JERRY; OR, THE SAILOR BOY ASHORE.
[Illustration: Walter Aimwell.]
[Illustration:
The
Aimwell
Stories
BY
Walter Aimwell.
TAKE HEED WILL SURELY SPEED.
Jerry,
WITH
MEMOIR.
Gould & Lincoln]
_THE UNFINISHED VOLUME._
JERRY;
OR,
THE SAILOR BOY ASHORE.
BEING
THE SEVENTH—A FRAGMENT—IN THE SERIES
OF THE “AIMWELL STORIES.”
BY
WALTER AIMWELL.
TO WHICH IS ADDED
A Memoir of the Author, with a Likeness.
BOSTON:
GOULD AND LINCOLN,
59 WASHINGTON STREET.
NEW YORK: SHELDON AND COMPANY.
CINCINNATI: GEORGE S. BLANCHARD.
1864.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by
GOULD AND LINCOLN,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
GEO. C. RAND & AVERY,
STEREOTYPERS AND PRINTERS.
PREFACE.
The story of Jerry, while possessing not the entire completeness of
other volumes of the series, owing to the lamented death of the author
before he had finished the work, will be found wanting in none of those
attractions which have secured for the “Aimwell Stories” their great
popularity. Its design is to show the folly of restiveness under parental
restraint, and the blighting influence upon character of vicious or low
associates; and thus to incite the young reader to the prompt performance
of filial duty, and to cherish those high aims which are the basis of
manly character. Jerry’s own story of his adventures will be found to
contain much useful information pertaining to sailor life, and to the
portions of the world which he visited; while the whole work, like its
predecessors, has been written with our motto in mind, “Precepts may
lead, but examples draw.”
CONTENTS OF JERRY.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
THE RUNAWAY’S RETURN.
Emily’s soliloquy—Arrival of the doctor and his
companion—Jerry—Greetings—The doctor’s plan—The new-comer and
the lost one—Confession—Misgivings—Mr. Preston’s business—Oscar
Preston—His influence over Jerry—The escape—Another sin—Himself
robbed—Mr. Preston’s feelings toward his erring son—The evening
meal—Waiting for the story, 17
CHAPTER II.
JERRY BEGINS HIS STORY.
Goes first to Boston—Ships on board the brig
Susan—Sea-sickness—Duties on shipboard—Hard usage, and mean
fare—The brighter side—Good sailing—Catching a shark—The
albatross—Crossing the line—A hard blow—The brig disabled—Rio
Janeiro—Excursion inland—Cape Horn and Terra del Fuego—Passing
the cape—Cape pigeons—Valparaiso—Vicious habits of sailors—The
brig to sail for Boston, 27
CHAPTER III.
JERRY CONTINUES HIS STORY.
Sails from Valparaiso—An iceberg—Off the cape again—Progress
northward—Caught in a “pampero”—Terrors of the tempest—The
vessel but a wreck—The brig abandoned—Escape by
boats—Davy Jones’s locker—Sufferings at sea—Discover a
sail—Disappointment—Land in sight, 39
CHAPTER IV.
JERRY ENDS HIS STORY.
The party land upon an island—Explorations—Discouraging
prospects—Food—Shelter—Signal of distress—Monotonous life—A
sail at last—The rescue—Adverse fortune—Transfer to the
“Bride”—Run round the Horn—The “doldrums”—Passage to New York,
and thence to Boston—Jerry’s new purposes—His familiar bedroom, 52
CHAPTER V.
CLINTON.
Jerry a “lion”—His visitors—Old Mr. Jenkins—His practical
hints—Jerry don’t “take”—Explanation—Seeks Clinton—The
meeting—Clinton’s thrifty habits—Saving money for a good
object—Secret of success—Clinton’s taste and mechanical
skill—Study—Persevering application—Looking ahead—An offer from
Clinton—Jerry still unmoved—Explanation, 63
CONTENTS OF THE MEMOIR.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
BIRTHPLACE.
The little peninsula—The name the Aborigines gave it—Who called
it Charlestown, and why—Scenery in and about Charlestown—Date
of Walter Aimwell’s birth—Probable effect of local
influences—Nothing external can make youths noble—A thistle in
the garden—Walter Aimwell no thistle, 79
CHAPTER II.
SALEM.
Death of Mr. Simonds—His widow’s removal to Salem—Early hints
of Walter Aimwell’s future character—Master Brooks—Walter
Aimwell at thirteen—New England boys—Mrs. Simonds’s second
marriage—Young Walter at the jeweller’s shop—His letter
to his mother—The music-box—Punning verses—The dignity of
usefulness—Removal from Lynn, 83
CHAPTER III.
THE PRINTER’S APPRENTICE.
Walter Aimwell in Wm. S. Damrell’s office—His note-book—His
first essay—A. H. Everett’s lecture—Reads life of Alexander
the Great—Criticism—Christianity a new religion to some
folks—Meddlers—Secret writing—Part of index to note-book, 89
CHAPTER IV.
MORE NOTE-BOOKS.
A preface—Systematic arrangement of facts in the acquisition
of knowledge—Book of Sunday reading—Common sense—Practical
spirit—Faith in God’s moral laws—Account of religious
experience—Secret resolutions—Not exceedingly miserable—Not
uncontrollably joyful—Enters Sabbath school—Determines to rule
his temper—Succeeds in an unusual degree—Joins the church, 97
CHAPTER V.
EXTRACTS FROM “SUNDAY READING.”
Fountains of strength—Growth in grace—Resolutions—How to grow
wise—The secret of pleasant faces and happy hearts—The giant
and the sugar-plum—Doing right every moment—Speaking the
truth—Few folks fit themselves to do it—Making fun at the wrong
time—Death not gloomy—Eagles trying to play butterfly—Striving
against nature—Prize-fighters, 109
CHAPTER VI.
METRICAL COMPOSITIONS.
Mostly written during his apprenticeship—Poetry and
swamp-work—Walter Aimwell’s first poem—Exercises his powers
in rhythmic composition for their own benefit—The pious
dead—My friend—The stranger—Charity—Shipwreck of life—A
pretty hymn—Fourth of July—Presidential contest of 1840—A
riddle—Walter Aimwell’s own opinion of his poetic powers—Other
kinds of usefulness, 120
CHAPTER VII.
CONSCIENCE A DIVINER.
An inquiry—An answer—The aspiring undertaking—A theme in
the Revised Statutes—Secret correspondence—Acceptance of
manuscript—The young author “setting up” his own book—Reveals
his secret to favorite brother—Talk in office about “The
Pleasant Way”—Rev. Mr. Hoadley’s notice of it—Other
criticisms—Why good men reproach themselves, 136
CHAPTER VIII.
JOURNAL.
Little hints of innocent delights—How he spends his
evenings—Private fast-day—Height and weight—Remarkable
dream—Wonderful baby—Lecture—Public fast-day—Music—Works
nearly all night—Consequences of lending an umbrella—Brother’s
wedding—Lonesomeness—Summary of journal—Rigid account of
receipts and expenditures—Simplicity of Walter Aimwell’s
life—Nobleness of its results—Visits Master Brooks—Permission
to go to muster—Does not go—Travels—Twenty-one years of
age—Freedom presents—Devotes a certain portion of all future
income to benevolent objects—Goes down to “the Castle” on the
ice in the harbor—Visits Sarah Mugford—Martial music—Church
music—Invitation to Bangor—Summary for 1844—More manuscript
accepted—Doing nothing—Separates from a tried friend and is
lonesome—Receives a copy of his new book—Is invited to write
another—Lays out a plan—Takes lessons in phonography—Takes
lessons in French—Is editor of Christian Reflector for a
while—Extracts from editorials—A troublesome accident—Visits
the State of Maine—Picking up useful knowledge, 147
CHAPTER IX.
THE YOUNG EDITOR.
A call from a stranger—Consultations, calculations, and
contracts—Leaves Mr. Damrell—A good printer—Summary for
1845—Takes the whole of “The Rambler”—Invited to join in the
conduct of a monthly magazine—Declines—Starts one himself—Too
much labor and responsibility—Unfavorable changes in the
business world—Accidents and disappointments—A naughty
boy—Summary for 1848—Suffers for others’ errors—Why he was not
a clergyman—Other business men fail, but he determines he will
not—Noble struggles—Outlives the storm—Summary for 1849—Parts
with a favorite office-boy—The boy becomes a pastor—His
testimony about Walter Aimwell, 171
CHAPTER X.
THE BEGINNING OF THE END.
