triumph, and he told himself that even if he
took his money now, it had been made in the same way, so where was the
use of stopping short of that magnificent hundred and fifty? And he did
not actually know that Robins was a smuggler—only that Gideon was sure
to say so.
Gideon did say so, and said a good deal more than that. In fact, he
made himself so unpleasant that he and Tom had high words for the first
time, and Tom went off and entered his name on board the "Inconstant,"
a frigate which had been in commission for some little time, and had
put into Plymouth for repairs and a few new hands. She sailed the next
day, so that Tom did not see Gideon again even to tell him what he had
done.
Charlie Egerton was on board the "Inconstant," and when Tom came to
himself and was very sorry for his behaviour to Gideon, he got Mr.
Egerton to write a letter for him, which was sent to Captain Egerton,
now living near Plymouth, who would, Tom was sure, do his best to find
the old sailor.
The "Inconstant" was paid off in about a year, and Tom found himself
once more in Plymouth, and free.
As soon as he could shake off the companionship of his late shipmates,
he hastened to the house in the Barbican where he had left the Robins
family. Alas! He found strangers living there, who did not even know
the name of Robins. Tom knew no one in the neighbourhood, but he felt
that he must make inquiries, at any risk; and it seemed possible that
at the nearest public-house he might hear something of Robins.
He walked into the bar, asked for a glass of ale, and said to the lad
who drew it for him, "I came here to see an old messmate of mine—a man
called Peter Robins—and he lived over the way there, at the corner
house. Do you know where he is now?"
"I'm sure I don't know, sir," said the youth, carelessly.
But a door, which was already half-way open, was now opened a little
more, and a jolly, good-tempered-looking woman, with bright ribbons in
her cap, looked in at Tom. After watching him for a few moments, she
said—
"Look here, you Jack ashore—you in the blue cap. Step this way. I want
to speak to you."
Tom followed her into her snug little parlour, and she shut the door.
"Was it you I heard asking about Peter Robins just now?"
"It was, ma'am. He is an old shipmate of mine."
"Don't tell me! Robins never sailed in a king's ship!"
"No, ma'am; merchant ship—'Star of the Sea,' from Liverpool. I was in
her too, but was pressed for the navy."
"Ay—that's more likely! Well, you're a decent looking lad, and I'll
do you a good turn. Don't be heard asking for Robins any more.
Robins—well, truth's best—he was a friend of mine, and many and many a
keg of Hollands—But that don't matter to you. He got too venturesome,
did Robins, with lace. 'Twas the lace that ruined him. His boat was
seized, and he had a mighty narrow shave of being hung. And if you want
to find him now, you may start for Botany Bay. That's the truth, young
man. Why, what's the matter now?"
"My money!" moaned poor Tom. "Oh, mother, mother! What's to become of
me now?"
He broke away from her, and ran out of the house. The fresh air brought
him so far to himself that he walked along quietly. The next thing he
knew, he was standing on the Hoe, near the Citadel, gazing out to sea.
All his money gone! Mother's golden guineas, father's little farm, his
own fortune that he was so proud of—all gone! What was he to do now? He
had about ten guineas—no more. For, counting on the money from Robins,
and being without old Gideon's care and kindness, he had been a little
extravagant of late. Only last night he had lost a good deal of money
at some game, and still more in betting on his own play. He could
never face his mother and father now! To be more than ten years away,
and to return no richer than he went! That he would never do. To set
to work again to save money? There was no prize-money to be had now,
and it would be years before he could scrape together any considerable
sum. To go to sea again, to forget his mother, put away all thoughts
of home, to forget Gideon and his teaching, and enjoy life like other
sailors;—this, he thought, was the only thing left for him to do.
"I'll go back to the 'Royal Tar,' treat the fellows all round, spend
my money as fast as I can, and go to sea again. It's no use thinking
of anything else. Gideon warned me, and I wouldn't heed him. I've lost
him, and I've lost my own people, and there's no use in trying to be
good; the bad comes more natural. I give up, and I'll have some fun,
anyhow."
And in order to begin as soon as possible to be exceedingly jolly and
merry, Tom here began to sing. He had a fine mellow voice, sweet and
tuneful. And as he strode along, meaning to go through Plymouth and
make his way to the public-house in Dock (as Devonport was then called)
where he had left his comrades, he shouted out a long ditty about "the
saucy 'Arethusa,'" and dashed along at a great pace.
Presently he almost ran against a gentleman with only one arm, who was
coming out of a shop. And at the same moment, some one laid hold of
him, saying—
"I'd know his pipe among a thousand! Stay a moment, Tom."
Tom turned. The speaker was Gideon Terlizzeck, and the gentleman was
Captain Egerton.
