After a short stay at the Balize, we put to sea once more, for the
purpose, as it was understood, of touching at Havana, and then
returning to New York. This was a cheerful voyage; the idea of a
speedy return to America, spread a feeling of exquisite delight over
the whole crew, and converted the performance of our duty into a
pleasure. One effect was, to set those hands, who were gifted with
the talent, so highly prized in a man of war, of “spinning yarns,”
busily at work during every spare moment, when a group could be
gathered to listen. Foremost among these intellectual time-killers
was Richard Dickinson, a messmate of mine, a good-natured Englishman.
He called himself the son of Old Dick, by which epithet he was
usually called. Dick’s powers were now in great demand, and he
exercised them to our universal satisfaction, but with how great
regard for truth I cannot determine. It is probable, however, that
truth entered very little into Dick’s productions. He was a sort of
off-hand novelist; all he cared for was _effect_, and where truth
failed him, fiction generously loaned her services. So bewitching
were Dick’s stories, that I used to long for the hour when we could
lay in our hammocks and listen. My first salutation, when we lay for
the last time in the port of Havana, was, “Come, Dick, tell us a
yarn.”
“What is the use? you will go to sleep,” he used to reply.
“No I won’t, Dick; I can listen to your yarns all night,” was my
usual answer.
Dick would then begin some yarn, which, if not so interesting as the
thousand-and-one stories in the Arabian Nights’ entertainments, was
at least as true to nature, and, in respect to its humor, might be
compared to some of the sayings of that illustrious personage, Sancho
Panza, the renowned squire of the immortal Don Quixote; but, in
spite of my promises, I usually gave notice of my condition after a
short time, by performing a concord of nasal sounds, vulgarly called
snoring, which would set Dick to swearing, and often put an end to
his performances for the night.
I need scarcely say, that these “yarns” were by no means favorable
in their moral effects on the listener. They generally consisted
in fictitious adventures on the sea and on the shore, plentifully
interlarded in their recital with profane oaths and licentious
allusions. When seamen become elevated, and are properly instructed,
these filthy stories will be superseded by reading good and useful
literature, with an abundance of which every ship should be supplied
by the benevolence of the Christian public.
On the passage to Havana, Dick and myself fell under the displeasure
of the captain. We were stationed one night in the fore-top, where we
were comfortably dozing away the time. The captain was on deck. The
officer of the watch hailed the fore-top. We did not hear him until
the call was repeated two or three times. For this we were ordered
below, and told by the captain that we should be flogged the next day
before the whole crew. With this consolatory information we returned
to our station, without the least inclination to sleep again for that
watch. With a sort of philosophic desperation, I laughed and said,
“Dick, which would you rather do--have your grog stopped awhile, or
take a flogging?”
Dick was very fond of his grog; so he replied, “Oh, I had rather
they would stop my wind than my grog, and would sooner be flogged by
considerable than lose that.” I question, however, if he had been
left to choose between grog and whip at the gangway, whether he would
not have altered his tone in favor of his grog. Still, his answer
shows, how strongly sailors are attached to their beloved rum. I am
happy to know that this regard is dying away, and that temperance is
doing something among sailors. May it go on, until cold water is as
popular in a man of war, as grog was twenty years since. We never
heard, however, of our offence again. Dick was quite a favorite
with the officers, and, except a blow in the head, given me by the
captain, I had never been punished. Perhaps these were the reasons
why we escaped the gangway.
At Havana we got a large amount of Spanish dollars aboard for some
merchants in New York. These were smuggled from the shore. Our men
were sent off in the boats, with their pockets and bosoms well
stuffed with the precious metal; and in this way we soon got it all
safely lodged in our hold, except that the captain’s servant, falling
desperately in love with them, furnished himself with all he could
carry, and ran away from the ship.
After adding to our freight of dollars a fine supply of oranges,
lemons, pine-apples, &c., we cheerfully weighed anchor and set sail
for New York. We reached that port after a short and prosperous
voyage; meeting with no incident, except that the cold weather caused
us a little suffering, and enabled the purser to add a few dollars to
the profits of the voyage, by supplying us with a lot of red flannel
shirts.