Walter Aimwell in the world but not of it—Hard for him to
think any evil till actions proved it—His own ways—Ways
of some with whom he was connected in business—Success in
spite of obstacles—The body overtasked—The sudden attack—The
physician’s opinion—Sale of the “Rambler”—More leisure—Cannot
be idle—Pleasant item in his reading—“Thoughts for the
Thoughtless”—Gift to his mother—“Boy’s own Guide”—Another gift
for his mother—Removes from Melrose—Cottage in Winchester—Its
best glory gone, 178
CHAPTER XI.
THE AIMWELL STORIES.
Visit from Mr. Bullard—Boy’s Book of Morals and Manners—Walter
Aimwell’s love of the young—Writes a story for them—Extension
of “Clinton”—Published at Christmas—Received with universal
praise—Determines to write a series of twelve volumes—A
lesson—Preparatory study and manner of working—Suspension of
labors—Oscar—Ella—Whistler—Another attack—Public and private
praises—No relaxation of endeavor—A boy in the family—A boy’s
criticism—Letter to a lady—Letter to a boy—Marcus—Boy’s letter
to Walter Aimwell—Walter Aimwell’s reply—Jessie—“Our Little
Ones in Heaven”—Unwritten volumes—Jerry the last of the Aimwell
Stories, 195
CHAPTER XII.
THE END.
Nature’s forces slowly yielding—Walter Aimwell prepared for a
happier world—January, 1859—February and fierce storms—Does not
go to Boston—Procures assistance in editorial duties—Records
no more labors—Presents from neighbors—Passing away—Happy in
his faith—The sixth of July—The seventh—The last ride—The last
interview with friends—The sudden departure—Pictures left—The
glory of such a life—The secret of it—The dictate of common
sense—The mystery of human lives—Solomon’s opinion—Testimony in
our own hearts—Walter Aimwell’s choice—Impression on careless
observers—Unassuming manners—Puritanic steadiness—Freedom and
happiness—Character in several relations—The mist-covered
ocean—Some lives throbbing with the life of God, 215
Illustrations.
LIKENESS OF WALTER AIMWELL (STEEL), FRONTISPIECE
VIGNETTE, TITLE PAGE
THE BRIG SUSAN, 30
THE ALBATROSS, 31
THE WRECK, 45
ICEBERG, 58
JERRY.
CHAPTER I.
THE RUNAWAY’S RETURN.
“I wish I could look out and see father coming; here it is the tenth of
the month, and he ought to have got home a week ago. February, March,
April, May,—it’s over three months since father went off, and he said he
should be back by the first of May. I can’t imagine what has become of
him. There’s the doctor coming, I believe. Yes, that’s his wagon. He’s
got a man with him—who knows but it’s father? No, it’s a young fellow.
I wonder who it is. He’s as black as an Indian; and he’s casting up
sheep’s-eyes at me, too. Well, I don’t care for you, whoever you are.”
The doctor’s wagon stopped, and so did the busy tongue whose words we
have been repeating. The doctor alighted, and walked into the house
without ceremony; and Emily, the proprietor of the tongue aforesaid,
flattened her little nose against the chamber-window in her efforts to
look down upon the young stranger, who remained seated in the wagon.
“Why, it’s somebody that mother knows,” Emily added, after a few moments’
pause; “she has run out to the wagon, and she’s hugging and kissing him,
and he kissed her! Oh, I know now who it is,—it’s Jerry! it’s Jerry!” and
the girl, half crazed with excitement, jumped from her seat and ran to
the door.
“I’m going, too,” said Harriet, her younger sister, springing toward the
door.
“No,” said Emily, holding the door fast; “you mustn’t go now; it won’t do
to leave the baby. I’ll come right back in a minute, and let you go.”
“I want to go now; mother told _you_ to tend the baby,” replied Harriet,
beginning to snivel.
“You may both go, children, and I’ll see to the baby,” said Dr. Hart, who
suddenly opened the door upon them.
The two girls ran down-stairs as fast as possible, without stopping to
thank the doctor for his kindness. And, sure enough, it was Jerry, their
long-lost brother, who ran away from home fifteen months previous to
this time, and had long been regarded as dead. He seemed very glad to see
his sisters, and greeted them each with a good “sailor’s smack,” as he
termed it.
“And so you thought I shouldn’t know you, sitting in the doctor’s wagon,”
said Mrs. Preston. “Don’t you think it must be a queer mother that
doesn’t know her own son?”
“That was the doctor’s notion; it wasn’t mine,” replied Jerry. “He
overhauled me on the road, and offered to give me a ride; but he didn’t
know me until I told him where I was going. He looked at me pretty sharp,
and then says he, ‘Why, ain’t you Mr. Preston’s son?’ and I told him I
believed I was. Then he said he had got to come here, to see the baby;
but he told me I had better sit in the wagon while he was making his
call, because everybody thought I was dead, and there would be quite a
scene when I made myself known, and he didn’t wish to intrude upon it.”
“Your father thought you dead, but I never gave you up,” said Mrs.
Preston. “Just as soon as I laid eyes on you I knew you. I asked the
doctor whom he had got there, and he looked so queer when he said it was
‘a young friend of his from out of town,’ that I was certain then that it
was you.”
Jerry now went up-stairs with his mother and sisters, and the doctor
introduced him to his new brother, the baby, who had been quite ill, but
was now getting better.
“You don’t seem to think much of your baby brother,” said Mrs. Preston,
observing that he took but little notice of it.
“Yes, I do,” replied Jerry; “but I can’t help thinking about Mary. I
didn’t know she was dead until Uncle Henry told me yesterday, and I can’t
realize it. I keep looking around, expecting to see her; it doesn’t seem
natural without her.”
The mention of the name of Mary brought a shade of sadness to every face,
but no one seemed inclined to speak further of the departed. Jerry was
more attached to Mary than to either of his other sisters. She was the
youngest, and was but six years old when she died. Her death took place
only a few weeks after Jerry left home; but as he had not heard of it,
and always thought of her as living, it was nearly the same to him as
though she had but just died.
The doctor soon withdrew, and Mrs. Preston went down to the kitchen to
get something for Jerry to eat, for he had fasted since the night before,
and it was now toward the middle of the afternoon. Jerry followed her,
promising his sisters that if they would remain with the baby he would
shortly return and answer the thousand questions they were so impatient
to ask him. As soon as Jerry was alone with his mother, he commenced
making a confession to her.
“Mother,” he said, “running away from home was the worst day’s work I
ever did. I was a fool to do it, and I’ve got pretty well punished for
it. You’ve no idea what a hard time I’ve had. I gave myself up for dead
more than once; but I’ll tell you about that this evening, perhaps, when
we’re all together. I meant to have brought money enough home to pay back
what I took, but I lost everything when we were wrecked.”
“No matter about that,” said Mrs. Preston; “we never shall think of that
again, so long as you have got home alive.”
“What do you suppose father will say to me?” inquired Jerry, with some
hesitation; for he had serious doubts as to the kind of reception his
father would give him.
“He will think you have risen from the dead; I don’t believe he has the
least idea that you’re in the land of the living,” replied his mother,
evading a direct answer to the question.
“Do you suppose he will be glad to see me?” inquired Jerry.
“Certainly I do; I can’t imagine how it could be otherwise,” replied Mrs.
Preston. After a moment’s pause, she added, “Your father is peculiar
about some things; he doesn’t always show his feelings. But I’ve no doubt
he’ll be as rejoiced as any of us at your return, whether he says so or
not.”
Jerry sat silently speculating upon this reply to his question, while
his mother was busy in pantry and cellar, collecting all the good things
in the house to prepare a feast for the returned prodigal. To tell the
truth, he had serious doubts whether his father would be glad to see him,
for he was a stern and seemingly cold man, who did not look with much
charity upon the faults of others, and was slow to forgive those who had
offended him.
Mr. Preston divided his time between farming and logging. In the summer,
he carried on his farm, in the small and retired town of Brookdale.
In the fall, he went into the forests in the northern part of Maine,
where he usually remained until spring. A gang of men accompanied him,
and they formed a camp in the woods, where they lived all winter in a
very primitive way. Their business was to cut down trees, trim off the
branches, and haul the logs to the river. On the breaking up of the ice
in the spring, these logs were floated down the stream to the mill, where
they were sawn into lumber.
It was during his father’s absence at the logging camp that Jerry ran
away from his home. He was at that time nearly fourteen years old. He had
for some time been growing lazy, restless, and unmanageable, so that his
mother could not do much with him. His character had suffered greatly
from intimacy with a cousin of his, about a year older than himself,
named Oscar Preston. Oscar belonged in Boston, but falling into bad
habits, his father thought it would benefit him to send him away from the
city for a season. So he lived with his uncle’s family, in Brookdale,
for several months. His character did not improve, however, and he was
finally obliged to leave the State to avoid trial on a charge of setting
fire to a wood-lot, his father at the same time paying over one hundred
dollars, damages and costs, to effect his release.