"Why, Adderley, is this you?" said the captain, doubtfully; not
doubting that this was Tom, but doubting much whether Tom was in a fit
condition to be spoken to by his old captain.
"'Tis me, sir," said Tom. And he added, after a pause, "I'm all right,
sir. I'm quite sober."
"Yes, I see you are.—Gideon, bring him home with you.—Mrs. Egerton's
waiting for me, but I shall see you again presently, Tom. Gideon has
been looking for you. We heard this morning that the 'Inconstant' was
paid off."
"Yes, sir. You're very kind, Captain Egerton.—Oh, Gideon, Gideon, but I
wish I'd never left you!"
"Come along, my lad; come with me now. Where have you been staying,
Tom?"
"'Royal Tar,' near the dockyard gate."
"Ay, I know it. Your kit will be safe there; 'tis an honest house. The
captain lives out the other way, on the Laira Road; and I live with
him."
"Don't go to sea no more?" asked Tom.
"No more—unless the captain goes, and wishes to take me. He's served
his time for his flag, and will be an admiral pretty soon, and his
health has not been the same since he lost his arm. So I think his
sea-going days are over; and, if so, mine are over too."
"Ay, ay," said Tom, in a dreary, absent tone. He did not more than half
understand what Gideon said, and though he walked along beside his old
friend, he did not know where he was going. His mind was in such a
tumult of grief and anger—anger with Robins, not with himself—that he
could think of nothing else. And all the time a small voice kept saying
to him, "You are rightly served; you deserved to lose your money."
Gideon became silent when he saw that Tom did not attend to him. They
left the town behind them, and walked along a fine open road, with the
Laira (an inlet of the harbour) on one side, and on the other pretty
little domains with gardens and comfortable houses, mostly inhabited by
half-pay naval officers. At the gate of one of these Gideon stopped.
There was a tiny red-brick gate-house, and to this he led the way.
"Here's where I've slung my hammock," said he, as he unlocked the door.
Tom roused up for the first time, and looked round with some interest.
The one room was in the most exquisite state of cleanliness and order,
but to our eyes it would have looked very bare. There was just enough
furniture for one person, with an extra chair for a visitor. The
floor was tiled, and the tiles were rubbed till they were as red as
if new. Before the clumsy, comfortable, wooden armchair lay a small
square of carpet, neatly edged round with fringe. On the white walls,
which might have been white-washed that morning, hung a model of a
frigate, and a picture representing a sea-fight, wherein smoke was the
most conspicuous feature; a coffee-pot, a frying-pan, and a small tin
saucepan. The little grate held a spark of fire, and a shining kettle
set on the hob. Big hooks in the walls showed that when Gideon said he
slung his hammock here, he had used no figure of speech; indeed, the
hammock, its canvas as white as snow, lay rolled up neatly on a low
shelf. Another shelf held a few cups and saucers and plates, and there
was a cupboard for provisions. Gideon drew Tom in, and shut the door.
"My house, Tom. You're welcome, my son, right welcome. Do you know,
I've prayed for this moment, many and many a time. Isn't it snug, Tom?
Isn't it, now?" the old man said, looking proudly round.
He had taken Tom's hand in his. But now Tom pulled it away, dropped
into the armchair, and laid his arms on the table. Down went his head,
till his face was hidden on his outstretched arms, and then great sobs
shook his broad shoulders, and poor Tom, quite broken down by Gideon's
kindness and a sudden sense of his own unworthiness, cried like a baby.
"My lad! My dear lad! I sought you all yesterday and this morning, for
to break the bad news to you like, but never went to the 'Royal Tar.' I
went to the quiet old place where you and I used to stop."
"You know, then, about Robins, Gideon?" said Tom, raising his head and
rubbing the tears away.
"Yes. The captain was in Plymouth the day his boat, and some others
too, were seized, and he happened to mention it to me."
"Does the captain know about my money?"
"Yes; I told him as how Robins was an old comrade of yours, and that
you had trusted him with some money to trade with. I had for to tell
him that much—I'll explain why presently. How did you hear of it?"
"I went to his house, and the woman who has the public-house opposite
told me. I was going back to the 'Royal Tar' when you met me."
[Illustration: GREAT SOBS SHOOK HIS BROAD SHOULDERS, AND POOR TOM . . .
CRIED LIKE A BABY.]
"Tom, I'm sorry, 'very' sorry for you."
"Gideon, you're not sorry that I've lost that money. You can't be; for
you 'are' good and upright. You warned me. I mind you said,—
"'Get back your twenty-five guineas that you gave him, and don't take
another shilling, for his earnings are dishonest money, and you'll have
no blessing on it.'
"Those were your words, and I wouldn't mind them. And now I'm ruined
altogether."
