It seemed but a moment since the ship blew up. I could not believe that
old Tom had perished.
"Some people have been picked up out there, sir, I think," observed the
coxswain to the officer, pointing as he spoke to several boats
surrounding the one I had before remarked with the injured men in her.
"Maybe the old man the lad speaks of is among them."
"Make the wherry fast astern, and we'll pull on and ascertain," said the
officer.
"If he is not found, or if found is badly hurt, I'll get leave for a
couple of hands to help you back with your boat to Portsmouth."
"I can take her back easily enough by myself if the wind holds as it
does now; thank you all the same, sir," I answered.
I felt, indeed, that if my faithful friend really was lost, which I
could scarcely yet believe, I would rather be alone; and I had no fear
about managing the wherry single-handed.
As may be supposed, my anxiety became intense as we approached the boat.
"Is old Tom Swatridge saved?" I shouted out.
No answer came.
"Tom! Tell me, Tom, if you are there!" I again shouted.
"Step aboard the boat and see if your friend is among the injured men,"
said the good-natured officer, assisting me to get alongside.
I eagerly scanned the blackened faces of the men sitting up, all of whom
had been more or less scorched or burnt. A surgeon who had come off
from one of the ships was attending to them. They were strangers to me.
Two others lay dead in the bottom of the boat, but neither of them was
old Tom. He was gone, of that I could no longer have a doubt.
With a sad heart I returned to the wherry. The other boats had not
succeeded in saving any of the hapless crew. The ship had been loaded
with arms and gunpowder, bound for South America, I heard some one say.
"Cheer up, my lad!" said the officer; "you must come aboard the
_Lapwing_, and we'll then send you into Portsmouth, as we must have this
poor fellow looked to by our surgeon before he is taken to the
hospital."
The name of the _Lapwing_ aroused me; she was the brig in which my
brother Jack had gone to sea. For a moment I forgot my heavy loss with
the thoughts that I might presently see dear Jack again. But it was
only for a moment. As I sat steering the wherry towed by the
man-of-war's boat my eyes filled with tears. What sad news I had to
give to Jack! What would become of Mary and Nancy? For myself I did
not care, as I knew that I could obtain employment at home, or could go
to sea; but then I could not hope for a long time to come to make enough
to support them. My chief feeling, however, was grief at the loss of my
true-hearted old friend.
Soon after we got alongside the brig of war the master's mate told me to
come up on deck, while one of the men took charge of the wherry. He at
once led me aft to the commander, who questioned me as to how I came to
be in the wherry by myself. I described to him all that had happened.
"You acted a brave part in trying to save the man from the ship which
blew up. Indeed, had you not held on to him he would have been lost,"
he observed. "I must see that you are rewarded. What is your name?"
"Peter Trawl, sir," I answered, and, eager to see Jack, for whom I had
been looking out since I got out of the boat, thinking that we should
know each other, I added, "I have a brother, sir, who went to sea aboard
this brig, and we have been looking out for him ever so long to come
home. Please, sir, can I go and find him?"
The commander's countenance assumed a look of concern. "Poor fellow! I
wish that he was on board for his sake and yours, my lad," he answered.
"I cannot say positively that he is dead, but I have too much reason to
believe that he is. While we were cruising among the islands of the
East Indian Archipelago he formed one of a boat's crew which was, while
at a distance from the ship, attacked by a large body of Malay pirates.
When we got up we found only on man, mortally wounded, in the bottom of
the boat, who before he died said that, to the best of his belief, the
officer in charge and the rest of the men had been killed, as he had
seen several dragged on board the proas, and then hacked to pieces and
hove overboard.
"We chased and sank some of the pirate fleet, and made every possible
search for the missing men, in case any of them should have escaped on
shore, to which they were close at the time of the attack, but no traces
of them could be discovered. I left an account of the occurrence with
the vessel which relieved me on the station, and should any of the poor
fellows have been found I should have been informed of it. It was my
intention, as soon as I was paid off the _Lapwing_, to come down to
Portsmouth to break the news to his father. Say this from me, and that
I yet hope to see him shortly."
Commander Rogers seemed very sorry when I told him that father and
mother were both dead. He asked me where I lived. I told him, as well
as I could describe the house, forgetting that, too probably, Mary and I
and Nancy would not be long allowed to remain there.
