It was a bitterly cold night in January. The wind was roaring
across the flats and fens of Cambridgeshire, driving tiny flakes of
snow before it. But few people had been about all day, and those
whose business compelled them to face the weather had hurried
along, muffled up to the chin. It was ten at night; and the porter
and his wife at the workhouse, at Ely, had just gone to bed, when
the woman exclaimed:
"Sam, I hear a child crying."
"Oh, nonsense!" the man replied, drawing the bedclothes higher over
his head. "It is the wind; it's been whistling all day."
The woman was silent, but not convinced. Presently she sat up in
bed.
"I tell you, Sam, it's a child; don't you hear it, man? It's a
child, outside the gate. On such a night as this, too. Get up, man,
and see; if you won't, I will go myself."
"Lie still, woman. It's all thy fancy."
"You are a fool, Sam Dickson," his wife said, sharply. "Do you
think I have lived to the age of forty-five, and don't know a
child's cry, when I hear it? Now are you going to get up, or am I?"
With much grumbling, the porter turned out of bed, slipped on a
pair of trousers and a greatcoat, took down the key from the wall,
lighted a lantern, and went out. He opened the gate, and looked
out. There was nothing to be seen; and he was about to close the
gate again, with a curse on his wife's fancies, when a fresh cry
broke on his ears. He hurried out now and, directed by the voice,
found lying near the gate a child, wrapped in a dark-colored shawl,
which had prevented him from seeing it at his first glance. There
was no one else in sight.
Illustration: Sam Dickson finds little Willie Gale.
The man lifted his lantern above his head, and gave a shout. There
was no answer. Then he raised the child and carried it in; locked
the door, and entered the lodge.
"You are right, for once," he said. "Here is a child, and a pretty
heavy one, too. It has been deserted by someone; and a heartless
creature she must have been, for in another half hour it would have
been frozen to death, if you had not heard it."
The woman was out of bed now.
"It is a boy," she said, opening the shawl, "about two years old, I
should say.
"Don't cry, my boy--don't cry.
"It's half frozen, Sam. The best thing will be to put it into our
bed, that has just got warm. I will warm it up a little milk. It's
no use taking it into the ward, tonight."
Ten minutes later the child was sound asleep; the porter--who was a
good-natured man--having gone over to sleep in an empty bed in the
house, leaving the child to share his wife's bed.
In the morning the foundling opened its eyes and looked round.
Seeing everything strange, it began to cry.
"Don't cry, dear," the woman said. "I will get you some nice
breakfast, directly."
The kindness of tone at once pacified the child. It looked round.
"Where's mother?" he asked.
"I don't know, dear. We shall find her soon enough, no doubt; don't
you fret."
The child did not seem inclined to fret. On the contrary, he
brightened up visibly.
"Will she beat Billy, when she comes back?"
"No, my dear, she sha'n't beat you. Does she often beat you?"
The child nodded its head several times, emphatically.
"Then she's a bad lot," the woman said, indignantly.
The child ate its breakfast contentedly, and was then carried by
the porter's wife to the master, who had already heard the
circumstance of its entry.
"It's of no use asking such a baby whether it has any name," he
said; "of course, it would not know. It had better go into the
infants' ward. The guardians will settle what its name shall be. We
will set the police at work, and try and find out something about
its mother. It is a fine-looking little chap; and she must be
either a thoroughly bad one, or terribly pressed, to desert it like
this. Most likely it is a tramp and, in that case, it's odds we
shall never hear further about it.
"Any distinguishing mark on its clothes?"
"None at all, sir. It is poorly dressed, and seems to have been
very bad treated. Its skin is dirty, and its little back is black
and blue with bruises; but it has a blood mark on the neck, which
will enable its mother to swear to it, if it's fifty years
hence--but I don't suppose we shall ever hear of her, again."