"You've lost the money, Tom, but you've escaped a much worse thing
than that. You'll soon see that you've a deal to be thankful for. That
fellow Robins saved his life by turning king's evidence, and he gave
your name as having given funds towards the business. 'Twere then I
told the captain about it. And he went and got a lawyer, and they saw
Robins, and made him own up that he told you 'twas all honest trade.
And so, by saying how you had sailed with him, and giving you a good
character, the captain got you out of that scrape, which might have
been a very ugly one."
"Gideon, I'll tell you the truth. Robins told me 'twas all right, as
you say, but I didn't believe him—not that last time."
"Well, I never was asked about anything but the first time. You never
gave him any more, did you?"
"No. 'Twas very good of the captain to do all this for me, but 'twas
better of you, Gideon, for I behaved ungrateful to you."
"You was angry, but you wrote, if you remember. Indeed, I didn't wait
for that to forgive you, Tom. That letter was the means of bringing me
to my present comfortable anchorage. I'm gardener, under the mistress,
and I mind the pony, under the captain; and I get my dinner at the
house, and live here in great peace and comfort. At first I had a girl
to do for me, but, bless you, she made work for me—she did indeed.
Females don't seem to me to know straight from crooked, nor yet how to
put a real finish on anything. I do for myself now. Have a pipe, Tom?
'Twill soothe your spirits."
Pipes being lighted, both men were silent for a time. Presently a
well-known voice called—
"Lodge ahoy! Are you there, Terlizzeck? Gate!"
Gideon hurried out to admit the pony carriage. Mrs. Egerton was
driving, and as soon as she was inside the gate, she drew up.
"Adderley here?" said the captain.
"Ay, ay, sir," answered Tom, appearing at the door.
"Oh, come here, Tom Adderley," said Mrs. Egerton, "and let me thank you
for saving my boy. It's an old story now, I know, but, you see, I never
met you before."
"I'm sure, ma'am, you're very welcome," said Tom, blushing all over.
"Come up to the house to dinner with Gideon," said the captain, "and
you'll see Mr. Egerton. He is at home, you know."
"Is he going afloat again, sir?" inquired Tom.
"Oh no, not just yet," Mrs. Egerton replied hastily.
The captain laughed, and said, "Drive on, Carrie." And off they drove.
"Nov, Tom, you stay here and make yourself at home, till such time as I
hail you from the other end of the drive; then come to me. I must go to
take the pony and make all snug."
"Let me go along and help you," said Tom. "I haven't forgotten how to
tackle a pony yet."
By the time the pony was rubbed down, and the carriage washed, and the
neat little stable, coach-house, and yard made snug, a bell rang.
"That's for dinner," said Gideon. "I used to live altogether in my own
berth, but the mistress found out that I am no great hand at cooking,
beyond a slice of fried bacon or an egg, so she regulated that I
should dine here, and the moment the captain is served—and of course
Mr. Charlie or any visitor—she carves for me, and I has my dinner in
a little room off the kitchen. All to myself, like Joseph and his
brethren—ye mind that, Tom? This way."
After dinner, Tom had a few kind words from the captain and Mrs.
Egerton, and was then taken by Gideon to see the garden. Mrs. Egerton
understood gardening well, and in Gideon she had a most zealous and
painstaking assistant. The rows of peas and beans were as straight and
even as if made by machinery. The cabbages were cut in rows—no looking
about for the best was permitted here; and as each row disappeared, the
ground was dug over and raked smooth. Not a morsel of rough ground was
to be seen. As to weeds, they never had a chance of getting beyond two
saucy little leaves.
The only point upon which Gideon and his mistress differed was that he,
in his love of order, wanted to tie the rose trees to sticks, and to
force every one of them to grow in exactly the same form; also, when a
bed of mignonette began to look a little bit straggling, though still
in full blossom, Gideon would have liked to pull it all up and rake the
bed over, "trim and tidy." These things Mrs. Egerton would not allow,
but, in spite of her, the flower garden was somewhat severely tidy.
Tom, however, approved of all he saw, and thought of mother's little
garden at home with the bees in the flowers—mother's garden that he
would never see again.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XI.
THE JOURNEY HOME.
AT six o'clock Gideon "knocked off" work, Tom having pulled off his
jacket and handled a spade in fine style ever since dinner. In fact, he
was able to teach Gideon a thing or two about digging, and Gideon was
not above learning.
They returned to the lodge, where Gideon prepared an abundant meal for
his guest—fried bacon, coffee, baker's bread, everything of the best,
and plenty of it. After supper they sat by the fire, though it was very
warm, and Gideon asked—
"And when do you go north, Tom?"
"North! Why, is there anything particular going on thereaway?"
"Going home, I mean," answered Gideon.
