"For _breakfast a good cup of tea_.
"Silence, you sea-cook! how dare you shove in your penny whistle! How's
tide, Tom?"
"Three quarters ebb."
"No, it a'n't, you thief; how is it Jacob?"
"About half, I think."
"And you're right."
"What water have we down here on the side?"
"You must give the point a wide berth," replied I; "the shoals runs
out."
"Thanky, boy, so I thought, but wasn't sure:" and then old Tom burst out
in a beautiful air:
"Trust not too much your own opinion,
When your vessel's under weigh,
Let good advice still bear dominion;
That's a compass will not stray."
"Old Tom, is that you?" hallooed a man from another barge.
"Yes; what's left of me, my hearty."
"You'll not fetch the bridges this tide--there's a strong breeze right
up the reaches below."
"Never mind, we'll do all we can.
"If unassailed by squall or shower,
Wafted by the gentle gales
Let's not lose the favouring hour,
While success attends our sails."
"Bravo, old Tom! why don't the boys get the lines out, for all the
fishes are listening for you," cried the man, as the barges were parted
by the wind and tide.
"I did once belong to a small craft called the Anon," observed old Tom,
"and they say as how the story was, that that chap could make the fish
follow him just when he pleased. I know that when we were in the North
Sea the shoals of seals would follow the ship if you whistled; but these
brutes have ears--now fish hav'n't got none.
"Oh well do I remember that cold dreary land,
here the northern light,
In the winter's night,
Shone bright on its snowy strand.
"Jacob, have you finished your breakfast? Here, take the helm, while I
and Tom put the craft a little into apple-pie order."
Old Tom then stumped forward, followed by his son and the Newfoundland
dog, who appeared to consider himself as one of the most useful
personages on board. After coiling down the ropes, and sweeping the
decks, they went into the cabin to make their little arrangements.
"A good lock that, Tom," cried the father, turning the key of the
cupboard. (I recollected it, and that its snapping so loud was the
occasion of my being tossed overboard.) Old Tom continued: "I say, Tom,
you won't be able to open that cupboard, so I'll put the sugar and the
grog into it, you scamp. It goes too fast when you're purser's steward.
"For grog is our larboard and starboard,
Our main-mast, our mizzen, our log,
On shore, or at sea, or when harbour'd,
The mariner's compass is grog."
"But it arn't a compass to steer steady by, father," replied Tom.
"Then don't you have nothing to do with it, Tom."
"I only takes a little, father, because you mayn't take too much."
"Thanky for nothing; when do I ever take too much, you scamp?"
"Not too much for a man standing on his own pins, but too much for a man
on two broomsticks."
"Stop your jaw, Mr Tom, or I'll unscrew one of the broomsticks, and lay
it over your shoulders."
"Before it's out of the socket, I'll give you _leg-bail_. What will you
do then, father?"
"Catch you when I can, Tom, as the spider takes the fly."
"What's the good o' that, when you can't bear malice for ten minutes?"
"Very true, Tom? then thank your stars that you have two good legs, and
that your poor father has none."
"I very often do thank my stars, and that's the truth of it; but what's
the use of being angry about a drop of rum, or a handful of sugar?"
"Because you takes more than your allowance."
"Well, do you take less, then all will be right."
"And why should I take less, pray?"
"Because you're only half a man; you haven't any legs to provide for, as
I have."
"Now, I tell you, Tom, that's the very reason why I should have more to
comfort my old body for the loss of them."
"When you lost your legs you lost your ballast, father, and, therefore,
you mustn't carry too much sail, or you'll topple overboard some dark
night. If I drink the grog, it's all for your good, you see."
"You're a dutiful son in that way, at all events; and a sweet child, as
far as sugar goes; but Jacob is to sleep in the cabin with me, and
you'll shake your blanket forward."
"Now that I consider quite unnatural; why part father and son?"
"It's not that exactly, it's only parting son and the grog bottle."
"That's just as cruel; why part two such good friends?"