When his cousin returned to Boston, Jerry grew lonesome, uneasy, and
unhappy. He wanted to go to sea, or to travel over the country, or to
live in some great city; anywhere, he thought, he could be happier than
at home. His father would not hear a word on the subject, and his mother
would not give the slightest encouragement to any such whims. So, at
length, he concluded to shake off parental authority; and one Sunday
morning, soon after the rest of the family started for church, he hastily
gathered up a bundle of clothing, and set out on a longer journey than he
then imagined.[1]
There was one act, connected with Jerry’s flight from home, which he had
always regretted, and which, more than anything else, made him dread to
meet his father. On going off, he took with him every cent of money in
the house,—the allowance which Mr. Preston had left for the necessities
of the family during his absence. Conscience began to reprove Jerry for
his theft as soon as he had leisure to think about the matter, and he
resolved to pay back the whole amount out of his first earnings. When,
after a few days, _his_ pockets were picked clean, and nearly every
dollar of his mother’s money went into the hands of a second thief, the
wickedness and folly of his own offence were still more deeply impressed
on his mind. He came back to his father’s house not merely a runaway, but
a thief.
Mrs. Preston, notwithstanding her reply to Jerry’s last question, had
some slight misgivings in regard to the reception his father would give
him. She knew that Mr. Preston, whatever he may have felt, had never
manifested any relentings or parental yearnings toward his lost son in
her presence, though she had been told that he had evinced some feeling
when conversing about him with others. But, so far as she could judge,
he had never forgiven his erring boy’s last offence. He seldom alluded
to Jerry in the family, and when he did, he spoke of him only as a lazy,
heartless, and ungrateful boy, who was bent on evil, and he was seemingly
quite indifferent as to whether he ever came back again or not. Even
when news came of the wreck of Jerry’s vessel and his supposed loss,
he exhibited no feeling, though, for many days after, he was unusually
silent and reserved, and seemed to take little notice of what was going
on around him. From that day, he never alluded to his son, except once or
twice, when he tried to convince his wife of the folly of expecting ever
to see him again. The wayward boy was dead and buried to him, and, so far
as human eye could see, few paternal sighs and tears were called forth by
his untimely end.
The table was soon spread, and Jerry ate a hearty meal. How delicious
mother’s light bread and sweet butter tasted to the hungry wanderer, so
long used to the sailor’s coarse fare! And what a treat was a tumbler of
new, rich milk, after drinking ship-water and sea-slops for over a year!
As soon as the family could all get together, after supper, Jerry spun
his “yarn,” as he called it, and gave them a brief account of his
adventures during the fifteen months of his absence. His narrative
follows in the succeeding chapters.
CHAPTER II.
JERRY BEGINS HIS STORY.
“Now I’ll spin that yarn, if you would like to hear it,” said Jerry,
after tea. “I suppose you don’t want to hear about the voyage out, for
nothing very remarkable happened, only we came amazing near getting
wrecked, and I believe I wrote you something about it.”
“Yes, begin at the beginning, and tell us the whole story,” said Emily,
and Hattie seconded the request.
“It would take me more than a week to do that,” replied Jerry, “if I
talked as fast as I could. I can’t tell the _whole_ story now; but I’ll
tell you about some of the most important events of the voyage, and save
the rest for another time.
“Well, I went straight to Boston, after I left home, and the first thing
I did was to try to get a chance to go to sea. As luck would have it,
I fell in with the brig Susan, bound for Valparaiso, just as she was
hauling off from the wharf. They had shipped a boy the day before, but he
went ashore, and hadn’t come back, and the captain told me I might take
his place. So I bundled right in, without stopping to think. I didn’t
know the name of the vessel, nor where she was bound, nor what wages I
was to have, nor anything else. I only knew I was going to sea, and that
was all I cared about.
“Before I got out of sight of land, I began to be dreadful seasick; but
it isn’t worth while to tell you about that now. And, if you’ll believe
me, the very first job I had to do, on board the Susan, was to clear out
the pigsty! and I had to do it every day through the voyage!”
“Why, do they have pigsties on board vessels?” inquired Harriet.
“Yes, sometimes,” continued Jerry. “But our pigs were not to be killed
for fresh meat,—they were a choice kind, that somebody was sending out
to Valparaiso for breeding. But I thought it was rather queer, after I
had run away from home to get rid of such work, that I should have to
feed pigs and clean out their pen at sea. And it wasn’t many days, I
tell you, before I wished myself home again. Everybody, from the captain
down, cursed and cuffed and kicked me, because I was so green,—just as
if I ought to have known every rope of the brig, when I never saw a brig
before. If I didn’t happen to do a thing just right, down would come a
rope’s-end across my shoulders, as like as not; and if I dared to say a
word, I would find myself sprawling on the deck the next minute. The men,
too, played off all sorts of tricks upon me.[2] And then the living was
enough to sicken anybody. It was salt beef and hard bread morning, noon,
and night, and week after week, only, once in a while, we were treated
with stewed beans or peas, or boiled rice, or duff,—a kind of pudding
made of flour. And I wish you could have seen the place where we slept.
The forecastle is the name of it. It was a little, narrow, dark, and
dirty hole, with berths on the sides, like shelves, where the men slept.
Why, our cock-loft is a perfect parlor compared with it.”
“No wonder you wished yourself home, poor fellow!” said Mrs. Preston.
[Illustration]
“Well, after all, mother,” continued Jerry, “it wasn’t so dreadful bad,
when a fellow got used to it. In a few weeks I kind of got the hang of
things, and made the best of them, and after that I got along a good
deal easier. My sea-sickness went off, and I could eat my allowance with
the smartest of them, salt-junk or anything they’d a mind to bring on.
The weather was fine for several weeks; we’d got into a warm latitude,
and the old brig made a handsome run. There was one time that we didn’t
shorten sail once for a week,—she kept right along on her course, with a
fair wind, without starting tack or sheet. We had some rare sport, too,
about that time. We killed a shark that was hanging around the brig, for
one thing. One of the men heated a brick as hot as he could, and then
wrapped it up in some greasy cloths, and chucked it to him. Sharks, you
know, will jump at anything you throw at them, and this fellow smelt the
grease, and down went the brick, before you could say Jack Robinson. And
then you ought to have seen him thrash round. Why, it looked as if the
water was boiling, where he was, he lashed it so, and the spray came down
upon us like a shower. But in a few minutes it was all over, and his ugly
carcass rose to the top and floated off.”
“Oh, that was cruel!” said Mrs. Preston.
“Well, mother, the sharks are cruel, too,” said Jerry; “and the sailors
don’t have any love for them, I can tell you. The rascals would eat a man
just as quick as anything else, if they could get a chance. They’d snap a
leg off just as a boy bites a stick of candy, and they’d finish the rest
of him in two or three mouthfuls.
[Illustration]
“A day or two after that, we caught an albatross. There were several of
them that had been following us three or four days. They are a curious
bird. They are very large, and their wings opened from twelve to fifteen
feet. We sailed at the rate of about two hundred miles a day, for several
days running, and yet these birds kept up with us all the time. But they
went more than double the distance that we did, because they kept making
circles round us for miles, and then coming back in our wake. They follow
vessels to pick up the stuff that is thrown overboard. One of our men
baited a hook with a piece of salt pork, and towed it from the stern by
a strong line. In a few minutes one of the birds swallowed the bait,
and we pulled him on deck. He was a monstrous fellow, but he didn’t
try to defend himself only by biting at us a little. He was so clumsy
he couldn’t stand up on the deck. He had great webbed feet. The sailors
began to skin his feet, to make purses, before the poor fellow was dead.”
“Oh, what hard-hearted wretches!” exclaimed Emily.
“Well, I must hurry along with my yarn,” said Jerry, “or I shan’t get
through to-night. We crossed the line,—the equator, I suppose you call
it,—and I was introduced to King Neptune, and was shaved and washed by
him in great style; but I can’t stop to tell you about that, now. Every
greenhorn has to go through the ceremony the first time he crosses the
line. We didn’t have any very rough weather till after we had passed Cape
St. Roque. Do you know where that is, Emily? Get your atlas, and I’ll
show you.”
Emily brought her school atlas, and found Cape St. Roque, the extreme
eastern point of South America, about five degrees below the equator.
