"You mean God, don't you?" said I, at last; for I thought he couldn't
mean any other.
"Yes, boy; has not your mother taught you that name?"
"She never would teach me anything. All the prayers I know I have stolen
from my sister."
"And what do you know, Jack?"
"I know 'Our Father,' and 'Now I lay down to sleep,' and I believe that
is all."
"How old are you now, Jack?"
"I am three years older than Virginia; she, I heard my mother say, was
six the other day--then I suppose I'm nine."
"Do you know your letters?"
"Yes, some of them; I learned them on the boats."
"But you cannot read?"
"No, not a word."
"Has your mother ever told you of the Bible?"
"Not me; but I've heard her tell Virginia about it."
"Don't you ever go to church?"
"No, never. Mother takes little Virginia; but she says I'm too ragged
and ungenteel."
"Why does your mother neglect you? I suppose you are a bad boy?"
"That he's not," interrupted Ben; "that's not the reason. But we must
not talk about that now; only I must take Jack's part. Go on, Peter."
"Would you like to learn to read, Jack?" said Anderson; "and would you
like to hear me read the Bible to you, until you can read it yourself?"
"Indeed I would," replied I. "There's many of the boys on the beach,
smaller than me, who can both read and write."
Peter Anderson then told me that he would teach me, provided I behaved
myself well. He desired that I would come to his cabin every afternoon
at six o'clock, a time which interfered little with my avocation of
"Poor Jack," and that he would give me a lesson. Before he had finished
talking, one of the lieutenants of the hospital sent for him; and Ben
remained behind, to point out to me how valuable my knowing how to read
and write might one day prove to me.
"I've no larning myself, Jack," said he; "and I know the loss of it. Had
I known how to read and write, I might have been something better than
a poor Greenwich pensioner; but nevertheless I'm thankful that I'm no
worse. Ever since I've been a man grown I've only regretted it once--and
that's been all my life. Why, Jack, I'd give this right arm of mine--to
be sure, it's no great things now, but once it could send a harpoon in,
up to the hilt--but still a right arm is a right arm to the end of your
days!--and I'd give it with pleasure, if I only knew how to read and
write. Nay, I wouldn't care about the writing; but, if I could only read
print, Jack, I'd give it; for then I could read the Bible, as Peter
Anderson does. Why, Jack, when we do go to chapel on Sunday, there's not
one in ten of us who can follow the parson with his book; all we can do
is to listen; and when he has done speaking, we are done also, and must
wait till he preaches again. Don't I feel ashamed, then, Jack, at not
being able to read? and ought not they to feel proud who can--no, not
proud, but thankful[2]? We don't think of the Bible much in our younger
days, boy; but, when we are tripping our anchor for the other world, we
long to read away our doubts and misgivings; and it's the only chart you
can navigate by safely. I think a parent has much to answer for that
don't teach its child to read; but I must not blame my father or mother,
for I never knew them."
[Footnote 2: Ben's observations were true at the time he spoke; but this
is no longer the case. So much more general has education become, that
now, in a ship's company, at least five out of seven can read.]
"Never knew them?"
"No, boy, no. My father and mother left me when I was one year old: he
was drowned, and my mother--she died too, poor soul!"
"How did your mother die, Ben?"
"It's a sad, sad story, Jack, and I cannot bear to think of it; it was
told me long afterward, by one who little thought to whom he was
speaking."
"Do tell me, Ben."
"You're too young, boy, for such a tale; it's too shocking."
"Was it worse than being froze to death, as I nearly was the other day?"
"Yes, my lad, worse than that; although, for one so young as you are,
that was quite bad enough."
"Well, Ben, I won't ask you to tell me if it pains you to tell it. But
you did not do wrong?"
"How could a baby of two years old do wrong, and five thousand miles off
at the time, you little fool? Well, I don't know if I won't tell you,
Jack, after all, because you will then find out that there's a comfort
in reading the Bible; but you must promise me never to speak about it.
I'm a foolish old fellow to tell it to you, Jack, I do believe; but I'm
fond of you, boy, and I don't like to say 'no' to you. Now come to an
anchor close to me. The bells are ringing for dinner--I shall lose my
meal, but you will not lose your story, and there will be no fear of
interruption.