"'Cause, Tom, he's too strong for you, and floors you sometimes."
"Well, but I forgives him; it's all done in good humour."
"Tom, you're a wag; but you wag your tongue to no purpose. Liquor ain't
good for a boy like you, and it grows upon you."
"Well, don't I grow too? we grow together."
"You'll grow faster without it."
"I've no wish to be a tall man cut short, like you."
"If I hadn't been a tall man, my breath would have been cut short for
ever; the ball which took my legs would have cut you right in half."
"And the ball that would take your head off, would whistle over mine; so
there we are equal again."
"And there's the grog fast," replied old Tom, turning the key, and
putting it into his pocket. "That's a stopper over all; so now we'll go
on deck."
I have narrated this conversation, as it will give the reader a better
idea of Tom, and his way of treating his father. Tom was fond of his
father, and although mischievous, and too fond of drinking when he could
obtain liquor, was not disobedient or vicious. We had nearly reached
Battersea Fields when they returned on deck.
"Do you know, Jacob, how the parish of Battersea came into the
possession of those fields?"
"No, I do not."
"Well, then, I'll tell you; it was because the Battersea people were
more humane and charitable than their neighbours. There was a time when
those fields were of no value; now they're worth a mint of money, they
say. The body of a poor devil, who was drowned in the river, was washed
on shore on those banks, and none of the parishes would be at the
expense of burying it. The Battersea people, though they had least
right to be called upon, would not allow the poor fellow's corpse to be
lying on the mud, and they went to the expense. Now, when the fields
became of value, the other parishes were ready enough to claim them; but
the case was tried, and as it was proved that Battersea had buried the
body, the fields were decided to belong to that parish. So they were
well paid for their humanity, and they deserved it. Mr Drummond says
you know the river well, Jacob."
"I was born on it."
"Yes, so I heard, and all about your father and mother's death. I was
telling Tom of it, because he's too fond of _bowsing up his jib_."
"Well, father, there's no occasion to remind Jacob; the tear is in his
eye already," replied Tom, with consideration.
"I wish you never had any other _drop_ in your _eye_,--but never mind,
Jacob, I didn't think of what I was saying. Look ye, d'ye see that
little house with the two chimneys--that's mine, and there's my old
woman.--I wonder what she's about just now." Old Tom paused for a
while, with his eyes fixed on the object, and then burst out:--
"I've crossed the wide waters, I've trod the lone strand,
I've triumphed in battle, I've lighted the brand,
I've borne the loud thunder of death o'er the foam;
Fame, riches, ne'er found them,--yet still found a home.
"Tom, boy, haul up the skiff and paddle on shore with the bundle; ask
the old woman how she is, and tell her I'm hearty." Tom was in the boat
in a moment, and pulling lustily for the shore. "That makes me
recollect when I returned to my mother, a'ter the first three years of
my sea service. I borrowed the skiff from the skipper.--I was in a
Greenland-man, my first ship, and pulled ashore to my mother's cottage
under the cliff. I thought the old soul would have died with joy."
Here old Tom was silent, brushed a tear from his eye, and, as usual,
commenced a strain, _sotto voce_:--
"Why, what's that to you if my eyes I'm a wiping?
A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way.
"How, miserable," continued he, after another pause, "the poor thing was
when I would go to sea--how she begged and prayed--boys have no feeling,
that's sartin."
"O bairn, dinna leave me, to gang far away,
O bairn, dinna leave me, ye're a' that I hae,
Think on a mither, the wind and the wave,
A mither set on ye, her feet in the grave.
"However, she got used to it at last, as the woman said when she skinned
the ells. Tom's a good boy, Jacob, but not steady, as they say you are.
His mother spoils him, and I can't bear to be cross to him neither; for
his heart's in the right place, after all. There's the old woman
shaking her dish-clout at us as a signal. I wish I had gone on shore
myself, but I can't step into these paper-built little boats without my
timber toes going through at the bottom."