That afternoon, however, the news came that the body of a tramp had
been found, frozen to death in a ditch near the town. She had
apparently lost her way and, when she had fallen in, was so numbed
and cold that she was unable to rise, and so had been drowned in
the shallow water. When the master heard of it, he sent for the
porter's wife.
"Mrs. Dickson," he said, "you had better take that child down, and
let it see the tramp they have found, frozen to death. The child is
too young to be shocked at death, and will suppose she is asleep.
But you will be able to see if he recognizes her."
There was no doubt as to the recognition. The child started in
terror, when he saw the woman lying in the shed into which she had
been carried. It checked its first impulse to cry out, but
struggled to get further off.
"Moder asleep," he said, in a whisper. "If she wake, she beat
Billy."
That was enough. The woman carried him back to the house.
"She's his mother, sir, sure enough," she said to the master,
"though how she should be puzzles me. She is dressed in pretty
decent clothes; but she is as dark as a gypsy, with black hair.
This child is fair, with a skin as white as milk, now he is
washed."
"I daresay he takes after his father," the master--who was a
practical man--said. "I hear that there is no name on her things,
no paper or other article which would identify her in her pockets;
but there is two pounds, twelve shillings in her purse, so she was
not absolutely in want. It will pay the parish for her funeral."
An hour later the guardians assembled and, upon hearing the
circumstances of the newcomer's admission, and the death of the
tramp, they decided that the child should be entered in the books
as "William Gale,"--the name being chosen with a reference to the
weather during which he came into the house--and against his name a
note was written, to the effect that his mother--a tramp, name
unknown--had, after leaving him at the door of the workhouse, been
found frozen to death next day.
William Gale grew, and throve. He was a quiet and contented child;
accustomed to be shut up all day alone, while his mother was out
washing, the companionship of other children in the workhouse was a
pleasant novelty and, if the food was not such as a dainty child
would fancy, it was at least as good as he had been accustomed to.
The porter's wife continued to be the fast friend of the child whom
she had saved from death. The fact that she had done so gave her an
interest in it. Her own children were out in service, or at work in
the fields; and the child was a pleasure to her. Scarce a day
passed, then, that she would not go across the yard up to the
infants' ward, and bring Billy down to the lodge; where he would
play contentedly by the hour, or sit watching her, and sucking at a
cake, while she washed or prepared her husband's dinner.
Billy was seldom heard to cry. Perhaps he had wept all his stock of
tears away, before he entered the house. He had seldom fits of bad
temper, and was a really lovable child. Mrs. Dickson never wavered
in the opinion she had first formed--that the dead tramp was not
Billy's mother--but as no one else agreed with her, she kept her
thoughts to herself.
The years passed on, and William Gale was now no longer in the
infants' ward, but took his place in the boys' school. Here he at
once showed an intelligence beyond that of the other boys of his
own age. The hours which he had, each day, spent in the porter's
lodge had not been wasted. The affection of the good woman had
brightened his life, and he had none of the dull, downcast look so
common among children in workhouses. She had encouraged him to talk
and play, had taught him the alphabet, and supplied him with an
occasional picture book, with easy words. Indeed, she devoted far
more time to him than many mothers, in her class of life, can give
to their children.
The guardians, as they went in and out to board meeting, would
delight her by remarking:
"That is really a fine little fellow, Mrs. Dickson. He really does
you credit. A fine, sturdy, independent little chap."
The child, of course, wore the regular uniform of workhouse
children; but Mrs. Dickson--who was handy with her needle--used to
cut and alter the clothes to fit him, and thus entirely changed
their appearance.
"He looks like a gentleman's child," one of the guardians said, one
day.
"I believe he is a gentleman's child, sir. Look at his white skin;
see how upright he is, with his head far back, as if he was
somebody. He is different, altogether, from the run of them. I
always said he came of good blood, and I shall say so to my dying
day."
"It may be so, Mrs. Dickson; but the woman who left him here, if I
remember right, did not look as if she had any good blood in her."