"My father was brought up to the sea, Jack, and was a smart young man
till he was about thirty, when a fall from the mainyard disabled him
from hard duty and going aft; but still he had been brought up to sea,
and was fit for nothing on shore. So, as he was a clean, likely fellow,
he obtained the situation of purser's steward in an Indiaman. After that
he was captain's steward on board of several ships. He sailed originally
from Yarmouth, and going home after a voyage to see his relations, he
fell in with my mother, and they were spliced. He was very fond of his
wife, and I believe she was a very true and good woman, equally fond of
him. He went to sea again, and I was born. He made another voyage to
India, and when he came back I was two years old. I do not recollect him
or my mother. My father had agreed to sail to the West Indies as
captain's steward, and the captain, with whom he had sailed before,
consented that he should take his wife with him, to attend upon the lady
passengers; so I was left at Yarmouth, and put out to nurse till they
came back. But they never came back, Jack; and, as soon as I can
recollect, I found myself in the workhouse, and, when old enough, was
sent to sea. I had been told that my father and mother had been lost at
sea, but no one could tell me how, and I thought little more about it,
for I had never known them, and those we don't know we do not love or
care for, be they father or mother.
"Well, I had sailed four or five voyages to the north in the whalers,
and was then about twenty-five years old, when I thought I would go back
to Yarmouth and show myself, for I was 'harpooner and steersman' at that
early age, and not a little proud. I thought I would go and look at the
old workhouse, for it was the only thing I could recollect, and see if
the master and mistress were still alive, for they were kind to me when
I was living with them. I went to Yarmouth, as I said. There was the
workhouse, and the master and mistress both alive; and I made myself
known to them, and the old people looked at me through their spectacles,
and could not believe that I could possibly be the little Ben who used
to run to the pump for water. I had money in my pocket, and I liked the
old people, who offered me all they could give without hopes of
receiving any thing in return, and, as I knew nobody else, I used to
live much with them, and pay them handsomely. I gave the old man some
curiosities and the old woman a teapot, and so on, and I remained with
them till it was time for me to sail again. Now, you see, Jack, among
the old folk in the workhouse was a man who had been at sea; and I often
had long talks with him, and gave him tobacco, which he couldn't afford
to buy--for they don't allow it in a workhouse, which is a great
hardship, and I have often thought that I should not like to go into a
workhouse because I never could have a bit of tobacco. This man's hair
was as white as snow, much too white for his age, for he was more
decrepit and worn out than, perhaps, he was old. He had come home to his
parish, and, being unable to gain his living, they had sent him to the
workhouse. I can't understand why a place should be called a workhouse
where they do nothing at all. Well, Charley, as they called him, got
very ill, and they thought he would not last long; and, when the old
people were busy, I used to talk a great deal with him. He was generally
very quiet and composed, and said he was comfortable, but that he knew
he was going fast.
"'But,' says he, 'here's my comfort;' and he pointed to a Bible that he
had on his knees. 'If it had not been for this book,' said he, 'I do
think, at times, I should have made away with myself.'
"'Why,' says I, 'what have you done? Have you been very wicked?'
"'We are all very wicked,' said he; 'but that's not exactly it. I have
been _haunted_ for so many years that I have been almost driven mad.'
"'Why,' said I, 'what can you have done that you should have been
haunted? You haven't committed murder, have you?'
"'Well, I don't know what to say,' replied he; 'if a man looks on and
don't prevent murder, is it not the same? I haven't long to live, and I
feel as if I should be happier if I made a clean breast of it; for I
have kept the secret a long while, and I think that you, as a sailor,
and knowing what sailors suffer, may have a fellow-feeling; and perhaps
you will tell me (for I'm somewhat uneasy about it) whether you think
that I am so very much to blame in the business? I've suffered enough
for it these many years, and I trust that it will not be forgotten that
I have so, when I'm called up to be judged--as we all shall, if this
book is true, as I fully believe it to be.'