"When I commission another ship, would you like to go with me, my lad?"
he asked.
"Very much, sir," I answered. "But I have a sister, and I couldn't go
away with no one to take care of her; so I must not think of it now Tom
Swatridge has gone. All the same, I thank you kindly, sir."
"Well, well, my lad; we will see what can be done," he said, and just
then a midshipman came up to report that the boat was ready to carry the
rescued man, with the surgeon, to the shore.
I found that the master's mate, Mr Harvey, and one of the men were
going in my boat, and of course I did not like to say that I could get
into the harbour very well without them. I touched my hat to the
commander, who gave me a kind nod--it would not have done for him, I
suppose, to shake hands with a poor boy on his quarter-deck even if he
had been so disposed--and then I hurried down the side.
I made sail, and took the helm just as if I had been by myself, Mr
Harvey sitting by my side, while the seaman had merely to rig out the
mainsail with the boat-hook, as we were directly before the wind.
"You are in luck, youngster," observed Mr Harvey; "though you have lost
one friend you've gained another, for our commander always means what he
says, and, depend on it, he'll not lose sight of you."
He seemed a very free-and-easy gentleman, and made me tell him all about
myself, and how we had lost father and mother, and how Tom Swatridge had
taken charge of Mary and me. His cheerful way of talking made me dwell
less on my grief than I should have done had I sailed into the harbour
all alone.
"I should like to go and see your little sister and the faithful Nancy,"
he said, "but I must return to the brig as soon as that poor man has
been carried to the hospital, and I have several things to do on shore.
Land me at the Point, you can find your way to the Hard by yourself,
I've no doubt."
"The boat would find her way alone, sir, she's so accustomed to it," I
answered.
We ran in among a number of wherries with people embarking from the
Point or landing at it. The Point, it should be understood by those who
do not know Portsmouth, is a hard shingly beach on the east side, at the
mouth of the harbour, and there was at that time close to it an old
round stone tower, from which an iron chain formerly extended across to
Blockhouse Fort, on the Gosport side, to prevent vessels from coming in
without leave.
"Here, my lad, is my fare," said Mr Harvey, slipping half a guinea into
my hand as he stepped on shore, followed by the seaman; "it will help to
keep Nancy's pot boiling till you can look about you and find friends.
They will appear, depend on it."
Before I could thank him he was away among the motley crowd of persons
thronging the Point. I was thankful that no one asked me for old Tom,
and, shoving out from among the other boats, I quickly ran on to the
Hard.
When I landed the trial came. A waterman had gained an inkling of what
had occurred from one of the crew of the _Lapwings_ boat, and I was soon
surrounded by people asking questions of how it happened.
"I can't tell you more," I answered, at length breaking from them.
"Tom's gone, and brother Jack's gone, and I must go and look after poor
Mary."
It was late by the time I reached home. Nancy had got supper ready on
the table, and Mary had placed old Tom's chair for him in a snug corner
by the fire. They saw that something was the matter, for I couldn't
speak for a minute or more, not knowing how to break the news to them.
At last I said, with a choking voice, pointing to the chair, "He'll
never sit there more!"
Dear me, I thought Mary's and Nancy's hearts would break outright when
they understood what had happened. It was evident how much they loved
the rough old man--I loved him too, but in a different way, I suppose,
for I could not ease my heart by crying; indeed I was thinking about
what Mary and Nancy would do, and of brother Jack's loss. I did not
like to tell Mary of that at first, but it had to come out, and, strange
as it may seem, it made her think for the time less about what was to us
by far the greater loss. Supper remained long untasted, but at last I
felt that I must eat, and so I fell to, and after a time Nancy followed
my example and made Mary take something.
Nancy then began to talk of what we must do to gain our living, and we
sat up till late at night discussing our plans. There was the wherry,
and I must get a mate, and I should do very well; then we had the house,
for we never dreamed that we should not go on living in it, as we were
sure Tom would have wished us to do. Nancy was very sanguine as to how
she could manage. Her plain, pock-marked face beamed as she spoke of
getting three times as much work as before. Short and awkward as was
her figure, Nancy had an heroic soul. Mary must continue to attend
school, and in time would be able to do something to help also.