When I was on board the _Siren_, I was contented. The officers were
kind, the crew were peaceful and well-behaved; but in the _Boxer_,
some of the officers were severe, and the crew corrupt, and I did
not enjoy myself at all. Some said that in time of war the men were
better treated than in time of peace; but though this may be true
to a limited extent, yet I think the difference in these two brigs
was owing more to the character of their respective officers than
anything else. Be this as it may, my experience in the _Boxer_ had
completely sickened me of man of war life, and I determined, if
possible, to get free of it at once and forever.
My station, as one of the crew of the jolly-boat, gave me frequent
opportunities to accomplish my purpose. So, one day, at the
solicitation of a shipmate, I resolved to make the attempt. Cruel
treatment was my excuse; yet I have sometimes been ashamed of my
course in this instance; and would heartily advise all boys in the
naval service to stay their time out. We were successful in escaping;
and as we had but little money, I therefore proceeded directly from
the shore to a pawn shop, and there disposed of our pea-jackets,
which were new, and for which the purser had charged us ten dollars
apiece. We obtained the pitiful sum of six dollars for the two. With
this, we started in a hack, which was to carry us outside of the
city. We then travelled hard all day, resting at night in a barn,
where we suffered extremely from the cold. The next day we pursued
our way towards New Haven. The day after, we were still on the road.
This was the Sabbath, and we felt strangely at seeing the good people
of the village, through which we passed, going to meeting. The
foot-stoves, that the grave matrons bore in their hands, were things
I had never seen before; so, to the great merriment of my companion,
I observed that they were excellent contrivances to carry their books
in to meeting! We reached New Haven on Monday evening, where we put
up at a sailors’ boarding-house for the night. Here my shipmate left
me, and I proceeded alone to Hartford, begging my support by the way,
for my money was by this time all exhausted.
At Hartford I tried to ship on board some merchant vessel. Not
succeeding, I strove to find some one to take me as an apprentice to
instruct me in the art of bootmaking, but with no better success.
These repulses discouraged me. It was Christmas day, and the
associations connected with the day--the merry-makings of my early
boyhood--were anything but pleasant to me in my distress. The bell
was tolling for the funeral of priest Strong, and it seemed as if
the melancholy of the mourners fully accorded with my feelings, and
was preferable in my mind to the spirit of rejoicing that prevailed
among those who were keeping merry Christmas in merry mood. Perhaps,
if they had invited me to partake of their cheer, I should have
changed my opinion. As it was, with only five cents in my pocket, I
wandered lonely and sad through the city. With a feeling of despair
I stepped into a cellar for something to drink. They charged me five
cents, and left me at once friendless and penniless. At the bridge,
the toll-keeper demanded a cent. I looked at him fiercely, and told
him I had nothing. He let me pass over toll free. Towards night,
feeling tired and hungry, I endeavored to hire myself. But who would
employ an utter stranger? I went to a number of houses, imploring a
lodging for the night. With freezing coldness, I experienced repulse
after repulse, until my heart chilled with horror, with the fear
of spending that long, cold night out of doors. At last I called
on a kind-hearted Presbyterian, who gave me a supper, lodging and
breakfast. Their morning and evening devotions were peculiarly
interesting to me; for, excepting while a prisoner at the Cape of
Good Hope, I had never listened to an extemporaneous prayer.
The next morning I left this truly hospitable family, and pursued my
inquiries for employment. Some asked if I could chop wood; others, if
I knew anything about farming; and when I answered “No,” they shook
their heads, and I trudged on. Sometimes I offered to work for my
board, but, being a sailor, and having no recommendations, people
were afraid to take me into their families. Still I pushed on. A man
overtook me in the town of Coventry, and began a very interesting and
faithful discourse about religion. I listened respectively; he took
me home with him, where, although he was a deacon, he gave me some
cider-brandy: but these were not the days of temperance. After this
he sent me to Pomeroy’s tavern, where he thought they would hire me.
This application failing, he advised me to apply at the glass works
which were a little distance from that place. With this advice, I
took leave of Deacon Cook, and proceeded towards the glass-houses.
Before reaching them, however, night came. A family, who occupied
a red house, received me, whose hospitality I returned by singing
a number of sea songs. Early the next morning, I tried to get work
at the glass-house, but though I was willing to stay for my board,
they would not take me. Mr. Turner, the agent, very kindly gave me
a breakfast, and then I left him, determined to get to Boston if
possible, and go to sea once more.
