"Jack," said she, "I'm not fit to talk to you; I'm a bad old woman, and
you may say I don't practice what I preach; but, Jack, if you love me,
go to Peter Anderson and tell him everything. Don't be afraid; only be
afraid of doing what is wrong. Now, Jack, you must go."
"I will, I will," replied I, bursting into tears.
"Do, do, dear Jack! God bless your heart, I wish I could cry that way."
I walked away quite humiliated; at last I ran, I was so eager to go to
Anderson and confess everything. I found him in his cabin--I attempted
to speak, but I could not--I pulled out the money, put it on the table,
and then I knelt down and sobbed on his knee.
"What is all this, Jack?" said Anderson, calmly; but I did not reply. "I
think I know, Jack," said he, after a pause. "You have been doing
wrong."
"Yes, yes," replied I, sobbing.
"Well, my dear boy, wait till you can speak, and then tell me all about
it."
As soon as I could I did. Anderson heard me without interruption.
"Jack," said he, when I had done speaking, "the temptation" (pointing to
the money) "has been very great; you did not resist at the moment, but
you have, fortunately, seen your error in good time, for the money is
still here. I have little to say to you, for your own feelings convince
me that it is needless. Do you think that you can read a little? Then
read this." Anderson turned to the parable of the Prodigal Son, which I
read to him. "And now," said he, turning over the leaves, "here is one
verse more." I read it: "There is more joy over one sinner that
repenteth, than over ninety and nine that need no repentance." "Be
careful, therefore, my dear boy, let this be a warning to you; think
well of it, for you have escaped a great danger. The money shall be
returned. Go now, my child, to your employment; and if you do receive
only halfpence, you will have the satisfaction of feeling that they are
honestly obtained."
I can assure the reader that this was a lesson which I never forgot; it
was, however, succeeded by another variety of temptation, which might
have proved more dangerous to a young and ardent spirit, had it not
ended as it did, in changing the course of my destiny and throwing me
into a new path of action. To this I shall now refer.
Hardly a month passed but we received additional pensioners into the
hospital. Among others, a man was sent to the hospital who went by the
name of Sam Spicer. I say went by the name, as it was not the custom for
the seamen to give their real names when they were entered or pressed
into the service, and of course they were discharged into the hospital
by the same name which they bore on the ship's books. Spicer was upward
of six feet in height, very large boned, and must, when he was in his
prime, have been a man of prodigious strength. When he was admitted to
the hospital he was nearly sixty years of age; his hair was black and
gray mixed, his complexion very dark, and his countenance fierce and
unprepossessing. He went by the name of Black Sam, on account of his
appearance. He had lost his right hand in a frigate action, and to the
stump he had fixed a sort of socket, into which he screwed his knife and
the various articles which he wished to make use of--sometimes a file,
sometimes a saw--having had every article made to fit into the socket,
for he had been an armorer on board ship, and was very handy at such
work. He was, generally speaking, very morose and savage to everybody,
seldom entered into conversation, but sat apart, as if thinking, with a
frown upon his countenance, and his eyes, surmounted with bushy
eyebrows, fixed upon the ground. The pensioners who belonged to the same
ward said that he talked in his sleep, and from what they could collect
at those times he must have been a pirate; but no one dared to speak to
him on the subject, for more than once he had been punished for striking
those who had offended him; indeed, he nearly killed one old man who was
jesting with him when he was at work, having made a stab at him with his
knife screwed in his socket, but his foot slipped and the blow missed.
Spicer was brought up before the council for this offense, and would
have been discharged had he not declared that he had done it only by way
of a joke to frighten the man; and, as no one else was present, it could
not be proved to the contrary. For some reason or another, which I could
not comprehend, Spicer appeared to have taken a liking to me; he would
call me to him, and tell me stories about the West Indies and the
Spanish Main, which I listened to very eagerly, for they were to me
very interesting. But he seldom, if ever, spoke to me inside of the
hospital; it was always when I was at the steps minding my vocation,
where he would come down and lean over the rail at the top of the wharf.
He made and gave me a boat-hook, which I found very convenient. He had a
great deal of information, and as the ships came up the river he would
point out the flags of the different nations, tell me where they traded
from, and what their cargoes probably consisted of. If they had no
ensign he would tell by their build and the cut of their sails what
nation they belonged to, pointing out to me the differences, which I
soon began to perceive. He had been in every part of the world, and
scarcely a day passed in which I did not gain from him some amusing or
useful information. Indeed, I became so fond of his company that Peter
Anderson spoke to me on the subject, and asked me what Spicer talked
about. I told him, and he replied:
"Well, Jack, I daresay that he is a very pleasant companion to one who,
like you, is so anxious for information, and I have nothing to say
against him, for we have no right to listen to foolish reports which may
probably have been raised from his savage appearance. Still, I confess I
do not like the man, as he is decidedly of a violent temper. As long as
he talks to you about what you say he does, there is no harm done; but
when once he says anything which you think is wrong, promise me to let
me know; and even now, if you will take my advice, you will not be so
intimate with him."
