SETTING SAIL.
Their future constant companion joined the father and son, as might be
expected, at Mooney’s Tavern. He had no leave-takings to subdue the
boisterous spirits in which he set out on an expedition that was to make
a rich man of him. His brothers and sisters were married, and had lost
all interest in him long ago. They were even glad that he would no longer
be a daily disgrace to them. He was very grand with Mr. Gilman’s money,
and expected, of course, to drink to their success in a parting glass
at Mooney’s. He had drank to it so often already that morning, that it
was doubtful whether he would be fit to start on the journey. It had the
effect of making him unusually good-natured, fortunately, so that he took
Mr. Gilman’s refusal with only the complacent remark, “more fool he.”
The stage did not make long stoppages so early in the day; away they
drove again—the tavern, the post-office, the white meeting-house on the
hill, disappearing in turn, and then the young traveller felt that home
was really left behind.
He was very quiet, he could not help it.—The day was exceedingly cold,
and the road, for miles together, dreary and uninteresting. The noisy
laugh of Colcord troubled him, while he thought of his mother and the
girls. This could not last long, as the stage filled up, stopping now
at a farm house, where a place had been bespoken for its owner the day
before, or receiving a passenger at some wayside tavern. Sam began to
feel all the dignity of being a traveller himself, and particularly when
he saw how much the strangers were interested, hearing that they were
bound for California. Colcord talked to every one, and made himself out
the commander-in-chief of the expedition. _He_ was going to “invest,”
as he called it; _he_ expected to see the time when he could buy up the
whole of an insignificant little village like Merrill’s Corner!—And
then the most incredible facts were related, exaggerated newspaper
reports given, as having happened to the uncle, or cousin, or friend of
the speaker. When they came to a tavern, Colcord was the first man out,
strutting around the bar-room, and asking all his fellow-passengers to
drink with him. Even Mr. Gilman seemed ashamed of his partner, as he
loudly proclaimed himself to be.
Sam went to bed at Concord that night, wondering if New-York could be
larger, or have handsomer houses, and what they were doing at home. It
seemed as if months had passed since bidding them good-bye. Then came
the novelty of a railroad, the hurried glimpse at Manchester and Lowell,
with their tall piles of brick and mortar, the loud hiss of steam, and
clanking of machinery. How busy and restless all the world began to seem,
and how far off the eventless village life, which had till now been a
world in itself.
Colcord did not let them lose a moment’s time. He had found out on the
journey, that no ship was to sail from Boston for more than a week. A
week, he said, would give them a long start; as they had the money, they
might as well push through to New-York, where whole columns of vessels
were advertised.
The morning of the third day after leaving home, Sam found himself
following his father and Colcord along the crowded wharves of this great
city, going to secure their passage.
The “Helen M. Feidler,” was the unromantic name of the ship Colcord had
selected. She was to sail first, and the handbills pasted along the
corners, described her as nearly new—fast sailing—with every possible
accommodation for freight and passengers. The owners said she would
make the voyage in half the usual time, and if _they_ did not know, who
should? In fact the clerk, or agent at the office, gave such a glowing
account of her wonderful speed, the excellent fare, and the rush of
people to engage their berths, that Mr. Gilman was all ready to secure
three cabin vacancies that happened, by the most fortunate chance in
the world, to be left. He had even taken out the old-fashioned leather
pocket-book, in which the bills were laid, when he saw Colcord making
signs to him not to be in too much of a hurry. The clerk assured them,
his warm manner growing very cold and distant, as he replaced his pen
behind his ear, that the next day would probably be too late. Sam did not
understand what Colcord said to his father, but almost as soon as they
were in the street, they told him he had better stroll around and amuse
himself; they were going to look at the ship, and see if all that had
been said was true.
[Illustration: “HE STROLLED ALONG THE WHARVES.”
Page 66.]
This was certainly very reasonable. Sam wondered, at the same time, what
had made Colcord so suddenly cautious, and why they did not take him with
them. However, he strolled along the wharves, where all was new to him;
the inviting eating saloons, with their gayly-painted signs, the sailors
in their blue and red shirts, and rolling gait, that came out and went
into them, the tall warehouses of the ship-chandlers, with the piles of
ropes, and what seemed to him rusty chains, and useless lumber, scattered
about the lower floor. It was a bitter day, and seemed doubly cold and
disagreeable in the absence of snow, which only was found in dirty and
crumbling piles out on the wharves or along the edge of the frozen
gutters. The signs creaked and clanked in the wind, that came sweeping
with icy chillness from the river; and the bareheaded emigrants, women
and children, that came trooping along the sidewalk, looked half frozen
and disconsolate. Still it was new and wonderful, and so were the rows of
vessels, schooners and brigs, that lined the docks, some receiving and
others discharging their cargoes, with a hurry and bustle of drays, and
creaking pulleys, and a flapping of the sail-like canvas advertisements,
fixed to the mast, that told their destination, and their days of
sailing. The black hulls and dirty decks did not look very inviting; but,
of course, the wonderful Helen M. Feidler, did not in the least resemble
such uncouth hulks as these!
