In a very few days Bramble and Bessy were sufficiently recovered to
resume their usual avocations; but the former expressed no willingness
to embark again, and Bessy's persuasions assisted to retain him at the
cottage. With me it was different: I was still restless and anxious for
change; my feelings toward Bessy were those of admiration and esteem,
but not yet of love. Yet I could not help recalling to mind the words
of Bramble, "Observe how she performs those duties which fall to her
lot; if she is a good daughter she will make a good wife." I felt that
she would make a good wife, and I wished that I could have torn from my
bosom the remembrance of Janet, and have substituted the form of Bessy
in her place. We had been at the cottage nearly a week, when I received
a letter from Anderson; he informed me that he had visited old Nanny,
who had made her will in due form, and confided it to him, and that he
thought that she was more inclined to listen to him than she had before
been; that my father and mother and sister were well, and that Spicer
had been obliged to go into the hospital with an abscess in his knee,
occasioned by running something into it, and that it was reported that
he was very ill, and, in all probability, amputation must take place. I
felt convinced that Spicer must have, in his hasty retreat, fallen over
the iron railings which lay on the ground, and which had, as I
mentioned, tripped me up; but with this difference, that, as the spikes
of the railing were from me; and consequently I met with little injury,
they must have been towards him, and had penetrated his knee, and thus
it was that he had received the injury. Anderson also stated that they
were very busy at the hospital, receiving the men who had been maimed in
the glorious battle of Trafalgar. Altogether, I made up my mind that I
would take the first ship that was offered for pilotage up the river,
that I might know more of what was going on; and, as we sat down to
supper, I mentioned my intentions to Bramble.
"All's right: Tom, you're young, and ought to be moving; but just now I
intend to take a spell on shore. I have promised Bessy, and how can I
refuse her anything, dear girl? I don't mean to say that I shall never
pilot a vessel again, but I do feel that I am not so young as I was, and
this last affair has shaken me not a little, that's the truth of it.
There's a time for all things, and when a man has enough he ought to be
content, and not venture more. Besides, I can't bear to make Bessy
unhappy; so, you see, I've half promised--only half, Bessy, you know."
"I think you would have done right if you had promised altogether,"
replied I; "you have plenty to live upon, and are now getting a little
in years. Why should you not stay on shore, and leave them to work who
want the money?"
Bessy's eyes beamed gratefully towards me, as I thus assisted her
wishes. "You hear, father," said she, fondling him, "Tom agrees with
me."
"Ah!" replied Bramble, with a sigh, "if--but we cannot have all we wish
in this world."
Bessy and I both felt what he would have referred to, and we were
silent. She cast down her eyes, and appeared busy with her fork,
although she was eating nothing. I no longer felt the repugnance that I
had a short time before, and I was in deep reverie, watching the changes
of her beautiful countenance, when she looked up. Our eyes met: she
must have read my thoughts in mine, for from that moment each hour
increased our intimacy and confidence. We were no longer afraid of each
other.
A day or two after this conversation an opportunity was given to me of
going up the river, which I did not neglect; and having delivered up
charge of the ship, I hastened down to Greenwich. I found everything in
_statu quo_ at my mother's house, and Virginia much pleased at there
being no lodgers. Anderson I met walking with Ben the Whaler and my
father. He told me that Spicer had refused to have his leg amputated,
when the surgeon had pointed out the necessity of the operation; and
that it was now said that it was too late to have the operation
performed, and that there was little or no chance of his recovery. They
asked me many questions relative to the narrow escape of Bramble, and
the behaviour of Bessy.
As soon as I could get away, I set off to the hospital to see Spicer;
for, as the reader must be aware, I had many reasons for having
communication with him,--not that I expected that at first he would
acknowledge anything: I knew that his heart was hardened, and that he
had no idea of his danger; but I had his secret,--he was indeed in my
power, and I hoped by terrifying him to obtain the information which I
wished.
I found him in bed, in the corner of the hospital ward, to the left. He
was looking very pale, and apparently was in great pain.
"Spicer," said I, "I have come to see you; I am sorry to hear of your
accident. How is your leg? is it better?"
"No, not much," replied he, writhing, "I am in great pain; another man
would scream out with the agony, but I'm like the wolf,--I'll die
without complaint."
"But you don't think that you're going to die, Spicer?"
"No, Jack, I don't think that; I never have thought that, when I have
been worse than now. I'll never believe that I'm dead until I find
myself so. It must come some time or another, but I'm hale and hearty
in constitution as yet, and my time is not yet come."
"It was the iron railings which you fell over, was it not? I fell over
them myself the same night when I landed, on the Monday, going up to old
Nanny's."
"Who told you it was those cursed spikes? Well, well, so it was; but
not on the Monday, Jack, it was on the Wednesday."
"Nay, that cannot be; for on the Tuesday, as I went down to the beach, I
saw them all fixed up in the stonework, and soldered in. It must have
been on the Monday--the night on which old Nanny was nearly smothered by
some one who went in to rob her. I came there just in time to save her
life; indeed, if you recollect, you were lame the next day, when I met
you in the hospital."