"Here he appeared to be a good deal upset; but he took a drink of water,
and then he told me as follows:
"'About twenty-three years ago I was a seaman on board of the "William
and Caroline," West Indiaman, bound to Jamaica. We had two or three
passengers on board, and the steward's wife attended upon them. She was
a handsome, tall young woman; and when she and her husband came on
board, they told me they had one child, which they had left at home. Now
Yarmouth, you see, is my native place, and, although I did not know her
husband, I knew her family very well. So we were very intimate, and used
to talk about the people we knew, and so on. I mention this in
consequence of what occurred afterward. We arrived very safe at Jamaica,
and remained, as usual, some time at the island before the drogers
brought round our cargo, and then we again sailed for England.
"'Well, we got clear of the islands, and were getting well north, when
there came on a terrible gale of wind which dismasted us; and for three
weeks we were rolling about gunnel under, for we were very heavily
laden, and we lost our reckoning. At last we found out that we had been
blown down among the reefs to the southward of the Bahama Isles. We had
at one time rigged jury-masts, but unfortunately the gale had blown up
again, and carried them also over the side; and we had no means of doing
anything, for we had no more small spars or sails, and all our hopes
were of falling in with some vessel which might assist us.
"'But we had no such good fortune; and one morning, when a heavy sea was
running, we discovered that it was bearing us down upon a reef of rocks,
from which there was no chance of escape. We had no resource but to get
the boats out, and take our chance in them. The captain was very cool
and collected; he ordered everything in which might be requisite; called
up the men, and explained to them his intentions. All the water and
provisions were put into the launch, for the sea ran so high that the
small boats could not carry them; and it was intended that all the boats
should keep company till it moderated, and then each boat should have
its own supply. When all was ready, we were _told off_ to our respective
boats. The steward and his wife were to be in the same boat with me, and
I had put her carefully in the sternsheets, for I was her great friend.
Now the steward was called out by the captain to go for something which
had been forgotten; and while he was away the ship was struck by a heavy
sea, which occasioned such a breach over her that all was in confusion,
and, to prevent the small boats from swamping, they were pushed off. The
launch still held on for the captain, who hastened in with the mate and
the steward, for they were the only three left on board; and away we all
went. I mention this as the cause why the steward was separated (only
for a time, as we supposed) from his wife. We had not been clear of the
ship more than five minutes before we found that we, in our boat, could
hardly make head 'gainst the wind and swell, which bore down on the reef
close to us; the launch, which was a heavy-pulling boat and deeply
laden, could not; and in a quarter of an hour we had the misery to see
her in the breakers, swallowed up with all hands, together with all the
provisions and water for our sustenance. I will not attempt to describe
the agony of the steward's wife, who saw her husband perish before her
eyes. She fainted; and it was a long time before she came to again; for
no one could leave his oar for a minute to assist her, as we pulled for
our lives. At last she did come to. Poor thing! I felt for her. Toward
night the wind lulled, and we had every appearance of fine weather
coming on; but we had nothing to eat, and only a barrico of water in the
boat, and we were quite exhausted with fatigue.
"'We knew that we must pull to the northward, and try and fetch the
Bahama Isles, or, perhaps, some of the small quays to the southward of
them, where we might procure turtle, and, perhaps, water; and when the
sea had gone down, which it did very fast, we put the head of our boat
in that direction, pulling all night. At daybreak the other boat was not
to be seen; it was a dead clam, but there was still a long heavy swell.
We shared out some water and rested till the evening, and then we took
to our oars again.
"'We rowed hard till the morning, but when the sun rose it scorched us
up. It was impossible for us to keep to our oars without drinking, and,
there being no one to take the command, our water was all gone, and we
had not gained fifty miles to the northward. On the third morning we
laid down exhausted at the bottom of the boat--we were dying not only
with thirst, but with hunger; we had agreed that when night came on we
would take to the oars again; but some would and some would not; so
that, at last, those who had taken to their oars would pull no longer.
"'The steward's wife at times sang psalms, and at times wept. She had a
very sweet voice, but her lips were soon glued together for want of
water, and she could sing no longer.
"'When the sun rose on the fourth day there was no vessel to be seen.