"Never," said Tom shortly.
"Ay, and why, my lad, if one may ask?"
"I think you hardly need ask, Gideon. I've been more than ten years
away now, and to go back just as I left them—not even a few poor
shillings to give mother, over and about the ten guineas I stole from
her! I'd be the laughingstock of the place. They've forgot me by this
time."
"Mothers don't forget, nor yet fathers, I'm told, but I never had one—I
had only a mother. She was a good mother, and so is yours, kind and
loving-hearted as a woman should be. And I tell you, Tom, if she has
forgotten aught about you, 'twill be that you took that money without
her leave."
"No, not she," answered Tom. "Mother's as good as gold, but she ain't
one of your soft sort, and she—well, Gideon, she has a tongue, not
scolding or brawling, but a tongue you'll have to mind."
There was a short silence. Then Tom said—
"I've done wrong, and I own to it. I began badly when I took that
money. Having taken it, I ought to have got Captain Collins to write
after my first voyage, and pay it back. I could have done it even then.
I did not do that, and then came the time I was pressed. Well, when I
was leaving the 'Star,' I had a notion to leave my money with Captain
Collins to send to mother. I didn't do that, and in five minutes more
the money was at the bottom of the sea. Then, when I had money again,
you urged upon me to go home for a bit. But no, I must have more money
to take with me. Then I met Robins, and you warned me again and again,
and I only fell out with you. I see it all plain enough, now that it's
too late. The money's gone, and I have no heart to begin again. It's
just my punishment—to go on being a sailor, all alone in the world
except for you, Gideon, all the rest of my life."
Terlizzeck gazed thoughtfully into the fire.
"You own up that you were in the wrong?" said he.
"I do, Gideon. My pride is broken down. I see that I was all wrong."
"No, Tom, your pride's not broken down. First time you and me ever
had a yarn, I mind well reading you the parable about the son that
went home after wasting his substance, and you said how you would
never do that—go home empty-handed, asking to be forgiven. Since then,
you've been changed in many ways, Tom. You've learned many a lesson,
and you're a steady, decent lad, and not without the fear of God
neither, but always your pride stands in your way. You don't like to be
forgiven—you'd like to earn it; and you can't earn it, not even from
your mother; and no one can earn it from God Almighty."
Gideon ceased to speak, but Tom made no attempt to reply.
"Seems to me," Gideon went on presently, "that you're mistaken when you
think you've learned the lesson all this ought to have taught you. And
another mistake—'twas you did wrong, and you're going to punish your
mother."
"No, no; she won't want me. She has father and Sam."
"You can't say for sure. A many things can happen in ten years. Anyway,
to my eyes, your duty is plain. And that is, to go home, confess your
fault, pay back what you can, and hear what your mother may have to say
to you; then to sea again with a good conscience. If you don't do this,
you'll never be happy in your mind. You'll go to sea; the temptations
are great—you'll not keep straight because you won't be helped. You
know yourself how it's like to end."
Gideon here got up and busied himself in slinging his hammock, and a
second, which Captain Egerton had lent him, for Tom. Then he read a
chapter in the Bible aloud, said his prayers, and remarked—
"I'll turn in, my lad, for I've got to be early."
Gideon was soon asleep. Not so Tom. He lay there, thinking, then
dozing, and then thinking again. He dreamed of his mother. He saw her
working in her garden, busy and happy, and he was a boy again, helping
her. Then suddenly she looked sad and ill, and she said to him, "Where
are my golden guineas, Tom? Now the rainy day has come, I miss them."
Tom woke up and could sleep no more.
In the morning he said to Gideon—
"Old friend, you are right all round. I ought to go home and say I'm
sorry, but I don't feel able to do it. That's the truth."
"You was never a coward, Tom," said the old man quietly.
They had breakfast, and then Tom said—
"I'd better go and see after my kit, and, if I may, I'll come back in
the evening."
"You'll never be aught but welcome, my son," replied Gideon.
Tom came back in the evening in great spirits, saying—
"Oh, Gideon, I've had such a piece of luck. I met Mr. Egerton, walking
with an old gentleman—I didn't take him for a sailor, but it was Sir
Michael Elliott, who is going to hoist his flag aboard the 'Conqueror,'
in the Mediterranean. And Mr. Egerton had been recommending me to him,
as he wanted a sober young man for cox of his own boat! And he don't
sail for two months, so I've plenty of time to go home; and I am going,
Gideon."
"And you'll always be glad as you did so," remarked Gideon. "I'm real
glad, Tom."
