In which I take a Cruise contrary to the received Rules of
Navigation--On my Return from a cold Expedition, I meet with a cold
Reception.
As soon as I was fairly in possession of my office, I gained sufficient
money to render me almost entirely independent of my mother.
Occasionally I procured an old jacket or trousers, or a pair of shoes,
at the store of an old woman who dealt in everything that could be
imagined; and, if ever I picked up oakum or drifting pieces of wood, I
used to sell them to old Nanny--for that was the only name she was known
by. My mother, having lost her lodgers by her ill temper and continual
quarreling with her neighbors, had resorted to washing and getting up of
fine linen, at which she was very expert, and earned a good deal of
money. To do her justice, she was a very industrious woman, and, in some
things, very clever. She was a very good dressmaker, and used to make up
the gowns and bonnets for the lower classes of people, to whom she gave
great satisfaction. She worked very hard for herself and my sister,
about whose dress and appearance she was more particular than ever;
indeed, she showed as much affection for her as she did ill-will toward
me. To look at me, with my old trousers tucked up above my knees, my
ragged jacket, and weatherbeaten cap; and then to see Virginia, so
neatly and even expensively dressed, no one could have believed that we
were brother and sister. My mother would always try to prevent Virginia
from noticing me, if we ever met when she was walking out with her. But
my sister appeared to love me more and more; and, in spite of my mother,
as soon as she saw me, would run up to me, patting my dirty jacket with
her pretty little hand; and, when she did so, I felt so proud of her.
She grew up handsomer every day, and so sweet in disposition that my
mother could not spoil her.
It was in the autumn that I gained undisputed possession of the office
of "Poor Jack"; and that winter I had an adventure which nearly
occasioned my making a vacancy for somebody else, and which, the reader
will agree with me, was anything but pleasant.
It was in the month of January--the river was filled with floating ice,
for it had frozen hard for several days; and, of course, there were but
few people who trusted themselves in wherries--so that I had little
employment, and less profit. One morning, as I was standing on the
landing-steps, the breath coming out of my mouth like the steam of a
tea-kettle--rubbing my nose, which was red from the sharpness of the
frost--and looking at the sun, which was just mounting above a bank of
clouds, a waterman called to me, and asked me whether I would go down
the river with him, as he was engaged to take a mate down to join his
ship, which was several miles below Greenwich; and, if so, he would give
me sixpence and a breakfast. I had earned little for many days, and,
hating to be obliged to my mother, I consented.
In an hour we started: there was no wind--the water was smooth, and the
sun's rays glittered on the floating patches of ice, which grated
against the sides of the wherry as we cut through them with our sharp
prow. Although we had the tide with us, it was three hours before we
gained the ship. The mate paid the fare, and gave us something to drink;
and we passed an hour or more warming ourselves at the caboose and
talking with the seamen. At last a breeze sprung up, and the captain
ordered the men to get the ship under way. We shoved off, the tide
having flowed some time, expecting to be back to Greenwich before dark.
But it clouded over, and a heavy snowstorm came on, so that we could not
see in what direction we were pulling; the wind blew very fresh, and it
was piercing cold; however, we pulled as hard as we could, not only to
get back again, but to keep ourselves from freezing. Unfortunately, we
had lost too much time on board of the vessel; and, what with that, and
the delay arising from the snowstorm preventing us pulling straight
back, the ebb-tide made again before we had gained more than two-thirds
of our way. We were now nearly worn out with the severe cold and
fatigue, but we pulled hard, keeping as close inshore as we could. It
was necessary, at the end of one reach, to cross over to the other side
of the river; and, in so doing, we were driven by the tide against a
large buoy, when the wherry filled and upset in an instant. We both
contrived to cling on to her, as she was turned bottom up; and away we
were swept down among the drifting ice, the snowstorm still continuing
to beat down on our heads. I was nearly frozen before I could climb on
the bottom of the wherry; which I at last contrived to do, but the
waterman could only hold on. There we both were, shivering and shaking;
the wind piercing through our wet clothes--the snow beating down on us,
and our feet freezing among the drifting ice--borne away with the tide
toward the mouth of the river--not able to see two yards before us, or
likely to be seen by any one, so as to be assisted. We were too cold to
speak, but remained in silence, looking at each other, and with no
pleasant forebodings as to our fate. The ice now formed in large masses;
the icicles hung from our clothes and all sense was lost in our
extremities. It was now dark as pitch; and so feeble were we that it was
with difficulty we could keep in our positions. At last the storm
abated, the sky cleared up, and the bright full moon shone in the
heavens; but our case appeared hopeless--we felt that before morning we
must perish. I tried to say what prayers I had learned by hearing my
sister say them; but my teeth chattered, and I could only think them. At
last I perceived a vessel at anchor: the tide was sweeping us past--we
were close to her, and I contrived to cry out; but there was no reply.
