TOM GOES TO SEA.
ALL that afternoon, as Tom hoed and thinned the growing crops in the
tiny garden, he was thinking over his difficulties, and determining
upon his future course of action.
Not determining to run away, that was already a settled thing. That
very night should see him on his way. But not to Hull. Reflecting
over what had passed between himself and old Dwight, Tom did not feel
satisfied with the conduct of that old humbug, and it struck him that
old Dwight would, perhaps, give his father a hint to search for him on
the Wakefield road, and might even mention Hull. Dwight had told him
that there was a great seaport town on "the other side," as Tom put
it, called Liverpool. It was further off, Dwight said, but even if he
walked the whole way, he would get there in time.
To walk he had no objection, but then he had no idea how long it would
take to get there, and to depend on twopence-worth of bread was not
to be thought of. Money "must" be had somehow. If he asked mother to
lend it, she would not only refuse, but she would tell his father all
about it. This would put an end to the whole thing, he would be so
well watched. To tell mother was out of the question. But when she saw
him back again with a pocketful of money, and dressed like the sailor
in Master Dwight's song-book—a volume out of which the old man had
taught the boy many a song—in blue jacket, loose trousers, blue cap,
and a knife with a twisted string to it, then she would forgive him,
no matter how he got the money, particularly as he would restore it to
her, and as much again as—well, as she had lent him.
To come back a sailor, with plenty of money and grand stories about
foreign countries, such as he had heard from Master Dwight, who,
however, had never seen foreign countries himself—this was the least
unlikely of Tom's visions concerning his future return home. To drive
up to his father's door in a grand coach with six horses and four
servants—such as Master Dwight had seen in London—to ask,—
"Does Master Adderley live here?"
And then, when father, mother, Sam, and little Dolly had all gazed with
respectful admiration at this wonderful apparition, to say,—
"Don't you know me? I'm Tom; and, mother, here's your money, and a lot
more—"
This also was among those foolish visions. And before you laugh at him
and say that no boy of fifteen could have been such a fool, remember
that Tom, though naturally a clever, active-minded fellow, was more
ignorant than any boy of fifteen in these days could well imagine.
The only school in Burdeck was kept by an old woman, who could read
(after a fashion), but who could not write at all. She kept the
smaller children out of their mothers' way for a couple of hours every
day; some of them learned their letters, some did not. Tom knew all
the letters, both capital and small, and that was literally all the
knowledge for which he was indebted to his school-days.
Things that we learn so early in life that I think some of us forget
that we did not know them by nature—that England is an island, for
instance, and what an island is; that all the world does not speak the
same language; that in some places it is very hot, and in others very
cold;—of all these common facts Tom was utterly ignorant, and very
ignorant people are very childish in their ideas. So you need not laugh
at poor Tom, who had bright, quick-working brains, and nothing for them
to work on.
Then, again, he had hardly any knowledge of religion. Things were in a
sad state in England then, and Burdeck, like many another place, had no
resident clergyman. The little old grey church was opened for service
every Sunday at four o'clock, a gentleman who had two other churches to
serve read the service and preached a short sermon. Mrs. Adderley was
a God-fearing woman, and lived up to her light—would that we all did
the same. She taught Tom that if he was good, he would go to heaven, if
bad, to hell; that it was wrong to lie or steal; and that he ought to
say "Our Father" every morning and every night—at night adding the old
lines about "Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John—" and she could teach him no
more, for she knew no more.
Well, to go back to Tom. He did not say to himself, in so many words,
"This night I'll open mother's hiding-place and take some of her golden
guineas." But, for all that, he had the thought in his mind, and
planned everything carefully. When night came, and he had been informed
that Farmer Bell would give him a few days' work gathering stones off a
field (Tom felt quite insulted), the family went to bed, and every one
was soon asleep. Every one but Tom, and he was particularly wide awake.
He waited a good long time. Comfortable snores resounded through the
house—Sam snored nearly as loudly as his father. Tom got up and dressed
himself, but did not put on his shoes. The moon was bright, and there
were neither shutters nor curtains to any of the windows, so that he
had plenty of light. He got out his small stock of clothing and made it
up into a neat bundle, which he tied up in a gay red handkerchief. Then
he ventured out into the kitchen.
On the top shelf of the dresser stood an old, old pot—so old that no
tinker would attempt the mending of it. In the pot there was a box, in
the box a cunningly tied up parcel, in the parcel a smaller box, and in
that box were "mother's golden guineas." There was no lock on either
box, Mrs. Adderley trusting for safety to the exceeding ingenuity of
her hiding-place. A worn-out iron pot! Who would think of searching in
it for her golden guineas?
Tom quietly and cautiously lifted a stout stool, placed it before the
dresser, and took down the pot. He descended carefully from the stool,
and placed the pot on the floor. Then he lifted off the lid. After a
pause, he removed the various coverings, until he came to the little
wooden box which formed as it were the kernel of this big nut.
"One might do," thought Tom, looking at the bright coins, "but then I
should be ever so much longer about making my fortune. It's better to
take—half. Yes, I'll take half. No, I'll take all! Mother won't mind my
taking all a bit more than if I take only half. It's only borrowing,
and when I pay it back double, as I mean to do, she'd rather get twenty
than only ten. Yes, but I do wish I could let her know that it's only
borrowing. It can't be helped; she'll know when I come back."