"Not likely, sir. She never came by him honestly, I am sure. I
couldn't have believed she was his mother, not if she had sworn to
it with her dying breath."
Mrs. Dickson's belief was not without influence upon the boy. When
he was old enough to understand, she told him the circumstances of
his having been found at the workhouse door, and of the discovery
of the woman who had brought him there; and impressed upon him her
own strong conviction that this was not his mother.
"I believe, Billy," she said, over and over again, "that your
parents were gentlefolk. Now mind, it does not make one bit of
difference to you, for it ain't likely you will ever hear of them.
Still, please God, you may do so; and it is for you to bear it in
mind, and to act so as--if you were to meet them--they need not be
ashamed of you. You have got to earn your living just like all the
other boys here; but you can act right, and straight, and
honorable.
"Never tell a lie, Billy; not if it's to save yourself from being
thrashed ever so much. Always speak out manful, and straight, no
matter what comes of it. Don't never use no bad words, work hard at
your books, and try to improve yourself. Keep it always before you
that you mean to be a good man, and a gentleman, some day and, mark
my words, you will do it."
"You're spoiling that child," her husband would say, "filling his
head with your ridiculous notions."
"No, I am not spoiling him, Sam. I'm doing him good. It will help
keep him straight, if he thinks that he is of gentle blood, and
must not shame it. Why, the matron said only yesterday she could
not make him out, he was so different from other boys."
"More's the pity," grumbled the porter. "It mayn't do him harm
now--I don't say as it does; but when he leaves the house he'll be
above his work, and will be discontented, and never keep a place."
"No, he won't," his wife asserted stoutly; although, in her heart,
she feared that there was some risk of her teaching having that
effect.
So far, however, there could be no doubt that her teaching had been
of great advantage to the boy; and his steadiness and diligence
soon attracted the attention of the schoolmaster. Schoolmasters are
always ready to help pupils forward who promise to be a credit to
them, and William Gale's teacher was no exception. He was not a
learned man--very far from it. He had been a grocer who had failed
in business and, having no other resource, had accepted the very
small salary offered, by the guardians of Ely workhouse, as the
only means which presented itself of keeping out of one of the
pauper wards of that institution. However, he was not a bad reader,
and wrote an excellent hand. With books of geography and history
before him, he could make no blunders in his teaching; and although
he might have been failing in method, he was not harsh or
unkind--and the boys, therefore, learned as much with him as they
might have done with a more learned master, of a harsher
disposition.
He soon recognized not only William's anxiety to learn, but the
fearlessness and spirit with which he was always ready to own a
fault, and to bear its punishment. On several occasions he brought
the boy before the notice of the guardians, when they came round
the school and, when questions had to be asked before visitors,
William Gale was always called up as the show boy.
This prominence would have made him an object of dislike, among the
other lads of his own age; had it not been that William was a
lively, good-tempered boy; and if, as sometimes happened on these
occasions, a sixpence or shilling was slipped into his hand by some
visitor, who was taken by his frank open face and bright
intelligent manner, it was always shared among his school fellows.
At one of the examinations the wife of a guardian, who was present
with her husband, said on returning home:
"It must be very dull for those poor boys. I will pack up some of
the boys' books, and send them. Now they have gone to college, they
will never want them again; and they would make quite a library for
the workhouse boys. There must be twenty or thirty of them, at
least."
If ladies could but know what brightness they can infuse into the
lives of lads, placed like these in Ely workhouse, by a simple act
of kindness of this kind, there would not be an institution in the
kingdom without a well-supplied library. The gift infused a new
life into the school. Hitherto the world outside had been a sealed
book to the boys. They knew of no world, save that included within
the walls of the house. Their geography told them of other lands
and people, but these were mere names, until now.
Among the books were Robinson Crusoe, Midshipman Easy, Peter
Simple, three or four of Cooper's Indian tales, Dana's Life before
the Mast, and several of Kingston's and Ballantyne's books. These
opened a wonderland of life and adventure to the boys. The
schoolmaster used to give them out, at twelve o'clock; and they
were returned at two, when school recommenced; and only such boys
as obtained full marks for their lessons were allowed to have them.