My situation was really a trying one: my only clothing was a blue
jacket and trousers; shoes more than half worn out, and a little
tarpaulin hat stuck on the back of my head, in genuine sailor
fashion.[27] Mittens and money were alike far off from my fingers,
and friends were as scarce as money. People, too, seemed afraid of a
sailor; and this, in addition to all my other troubles, rendered me
an object of suspicion. At such times, I assure my young reader, that
the picture of a kind mother and a good home, are but too faithfully
presented to the mind, filling it with a thousand vain and useless
regrets. No young man need desire to be in the outcast prodigal
condition in which I stood, in the depth of that cold winter.
When I reached the town of Mansfield, I called at the house of a
Mr. Nathaniel Dunham; the kind manners and friendly language of
whose lady I shall never forget. She told me that if I was honest,
Providence would shortly open some way by which I could live.
Her words fell on my ear like a prophecy, and I left the house,
confident of some favorable turn in my affairs before long. At
Mansfield Four Corners, I inquired of Dr. Waldo, who, with several
others, sat under a piazza, and afterwards of a Mr. Edmund Freeman,
for employ. They gave me no encouragement. Persevering, I at last met
with a Mr. Peter Cross, who, seeing my sailor garb, asked what ships
I had sailed in. Hearing me mention the _Macedonian_, he said, “There
is a man here whose name is William Hutchinson. He was taken in her.
Do you know him?”
“Yes,” said I, after a moment’s recollection; “he was our armorer’s
mate.”
Of course, I lost no time in seeking for my old shipmate. After
crossing various lots, and getting vexed and perplexed for want of
proper direction, I reached his comfortable homestead. He did not
recognise me at first, on account of the great alteration a few years
had made in my size and appearance; but, when he did recall me to his
recollection, with the generous frankness of a sailor, he offered
me all the hospitality and assistance in his power. A good supper
was speedily spread; and then, seated before his ample fireplace,
sparkling and crackling with a cheerful blaze, we recounted our
adventures. He had wandered into Connecticut, and married a very
respectable woman. They now owned a house and some land, and were
in tolerably comfortable and thriving circumstances. With such
discourse, we talked away the better part of the night, when the old
tar showed me my chamber, archly observing that “my bed would not
rock much.”
The next morning, he said I should not leave him until I was
provided for in some way or other. Through his influence, a Mr.
James, his brother-in-law, employed me to work in his cloth-dressing
establishment. As I was ignorant of the business, and was not really
needed, my board was to be my only compensation.
My new situation soon grew delightful to me, and I felt happier than
I had ever done since I left Bladen. My time passed very pleasantly,
especially my evenings, when the neighbors came in to hear me spin
sea yarns and forecastle songs. Some of the young men of the “baser
sort” judged me to be a fit instrument to act Samson for their
enjoyment, in the house of God. So they invited me to attend the
meetings of the Methodist Episcopal church in that place. But they
greatly misjudged the character of seamen; who, as before remarked,
usually pay respect to the ordinances and ministers of religion.
I attended the meeting, but not to make sport. The result of this
ill-designed invitation on myself will appear hereafter.
The winter months fled, and the spring found me unfurnished with
means co-extensive with my wants. Determined to remain ashore, if
possible, I hired myself to a farmer for my board. In the evenings I
braided straw hats, and thus obtained a scanty supply of clothing.
A little incident, illustrative of the thoughtless playfulness of
sailor character, may not be displeasing to my young readers.
Whoever has seen a perfect novice undertake to guide an ox-team,
may form some idea of the ludicrous adventures through which I
passed during my agricultural novitiate with these horned animals.
Perseverance, however, gave me some little control over our team,
when, as fate would have it, my employer “_swapped_” them for another
pair. When they came home, after some little hallooing and whipping,
I succeeded in “yoking” them; then seizing the goad-stick, with as
much dignity as ever Neptune wielded his trident, I mounted the
tongue, (which I called the bowsprit,) and with the ladders rigged up
at both ends I gave the word of command to my team. They, however,
showed signs of mutiny, and, taking to their heels, bore me off in
triumph. This was sport indeed; there I stood, my head and shoulders
passed between the front rigging, laughing as if my sides would
burst, while rakes, forks and boards were playing leap-frog, at the
tail of my cart, and my master’s boy was half frightened out of
his wits. At length the angry voice of my master roused me from my
sportive mood; he did not relish the rough usage his farming tools
were receiving, and coming up with my horned steeds, he speedily
stopped their speed and my sport. I need only add that his rebukes
made me more careful afterwards.