“A day or two after we passed the cape,” continued Jerry, “it grew
rough and stormy, and finally settled down into a regular gale. The
sea ran as high as the mast-head, and I thought we should be swallowed
up every moment. The brig lay down on her side so that you couldn’t
stand still nor walk without holding on to something. The wind blew
terribly, the rain poured down in torrents, the sea dashed over the
deck, and every rope and plank seemed to creak as though the brig was
just going to pieces. It was pretty shaky business, I can tell you,
going up aloft then, and hanging to the yards and ropes, but we had to
do it. And for two days we didn’t one of us get any rest or put on a rag
of dry clothing. In the height of the storm, our maintop and topgallant
masts, with the yards and rigging, came down with a crash to the deck,
and nearly killed one of the crew. I thought our time had come then,
certainly, but we cut away the wreck, and made everything all snug again.
Soon after that, the captain discovered that we had sprung a leak, and
all hands had to take their turn at the pumps. That came pretty hard,
worn out as we were, but it was pump or sink with us, and there was no
get-off.
“The next day after we sprung a leak, the gale began to die away, and our
captain made up his mind to run into Rio for repairs. Do you know where
that is, Emily?”
“Rio Janeiro? Yes; here it is,—it’s the capital of Brazil,” replied
Emily, looking upon the map.
“That’s the place I wrote my first letter from,” resumed Jerry. “We lay
by there about a week, and had a chance to go ashore. It was the last of
March, but it was the latter part of their summer. When it’s winter here,
it’s summer there. We had plenty of fruit while we stopped there,—such
as oranges, plantains, pineapples, bananas, and mangoes. And the monkeys
and parrots that we saw there I guess would have made you open your
eyes. They say they grow wild in the woods there. Just as soon as we
got anchored, the natives began to come out in canoes, with fruits and
poultry and monkeys and parrots and all sorts of knickknacks, to sell.
Rio looks real handsome from the water, but it’s a queer place when you
get into it. The houses are high, and most of the streets are so narrow
that two carriages can’t pass without running upon the sidewalk. The
streets are full of slaves, and they seem to do all the work. You will
see them with great boxes and bales on their backs, and they take the
place of horses and drag heavy carts loaded with goods. A party of us
walked out into the country one day; and such splendid forests as we saw
I never had any idea of before. The trees were nearly all strange to us,
and there was no end to the different kinds. Everything grows rank there.
The woods were full of the handsomest birds I ever saw, and there was
about every kind of insect that ever was thought of, I should think.
“After we left Rio, we made a pretty good run, until we got in the
neighborhood of Cape Horn, and then we had a rough time of it for five
weeks. It was about the first of May when we rounded the cape, which is
the beginning of winter there. The days were short and cold, and we had
gales and rain, snow or hail storms, pretty much all the time. It’s the
stormiest place I ever got into. One night we saw a bright-red light in
the west, that seemed to be only ten or twelve miles off; but the captain
said it was all of a hundred miles distant. It was a burning volcano, in
Terra del Fuego. The next day we saw land, for the first time since we
left Rio. It was the coast of Terra del Fuego and Staten Land, and it
was about as desolate a looking place as you can imagine. It was rocky,
mountainous, and barren, and the sight of it was enough to give a fellow
the blues.
“Cape Horn itself is a great black rock, high and steep, and extending
out into the sea. We were within sight of it when we passed it. It is a
terrible bleak place. We had about a dozen hail and snow storms that
day, and they say it’s always rough there, where the two oceans meet. Our
decks and shrouds and rigging were coated with ice, and the sails were as
stiff as sheet-iron. We were all glad enough when we knew we were in the
Pacific Ocean; but we hadn’t got through our troubles even then, for we
had a very rough time, for two or three weeks, in sailing up the coast.
About all the amusement we had at that time was catching cape pigeons,
which followed us in great flocks. We caught them with a hook, just as we
did the albatross. They look very much like our common pigeons, only they
are web-footed.
“Well, at last we dropped our anchor in the bay of Valparaiso, in a
little more than three months from the time we left Boston. Here it
is,—it’s the capital of Chili,” added Jerry, pointing out its location
on the map. “It isn’t so pleasant a place as Rio. The main part of the
town is built along the beach, for about two miles. Right back of the
city there is high land, where most of the foreign merchants live. There
are three hills that rise above the southern end of the city, which they
call the ‘Fore,’ ‘Main,’ and ‘Mizzen Tops.’ This is where the sailors go
on their sprees, after they are paid off. They drink and fight and gamble
and rob and commit every sin you can think of. I suppose some of the
worst dens in the world are on those hills.”
“I hope you kept clear of such places,” said Mrs. Preston, rather
anxiously.
“Oh, you needn’t be afraid to risk me, mother,” replied Jerry; “I didn’t
have much to do with them, I can assure you. I went around among them a
little, just to see what sort of places they were, that’s all.”
“But you couldn’t go near such places without danger; it’s contaminating
to approach them,” replied his mother.
“I don’t think they harmed me much,” continued Jerry; “but one of our
crew got drunk, up on the Main Top, and was robbed of all his wages, and
then pitched head-first down the precipice, and almost killed. I guess he
won’t forget the Main Top very soon.
“When we arrived at Valparaiso, the crew were discharged; but the captain
said he wanted me to stay with the brig, and so I did. We didn’t know
where we should go next, as we had no cargo engaged. We some expected to
go to San Francisco, but freights were dull, and after waiting about four
weeks, the captain finally engaged a cargo of hides for Boston. It took
about a fortnight to load and get ready for sea, so our whole stop in
Valparaiso was about six weeks.”
Here we will pause, and resume Jerry’s narrative in the next chapter.
CHAPTER III.
JERRY CONTINUES HIS STORY.
“We sailed from Valparaiso on the 4th of July,” continued Jerry. “I was
in hopes we should stay in port one day more, for the Americans were
going to have a jolly celebration of Independence; but we were all ready,
and the wind was fair, so we sailed early in the morning. It was the
middle of winter, but we had not seen any ice, and it was about as warm
as it is here in October. We soon got into colder weather, though. I
remember one night, when we were a few days out, the air grew very cold,
and we discovered an immense iceberg right in our track. It was all of a
hundred and fifty feet high, above water, and I should think it must have
been a mile round it. We made out just to clear it, and that was all.
There had been a thick fog for a day or two before, and if we had come
across the iceberg then, we should have gone pell-mell right into it, and
I reckon that would have been the end of us. Perhaps it would have been
better for us if we had run into it, for the weather was calm, and we
were near the coast, and might have saved ourselves in the boats.
“We made a pretty good run down the coast till we got into the
neighborhood of the Horn, and then our troubles began again. We were
beating about, off the cape, for about a month, before we got around it;
and all the time it was cold, stormy, and rough. It was more wintry,
and the days were shorter, than when we first doubled the cape. But we
finally got into the Atlantic, and began to steer north. We thought the
worst of the voyage was over now, and we did have very good luck until we
got into the latitude of the Rio de la Plata. Do you know where that is,
Emily?”
Emily readily found the river on her map.
“It’s a stormy region,” resumed Jerry. “They have a terrible kind of
tempest, called a pampero, and we got caught in one. The day before it
broke upon us, the weather was fine and the sea quite calm. Toward night,
red and angry-looking clouds began to gather in the west, and now and
then there was a flash of lightning. A slight breeze sprung up, but the
air was hot and stifling, and the captain said we should have a tough
blow, and set us to taking in sail. The gale commenced about sunset, and
_such_ a gale I don’t believe any of us ever saw before. It was perfectly
furious, and that doesn’t half tell the story. The thunder rolled
awfully, without stopping for a moment. The lightning seemed almost
to scorch us, it was so near and so sharp. The wind blew a hurricane,
and the sea ran mountains high, and broke over the deck, sweeping off
everything in its way.”
“Didn’t it rain, too?” inquired Harriet; “you didn’t say anything about
rain.”
“Well, I don’t know whether it rained or not,” replied Jerry. “It was
impossible to tell, the spray was dashing over us so, all the time. I
suppose it did rain, though, and in torrents, too. After two or three
hours, it was impossible to do anything. Two of the men were washed away
from the deck and lost; and a fellow couldn’t keep on deck, unless he was
lashed to something. The rigging began to blow away like cobwebs, and
we lost most of our sails and spars, and finally the head of the rudder
and wheel were broken, so that we lost all control over the brig. Pretty
soon after this, she canted over on her beam-ends, so that the upper
lee-rail—the rail is the top of a vessel’s sides, that rises above the
deck—was all of two feet under water.
“All hands were now called into the after-cabin, as that was the safest
place. In the forecastle, where the sailors slept, the water was up to
the lower berths. We were a sober set of fellows, then, I can assure
you. There we were, huddled together, expecting every moment to go down.
Nobody said anything, but I guess most of us kept up a terrible thinking.