A little while afterward my father and Ben the Whaler both spoke to me
on the same subject, but with much less reservation.
My father said, "Jack, I don't like to see you always in company with
that old pirate, no good can come of it; so haul off a little further
for the future."
And Ben told me, "That a man who couldn't sleep o' nights without
talking of killing people must have a bad conscience, and something
lying heavy on his soul. There's an old saying, Jack, 'Tell me whose
company you keeps, and I'll tell you what sort of a chap you be.' You've
the character of a good honest boy; steer clear of Sam Spicer, or you'll
lose it."
Admonitions from all those whom I loved were not without their effect,
and I made a resolution to be less intimate with Spicer. But it was
difficult to do so, as I was obliged to be at the landing-steps, and
could not prevent his coming there.
I acknowledge that it was a severe privation to me to follow the
injunctions given to me, for I would listen for hours to the thrilling
narratives, the strange and almost incredible accounts of battles,
incidents, and wild adventures, which this man Spicer would relate to
me; and when I thought over them I felt that the desire to rove was
becoming more strong within me every day. One morning I said to him that
"I had a great mind to go on board of a man-of-war."
"On board of a man-of-war?" replied Spicer; "you'd soon be sick enough
of that. Why, who would be at the beck and nod of others, ordered here,
called there, by boy midshipmen; bullied by lieutenants, flogged by
captains; have all the work and little of the pay, all the fighting and
less of the prize-money; and, after having worn out your life in hard
service, be sent here as a great favor, to wear a cocked hat and get a
shilling a week for your 'baccy? Pshaw, boy! that's not life."
"Then, what is life?' inquired I.
"What is life? Why, to sail in a clipper with a jolly crew and a roving
commission; take your prizes, share and share alike, of gold-dust and
doubloons."
"But what sort of vessel must that be, Spicer?"
"What sort? why--a letter of marque--a privateer--a cruise on the
Spanish Main--that's life. Many's the jolly day I've seen in those
latitudes, where men-of-war do not bring vessels to and press the best
men out of them. There the sun's warm, and the sky and the sea are deep
blue, and the corals grow like forests underneath, and there are sandy
coves and cool caves for retreat--and where you may hide your gold till
you want it--ay, and your sweethearts too, if you have any."
"I thought privateers always sent their prizes into port, to be
condemned?"
"Yes, in the Channel and these seas they do, but not down there--it's
too far off. We condemn the vessels ourselves, and share the money on
the capstan-head."
"But is that lawful?"
"Lawful! to be sure it is. Could we spare men to send prizes home to
England, and put them into the hands of a rascally agent, who would rob
us of three-fourths at least? No, no; that would never do. If I could
have escaped from the man-of-war which picked up me and four others who
were adrift in an open boat, I would now have been on the Coast. But
when I lost my fin, I knew that all was over with me, so I came to the
hospital; but I often think of old times, and the life of a rover. Now,
if you have any thoughts of going to sea, look out for some vessel bound
to the Gold Coast, and then you'll soon get in the right way."
"The Gold Coast! Is not that to where the slavers go?"
"Yes, slavers and other vessels besides. Some traffic for ivory and
gold-dust; however, that's as may happen. You'd soon find yourself in
good company, and wouldn't that be better than begging here for
halfpence? I would be above _that_, at all events."
This remark, the first of the kind ever made to me, stung me to the
quick. Strange, I had never before considered myself in the light of a
beggar; and yet, was I not so, just as much as a sweeper of a crossing?"
"A beggar?" replied I.
"Yes, a beggar. Don't you beg for halfpence, and say, 'Thank your honor;
a copper for poor Jack, your honor'?" rejoined Spicer, mimicking me.
"When I see that pretty sister of yours, that looks so like a real lady,
I often thinks to myself, 'Fine and smart as you are, miss, your
brother's only a beggar.' Now, would you not like to return from a
cruise with a bag of doubloons to throw into her lap, proving that you
were a gentleman, and above coppers thrown to you out of charity? Well,
old as I am, and maimed, I'd sooner starve where I now stand.--But I
must be off, so good-by, Jack; look sharp after the halfpence."
As Spicer walked away my young blood boiled. A beggar! It was but too
true; and yet I had never thought it a disgrace before. I sat down on
the steps, and was soon in deep thought. Boat after boat came to the
stairs, and yet I stirred not. Not one halfpenny did I take during the
remainder of that day, for I could not, would not, ask for one. My
pride, hitherto latent, was roused, and before I rose from where I had
been seated I made a resolution that I would earn my livelihood in some
other way. What hurt me most was his observations about Virginia and her
beggar brother. I was so proud of Virginia, I felt that her brother
ought not to be a beggar. Such was the effect produced in so short a
time by the insidious discourse of this man. Had he still remained at
the steps, I do believe that I should have asked, probably have
followed, his advice. Fortunately he had left, and, after a little
reflection, I had the wisdom to go and seek Peter Anderson, and consult
him as to what I could do, for to change my mode of obtaining my
livelihood I was determined upon.