Tom made the voyage to Liverpool on board a collier brig returning
for a cargo, and to see Mr. Tom turning up his nose at the dirt and
untidiness of that collier was an amusing sight. But the collier was
slow as well as dirty, and by the time Tom was landed in Liverpool,
he had lost the glow of his good intentions and felt very much
inclined to—run away. The idea of facing his people under his present
circumstances was so galling that he lingered a whole day in Liverpool,
and it is hard to say what he might have done, if he had not happened
to meet Captain Collins. The last time he saw his old captain he was a
hale, hearty man: now he was bent and aged and weak. Tom hardly knew
him. Having with difficulty made the old man remember him, Tom inquired
politely for Mrs. Collins. The old man sighed.
"I've buried her, Adderley. Lost her five years ago. Never the same
since. I'm getting old—getting old. Time flies. Seems to me only
yesterday I was a young fellow like you."
Somehow, this made Tom set off inland the next morning.
It was a longish tramp, but the worst of it was that he had to spend
some of his money for food and lodging. Footsore and weary, he at last
found himself in a familiar place. He knew that he was close to Burdeck.
Tom sat down and rested. He ate some food that he had with him, and
then carefully arranged his dress and shook off the dust. He did not
want to look weary and forlorn. Then he walked on. Ah! There was little
Burdeck nestling in its valley, and that smoke came from the chimney of
his old home.
And now he stood at the garden gate, half-hoping that mother would
look-out and know him. The garden—what ailed it? And the apricot
was dead; the pear tree hung loose and ragged from the wall. Half
frightened, he opened the gate and strode to the door.
"Who's within?" he cried, and his voice sounded strange to his own
ears. He had to call more than once. At last, just as he was making up
his mind to open the door for himself, it was opened by a dirty looking
woman with a baby in her arms.
"What d'ye want?" said she, looking half frightened.
"Who are you?" he answered. "Your name is never Adderley?"
"No—I don't know the name. Be off now; I want no tramps about."
"Hold hard, mistress," said Tom, as she was going to shut the door.
"Where is Thomas Adderley that lived here once?"
"'Twas before our time," she answered, and she shut the door.
He heard her lock it. After a moment or so, he walked away, and went up
the garden of the next house, where the Trayners used to live. He felt
quite stupid. A decent looking young woman was at the door. She, too,
had a baby in her arms.
"Does Matthew Trayner live here still?" Tom said.
"No, Wat, his son. What do you want with the Trayners?"
"Mistress, I'm not a tramp," said Tom quickly. "I belong to these
parts, and have been away at sea for years. All I want is to know where
I may find my people."
"My husband is away at work, but he'll be back soon after six. Maybe I
can tell you, but I'm not Burdeck born. I came from Wakefield."
"Thomas Adderley, my father, he lived in that cottage—where is he?"
"Are you an Adderley? Come in and sit down. I've heard my sister-in-law
Lucy talk of you. You're Tom, that went away?"
"Yes. Oh, tell me, if you know, where I'll find my people."
"Sit down," she said gently, and she went and laid her baby in the
cradle. "'Tis little I can tell you, and—it's not good news. Your poor
father is dead; dead some years."
"My father dead!" said Tom. "A great strong man like he, and not to say
old neither. I can scarce believe it."
"It is true; and I do wish Wat was here, for I hate telling you bad
news. It wouldn't sound so bad in a friend's voice. 'Twas a fever that
was very bad here; it was nine years ago. Wat's father and mother died
of it, and your father got it and lived through it. But he was never
the same again. He took on so about—" Here she paused.
"Go ahead, mistress. Tell me every word."
"'Twas about his oldest son. He was the first to get the fever, and he
died. Your poor father, he got to be like a child—no sense, and not
able to work. His master was very kind and left him in the cottage, and
Mrs. Adderley worked for him and kept him wonderful comfortable. When
he died, of course, she had to leave the cottage."
"And where is she now?" cried Tom, standing up and groping for his hat.
"Poor father! Poor old Sam! But tell me where mother is, that I may go
to her."
The young woman looked away from him.
"When Wat comes home," she said, "he'll be able to tell you; I can't. I
can tell you no more."
She went and brought him a mug of clear, cold water, saying, "You look
mazed—so you do. Drink some water, and sit here till Wat comes."
Tom drank the water. He really was not quite himself. He sat down, and
Mrs. Trayner hoped he would stay quiet till her husband came in. But in
a few minutes Tom was up again.
"Where are you going?" she asked him. "Do sit still a bit; you look—"
"I'm smothering. I must get out into the air," said Tom.
"Well, walk up that way, towards the church," she said, not wanting him
to go on into the village.
He had left his bundle, so she knew he would come back. He walked a
little way towards the church, then came back to her.
"Lookey here; you 'knows,' and you may as well tell me. Is she dead
too?"
"Oh no. And Wat knows and will tell you where you'll find her."