I know I did, for one; I thought of everything I’d ever done. The captain
kept watching the barometer, and down, down, down it kept going till
after midnight. But at last it stopped falling, and in about an hour
after that it began to rise. That was a sign that the worst of the storm
was over; and we began to have a little hope, now, that we might escape,
after all. Pretty soon the wind changed, and about daybreak the brig
righted herself, and we went on deck to see how matters stood.
“Well, we found it was indeed a pretty sad case. The tempest was not so
furious as it had been, but our brig was a complete wreck. Nothing was
left of the foremast above the foretop, and the spars and rigging of the
mainmast had all disappeared, and only a stump of the mast was left. The
jib-boom was carried away and bowsprit sprung. The galley and poop were
stove, too. We found there was four feet of water in the hold, and our
water and provisions were nearly all spoilt. And, to crown all, we were
drifting directly toward a reef, about two miles off, where the surf
was breaking in a terrible fashion. Wasn’t that a pretty fix? The first
thing the captain did was to try to mend the rudder; but we couldn’t do
anything with it. Then he said we must abandon the brig or we should be
dashed to pieces on the rocks.
“We had lost a small boat in the gale, but, luckily for us, we had
two larger ones that were safe. We got these ready, and stowed away
provisions, water, sails, and compasses, in them. Five of us then got
into one of the boats, by the captain’s orders. The mate took charge
of it, and the captain told him what course to take. The captain and
the rest of the crew, and the three passengers that were on board,—nine
in all,—took the other boat, which was a life-boat. Our boat came near
getting swamped when we launched it, and, in fact, we expected to be
dashed to pieces before we got clear of the brig. But, as good luck would
have it, both boats got off from the wreck without losing a man.”
“Not good luck, my son,” said Mrs. Preston, “but good Providence; the
hand of God was certainly in it.”
“Well, call it good Providence,—it’s all the same,” replied Jerry.
“No, no, don’t say so,” replied his mother, with a reproving look and
tone; for she was pained to hear him speak so lightly of the Almighty One
who had delivered him from his perils.
“As I was saying,” resumed Jerry, “both boats got clear of the wreck. We
didn’t know exactly where we were, but we thought we were not within two
or three hundred miles of the coast. The reef the brig was driving upon
was a barren island. It was very rocky, and the cliffs rose up, almost
perpendicular, nearly two hundred feet, I should think. There was no
chance to land, that we could see, even if the weather had been calm. The
brig drifted toward the island very fast after we left her, and the last
we saw of her, she was thumping upon the rocks, and just ready to go to
pieces.
“The weather cleared off finely after sunrise, and the change in the wind
made the sea a good deal smoother, so that we could manage the boats
pretty well. We saw two or three vessels the day before the hurricane,
and we kept a sharp lookout, in hopes we should fall in with one of them.
We pulled toward land, and kept within sight of the captain’s boat all
that day; but the next morning we could see nothing of her, although we
took the course the captain gave us. We concluded, at last, that they
had gone down; but it seems they were picked up by a ship bound for New
Orleans, three days after the wreck, and brought home. We didn’t know
anything about that, however, till we got to Boston. And it seems, too,
they thought we had gone down; for they say the ship cruised around a day
or two, hunting after us, and they finally concluded we had gone to Davy
Jones’s locker.”
[Illustration]
“Where’s that?” inquired Harriet, reaching for the atlas.
“You won’t find it there, sis,—it’s in the bottom of the sea,” replied
Jerry. “And, in fact, we did come pretty near going there,” he continued.
“Our boat couldn’t stand a rough sea half as well as theirs, and if we
hadn’t had two or three first-rate seamen, I don’t believe we’d have
lived through it. As it was, we got drenched and almost smothered by the
sea. All the bread we had was soaking wet with salt water, and we had
nothing else to eat but a little junk and rice, and there was no chance
to cook them. But the worst thing that happened to us was the losing
of our compass. We lost it the first night out. A heavy sea broke over
us, and carried away our rudder and one oar and several other things
from the boat, among them the compass. We came very near broaching to
and upsetting several times during the night, and although this was the
second night we had been without sleep, we couldn’t get a moment’s rest,
for it took all of us to manage the boat.
“The next day the sea was a good deal smoother, and we rigged up a mast
and hoisted a sail, and steered with an oar toward land. From dawn till
night we kept a sharp lookout for the other boat, but we didn’t see any
signs of her, or of anything else. We got a little sleep, by turns, that
day. The third day we began to feel rather blue. So much of our bread was
spoilt that we put ourselves upon short allowance. We were sore and stiff
and weak, and the sun beat down upon us hot enough to roast us almost. We
kept straining our eyes all day, hoping to discover a sail, but we saw
nothing. We didn’t look for land yet, for we knew we must be a great way
from the coast.”
“You said you were only about two or three hundred miles from shore when
you were wrecked,” remarked Mrs. Preston; “I should think you might have
sailed that distance in five or six days.”
“I said we must have been at least two or three hundred miles from shore
when we were wrecked,” replied Jerry, “but I didn’t know how much more.
The pampero drove us out of our course, and the captain had no chance to
take an observation, and find where we were, after the gale commenced.
Besides, after we took to the boat, we didn’t make much progress. The
first day, the sea ran so high that about all we could do was to keep
the boat on the top of the waves. After that, we were so used up that we
couldn’t row but little; and as our boat was an old tub of a concern,
and we had but one small sail, and the wind was almost in our faces, no
wonder we didn’t get along very fast.
“Well, we crept along in this way for about a week, and didn’t see the
least sign of a sail until the morning of the eighth day. I shall never
forget that day, as long as I live. About the middle of the forenoon, we
discovered the least speck of a sail, away off in the east, and we soon
found she was steering north. We hoisted a signal of distress, and began
to pull toward her with all our might. You never saw fellows work harder
than we did. A little while before, we could hardly handle an oar; but
now strength seemed to come to us, and we pulled away as though we were
as fresh and strong as need be. We kept it up for nearly three hours, but
at last we found it was of no use, and gave up the race. The sail gained
on us, and by noon she was out of sight.”
“Oh, that was too bad,” said Mrs. Preston. “Don’t you suppose anybody in
the vessel saw you?”
“No, I suppose not,” said Jerry. “We didn’t get within four miles of
them, and our boat was so small that they couldn’t have seen us unless
they happened to turn their glass toward us. But it was a terrible
disappointment to us. Some of the fellows raved like madmen, and cursed
the vessel and everybody that was in it. Others were so down in the mouth
that they couldn’t say a word. As for me, I actually went to crying,—a
thing I hadn’t done before since the last time I”——
—“Got licked at school,” Jerry was about to add; but just then bethinking
himself of sundry tear-drawing admonitions he had received in his earlier
service on board the Susan, he concluded not to finish the sentence.
“Well, no wonder we acted strangely,” continued Jerry. “We were just as
weak as children. As soon as we lost all hope of getting on board the
vessel, our strength went off just as suddenly as it came. We thought
we’d give up then,—we didn’t care what became of us. So we floated along,
just where the wind and current carried us, the rest of that day and
night. But the next morning we discovered an island, five or six miles
off, and that roused us up a little. We steered toward it, and concluded
we’d land and see if we could find anything to eat.”
Here a sharp and sudden cry from the baby, in the bedroom, called Mrs.
Preston away for a few minutes, and interrupted the narrative.
CHAPTER IV.
JERRY ENDS HIS STORY.
As soon as Mrs. Preston had quieted the baby to sleep, she returned, and
Jerry resumed his story.
“We had got almost to the island, when I stopped,” he continued. “We
found it was a pretty mean-looking place. It was rocky and barren, and
there were but few trees, and not much of anything that was green. It
was about two miles long, and half a mile wide. We landed without much
trouble, and pulled our boat into a safe place on the beach, and then
scattered about to see what we could find. We were glad enough to stand
on solid ground once more, I can tell you, even if it was a desolate
island. We had been cramped up in the boat so long that we had almost
lost the use of our legs; but we contrived to get along, after a fashion.
We divided into three parties, and explored the island thoroughly. But
we didn’t find much to reward us. The only living things we saw were a
few sea-birds, which had their nests in the rocks on the south side. We
did not find anything fit to eat, except some muscles, and a kind of
crab, and the eggs of the birds. The mate had pulled up some roots, that
he thought we could eat rather than starve, but they didn’t have a very
inviting taste, and none of us knew but they were poisonous. We didn’t
find any fresh water on the island.
“After we had all come together again, we talked over matters, and
decided to camp on the island awhile, and watch for a sail. We were
afraid we were off the common track of vessels. But this seemed to be the
best thing we could do. We were nearly out of water, and our bread was
about all used up, and we certainly could not hold out but a few days
longer if we pushed out to sea. But on the island, with our crabs and
muscles and eggs, we should not need much water, and could probably catch
what we needed when it rained.