When the haying season commenced, I left my first employer, and
obtained the sum of eight dollars per month, and board; the wages,
however, in accordance with the true Yankee method of making money
out of everything, were to be payable at the village store. This
change led me into a situation which proved another link in the
chain, which ended in my conversion to God. The son of my employer
died; he was about fourteen years of age; in company with a pious
member of the Methodist church, I sat up one night with the corpse.
With the faithfulness of a true Christian, he improved the occasion
by seriously conversing with me on the great concerns of immortality.
His discourse, together with the funeral services, had a very
softening and gracious influence on my feelings, though the only
present, practical effect was a more punctual attendance on the
services of the sanctuary.
Towards winter, I went to live with Mr. Joseph Conant, to learn the
business of filing augers and steelyards. Here my acquaintance was
considerably enlarged, as several young men were attached to the
establishment. Among them was one who made a profession of religion.
As is usual among the young, we were devoted triflers; and he, to my
astonishment, was as jocose and merry as the rest. Ignorant as I was
of religion, his conduct appeared strangely inconsistent; I wondered
he did not converse with me about my soul. One day I took him aside
and faithfully expressed my views of his conduct. He acknowledged
his guilt. Afterwards we attended meetings in company, and he was
faithful in speaking with me about the things that belonged to my
salvation. He urged upon me the importance of giving myself up to
God at once, and affectionately invited me to attend class-meeting.
My mind was seriously inclined, but I could not yet venture upon so
close an intercourse with the people of God.
One Sabbath evening, my friend, Ela Dunham, who had dealt so
faithfully with me, when we watched together over the corpse of Orson
Kidder, asked me, “When do you intend to set out and seek religion?”
I replied, somewhat evasively, “Any time.”
“Well,” said he, “are you willing we should pray for you, and will
you go forward for prayers to-night?”
To this I replied, that I would think of it. The meeting proved to
be intensely interesting. My desire to express the inward workings
of my mind, grew strong. Of the forms and practices of Christians
in revivals, I was altogether ignorant, having never witnessed a
conversion in my life; still, it seemed to me highly proper to
declare my feelings in the presence of Christians, that they might
give such instructions as were necessary to lead me into the right
way. With these views, I determined to rise and speak, though the
evil one whispered, “Not yet! not yet!” in my ears. Just as I stood
up, some one, not seeing me, began to sing; this, I took to be a
suitable excuse for further delay, and sat down, heartily wishing
that no one had seen me. Fortunately, my friend Dunham had witnessed
my movement. He requested them to stop singing, because a young man
wished to speak. Thus encouraged, I told them I was then nineteen
years of age, and it seemed to me too much of life to spend in sin;
that eternity was a solemn idea, and I desired them to tell me how
to prepare to enter upon it with joy. They proposed to pray with me.
We then all kneeled down together. Most fervently did they pray for
the divine blessing to rest on the stranger youth, bowed in penitence
before them, and most sincerely did I join my prayers with theirs
before the throne of God. After prayer, they sung the following
familiar lines, which I insert both for their intrinsic excellence,
and for the pleasantness of the associations connected with them in
my own mind.
“Alas, and did my Saviour bleed!
And did my Sovereign die!
Would he devote that sacred head,
For such a worm as I?
O the Lamb! the loving Lamb!
The Lamb on Calvary,
The Lamb that was slain,
Yet lives again,
To bleed and die for me.”
Although these words were very sweetly applied to my mind, I did not
feel any evidence of the favor of God that night. The next day, with
a strong purpose to live for eternity, I entered on my daily tasks.
Religion was the theme of my thoughts and discourse; during the day,
a sweet calm came over me; peace and joy filled my soul. It was the
pardoning love of God applied to my guilty spirit.
Ah! thought I, this must be religion; but desiring to be right, I
went to my employer and communicated my feelings to him. His reply
rather damped my joy. He was a moralist; morality, he said, was
all-sufficient to secure a man’s well being both in this life and
in that to come. This, however, did not satisfy my mind. To me it
seemed certain that genuine repentance, and a change of heart, were
all-essential to my happiness; and these, if not already mine, I
determined to possess.