Tom turned away, but this time he went on to the village.
The shop, the forge, all as of old, but no one knew him, nor did he
look at any one. At last he was at the gate of the garden, in the
corner of which old Master Dwight used to sit in the sun and "mind his
latter end—" at least, so he said. Not thinking of what he did, Tom
opened the gate and sought the well-remembered sunny corner. And there,
looking as if he had never moved since Tom said good-bye to him, sat
old Master Dwight, blinking in the hot sun, and mumbling to himself in
a querulous tone—
"Too long! Too long! I'm living too long. They're all tired of my
stories; no one comes to listen to 'em now. Who's this? A sailor; ay,
and a king's man, too! Trust old Dwight to know that. What d'ye say,
eh? Speak up! I'm getting a 'little' bit deaf."
"Don't you know me, Master Dwight?"
"To be sure I do," said the old fellow, genially. "You're Ben Benson,
master of the 'Rosy Dawn.' But no; Ben's dead, so you can't be Ben.
Adderley, is it? No, I don't know any one by that name, do I. Yes,
to be sure, but only of late years, and things slip out of my head.
Adderley! Yes, he died of the great fever, and so did his son Sam. And
the other boy was run away; and the mother, foolish woman, blamed me
for that.
"But, for all that, I stood up for her. When she buried her husband,
and was ill with hardship and overwork, I stood up for her, though she
had tongued me more than once. I said plainly as it was a shame to the
whole village to let a decent, good woman like her go to the House. I
said, 'One of ye take her in, and when she gets better, her work will
be worth her keep.' But they're a mean lot here, and disgraceful poor.
And there was the little maid, too—a pretty little maid, and of a good
stock. But who'll marry her now, bred up in Wakefield Workhouse?"
Tom stood as if turned to stone. He had all the English peasant's
horror of the workhouse. His mother—his tidy, thrifty, busy mother! So
this was her fate! And pretty little Dolly! Ah, no wonder Wat Trayner's
wife had disliked telling him this!
Old Dwight was still talking away, but Tom did not hear a word he said.
He started after a few minutes, and, leaving the garden, walked quickly
back to the Trayners' cottage.
"Mistress," he said, "I know all now. Old Dwight told me. You've a kind
heart; you couldn't bring yourself to do it. And there's old Dwight,
not a day older to look at; and my father and—Give me my bundle, like a
good soul. I can reach Wakefield before night."
"You are not able for it. Do stay a bit, and Wat will tell you—"
"There's nothing more to tell. She buried her husband and her good son;
and the son that ought to have been her support had run off; and worse,
and—"
"If you had stayed, maybe you would have died of the fever too."
"And better I had," returned Tom. "Good-bye. You've been very kind to
me."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER XII.
BETTER THAN GOLDEN GUINEAS.
AT an early hour of the next day, a young man in sailor's garb might
have been seen in the streets of Wakefield, asking the way to the
workhouse, but he lost his way so often, in spite of all his questions,
that he began to think the people were misleading him on purpose. He
was standing at the corner of a street, wondering which of the two that
lay before him he was to take, when a pretty, tidy young woman with a
basket on her arm passed him.
She started a little when she saw him. Presently she turned and came
back. As she drew near, she looked at something "very" interesting at
the other side of the street, and said in a low voice, "I wonder is
it—Tom Adderley?"
Tom looked at her. "Did you call me?" he said.
"Why, then, you 'are' Tom," said the girl, putting her hand on his arm.
"Oh, Tom, what years and years it is since I saw you last! I kept your
secret, Tom. No one ever knew that I saw you that day."
"If this ain't Lucy Trayner!" cried Tom, his face brightening a little.
"Ah, Lucy, things are sore changed since that day. I got to Burdeck
yesterday, to find strangers in the old home, and a new mistress in
yours. I didn't see Wat, and not a soul knew me."
"But did no one tell you? Oh, poor Tom!"
"Yes, your sister-in-law told me; and a kind soul she is. And mother is
in the workhouse here. Oh, Lucy, that's the worst of it all. She that
was so clever and so busy, to be shut up there with no one to care for;
and it's my fault! I declare I wonder you can bear to look at me, Lucy."
"Your fault, for running away? Well, 'twas wrong, I know, but your
mother never says a word of blame to you, and—"
"Mother never blames me?"
"Never once—never to me, anyhow. I go to see her when I can. And oh,
but I am glad you've come back to her! You'll make up to her now for
all."
"Lucy, will you show me where the workhouse is?"
"In this street. Come, and I'll show you. I must not stay too long; I'm
in service here. But my mistress is very kind."
She stopped presently at an iron gate in a high wall.
"This is the House, Tom. I know the matron; shall I just tell her who
you are?"
"If you would, 'twould be a kindness."