“So that very afternoon we set about building a hut, for shelter.
Luckily, we had a couple of axes, and we cut down a lot of bushes and
trees, and before night we had quite a comfortable place to sleep in. It
was a great treat to stretch ourselves out on the leaves and go to sleep.
But first we kindled a fire, and cooked some beef and rice, and then if
we didn’t eat, no matter.”
“How did you get your fire,—by rubbing two sticks together, as they say
the savages do?” inquired Mrs. Preston.
“No; we very fortunately had some friction matches,” replied Jerry. “One
of our men was a great smoker, and about the last thing he did before we
abandoned the brig, was to get all of his tobacco, and his pipe, and a
bunch of friction matches, and stow them away in his pocket. That was all
he saved from the wreck, and it was lucky for us that he saved so much,
for none of the rest of us thought of matches. Well, as I was going to
say, we had a grand night’s rest. The next day it rained, and about all
we did was to catch a little water. We caught a few crabs and roasted
them, and they tasted very well. We tried the muscles, too, but nobody
seemed to think much of them.
“The next day we rigged a piece of sail to the end of a long pole, and
set it up on the highest point of land, as a signal to vessels passing.
We collected a lot of bushes, and leaves, too, so that we could make a
bonfire in case we saw a sail, for we thought a smoke might be noticed,
when our signal wouldn’t be. We treated ourselves to a few roasted eggs
that day; but we found it wasn’t very easy or safe work getting them.
Most of the nests were built among steep rocks, where it was almost
impossible to get at them, without ladders and ropes, and the birds
were so savage that it wasn’t safe to go near them without a club. They
didn’t seem to be at all afraid of us, and wouldn’t stir from their nests
when we went right up to them. I suppose they never saw any men on their
island before, and didn’t know what they were. I thought I would just
smooth down the feathers on the neck of one real handsome bird that I
found near the bottom of the cliff, but she gave me such a poke with her
beak that I almost wonder it didn’t break my arm. But she got paid for
her impudence; one of the men brought a club and knocked her on the head,
and we got three or four eggs from her nest, larger than ducks’ eggs.”
“Did you eat the bird, too?” inquired Harriet.
“No,” replied Jerry; “that kind of bird is a little too strong even for
a sailor’s stomach. But I shan’t get through to-night, if I stop to tell
you about all these little things. We kept a lookout for sails day after
day, but didn’t see any. Every pleasant day we pushed our boat into the
water, to prevent her drying up, and to have her ready for service at
a moment’s notice; and every night we hauled her ashore, for fear of a
sudden storm. Things went on in this way for about six weeks, when, one
morning, we saw very distinctly a large vessel sailing south, several
miles to the east of us. We lighted our bonfire, and in five minutes all
hands were in the boat, pulling for dear life toward the vessel. Nobody
said a word, but the men kept looking over their shoulders toward the
vessel, as if they were afraid they should lose sight of it. We had our
mast up, and a bit of sail-cloth flying at the top as a signal. We pulled
away with all our might for fifteen or twenty minutes, I should think,
till at last we got so near that we could see the vessel was a large
ship. She had all sails set, but was going rather moderately, for the
wind was light. We were still some distance in front of her, and were
steering so as to head her off. We began to feel pretty lively now, and
were putting in harder than ever, when all at once a fellow, who went by
the name of Dick, pulled off his hat, and swung it over his head with one
hand, while he kept his oar going with the other, and sung out,—
“‘Hurrah, boys! we’re safe! They see us, and have run up their flag as a
signal to us!’
“None of the rest of us could see the flag, but as Dick was allowed to
have the sharpest eyes in the crowd, we took his word for it; and, sure
enough, it wasn’t but a few minutes before the ship changed her tack, and
was sailing right toward us. If we didn’t cheer and laugh and swing our
hats then, it’s no matter. I suppose we acted like a parcel of fools, but
we couldn’t help it.
“Well, after we got over our excitement a little, we pulled away toward
the ship, and pretty soon we were alongside of her. We found it was the
ship May Queen, from New York for the Sandwich Islands. The officers and
crew treated us first-rate. They gave us clothes, and plenty to eat, and
told us we might stay on board till we got a chance to go home. They
said they saw the smoke on our island, and that put them on the lookout.
With the glass, the captain saw our signal on the hill, and pretty soon
he discovered our boat pulling toward them. They didn’t know whether the
rest of our crew had been picked up or not. They didn’t remember hearing
anything about it.
“So we had got to go round Cape Horn twice more. That wasn’t very
pleasant, but it was better than staying any longer on our little island.
The captain promised to put us on board the first craft we spoke, bound
home; but there was no knowing when we should meet anything. We had a
rather pleasanter passage to the Cape in the ship than we did in the
Susan. It wasn’t so stormy, and the weather was warmer, for it was the
beginning of summer. We saw lots of floating ice, though, and we passed
very near one immense iceberg that was bound north. The first vessel
bound home that we saw was off Cape Horn, but the weather was so rough
that we didn’t get a chance to speak her. That was quite a disappointment
to us; but we had to get used to disappointments; for about a week after
this, we saw another craft, and spoke her; but she was an English ship,
bound to Liverpool, and as her captain didn’t seem at all anxious to take
us with him, our captain concluded to keep us a spell longer.
[Illustration]
“It was nearly a month before we spoke another vessel, and we were then
pretty well up in the Pacific; in fact, almost up to the latitude of
Valparaiso, though we were far to the westward of the coast. This time we
spoke the barque Bride, bound from Honolulu to New York. The captain of
the Bride said he’d take us, so the other captain had a boat launched,
and sent us to the barque. We soon found that our berth on board the
Bride wasn’t quite so pleasant as it was in the May Queen. The officers
didn’t like to refuse to take us, I suppose, but I guess they thought
we were more plague than profit. We did our share of the work, though,
to pay for our grub, and were on good terms with the crew. And, after
all, we had a pretty good time on the voyage home. We made a fine run
round the Horn, and up the coast of South America, until we got to the
equatorial doldrums. Do you know where that is, Emily?”
“No; I don’t think that’s on our map,” replied Emily.
“Well, it’s a narrow belt that stretches right across the Atlantic,
from America to Africa, where it rains nearly all the time, and is
almost always calm. It shifts about a little with the seasons, but is
generally north of the equator, say from four to ten or twelve degrees.
It varies in width, too. When we got caught in it, on our way home, it
must have been seven or eight degrees wide. We were twelve days crossing
it. It was cloudy every day, and such heavy, black clouds, too,—why,
our thunder-storms in summer are nothing to be compared to them. We had
a little deluge every day, with thunder and lightning, and sometimes a
sudden squall, that would last an hour, and then all would be calm again.
The air was so hot and suffocating that most of the men were about half
sick, and some of our provisions were spoilt, too; but at last we got out
of the doldrums, into the trade-winds, and though we had one or two gales
after that, they were nothing to those tedious calms. We arrived at New
York in good order, and I came right on to Boston the same day, with a
free pass that the captain got for me. Several others of the Susan’s crew
came with me. We called on the owners the next morning, and they were
quite astonished to see us. They supposed we were dead, long ago. They
asked each of us where we belonged, and gave us money enough to pay our
fares.”
“And was that all?” inquired Mrs. Preston, with surprise.
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Jerry; “and that was more than they were bound to
do. Our wages were paid for the outward voyage, and as the vessel was
wrecked on the homeward passage, we couldn’t claim anything more.”
“That seems hard,” continued Mrs. Preston. “They might have paid your
wages up to the time the vessel was lost, and not felt it much, either, I
dare say. I suppose they were insured.”
“That isn’t the custom,” replied Jerry; “if the vessel is wrecked, the
sailor loses his wages. I thought I was lucky to get enough to pay my
fare home. I called at Uncle Henry’s store, in Boston, the same forenoon,
and he made me go home to dinner with him, all dirty as I was. I felt
cheap enough; but aunt and the children were glad to see me, and treated
me first-rate. I started for home by the steamboat, that afternoon, and
the cars and stage brought me as far as the Cross-Roads. Nobody from this
way was over there, so I concluded I had got to walk over; but soon after
the doctor came along and picked me up,—and that is the end of my story.”
“And now,” said Mrs. Preston, “I hope you have had enough of going to
sea, and will settle down on the farm, and be a sober and steady young
man.”