And Tom took the ten golden guineas; then suddenly put one back into
the box, muttering—
"I'll never 'say' I did that. I'll call it ten all the same."
Well, do you know, for some time Tom felt more surprised at his own
moderation in replacing one guinea than at his bad conduct in taking
the rest! Surely it is true that "the heart is deceitful."
He replaced the packings exactly as he found them, tied the money into
the corner of his neck-kerchief and hid it in his bosom, lifted the
pot to the old place, replaced the stool by the fire, and crept back
into his bedroom. Sam still slept profoundly. This was lucky, as Tom
had determined to leave the house by the little window just over his
own bed, as the house door creaked so much that to open it might be
dangerous. It was a very small window, but to judge by the ease and
quickness with which Tom, having first tossed out his bundle, crept
through and closed it from the outside, one might have been led to
conclude that it was not the first time he had used it as a means of
leaving the house. And indeed he had found it handy, in the apple
season.
In the morning, great was the commotion. Tom was gone; so were his
clothes. Adderley, poor dull good man, would never have remarked
the footprints under Tom's window, but Mrs. Adderley saw them. She
insisted on going to question old Dwight, who, however, gave her no
real help, for he remarked that no doubt the lad would make for Hull,
by Wakefield. Thomas Adderley lost a day's work by walking to Wakefield
to make inquiries. Tom had not gone by any coach; that, he thought, he
could feel sure of. And Mr. Trotter, the shopkeeper who bought Mrs.
Adderley's fruit and honey, promised to write to a cousin in Hull and
have inquiries made there. But, as we know, Tom had gone in quite the
other direction, and so, of course, nothing came of these efforts.
If Thomas lost a day's work looking for Tom, his wife lost many a
night's sleep thinking of him. But she did not discover the loss of her
golden guineas for some time. She never dreamed that Tom would touch
them.
If I were to recount all Tom's adventures on his journey, my space
would be full. So I must content myself with saying that he got on much
better than he deserved, and that he reached Liverpool safely. So far
was he from feeling sorry for his conduct, that he had never been so
happy in all his life. The world was so large, the people so amusing,
and every morning he was laying up knowledge and experience for future
use.
His natural shrewdness enabled him to behave prudently, and he
was fortunate in falling in with honest people when he arrived in
Liverpool. He asked a man who was painting some shutters in a small
street to tell him where he could get decent lodgings, and the man
pointed out a respectable place. The woman who managed this house took
a fancy to Tom's handsome face, and had many a talk with him. Finding
that he wished to go to sea, she introduced him to her cousin Peter
Robins, a man who had been a sailor all his life. Robins took the lad
to his captain, and finally Tom was transformed into "ship's boy" on
board the "Star of the Sea," commanded by Captain George Collins,
belonging to the great firm of Parker and Co., and trading to the West
Indies.
Tom was very fortunate in his captain; indeed, in everything he was
more fortunate than he knew himself at the time. Those were rough days;
and many terrible tales are told of the sufferings of ship's boys, and
even of full-grown sailors, whose captain chanced to be a bad, cruel
man. But Captain Collins was a good, even-tempered man, very particular
about his men, and very just in all his dealings with them. Some
merchant captains allowed their men to bring with them a few articles
to sell on their own account, at the various ports at which they
touched; and Captain Collins was one of these. Robins had made quite a
nice sum of money in this way; and when Tom confided to him that he had
a little money and wished to do the same, Robins gave him all the help
he could.
Tom became the happy proprietor of a little box filled with goods of
the most tempting description. Very much surprised was Tom when Robins
laughed heartily at his desire to "have a few warm woollen things for
the winter."
"There's no winter out there, Tom!"
"No winter? Mr. Robins, you're laughing at me."
"For all that, 'tis very true. It's never cold there, and those black
fellows cannot stand cold at all. Our cook died at Port Royal one
voyage, and the captain hired a free black man to fill his place,
promising to bring him back without charge next voyage. Well, he never
had to do that; poor Quashy—he had a name, but we called him Quashy—he
died a day or so after we landed. Just the cold—nothing else."
"Did you say 'black' people?" said Tom. "Not really black, for sure?"
"Black as my shoe; and they'll always buy crimson or yellow
handkerchiefs to wear on their heads."
"Well, I'm longing to be there," said Tom. And he paid for his goods,
but carefully concealed the rest of his money. However, Robins must
have perceived that he had some money left, for he presently said—
"Tom, you had no need to go to sea. Why are you going?"
"Oh, I want to see the world and make my fortune," replied Tom.
"Well, I've made up my mind to go on with Captain Collins till I have a
certain sum of money saved. Then I mean to buy a good boat—a Portsmouth
wherry, maybe—and—set up for myself. You'll be a smart sailor by that
time, Tom, and I like your looks. If you turn out as I expect, I'll
give you a chance of making a fortune as 'is' a fortune. Not only a few
guineas saved up, but—" and Robins made a gesture, flinging out both
arms to indicate the immense size of the fortune "he" meant to make.
Tom thought Mr. Robins a very nice man.
The "Star of the Sea" sailed the next day—one of a number of vessels
which were convoyed by three frigates and a few smaller armed ships.
Without such protection no ships ventured far out of port in those days
of war and plunder.
[Illustration]