"And you'll tell me what you mean to do? Ask for Dr. Cartwright's house
in George Street; I live there."
A man came to the gate, and Lucy asked to see Mrs. Good, the mistress.
They were admitted, and were soon in Mrs. Good's neat parlour.
Mrs. Good was a kindly, sentimental little woman, who cried over Lucy's
story, and said it was real touching. "And I'll send for Mrs. Adderley,
and then you can see her here comfortably, sir."
Lucy left them, as she could spare no more time.
Mrs. Good went away; she felt that the mother and son would be happier
alone.
Tom thought that his mother would pass the window of the little
parlour, so he stood watching for her.
But she came in by a back door, and Mrs. Good only told her that there
was a young man wanting to see her.
Ah, some years ago—not many, for she had been but four years in the
House—Mrs. Adderley would have suspected in a moment that the "young
man" was Tom! But hope and expectation had died out of her, in the
sameness and dreariness of her life. She just walked in and said, when
the tall figure at the window did not turn round—
"What's your will, sir?"
She had fancied it might be Wat Trayner, who sometimes came to see her.
Seeing that it was not he, she wondered a little why she was wanted.
Tom turned now, took a hasty step forward, and stopped. A little bent
old woman, with a patient white face and weak eyes (much crying had
dimmed them)—this was not his mother!
"It was Mrs. Adderley, from Burdeck—Oh, mother, mother!" For he knew
her—suddenly.
"Who calls me 'mother'?" she said. "Come here; let me see you. Why,
'tis my Tom, my darling boy that I haven't seen these eleven years! Oh,
Tom, be it really you?"
"Mother, it is. Your bad boy that robbed you and ran away, and left you
to come to—this."
She was sobbing and laughing, and holding him by the arm, going on
altogether like a crazy creature.
"My Tom! Grown a man, and such a fine man, too. My boy! The same curls
on his head, and the same look in his eyes. Yes, you were bad, Tom, to
run away and disobey poor father and me. And I hope you've repented of
it. But don't fret, my boy; don't ye be 'too' sorry. Your poor father
often said, 'Tom will get on; he were too stirring for Burdeck ways.'
And he left his blessing for you, and his forgiveness—he did, Tom,
truly. Oh, my own boy, I can die in peace now."
"Sit down, mother dear; you're all of a tremble. Tell me all, mother. I
only know that poor father and Sam are both dead."
Mrs. Adderley told her story, but not very lucidly. She went backwards
and forwards, she made mistakes and corrected them, and she told many
particulars which had nothing to do with it. But all this was only
doing after the fashion of women of her class when excited, and Tom
understood very well. He gathered that she had never told any one that
he had robbed her, not even her husband. Also, that if she had had a
little money when Adderley died, she could have set up a little shop in
Burdeck, and have supported herself and Dolly. Dolly was in service—put
out by "the Board," they called themselves—and her grandmother had not
seen her for many months.
"And she such a pet, Tom! I do fret after Dolly, the pretty little
dear."
"Mother," answered Tom, "every word you say is like sticking a knife
into me. I ought to have been here to work for you and little Dolly,
and I've worse than that to confess to you. I can't be easy till I've
told you all. But can you listen now?"
"Yes, I can," she said promptly. "The sound of your voice, Tom, though
'tis changed a bit, do make me feel so happy that I could listen for
ever. But I don't know that I could give my mind to the meaning."
But she did give her mind to it, when Tom was fairly launched on his
story. He concealed nothing. When he ceased, she knew his history as
well as he knew it himself.
"So now, you see, mother, what a bad son I've been to you. Time and
again I might have paid you back what I took—your golden guineas that
you never said a word about, for fear I should be blamed. If I had sent
that money by Captain Collins, it would have kept father in comfort and
you from overworking yourself. If I'd come home when the 'Imogene' was
paid off, I'd have been in time to set up the little shop for you. Now
I've come at last, nearly empty-handed. But, mother, see; I'm kneeling
here before you. Put your blessed old hand on my head, and say, 'Tom,
I forgive you.' Do say it, mother. I was wrong all through—proud, and
selfish, and careless—but forgive me, if you can, knowing all."
She put her hand on his head, but stopped to pull out one of the close
curls and look at it lovingly.
"The times I've dreamt that the deep sea was hiding them curls!" she
said. "Forgive ye, child? Mothers don't forgive; they don't need to."
And she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him again and again.
"From this moment, mother, I belong to you. I'll get work here; I'll
make a home for you and Dolly, and—and you'll be like yourself again."
To see how her changed face brightened, and how, in a moment, her
business-like faculties were at work again! She made him tell her what
money he had, and advised him to get Lucy Trayner to help him to look
for lodgings—furnished, for he had not enough to buy furniture—they
could do that by-and-by. Then he was to get her some clothes—
"For, you know, these I have on are not my own; and mind, now, 'very'
little will do for a time."