“That’s just what I mean to do,” replied Jerry. “You won’t catch me going
to sea again, you may depend upon that. It’s a regular dog’s life. If
father’s willing, I’ll stay at home and work on the farm in the summer,
and go logging with him in the winter. Or, if I can’t do that, I’ll learn
a trade of some sort or other. Anyhow, I mean to do something to earn an
honest living.”
Mrs. Preston said she was very glad he had come home with that
resolution; and, after a few words of encouragement and advice,—the hour
for retiring having arrived,—the family separated, and Jerry found his
way to the well-remembered little bedroom, which he had always called his
own, and which he found just as he left it, fifteen months before, with
the same patchwork quilt of many colors, the same green-paper curtain at
the window,—only a little less green,—the same substantial yellow chair,
the same capacious horse-hair trunk in the corner, and the same little
square of looking-glass on the wall, inclosed in a brown-paper frame.
CHAPTER V.
CLINTON.
Jerry had not been in town twenty-four hours before he found that he was
decidedly a “lion,”—an object of general interest and attention. In the
house, he could not stir without being followed by Emily and Harriet,
who talked, thought, and dreamed of nothing but their wonderful brother
Jerry. Their fondness was almost annoying to him. He was the hero, too,
of all the town gossip. Everybody in that little community knew Jerry
Preston, and his history,—how he grew up an idle and wayward boy, how he
ran away to sea, and how he was shipwrecked, and, as everybody supposed,
lost. And now almost everybody had heard of his sudden return. The good
doctor distributed the news at several distant points, and from these
it rapidly spread over all Brookdale. Jerry had several visitors the
morning after his return, who came to satisfy themselves that the report
was true. With these he chatted away the whole forenoon, relating his
marvellous adventures and hair-breadth escapes. It was planting-time,
and everybody was busy, otherwise his callers would probably have been
more numerous.
Old Mr. Jenkins, who was Mrs. Preston’s man-of-all-work during the
absence of her husband, was among the early callers. He lived in a little
red house, a quarter of a mile distant, and usually came over every
morning to take care of the cattle, and do any work that Mrs. Preston
desired. He was in too great a hurry, this morning, to hear or tell any
long stories, and seemed only to be thinking how he could turn Jerry’s
arrival to some practical account.
“It’s too bad,” he exclaimed; “here are the folks all round got half
through planting, and there isn’t a furrow turned in your father’s
land, yet. I don’t see where he is. He never staid off so late before.
Suppose he’ll be mad, when he gets home and finds nothing’s been done,
but I can’t help it. I’ve had just as much as I could do to get my own
land ready; I can’t shove off the work as I used to, twenty years ago.
Besides, he didn’t say anything to me about ploughing or planting. It’s
a great pity, though, to have things left so. I tell you what, Jerry,
I don’t know but I _might_ possibly squeeze out half a day for you,
although I’m dreadful busy. You get the team ready, and I’ll try to run
over, after dinner, and we’ll plough that lot on the side-hill, just
beyond the brook, and manure it, and to-morrow you can put the potatoes
in yourself. What do you say to that?”
“Perhaps father doesn’t intend to have potatoes there,” suggested Jerry.
“Well, I reckon he’d better have them there than have them nowhere,”
replied Mr. Jenkins, not quite pleased with Jerry’s reluctance to accept
his kind proposition. “But never mind,” he continued; “it’s nothing to
me; I don’t care anything about it; I was only looking out for your
father, that’s all;” and he hurried off to his work, without waiting for
any further objections from Jerry.
The truth of the matter was, Jerry, with all his good resolutions, was
not yet quite ready to go to work. It seemed to him a little too sudden
a descent from the sublime to the ridiculous, to put his hands to the
plough-tail and the manure-fork on the very day after he had astonished
everybody by his return as of one from the dead. It was a little too soon
to come down from his eminence as the “lion” of the day. He had rather
be receiving congratulations and spinning sea-yarns, just then, than
planting potatoes.
Among all the boys of Jerry’s acquaintance, there was no one he was so
desirous of seeing as Clinton Davenport. Clinton was only a few months
younger than Jerry, and had been his playmate almost from infancy.
They were not much alike in disposition or character; but living near
together, and there being no other boys of their age in the neighborhood,
they became not only intimate, but strongly attached to each other.
After dinner, Jerry went in search of Clinton. I have represented them
as neighbors, but they lived half a mile apart. This distance, however,
was thought nothing of in Brookdale,—there were few neighbors nearer
than that. Jerry knew very well he should find Clinton at work somewhere
on the farm, and he did. He was dropping corn, and his father was at
work in the same field, covering the seed. They both gave Jerry a hearty
greeting, and the two boys seemed about equally surprised at the growth
and change which each marked in the other.
Clinton dropped his corn and chatted with Jerry until the last hill had
received its seed; and then, with his father’s permission, he took a
respite, and the two slowly walked off toward the house.
“I suppose you stick to work as closely as ever,” said Jerry.
“Well, yes, I don’t know but I do,” said Clinton; “but that isn’t saying
a great deal. Take the year through, I suppose I don’t work much more
than half the time. I fuss round in the shop a good deal, rainy days, and
in the winter, but I don’t count that anything. I don’t believe I’ve done
half the work you have the past year.”
“But you’ve got something to show for your work, while I haven’t got a
cent,” added Jerry.
“That’s true,” replied Clinton; “I made out pretty well with my work last
season,—put fifty dollars into the savings-bank in a single year.”
“You did!” exclaimed Jerry; “why, you must have quite a pile in the bank
by this time; you had about a hundred dollars there, I believe, before I
went off.”
“No; I haven’t got much in the bank; it’s less than two hundred dollars
now,” replied Clinton.
“You’ll be a rich man, yet,” said Jerry, as if impressed with the
magnitude of this nest-egg.
“I don’t know about that,” replied Clinton; “when I get a little more, I
intend to spend the whole.”
“You do?” inquired Jerry; “what are you going to buy?”
“An education,” replied Clinton.
“Oh, going to college?” suggested Jerry.
“There, do you see that field, the next beyond the stone-wall?” inquired
Clinton, suddenly turning the subject. “That’s my corn-field. I planted
it last year, and raised over forty bushels of as handsome corn as you
ever saw. Father gives me the use of the land, and helps me about the
ploughing; and I do all the rest of the work, and find the manure, seed,
etc., and have all I can make out of it.”
“Do you keep hens, still?” inquired Jerry.
“Yes; the hens and turkeys are mine, and I have all I can make out of
them,” replied Clinton. “It’s almost six years since I began to take
charge of the poultry. I make them pay me about twenty dollars a year.”
“I don’t see how you do it; father always said hens were more plague than
profit,” remarked Jerry.
“It’s all in management,” replied Clinton. “They need considerable care
and attention, and they won’t pay you any profit if you neglect them. But
here we are, at the door; come in, and show yourself to mother.”
Jerry followed Clinton into the house, and was very cordially received
by Mrs. Davenport. Clinton’s little sister, Annie, was also in the room;
but, though she had once known Jerry, he seemed to have faded from her
recollection, and she was rather shy of the big, brown-skinned boy.
“This is something new, isn’t it?” inquired Jerry, pointing to a neat
trellis, in diamond-work, surrounding the back door-way.
“Yes; I made that last fall,” replied Clinton.
Jerry had seen too many evidences of Clinton’s skilful use of carpenters’
tools to be at all surprised at this statement. Mr. Davenport, who had
formerly worked as a carpenter, had a great variety of tools, and there
was a regular workshop in the rear of the house, where Clinton spent many
pleasant hours. He and Jerry now directed their steps to the shop, where
several other new specimens of Clinton’s mechanical skill, completed or
in progress of manufacture, were examined.
“Did you go to school last winter?” inquired Jerry, after he had
satisfied his curiosity.
“No; I had been through all the branches they studied, and father thought
it would be of no use for me to go,” replied Clinton.
“I suppose you don’t have lessons to get at home, now, do you?” added
Jerry.
“Oh, yes,” replied Clinton; “I study at home, just the same as ever.
I’ve been through my arithmetic, grammar, and geography, pretty
thoroughly; and now I am studying algebra, chemistry, natural philosophy,
and composition.”
There was no school kept in Brookdale except during three months in
winter. The population was so small and scattered that the people thought
this was all they could do for the education of the children. Mr.
Davenport, however, did not think this was enough. From the time Clinton
was old enough to study, he had required him to commit a certain number
of lessons daily, at home, when school did not keep, and to recite them
in the evening. Clinton was a pretty good scholar, and in this way made
considerable progress with his studies. He had actually outgrown the
village school, when but little more than fourteen years old. There was
not another young man in town, under twenty, who could boast of having
done this. Jerry well remembered how he used to pity Clinton, because
he had to study so much, while other boys were roaming about at their
pleasure; and, at the mention of philosophy, algebra, and chemistry,
something of the same old feeling came up in his mind. But the greatest
wonder was, Clinton never seemed to know how badly he was used. He could
not seem to understand that there was any hardship about it. He said he
didn’t study any more than boys did who went to school the year round.