"Well, Jack, you may think what you please; but I tell you it was on the
Wednesday."
"Then you must have fallen over something else."
"Perhaps I did."
"Well, it's of no consequence. I'm glad to find that you re so much
better, for I was told that the doctor had said--"
"What did the doctor say?" interrupted Spicer.
"Why, it's better to tell the truth; he said it was impossible for you
to get over it; that the inflammation was too great to allow of
amputation now, and that it must end in mortification."
"He said that!" said Spicer, wildly, raising himself on his elbow.
"Yes, he did; and it's known all over the hospital."
"Well," replied Spicer, "he may have said so; but I think I ought to
know best how I feel. He'll be here in half an hour or so, and then
I'll put the question to him. I'm a little tired, Jack, so don't speak
to me any more just now."
"Shall I go away, Spicer?"
"No, no, stay here. There's a book or two; read them till I feel a
little stronger."
That my communication had had an effect upon Spicer was evident. He was
startled at the idea of the near approach of death, which he had not
contemplated. Alas! who is not? He shut his eyes, and I watched him;
the perspiration trickled down his forehead. I took up the book he had
pointed out to me; it was the History of the Buccaneers, with plates,
and I thought then that it was a parallel of Spicer's own career. I
looked at the plates, for I was not much inclined to read. In a few
minutes Spicer opened his eyes. "I am better now, Jack; the faintness
has passed away. What book is that? Oh, the Buccaneers. That and
Dampier's Voyages were the only two books of my father's library that I
ever thought worth reading. Have, you ever read it?"
"No," replied I, "I never have. Will you lend it to me?"
"Yes; I'll give it to you, Jack, if you like."
"Thank you. Was your father a sailor, Spicer, as well as you?"
"Yes, Jack; a sailor, every inch of him."
"Did you ever sail with him?"
"No, he died about the time that I was born."
Here the doctor, who was going round the wards, came up to Spicer, and
asked him how he felt. "Pretty well, doctor," said he.
"Come, we must look at your leg, my man; it will require dressing. Is
it very painful?"
"Why, yes, sir; it has been very painful indeed all night."
The hospital mates unbandaged Spicer's leg, and took off the poultices,
and I was horrified when I saw the state which his leg was in: one mass
of ulceration from the middle of the thigh down to half-way below his
knee, and his ankle and foot swelled twice their size, a similar
inflammation extending up to his hip. The doctor compressed his lips,
and looked very grave. He removed some pieces of flesh, it was then
cleaned, and fresh poultices put on.
"Doctor," said Spicer, who had watched his countenance, "they say in the
hospital that you have stated that I cannot live. Now, I should wish to
know your opinion myself on this subject, as I believe I am the most
interested party."
"Why, my man," said the doctor, "you certainly are in great danger, and
if you have any affairs to settle, perhaps it will be prudent so to do."
"That's a quiet way of saying there is no hope for me; is it not,
doctor?" replied Spicer.
"I fear, my good man, there is very little."
"Tell me plainly, sir, if you please," replied Spicer; "is there _any_?"
"I am afraid that there is not, my good man; it's unpleasant to say so,
but perhaps it is kindness to tell the truth."
"Well, sir, that is honest. May I ask you how long I may expect to
live?"
"That will depend upon when the mortification takes place, about three
days; after that, my poor fellow, you will probably be no more. Would
you like the chaplain to come and see you?"
"Thank you, sir; when I do I'll send for him."
The doctor and the attendants went away to the other patients. I was
silent. At last Spicer spoke.
"Well, Jack, you were right; so it is all over with me. Somehow or
another, although I bore up against it, I had an inkling of it myself,
the pain has been so dreadful. Well, we can die but once, and I shall
die game."
"Spicer," said I, "that you will die without fear I know very well; but
still, you know that you should not die without feeling sorry for the
sins you have committed, and praying for pardon. We have all of us, the
very best of us, to make our peace with Heaven; so, had I not better
tell the chaplain to come and talk with you?"
"No, Jack, no; I want no parsons praying by my side. What's done is
done, and can't be undone. Go now, Jack, I wish to get a little sleep."
"Shall I come and see you to-morrow, Spicer?"
"Yes, come when you will; I like to have some one to talk to; it keeps
me from thinking."
I wished him good day, and went away with the book in my hand. Before I
went home. I sought out old Anderson, and told him what had passed.
"He will not see the chaplain, Anderson, but perhaps he will see you;
and, by degrees, you can bring him to the subject. It is dreadful that
a man should die in that way."
"Alas for the pride of us wretched worms!" ejaculated Anderson; "he
talks of dying game,--that is to say, he defies his Maker. Yes, Jack, I
will go and see him; and happy I am that he has a few days to live. I
will see him to-night, but will not say much to him, or he might refuse
my coming again."
I went home. I was not in a very gay humour, for the sight of Spicer's
leg, and the announcement of his situation, had made a deep impression
upon me. I sat down to read the book which Spicer had made me a present
of. I was interrupted by my mother requesting me to go a message for
her, and during my absence Virginia had taken up the book.