We talked on till we almost fell asleep on our seats. The next morning
we were up betimes. Nancy got out some black stuff we had worn for
mother, a piece of which she fastened round my arm to show respect to
old Tom's memory, and after breakfast I hurried out to try and find a
mate, that I might lose no time in doing what I could with the wherry.
I had thought of Jim Pulley, a stout strong lad, a year or two older
than myself, who, though not very bright, was steady and honest, and I
knew that I could trust him; his strength would supply my want of it for
certain work we had to do. Jim was the first person I met on the Hard.
I made my offer to him; he at once accepted it.
"To tell the truth, Peter, I was a-coming to say, that if thou hadst not
got any one to go in the place of Tom Swatridge, I would help thee till
thou art suited for nothing, or if thou wilt find me in bread and cheese
I'll be thankful."
In a few minutes after this Jim and I were plying for hire in the
harbour, and we had not long to wait before we got a fare. The first
day we did very well, and I gave Jim a quarter of what we took, with
which he was perfectly content.
"I wouldn't ask for more, Peter," he said, "for thou hast three mouths
to feed, and I have only one."
The next few days we were equally successful; indeed I went home every
evening in good spirits as to my prospects. I made enough for all
expenses, and could lay by something for the repairs of the wherry.
Though Jim and I were mere boys, while the weather was fine people took
our boat as willingly as they did those of grown men. Sometimes we got
parties to go off to the _Victory_, at others across to the Victualling
Yard, and occasionally up the harbour to Porchester Castle.
We worked early and late, and Jim or I was always on the look-out for a
fare.
When I got home at night I had generally a good account to give of the
day's proceedings. Now and then I asked Jim in to take a cup of tea,
and many a hearty laugh we had at what the ladies and gentlemen we had
taken out had said and done. Seeing that we were but boys they fancied
that they could talk before us in a way they wouldn't have thought of
doing if we had been grown men.
It must not be supposed that we were able to save much, but still I put
by something every week for the repairs of the boat I had got enough to
give her a fresh coat of paint, which she much wanted, and we agreed
that we would haul her up on Saturday afternoon for the purpose, so that
she would be ready for Monday.
We carried out our intentions, though it took every shilling I had put
by, and we lost more than one fare by so doing. But the wherry looked
so fresh and gay, that we hoped to make up for it the next week. Jim
went to chapel on the Sunday with Mary and Nancy and me, and spent most
of the day with us. He was so quiet and unassuming that we all liked
him much. As we had put plenty of dryers in the paint, and the sun was
hot on Sunday, by Monday forenoon we were able to ply as usual. We had
taken a fare across to Gosport, when a person, whom we supposed to be a
gentleman from his gay waistcoat and chains, and his top-boots, and hat
stuck on one side, came down to the beach and told us to take him over
to Portsea. We soon guessed by the way he talked that, in spite of his
fine clothes, he was not a gentleman.
"I say, you fellow, do you happen to know whereabouts an old chap, one
Tom Swatridge, lives?" he asked of Jim.
"He doesn't live anywhere; he's dead," answered Jim.
"Dead! Dead, do you say?" he exclaimed. "Who's got his property?"
"He had no property that I knows on," answered Jim; "except, maybe--"
"Oh yes, he had; and if the old fellow had lived he would have been the
possessor of a good round sum; but, as I am his nephew, that will be
mine, and everything else he left behind him, the lawyer, Master
Six-and-eightpence, as I call him, tells me."
All this time I had not liked to say anything, but the last remark made
me feel very uncomfortable. The speaker presently took a letter out of
his pocket, and, reading it, said, "Ah! I see Mr Gull is the man I've
got to go to. Can you show me where Mr Gull, the attorney, lives?" he
asked of Jim; "he'll settle up this matter."
Jim made no answer, for we were getting near the shore, and had to keep
out of the way of two craft coming up the harbour. We soon ran up to
the Hard, when the man, stepping out, offered Jim a sixpence.
"A shilling's the fare, sir," said Jim, keeping back his hand.
"No, no, you young rascal! I know better; but I'll give you another
sixpence if you will show me the way to Mr Gull's."
"You may find it by yourself," answered Jim, indignantly, as he picked
up the sixpence thrown to him by our fare, who walked off.
"Half a loaf is better than no bread, Peter, so it's as well not to lose
the sixpence," said Jim, laughing. "But no gentleman would have offered
less than a shilling. I wonder whether he really is old Tom's nephew?"