And then he was to go to Mr. Samuel Trotter, in the main street. This
was the fruiterer and vegetable dealer who used to buy all her fruit
and honey in the good old days. And he would help Tom to get a place,
for he was a kind man, and would remember her. And he was on no account
to take Dolly from her place until Mrs. Adderley was ready to see after
her.
Tom laughed, and promised obedience. "I know you again now, mother,"
said he.
All this was done as Mrs. Adderley directed, only Lucy and Tom were
extravagant, she declared, in the purchase of clothes for her. A queen,
she said, might have worn that plaid shawl, and thankful! Mr. Trotter
took Tom into his own employment to drive his light cart, both for
leaving goods at purchasers' houses, and going here and there in the
season to buy fruit—a part of his work—for which Mr. Trotter had got
too fat and lazy. Poor little Dolly was taken from a very hard, rough
place, and began to go to school regularly. The church schools in
Wakefield were very good, and Dolly, naturally clever, was soon able to
teach her uncle to read, and even, as time went on, to write.
But for many a long day it was only by a great effort of his strong
will that Tom kept up a cheerful demeanour before his mother and
Dolly. He had really loved his profession, and had left it just when
his prospects were very bright. He had got Lucy's master to write to
Captain Egerton for him, begging him to tell Gideon how things were
with him, and to explain to Admiral Elliott that he could not go to sea
again. But life seemed very dull and his work very uninteresting. And
sometimes he wondered, if his mother knew how he hated it, would she
not insist on his going to sea again?
But he never told her. He fought against his feelings like a brave
man—nay, better than that, like a Christian man; and, by God's help, he
conquered himself, and came out of the conflict a better and a stronger
man. And his mother was wonderfully happy, "keeping house" for him.
Tom saved and pinched his own personal expenditure, until he had
saved up ten guineas. It took him a long time, but he got several
Christmas-boxes in money from Mr. Trotter's customers, and this helped
him. He bought a little wooden box, as like the old one as he could get
it, and took box and all to his mother.
"Mother dear, take this. There's no interest, mother; it's only what I
robbed you of."
Mrs. Adderley laughed at first, then cried a little, and finally
counted the guineas.
"Ten," said she. "That's one too many, Tom. You only took nine."
Tom started.
"Right you are, mother. I said I'd always reckon that I took ten, and I
declare I had forgotten that I put one back."
"And you needn't have done this, Tom, for you are better to me than any
number of golden guineas."
"Lay them by to be a fortune for Dolly, by-and-by," said Tom, laughing.
But Tom was far too clever and painstaking to remain always in such a
place as that of van-driver. He learned to read and write, and to keep
accounts without the help of notched sticks. And, as old Mr. Trotter
had no children and liked Tom very much, he took him into the shop
as foreman, and afterwards as partner. Tom's cleverness and energy
increased the business very much, and he found plenty of scope for both
in his new employment.
After a while he married Lucy Trayner, who had never forgotten her
promise to marry him when he came home. And some time after his
marriage, old Gideon Terlizzeck paid him a long-promised visit, when
Mrs. Adderley and Lucy heard more of Tom's life at sea than he had ever
told them. One day Gideon happened to mention his intention to go with
Admiral Elliott when he returned from visiting his mother. Tom had
never spoken of it.
"Tom," said his mother, "if I'd known what a fine prospect you had
before you, I don't believe I'd have let you give it up."
"Ah yes, ma'am, you would," said Gideon. "'Twas his clear duty, all the
more because of the way he left you before. He'd have had no blessing
on his life if he had left you again. And I don't see that a man could
be happier or better off than he is now."
"That's very true," said Tom, "and I'll tell you the whole truth,
mother. I did love the sea, and the excitement, and everything about
it, and when I came here first I had a tough battle before I could take
to my new life. A craving, it seemed; just like what poor Dick Carr
used to say 'he' had when he went to sea after a time ashore, when he
had been drinking. But I always felt that it would leave me, and it
did. And since then, I've been happier than I ever was before. For I
always felt that I was doing wrong, even when I denied it most. And
I always had a feeling that, sooner or later, I'd be punished, if I
didn't repent. When I lost my money, I knew I had expected it, though I
would not say so. Well, if I got another trial, as I surely did, I owe
it to you, Gideon. 'Twas you put the truth before me, so that I 'had'
to face it. All through, you've been a true friend to me."
"That's pleasant for an old man to hear," said Gideon. And then he
added, simply and reverently, "But let us give God the glory. His hand
was over us for good."
THE END.
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON AND BECCLES.
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