How he did wish for Ben as he walked along, trying to shield his face
from the wind, with nobody to ask a question of, or tell his discoveries
and conjectures to! He wished for him more than ever when he inquired
his way back to the lodging house, in which they had left their chests,
and found his father had not yet returned. It was a cheap place of
entertainment, and chosen by them because near the water. Sam did not
think it nice nor comfortable in the uncarpeted sitting-room, scarcely
any fire in the dirty stove, and nothing to look at but an old file of
newspapers on the baize-covered table. But that was better than the
bar-room and its unwelcome sights and sounds.
He expected his father every moment, and told the waiter so, when he
asked him if they would have dinner. The afternoon came on, still lonely,
dark and gloomy. He began to be anxious for fear they had lost their way,
or perhaps been robbed, and carried out to sea,—he had heard of such
things. Hungry, and tired and lonely, he laid down on the long, wooden
settee, and fell asleep, dreaming that he saw his mother, and made her
very happy by telling her that his father had resisted all Colcord’s
endeavors to get him to drink, and talked about her every time they were
alone together.
It was very late—nearly midnight—before the men returned. They were
quarrelling violently on the stairs, and poor Sam instantly knew that his
father had again been led into temptation. He did not know until the next
day what a misfortune this had proved. When his father awoke, haggard and
sullen, it was to charge Colcord with having robbed him of every cent the
pocket-book contained, more than half of all he possessed. Colcord’s
own poverty disproved this charge. Between them, there was just enough
to take a steerage passage for the three, and paying their bill at the
lodging house, but a few dollars were left.
They had not yet purchased the necessary tools and stores for their
business; with the exception of a newly invented patent gold-washer,
in which Mr. Gilman had rashly invested a third of the sum originally
intended for their outfit, on their way to the wharves, there was nothing
to rely upon when they should arrive out. Colcord tried to get him to
exchange this for the less expensive picks and spades; but Mr. Gilman
was stubborn and dogged, as he always was under the influence of strong
drink, and insisted on what he considered a fortunate speculation.
It was in this way, after all his father’s pride and spirit on leaving
home, that Sam, with his two still unreconciled companions, was entered
as a steerage passenger on one of those very vessels that he had
considered so unpromising at first sight. He tried to write a cheerful
letter home, the day of sailing, describing what he had seen, but saying
as little as possible about his father, or the vessel, that he could not
think of without disgust. It was indeed a comfortless prospect, to be
shut up for months in that dreary-looking steerage, so dark and stifling,
so crowded with human beings of every grade and country.
The same glowing description was given of the speed and safety of the
“Swiftsure;” but Sam began to doubt even the merits of the Helen M.
Feidler, when he read column after column, in which barks, schooners and
brigs up for California, were advertised to possess every advantage that
could possibly be desired. It was his first great lesson that promise and
reality are by no means the same thing.
Boy as he was, and hopeful as he had always been, he sat down
disconsolately on his father’s chest, and tried to realize all that
had befallen him. The place described in the advertisement as “large,
roomy, well lighted and ventilated,” seemed to him dark, crowded, and
suffocating. The space between the rows of bunks, as the slightly built
berths were called, was piled with chests and boxes, over which each new
comer climbed, and fell, and stumbled along, venting their annoyance in
oaths and imprecations. The air was damp, at the same time so close
and heavy that he could scarcely breathe. A fear of stifling when night
and darkness came, made him start up and rush on deck, while it was yet
possible to do so. They had already moved out of the dock in tow of a
small steamboat, that was to take them down the bay, and carry back the
friends of the cabin passengers, who helped fill the decks. There was
scarcely an inch of plank to stand upon, or an unobstructed path to any
part of the ship. Water-casks, fresh provisions for the cabin table,
crates of fowls, the cackle adding to the general uproar; chests, boxes
and trunks of the passengers, and freight received up to the last moment,
were scattered, piled and packed in what seemed hopeless confusion. If
there was dreariness and heart-sinking in the steerage, the cabin made
amends with its uproar and jollity. Every one seemed to be of Colcord’s
opinion, that too many parting glasses could not be, and wine and brandy
flowed as freely as water.