Some were raving for water, and others sat crouched under the boat's
thwarts in silent despair. But, toward evening, the sky clouded over,
and there fell a heavy rain, which refreshed us. We took the gown from
off the steward's wife, and spread it, and caught the water; and we all
drank until our thirst was quenched--even our wet clothes were a comfort
to us; still we were gnawed with hunger. That night we slept; but the
next morning every man's eyes flashed, and we all looked as if we would
eat each other; and there were whisperings and noddings going on in the
bow of the boat; and a negro who was with us took out his knife, and
sharpened it on the boat's gunnel. No one asked him why. We spoke not,
but we all had our own thoughts. It was dreadful to look at our hollow
cheeks--our eyes sunken deep, but glaring like red-hot coals--our long
beards and haggard faces--every one ready to raise his hand against the
other. The poor woman never complained or said a word after she left off
singing; her thoughts appeared elsewhere. She sat for hours motionless,
with her eyes fixed on the still blue water, as if she would pierce its
depth.
"'At last the negro came aft; and we were each upon our guard as he
passed us, for we had seen him sharpen his knife. He went to the
sternsheets, where the poor woman sat, and we all knew what he intended
to do, for he only acted our own thoughts. She was still hanging over
the gunnel, with her eyes fixed downward, and she heeded not his
approach. He caught her by the hair, and dragged her head toward him.
She then held out her arms toward me, faintly calling me by name; but
I--shame on me!--remained sitting on the afterthwart. The negro thrust
his knife into her neck, below the ear; and, as soon as he had divided
the artery, he glued his thick lips to the gash and sucked her blood.
"'When the deed was done, others rose up and would have shared; but the
negro kept his white eyes directed toward them--one arm thrust out, with
his knife pointed at them, as he slaked his thirst, while, with his
other round her waist, he supported her dying frame. The attitude was
that of fondness, while the deed was--murder. He appeared as if he were
caressing her, while her life's blood poured into his throat. At last we
all drew our knives; and the negro knew that he must resign his prey or
his life. He dropped the woman, and she fell, with her face forward, at
my feet. She was quite dead. And then--our hunger was relieved.
"'Three days passed away, and again we were mad for want of water--when
we saw a vessel. We shouted, and shook hands, and threw out the oars,
and pulled as if we had never suffered. It was still calm, and, as we
approached the vessel, we threw what remained of the poor woman into the
sea; and the sharks finished what we had left. We agreed to say nothing
about her, for we were ashamed of ourselves.
"'Now I did _not_ murder, but I did _not_ prevent it; and I have ever
since been haunted by this poor woman. I see her and the negro
constantly before me, and then I think of what passed, and I turn sick.
I feel that I ought to have saved her--she is always holding out her
arms to me, and I hear her faintly call "Charles"--then I read my
Bible--and she disappears, and I feel as if I were forgiven. Tell me,
what do you think, messmate?'
"'Why,' replied I, 'sarcumstances will make us do what we otherwise
would never think possible. I never was in such a predicament, and
therefore can't tell what people may be brought to do. But tell me,
messmate, what was the name of the poor woman?'
[Illustration: ANDERSON READING THE BIBLE TO JACK.--Marryat, Vol. X., p.
89.]
"'The husband's name was Ben Rivers.'
"'_Rivers_, did you say?' replied I, struck all of a heap.
"'Yes,' replied he; 'that was her name; she was of this town. But never
mind the name--tell me what you think, messmate?'
"'Well,' says I (for I was quite bewildered), 'I'll tell you what, old
fellow--as far as I'm consarned, you have my forgiveness, and now I must
wish you good-by--and I pray to God that we may never meet again.'
"'Stop a little,' said he; 'don't leave me this way. Ah! I see how it
is--you think I'm a murderer.'
"'No, I don't,' replied I; 'not exactly--still, there'll be no harm in
your reading your Bible.'
"And so I got up, and walked out of the room--for you see, Jack,
although he mayn't have been so much to blame, still I didn't like to be
in company with a man who had eaten up _my own mother!_"
Here Ben paused, and sighed deeply. I was so much shocked with the
narrative that I could not say a word. At last Ben continued:
"I couldn't stay in the room--I couldn't stay in the workhouse. I
couldn't even stay in the town. Before the day closed I was out of it,
and I have never been there since. Now, Jack, I must go in--remember
what I have said to you, and larn to read your Bible."
I promised that I would, and that very evening I had my first lesson
from Peter Anderson, and I continued to receive them until I could read
well. He then taught me to write and cipher; but before I could do the
latter, many events occurred, which must be made known to the reader.