"Who lent you this book, Tom?" said she, when I returned.
"Spicer, the man whom they call Black Sam, who is now dying in the
hospital."
"Well, that's not the name on the title-page--it is Walter James,
Tynemouth."
"Walter James, did you say, dear? Let me look! Even so."
"Why, what's the matter, Tom?" said my sister; "you look as if you were
puzzled."
And indeed I do not doubt but I did, for it at once recalled to my mind
that old Nanny's married name was _James_, and that Spicer had said that
his father was a sailor, and that he had died at the time that he was
born, which agreed with the narrative of old Nanny. The conclusions
which I came to in a moment made me shudder.
"Well, my dear, I was surprised, if not frightened; but you don't know
why, nor can I tell you, for it's not my secret. Let me look at the
book again."
Here my father came in, and the conversation took a different turn,
which I was not sorry for. I wished, however, to be left to my own
reflections; so I soon afterwards took up my candle and retired to my
room.
I turned the subject over in my mind in a hundred ways, but could not
come to any conclusion as to the best method of proceeding. At last I
thought I would see Peter Anderson the next day, and take his advice. I
was out immediately after breakfast; but I could not find Anderson, so I
walked to the hospital to see Spicer. I found Anderson sitting by his
bed-side, but they were not then conversing. After a short time
Anderson rose, and giving a slight shake of the head, as if to inform me
that he had had no success, he walked away.
"He has been trying to convert me," said Spicer, with a grim smile.
"He has been trying, Spicer, to bring you to a sense of your condition;
and is he not kind? he can have no interest but your own good. Do you
think that no one knows the sins you have committed except yourself?--
there is one eye which sees all."
"Come, Jack, no preaching."
"Spicer, you are here under a false name, and you think no one knows
anything about you; but everything has been discovered by me; and I
cannot help thinking that it has been made known providentially, and for
your good."
"Ah!" replied Spicer, "and pray what do you know? Perhaps you can tell
me all the sins I have committed."
"No, Spicer, but perhaps I can tell you of sins which you yourself are
not aware of. But first answer me--you know that you cannot live long,
Spicer; will you acknowledge that what I state is correct, should it
really be so?"
"I give you my word, that if you tell me anything about me which is
true, I will freely acknowledge it; so now, Mr Fortune-teller, here's
my hand--it may be useful, you know, in helping your discovery."
"I do not want your hand, Spicer;--now hear me. Is not your name
James?--and were you not born at Tynemouth?"
Spicer started. "How did you find that out? Well, Tom, it is so, and
what then?"
"As you told me yourself, although I knew it before, your father was
lost at sea about the time that you were born. Spicer, I know how you
left your mother, and how you returned from _you know where_--how you
robbed her of every farthing, and left her again destitute and in
misery. Is there nothing to repent of in that, Spicer?"
"Who the devil--"
"Nay, Spicer, the devil has had nothing to do with the discovery."
"Strange, strange indeed," muttered Spicer; "but still, it is true."
"Spicer, you know best how your life was passed from that time until you
came into the hospital; but it was to be hoped, that when laid up to
rest in this haven, after such a stormy life, you would have amended
your life; but what have you done?"
"And what have I done?"
"What would have brought you to the gallows if I had not held my tongue.
You attempted to murder the old woman to obtain her money, and, in
escaping, you received the wound which soon will bring you to your
grave."
"What proofs?"
"Every proof: your stump struck me in the face when you rushed out--the
button was off your coat the next morning when I met you--I had every
proof, and, had I chosen, would have sworn on the Bible to your having
been the party."
"Well, I'll not deny it--why should I, when I cannot be taken out of
this bed to be tried, even if you wished? Have you more to say?"
"Yes, more."
"I doubt it."
"Then hear me. The poor woman whom you would have murdered, whom I
found at her last gasp, and with difficulty restored to consciousness,
that poor woman, Spicer, is _your own mother_!"
"God of Heaven!" exclaimed he, covering his face.
"Yes, Spicer, your fond indulgent mother, who thinks that you suffered
the penalty of the law many years ago, and whose energies have been
crushed by the supposed unhappy fate of her still loved and lamented
son. Spicer, this is all true, and have you now nothing to repent of?"
"I thought her dead, long dead. God, I thank Thee that I did not the
deed; and, Jack, I am really grateful to you for having prevented it.
Poor old woman!--yes, she did love me, and how cruelly I treated her!--
and she is then still alive, and thinks that I was hanged--yes, I
recollect now, she must think so. Oh! my brain, my brain!"
"Spicer, I must leave you now."
"Don't leave me, Jack--yes, do,--come to-morrow morning."
"Spicer, will you do me a favour?"
"Yes."
"Will you see Anderson, and talk with him?"
"Yes, if you wish it; but not now: this evening I will, if he'll come."
I left Spicer well satisfied with what had passed, and hastened to
Anderson, to communicate it to him.
"A strange and providential discovery, Tom, indeed," said he, "and good
use it appears to me you have made of it: his heart is softened, that is
evident. I will certainly go to him this evening."