In this way, instead of the library being a cause of idleness--as
some of the guardians predicted, when they heard of its
presentation--it was an incentive to work.
Certainly its perusal filled the minds of most of the boys with an
intense longing to go to sea but, as there is always a demand for
apprentices for the Yarmouth and Lowestoft smacks, the guardians
did not disapprove of this bent being given to their wishes--indeed,
as no premium had to be paid, with apprentices to smack owners,
while in most trades a premium is required, a preference was given
to the sea by the guardians.
When William Gale reached the age of fifteen, and was brought
before the board to choose the trade to which he would be
apprenticed, he at once said that he would go to sea. There were
applications from several smack masters for apprentices; and he,
with the five other boys brought up with him, were all of one
opinion in the matter.
"Mind, lads," the chairman said, "the life of an apprentice on
board a North Sea smack is a hard one. You will get a great many
more kicks than half pence. It will be no use grumbling, when you
have once made your choice. It is a rough, hard life--none rougher,
or harder. When you have served your time, it will be open to you
either to continue as smacksmen, or to ship as seamen in sea-going
ships.
"Sailors who hail from the eastern fishing ports are always
regarded as amongst the best of our seamen. Still, it is a rough
life, and a dangerous one. The hardest life, on shore, is easy in
comparison. There is time to change your minds, before you sign;
when you have done so, it will be too late. Are you all
determined?"
None of them wavered. Their signatures were attached to the
indentures, and they were told that the porter would take them to
Yarmouth, on the following day. William Gale obtained leave to
spend his last evening at the porter's lodge, and there he talked
very seriously, with Mrs. Dickson, over his future prospects.
"I know," he said, "from Dana's book, that the life is a very rough
one, but that will not matter. A sailor, when he has been four
years at sea, can pass his examination as a mate; and I mean to
work hard, and pass as soon as I can. I don't care how much I am
knocked about, that's nothing; there's a good chance of getting on,
in the end."
"You will meet a great many bad boys, Bill; don't you let them lead
you into their ways."
"Don't be afraid of that," he answered, "I won't do anything I
should be ashamed of, afterwards. You have taught me better."
"I suppose the guardians gave you a Bible, today; they always do,
when boys goes out."
Will nodded.
"Be sure you read it often, my boy. You read that, and stick to it,
and you won't go far wrong. You know what the parson said, last
Sunday:
"'No one is strong in himself, but God gives strength.'"
"I remember," Will said. "I made up my mind, then, that I'd bear it
in mind, and act upon it when I could. I think the thought of God,
and the thought that I may meet my parents--and they must not be
ashamed of me--will help me to be honest, and firm."
"I hope, Bill, you will come, sometimes, and see me, when you are
ashore."
"I shall be sure to do that, when I can," he answered. "But of
course, I shall have no money, at first; and it may be a long time
before I can pay my railway fare here; but you may be sure I will
come. Whoever may be my real mother, you are the only mother I ever
knew, and no mother could have been kinder. When I grow to be a
man, and go to sea in big ships, I will bring you all sorts of
pretty things from abroad and, if ever you should want it, you may
be sure that my wages will be quite as much yours as if I had been,
really, your son!"
Sam Dickson gave a snort. It was very good of the boy, but he
considered it his duty to snub him, in order to counteract what he
considered to be the pernicious counsels and treatment of his wife.
"Fine talk," he said, "fine talk. We shall see."
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Sam Dickson," his wife said,
wrathfully. "The boy means what he says, and I believe him. If
anything was to happen to you, and that boy was growed up, I
believe he would come forward to lend me a helping hand, just as he
says, as if he were my son. The gals is good gals, but gals in
service have plenty to do with their wages--what with dress, and
one thing or another. We must never look for much help from them
but, if Bill is doing well, and I ever come to want, I believe as
his heart would be good to help, a bit."