It might have seemed a festival day to Sam, if the sun had shone and the
shores been covered with summer foliage; but the sky was in those close
racks of clouds, so often seen in winter, chilling the very sunlight to
transient watery beams. Cakes of ice, dirty, huge and discolored, were
floating in the bay, crashing against the puffing little steamboat,
with every revolution of the wheel. No golden horizon could gild the
chilliness of the whole scene, or make it promise brightness to come.
It was late in the afternoon when the steamboat cast loose from them,
and the ship, with every sail set to the strong breeze, went on her way
alone. The friends of the cabin passengers departed with cheers on each
side, while some on ship-board went below to write one more hasty word
of farewell to still dearer ones left behind. The pilot, bearer of these
messages, resigned his brief command to their captain, and left them last
of all. The low line of coast—the Neversink highlands—that last glimpse
of home became indistinct in the wintry twilight, as the swell that bore
them on sank into the long, rolling, foam-crested waves—the boundless
expanse of ocean.
The discomforts of the inevitable sea-sickness past, Sam began to
find even the steerage endurable. It was crowded to be sure, and his
fellow-voyagers were many of them quite as disagreeable as Colcord, who
formed quantities of new acquaintances, and was so good as to trouble
them very little with his society. After daylight,—and once accustomed
to the rolling of the vessel, Sam slept as sound in his bunk as when his
mother came to tuck in the bed-clothes in the garret chamber,—he saw
very little between decks, until night came again. He made friends with
the cook in the galley, and the sailors in the forecastle, where he was
a welcome visitor. There was a never-ceasing interest in the long yarns
which the sailors told of their various voyages in every quarter of the
globe, and their numerous adventures in port; some of which did not
speak much for their morality, I am sorry to say. It was as good as six
volumes of Sinbad, as many of Munchausen, and libraries of Gulliver. Sam
watched all their ways with the most lively interest, and considered them
the best fellows that ever were born. “How he should like to astonish
Ben!” he used to think, as he sat on deck, watching them unravelling the
tarred ropes for “spun-yarn,” or in the dim light of the forecastle,
while they cut and made, and mended their wide pantaloons, or overhauled
the thick clothes provided for their passage round the Horn, a prospect
that did not seem very agreeable to them. He found himself adopting their
peculiar gait, and practising from a large collection of sea-phrases.
They taught him to climb the rigging, the names of the different sails
and ropes, and the meaning of the curious orders sung out by the captain
or mate, that at first had seemed like a foreign language. It was all so
new and exciting, particularly when he came to understand the working
of the ship, that he wondered what people meant when they talked of the
“monotony of sea-life.” It doubtless was monotonous to the young men in
the cabin, who slept, and ate, and drank, and lolled around the deck,
sometimes with a book, sometimes hanging over the ship’s sides in perfect
lack of occupation, “like cows in a pasture”—Sam used to say. He managed
to get up a great feeling of superiority and pity, when he saw them turn
out on deck after breakfast, looking so languid and sleepy. _He_ had been
up since sunrise, and seen the decks washed down and cleansed, seated in
some part of the rigging, above the unceremonious flood that followed his
promenade on deck. It was his delight to follow the sailors to the galley
for their kids of beef and cans of coffee—what an appetite he always had
for the “hard tack,” and meat almost as unimpressible to the teeth, that
fell to his own share! The poor fellows in the cabin were starving by
their own account, and thought as longingly of the abundance and variety
of the tables at Delmonico’s and the Astor, as ever the children of
Israel in the desert did of the flesh-pots of Egypt!
Many good mothers would have been troubled at this constant companionship
with men they are accustomed to think of as degraded beings; but for a
boy with Sam’s disposition, it was far preferable to the example of the
more refined circle in the cabin. Sam knew that the oaths and honestly
told “scrapes” of the sailors were wrong. There was no concealment
intended, and it was easy to distinguish good and evil, when so broadly
marked.
The twenty cabin passengers, mostly young men, who had led idle and
dissipated lives in large cities, had a code of morals, that would have
had a more secret and fatal influence.—Their conversation over the card
table, the unending games, in which money was always staked to make it
exciting, would have had a much worse effect. Sam knew that almost any
sailor would drink when it was possible to do so, and had heard the
habit spoken of as the worst which they were given to. He might have
thought his mother was mistaken in the harm, after all, if he had seen
the daily excesses of the captain’s table, and educated men boasting of
the quantity of wine they had, or could carry, without being considered
intoxicated. Their recklessness of any thing good and holy was appalling,
and Sam would not have wondered so much at one of them, who used to go
aloft to the cross-trees every fair day, and read or muse hours over his
Bible, if he had heard how jestingly the sacred volume was named by the
rest.