Why, if you will believe it, he rather seemed to like his tasks! It was
an enigma that Jerry never could comprehend.
“You said something, a little while ago, about my going to college,”
continued Clinton, after a pause. “No; I don’t think of going through
college, exactly; but one of these days, when I am old enough, and have
got money enough to pay my way, I mean to spend a year or two in the
Scientific School at Cambridge. That’s what I’m studying and saving up my
money for.”
“I don’t see what you want to study so much for,” replied Jerry. “I’ve
been thinking what I’d do with your money, if I had it. I’d buy a smart
horse and a handsome wagon, and go round and peddle all sorts of things.
I bet I’d make a good deal more money than you can here on the farm, and
I wouldn’t have to work, either.”
Clinton could hardly help smiling at this remark, which so truly revealed
the character of Jerry; but he merely added,—
“Well, that’s something I never thought of.”
“But I don’t believe that would suit _you_,” added Jerry. “I suppose you
mean to be something more than common, don’t you?”
“Why, as to that,” replied Clinton, “I want to do the best for myself
that I can, that’s all. I never expected to be a great character, or to
cut a wonderful figure in the world, or anything of that sort; but I want
to be a useful and intelligent man. To tell the truth, I can’t make up
my mind what I do want to be, exactly. I used to think I’d like to be a
merchant, if I could live in some great city, and do business on a big
scale, and own ships and warehouses, and make plenty of money; but I’ve
about given up that idea. I think now, sometimes, that I should like to
be an architect, an engineer, or something of that sort.”
“What, an engineer on a railroad?” inquired Jerry, who supposed an
engineer must be a man who runs a steam-engine.
“No; a civil engineer; a man that plans public works, such as roads
and bridges and aqueducts and draining, etc.,” replied Clinton. “And
then, again,” he added, “sometimes I think I’ll stick to farming; only
I shouldn’t like to settle down in this little town. If I go into that
business, I want one of those great farms out West, that we read about.
But I don’t know; I can’t make up my mind what I do want to be. I mean
to get the best education I can, though, and I’m not afraid but I can
turn it to good account, when I do settle down in some business.”
It must be confessed that Clinton was rather ambitious. Though his
preferences had not settled decidedly upon any profession, it was
evident that he expected to make his mark in the world. His father
sometimes tried to check this boyish ambition, so eager, exuberant,
and all-confident; but, after all, he felt pretty sure that time would
correct the fault, and that these ambitious dreams would, in a few years,
be chastened down into a very proper and laudable spirit of thrift and
enterprise.
“I suppose you’ve heard nothing from your father yet?” inquired Clinton,
as Jerry was about leaving.
“No,” replied Jerry.
“Well,” added Clinton, “father and I were talking the matter over
yesterday, and we came to the conclusion that if he didn’t get home this
week, we’d go over to your place and put in an acre or two of corn and
potatoes, just to get things started. Now you’ve come home, if we and Mr.
Jenkins help you a little, perhaps you might get almost half the planting
done before your father gets back. That would be a pleasant surprise to
him, wouldn’t it?”
“Father’ll be home before next Saturday night; there’s no doubt about
that,” was all the reply that Jerry made to this kind offer.
Clinton stood silent a moment, as if uncertain how to take these words,
and then, calling after Jerry, who had now turned to go home, said,—
“If you should want any help, Jerry, let us know.”
FOOTNOTES
[1] For a fuller account of Jerry’s early career, and his flight from
home, the reader is referred to the first and second volumes of this
series, “Oscar” and “Clinton.”
[2] Probably Jerry’s “breaking-in” at sea was a little severer than
it would have been if he had learned to obey at home. With his lazy
and disobedient habits, no doubt it took some hard knocks to make him
understand that no shirking was allowed on board the Susan, but that
every order and every duty must be performed promptly and good-naturedly.
* * * * *
“Is this all?” we think we hear many an eager and deeply-interested, yet
disappointed boy exclaim, as he arrives at this point of the volume. “Oh,
it’s too bad to be cut short right in the midst of such an interesting
story!”
The only reply to be made is, “A wise Providence has so ordered it;” and
you can only be thankful that you have so much. The author had proceeded
thus far with the volume completing the history of Jerry, when death
closed his useful life, and he was transferred from the toils of earth
to the rest of heaven. To make up for this deficiency, a Memoir of the
Author, with a fine likeness, is added, which cannot fail to interest all
the readers of the “AIMWELL STORIES.”
MEMOIR OF WALTER AIMWELL.
PREFACE TO MEMOIR.
This is not a story of romantic scenes or unusual incidents. Externally,
the life of WALTER AIMWELL was but a common one,—uncommonly common, if
the paradoxical term may be used. And not only are the scenes familiar,
but the hero, although a working _power_ behind or within them, hardly
appears, personally.
Without doubt, the mind is most startled by singular and showy living;
and it is well to know of those who, amid extraordinary circumstances,
have moved gloriously. As we look on, we surely admire; we may covet the
surroundings and the opportunity; we may think of copying the action;
we may feel the inspiration of a generous ambition, most likely to be
balked. But an every-day life, lived finely, firmly, truly, purely,
appeals to all our every-day hearts, and moves them, not to envy, not to
servile imitation, not to ambition; but to such sincere sympathy as will
naturally take effect in noble action where we are,—we not waiting for
special position, or the probability of applause.
WALTER AIMWELL.
CHAPTER I.
HIS BIRTHPLACE.
Once there was a little, green peninsula that lay amid the shining
waters like a pear upon a plate of burnished silver. The Indians—whose
light canoes, like feathers, now and then glided across the gleamy
ripples—called the peninsula Mishawum, and the water Mystic.
Since then, lying centuries in the sunshine of God’s blessing, the pear
has ripened until its surface is ruddy with the homes of civilization,
and gray with the dust of commerce; and the salver has been etched by the
shadows of a thousand foreign spars.
The murmuring word Mishawum has been forgotten. English subjects, long
since gone to thrones in heaven, have left in the name “Charlestown” a
whisper of their reverence, not for Charles Stuart himself, but for the
lawful order and government of which he was the representative.
Charlestown’s hills are holy with the houses of God,—rightful descendants
of that “Great House” which John Sagamore, the Aberginian chief, gave
the Puritan Winthrop “free consent to build.” There is a little knoll,
sloping toward the sunset, that is sacred with the dust of old-time
saints. There is another, looking toward the sunrise, that is glorious
with the blood of heroes. On the hill-tops beside the churches, on the
slopes beside the buried great and good, all about the town, are the
free schools of a people that wisely love their children and the future.
Grim, and with some suggestion of remoteness, glower the barred windows
of the prison that throws its shadow over those recreant sons that forget
lesson and example. On the opposite side of the peninsula, among the
massive conveniences of the Navy Yard, telling of uncounted treasure
and unmeasured strength, throbs a pulse of the Government of the United
States.
On every side are wharves, shipping, bridges, railroads, mighty
enginery,—all the stupendous achievements of man’s ten little fingers
and his unseen, resolute will, and amid them the thoughtful and genuine
observer is thrilled as though he were walking the paths of a mountain
land.
Here, on the 30th of October, in the year 1822, William and Tabitha R.
Simonds became the parents of a son. This child was named William, but,
as he is best known to his youthful readers as Walter Aimwell, in these
pages he will be called by this latter name.
Charlestown was the birthplace and childhood’s home of Walter Aimwell;
and, when it was no longer the place of his actual residence, his feet
retrod its streets as often as his limited leisure permitted.
I must think these facts had some degree of influence upon his mind and
character. His intellect had such a power of quiet observation, and of
ready and just reflection, that the objects about him could not escape
his attention, nor could the significance of those objects. Charlestown,
like a noble matron of old Greece, hung about his childhood and youth a
tapestry of stately figures; and he was always familiar with the pictured
legends of freedom and conscience and power and patience and triumph.
Let no young reader misunderstand this. No surroundings can, of
themselves, make a youth noble. In regard to everything that grows, from
a tiny plant to a grand character, it is true that not all depends upon
the soil and climate; quite as much results from the intention or action
of the roots in the soil. Plant a thistle in the loam of the garden, it
will be a thistle still,—a thistle of thistles, perhaps, yet a thistle.
But Walter Aimwell had no wish to be a cumberer of the ground; and the
fibres of his attentive mind reached about, and found, and silently drank
in, the ennobling suggestions of the great Present and the illustrious
Past.