"Well," the porter said, dryly, "there's time enough to see about
it, yet. I ain't dead, you ain't a pauper, and he ain't a man, not
by a long way."
"Well, you needn't go to be short tempered over it, Sam. The boy
says as he'll be as good as a son to me, if the time ever comes as
how I may want it. There is no call for you to fly out, as if he'd
said as he'd poison me, if he'd the chance.
"Anyhow, you'll write to me regular, won't you, Bill?"
"That I will," the boy said. "Every time I gets back to port, I'll
write; and you'll write sometimes, won't you? And tell me how you
are, and how every one is, schoolmaster and all. They have all been
very kind to me, and I have nothing to say against any of them."
The next morning William Gale laid aside, for ever, his workhouse
dress; and put on a suit of rough blue cloth, fitted for his future
work. Then, bidding adieu to all his friends, he--with his five
fellow apprentices--started by rail, under charge of Sam Dickson,
for Yarmouth.
The journey itself was, to them, a most exciting event. They had,
in all their remembrance, never been a mile from the workhouse; and
the swift motion of the train, the changing scenery, the villages
and stations, were a source of immense interest. As they neared
Yarmouth their excitement increased, for now they were nearing the
sea; of which they had read so much, but could form so little idea.
They were disappointed, however, inasmuch as no glimpse was
obtained of it, as they crossed the flat country leading to the
town but, failing the sea, Yarmouth itself--the town which was
henceforth to be their headquarters--was in the highest degree
interesting.
Presently the train reached the station, and then Sam Dickson--who
had made many annual journeys to Yarmouth, on the same errand--at
once started off with them to the smack owners who had written to
the workhouse. These lived at Gorleston, a large village on the
south side of the river. Walking down from the station, the boys
caught a glimpse of the river, and were delighted at the sight of
the long line of smacks, and coasters, lying by the wharves
opposite.
Presently they left the road, and made their way down to the river
side. Their guardian had great difficulty in getting them along, so
interested were they in the smacks lying alongside. Presently they
stopped at a large wooden building, over which was the name of
"James Eastrey."
"Here we are," Sam Dickson said. "Now, stop quietly outside. I will
call three of you up, when I have spoken to Mr. Eastrey."
Presently the porter re-appeared at the door, and called three of
the boys in. William Gale was one of the number, James Eastrey
being the name of the owner to whom he had signed his indentures.
A smell of tar pervaded the whole place. Nets, sails, and cordage
were piled in great heaps in the store; iron bolts and buckets,
iron heads for trawls, and ship's stores of all kinds.
Mr. Eastrey came out from a little wooden office.
"So," he said, "you are the three lads who are going to be my
apprentices. Well, boys, it is a rough life but, if you take the
ups and downs as they come, it is not a bad one. I always tell my
captains to be kind to the boys but, when they are at sea, they do
not always act as I wish them. When you are on shore, between the
voyages, I give you eight shillings a week, to keep yourselves; or
I put you in the Smack Boys' Home, and pay for you there. The last
is the best place for you, but some boys prefer to go their own
way.
"I suppose you are all anxious to go to sea--boys always are, for
the first time. One of my boats is going out, tomorrow.
"You," he said, pointing to William Gale, "shall go in her. What is
your name?"
"William Gale, sir."
"Very well, William Gale, then you shall be off first. The others
will only have a day or two to wait.
"I can only send one new hand in each smack. The others will go to
the Home, till the smacks are ready. I will send a man with them,
at once. They can have a day to run about the town. I shall find
plenty of work for them, afterwards.
"You, Gale, will stop on the smack. I will take you on board, in
half an hour, when I have finished my letter."
The three lads said goodbye to their comrades and to Sam Dickson. A
sailor was called up, and took two off to the Smack Boys' Home; and
Will Gale sat down on a coil of rope, to wait till his employer was
ready to take him down to the craft to which he was, henceforth, to
belong.