The remarks and experience of the Methodists, at their prayer
meetings, were greatly blessed to my comfort. Gradually the light
broke; the day-star shone. Peace, like a river, filled my breast;
joy, as from an unfailing fountain, bubbled up within me; love
animated my affections; by day and by night I sang the praises
of God, and the society of Christ’s dear people seemed precious
indeed to my soul. I thought this sweet frame would last forever. I
determined it should, so far as my efforts were necessary for its
continuance. Alas! I knew not my own heart: a dreary wilderness state
was before me, and I, like many an unwary soul before me, heedlessly
stumbled into its gloomy shadows.
By a sudden change in the condition of my employer, I was led to
seek employment in Ashford. Here, in the shop of Mr. Giles Stebbins,
I was surrounded by many light-minded, trifling young men. Falling
into the same snare for which I had reproved a professor before I
was converted, my peace and calm were lost, every evidence darkened,
and the wretchedness of a backslider in heart filled my soul.
This apostacy lasted several months, when, through the love and
long-suffering of a gracious God, I was once more restored to a state
of salvation. Since that time, though I have not gained all that is
desirable, and that is offered in an abundant gospel, yet I have been
trying to stem the torrent of iniquity, which runs through the earth,
and striving to make my way to the port of Glory.
The next fall I walked eighteen miles to a camp-meeting in Thompson,
Conn., the first I had ever attended. Though the scene was novel, I
soon took a deep interest in the services; especially when informed
that a sailor was going to preach one evening. This sailor was
no other than the well-known Rev. E. T. Taylor.[28] His text was
in Philippians iv. 19: “But my God shall supply all your needs;”
which he handled in his usual happy and eccentric, powerful manner.
I had never before seen a religious sailor; to hear one preach,
therefore, in such forcible and effective style, was to me a source
of unutterable delight. Nor were the listening masses before the
stand, who hung with intense eagerness on his lips, less pleased than
myself. They broke out into loud expressions of praise to God for his
wonderful mercies. “This,” said the speaker, “is but a drop from a
bucket! What will it be when we drink from the mighty ocean itself?”
At this meeting I saw sinners yielding to Christ with tears of sacred
penitence, for the first time in my life. Never in all my life had a
spectacle more sublimely beautiful met my eye. I do not believe the
world affords a more grateful sight than that of a sinner weeping and
repenting before his Creator.
The parting scene of that meeting left an indelible impression on my
memory. Even now I see that affectionate company marching in regular
and joyful procession before the stand, each shaking hands, as he
passed, with the preachers. Still I feel the tears chasing each other
down my cheeks, as I grasped the hand of the sailor preacher so
firmly, that it seemed I should never let it go; while he, seeing my
emotion, observed, “Never mind, brother; we are on board of Zion’s
ship now.” I had stood tearless alike amidst the wailings of the
tempest and the roar of the battle, but here, among a few Christians
at a camp-meeting, my heart was soft as a woman’s, and my tears
flowed like rain. Does the reader inquire what made the difference? I
answer, it was the love of God.
When I returned home, one of my first acts was to unite myself with
the Methodist Episcopal church: an act which has led to the formation
of many pleasant friendships, and which has proved the source of much
religious enjoyment to my soul.
My mind often reverts, with a mixture of joy and sorrow, to the
fate of the three hundred men and boys who sailed with me in the
_Macedonian_, when I left England for the first time. Of these,
alas! how many perished in battle! The rest were scattered over the
four quarters of the globe. Beside myself, I never heard of but one
of them who embraced religion. This was John Wiskey, one of our
quartermasters. He settled in New London, and when he met in class,
for the first time, he said he blessed God he had got out of that
floating hell, the _Macedonian_. He afterwards removed to Catskill,
on the North River, where he maintained a good Christian reputation.
My shipmate, who received me so hospitably in Mansfield, became
unfortunate, lost his property, and died, but not before I had the
satisfaction of offering a prayer at his bedside.
The little fellow who escaped from the _Macedonian_ with me met
with a melancholy fate. This I learned one day from the following
paragraph in a newspaper: “Drowned, out of a pilot boat, off
Charleston Bar, Mr. James Day, one of the crew of His Britannic
Majesty’s late frigate _Macedonian_.” Thus have I been signally
favored--a brand plucked from the fire. For this special favor I hope
to render my heavenly Father the eternal tribute of a grateful heart.