I found Anderson, as usual, seated under the colonnade, reading, and I
went up to him.
"Well, Jack, my-boy, you are home early," said he.
"Yes," replied I gravely, and then I was silent.
After a pause of about a minute, Peter Anderson said, "Jack, I see
there's something the matter. Now, tell me what it is. Can I help you?"
"I did wish to speak to you," replied I. "I've been thinking--about
going to sea."
"And how long have you thought of that, Jack?"
"I've thought more of it lately," replied I.
"Yes, since Spicer has been talking to you. Now, is that not the case?"
"Yes, it is."
"I knew that, Jack. I'm at your service for as long as you please; now
sit down and tell me all he has said to you that you can remember. I
shan't interrupt you."
I did so; and before I had half finished, Anderson replied, "That is
quite enough, Jack. One thing is evident to me--that Spicer has led a
bad and lawless life, and would even now continue it, old as he is, only
that he is prevented by being crippled. Jack, he has talked to you about
privateers! God forgive me if I wrong him; but I think, had he said
pirates, he would have told the truth. But say nothing about that
observation of mine; I wish from my heart that you had never known him.
But here comes your father. He has a right to know what we are talking
about, for you owe duty to him as his son, and nothing can be done
without his permission."
When my father came up to us, Anderson begged him to sit down, and he
told him what we had been discoursing about. I had already stated my
objections to enter on board of a man-of-war.
"Well," said my father, "I may come athwart hawse of that old piccaroon
yet, if he don't look out. Not that I mind your going to sea, Jack, as
your father did before you; but what he says about the sarvice is a
confounded lie. Let a man do his duty, and the sarvice is a good one;
and a man who is provided for as he is, ought to be ashamed of himself
to speak as he has done, the old rascal. Still, I do not care for your
entering the sarvice so young. It would be better that you were first
apprentice and learned your duty; and as soon as your time is out, you
will be pressed, of course, and then you would sarve the King. I see no
objection to all that."
"But why do you want so particularly to go to sea, Jack?" observed
Anderson.
"I don't like being a beggar--begging for halfpence!" replied I.
"And Spicer told you that you were a beggar?" said Peter.
"He did."
"Jack, if that is the case, we are all beggars; for we all work, and
receive what money we can get for our work. There is no shame in that."
"I can't bear to think of it," replied I, as the tears came into my
eyes.
"Well, well! I see how it is," replied Anderson; "it's a pity you ever
fell in with that man."
"That's true as gospel," observed my father; "but still, if he had said
nothing worse than that, I should not have minded. I do think that Jack
is now old enough to do something better; and I must say, I do not
dislike his wishing so to do--for it is begging for halfpence, arter
all."
"Well, boy," said Peter Anderson, "suppose you leave your father and me
to talk over the matter; and to-morrow, by this time, we will tell you
what we think will be best."
"Anything--anything," replied I, "but being a beggar."
"Go along, you are a foolish boy," said Anderson.
"I like his spirit, though," said my father, as I walked away.
On the next day the important question was to be decided. I did not go
to the stairs to follow up my vocation. I had talked the matter over
with Virginia, who, although she did not like that I should go away, had
agreed with me that she objected to my begging for money. I waited very
impatiently for the time that Anderson had appointed, and, at last, he
and my father came together, when the former said:
"Well, Jack, it appears that you do not like to be a waterman, and that
you have no great fancy for a man-of-war, although you have a hankering
for the sea. Now, as you cannot cruise with your friend Spicer on the
Spanish Main, nor yet be safe from impressment in a privateer or
merchantman, we have been thinking that, perhaps, you would have no
objection to be a channel and river pilot; and if so, I have an old
friend in that service who, I think, may help you. What do you say?"
"I should like it very much."
"Yes, it is a good service, and a man is usefully employed. You may be
the means, as soon as you are out of your time, and have passed your
examination, of saving many a vessel and more lives. You have had a
pretty fair education, indeed quite sufficient; and, as you will often
be coming up the river, you will have opportunities of seeing your
father and your friends. If you decide, I will write at once."
"It is the very thing that I should like," replied I; "and many thanks
to you, Anderson."
"And it's exactly what I should wish also," replied my father. "So that
job's jobbed, as the saying is."
After this arrangement, I walked away as proud as if I had been an
emancipated slave. That very evening I announced my intention of
resigning my office of "Poor Jack," and named as my successor the boy
with whom I had fought so desperately to obtain it, when the prospect
was held out to me, by old Ben, of my becoming Poor Jack--forever.