Again I screamed, but it was in vain. They were all in their warm beds,
while we floated past, freezing to death. My hopes, which had been
raised, and which had occasioned my heart to resume its beating, now
sank down again, and I gave myself up in despair. I burst into tears;
and, before the tears had rolled half-way down my cheeks, they had
frozen hard. "I am indeed 'Poor Jack,' now," thought I; "I shall never
see my father or Virginia any more." As I thought so, I saw another
vessel ahead of us. I summoned all my strength, and called out long
before we floated past her. The light wind bore my voice down; there was
a man on deck, and he heard it; he walked forward, and I perceived him
looking over the bows. I hallooed again, to direct his attention to
where we were; for our wherry was so encrusted with ice that she might
have been taken for a larger piece floating by. I saw him turn away, and
heard him thump with a handspike on the deck. How my heart bounded! I
almost felt warm. As we were passing the vessel, I cried out again and
again, and the man answered me--
"Ay, ay, hold on for a minute or two, and I'll send for you."
[Illustration: I SUMMONED ALL MY STRENGTH, AND CALLED OUT LONG BEFORE WE
FLOATED PAST HER.--Marryat, Vol. X., p. 73.]
"We are saved," I cried to the waterman; but he was quite insensible,
apparently frozen stiff where he was clinging. In a few minutes I heard
the sound of oars, and then they stopped; the boat came quietly
alongside, that they might not by the shock throw us off into the water;
they dragged us both in, and took us on board, poured a glass of brandy
down our throats, stripped off our frozen clothes, chafed our limbs, and
put us between the hot blankets which they had just left. As soon as I
was in bed the mate made me drink a tumbler of hot grog, and left me. I
soon fell into a deep sleep, long before they had ceased their attempts
to restore vitality to my companion, which at last they did. When I
awoke the next morning I was quite well, and the waterman was also
recovering, although not able to leave his hammock. The mate who had had
the watch and had saved us, told me that the wherry was safe on board,
and, as the ship was bound up the river, that we had better remain where
we were. I narrated our accident; and my clothes having been dried at
the caboose, I dressed myself and went on deck. My companion, the
waterman, did not escape so well; his foot was frostbitten, and he lost
four of his toes before he recovered. It was singular that he, who was a
man grown up, should suffer so much more than I did. I cannot account
for it, except that my habit of always being in the water had hardened
me more to the cold. We remained on board two days, during which we were
treated with great kindness.
It was a fine bright morning, when, as the ship was passing the
hospital, we shoved the wherry off, and landed at the steps; and when we
jumped out we were greeted by all who were standing there. We had very
naturally been given up for lost. They supposed that we had perished in
the snowstorm. Old Ben was among those who were standing at the steps,
and he walked up with me toward my mother's house.
"I did go to the old woman and break the matter to her in a becoming
way, Jack," said Ben; "but I can't say that she appeared to take it much
to heart, and that's the truth. Had it been little Jenny, she'd have
cried her eyes out."
I arrived at Fisher's Alley, and the neighbors looked out; and as I
nodded to them they cried, "Why, here's Jack come back again. Where have
you been to, Jack?" This passing from mouth to mouth at last reached my
mother's ears; she looked out and saw me and old Ben close to the door.
"Here be your son, missus," said Ben; "so you may thank God for His
mercy."
But my mother did not appear to be very thankful. She turned round and
went in. I followed her, while Ben was standing at the door in amazement
at her not flying to me and kissing me. On the contrary she must have
been angry at my return, for she commenced singing:
"Jack and Gill went up the hill
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
And Gill came tumbling after."
And then she broke out: "And where have you been, you good-for-nothing
boy, all this time? putting me to all this useless expense that you
have; all my money thrown away for nothing." I looked at the table and
perceived that she had been making a black dress and bonnet, to put
little Virginia into mourning; for she never let slip an opportunity to
dress out my sister.
"Fifteen good shillings thrown away and lost, all by your coming back.
Your sister would have looked so beautiful and interesting in it. Poor
child! and now she will be disappointed. Never mind, my darling, you may
have to wear them soon yet, if he goes on this way."
Virginia did not seem to mind it at all; she was kissing and patting me,
and was delighted to see me again. But my mother took her by the hand,
and catching up the half-made dress and bonnet in her other, walked away
upstairs to her room, singing:
"There was an old man who lived under a hill,
And if he's not dead, he lives there still."
"So much for motherly love! Dang it, what's her heart made of?" said a
voice. I turned round; it was old Ben, who had been an unobserved
spectator of the scene.