OLD GIDEON.
TOM Adderley, for the first time in his life, had been forced to do
what he did not like. One way or another, he had generally had his own
way at home, and since he had gone to sea, all things had prospered
with him. All through his last voyage he had been looking forward to
his visit to Burdeck; wondering if Sam had married Jane Waters that
he was so sweet on; if little Dolly promised to be as pretty as her
poor mother; if old Dwight were still alive; if father would heartily
sanction his going to sea again (which he quite meant to do, anyhow);
above all, if mother would throw her arms round his neck, kiss his
brown face, and be proud of her sailor. Nay, he had even sent an
occasional thought in the direction of Lucy Trayner. Lucy must be quite
a woman now—would she have forgotten him? Ah, well! He would soon know.
And by thus thinking of home, he had begun to feel more real love for
his people than he had ever felt before; and added to this was the
pride of showing them how he had succeeded in life—how he could pay
thirty guineas for ten, and yet still have enough in hand to replenish
the box for his next voyage.
And they had been so nearly home, too. And no one had a right to make
a man-o'-war's man of him against his will. So, being thoroughly out
of temper and disgusted with his lot, Tom vowed that the king should
have a bad bargain of him; he would be as useless, troublesome, and
disobedient as he could be, without actually getting punished.
Well! He kept his word. No one knew what a smart sailor he really was,
and no one would have found it out from his proceedings now. He obeyed
orders, of course—he must indeed have been a reckless man who had
disobeyed orders on board a king's ship in those days, or, for that
matter, should try it in these, though flogging is no longer the order
of the day. But he did everything badly and slowly, and in a slovenly
way, causing Mr. Carteret to regret that he had been taken in by the
fellow's good looks, and Mr. Duncan, first lieutenant, to remark that
merchant captains seldom trained smart sailors.
"That fellow hasn't sense enough to coil a rope," one sailor said to
another, while watching Tom at work one day.
"Do you mean Tom Adderley?" cried Dick Carr, standing near. "Why, he's
the best sailor, all round, that ever I saw."
"Oh, very like, but you're another of the same kidney," was the reply.
"Carr's not a bad man," said Gideon Terlizzeck.
"I couldn't hold a candle to Tom," replied Carr, laughing.
"Did well enough aboard the 'Lively Polly,' or whatsoever you called
your old tub," said the first speaker. "But here, aboard the old
'Imogene,' he ain't up to the mark, that's plain."
Old Gideon walked away and stood thinking—about Tom.
"'Twould be a Christian deed to bring that poor lad to a better mind,"
said he to himself, "before he makes himself a bad name and gets
punished, 'and' takes to drink, as lads do sometimes when they're
crossed in love or the like."
So Gideon watched for an opportunity, and soon found one. Being on deck
one afternoon, he saw Tom, who was one of the men on duty, standing
alone, leaning over the taffrail, staring down into the water. Going
to his side, Gideon pulled out a couple of pieces of tobacco, and
said—just to start a conversation—
"We can't smoke here, Tom, but do you chew? Hev a bit, if so."
"I don't chew, nor yet smoke," Tom answered ungraciously.
"I smoke, but I allow it's wasteful," answered Gideon. "Still, I don't
mind. A man must have some little comforts, and I have none depending
on me."
Tom remained silent, keeping his shoulder turned to the speaker so as
to hide his face.
"When I were a youngster, Tom Adderley," said the old man, approaching
his subject in what he considered a most diplomatic and delicate
way, "it befell me, as it do befall a many, for to fall in love. And
although it came to nothing, seeing the lass took up with a soldier
while I were at sea, and I found her a married woman and the mother
of three when I got back, still it caused me a deal o' thought—an
uneasiness, a pining in myself for some one that I could talk to about
her. Ay, in all the troubles of life, a friend is a help and a comfort.
You go with me so far?"
"Oh yes," said Tom, carelessly.
"And you're in trouble. And why I don't know, but you don't seem to
take overmuch to your old messmates, Carr and Jones. So it did seem to
me as you might find a relief in talking to one as has known trouble
and knows the way out of it."
"There's no way out of mine," replied Tom.
"Is it a love affair, Tom?"
"Not it! I leave that balderdash to Dick Carr. No—and you can do
nothing for me, though I believe you mean kindly. I'd rather be left
alone."
"Well, if I must. But, Tom, I do truly know a cure for all troubles. If
it's not love, Tom—Have you a mother at home?"
The question was unexpected, and Tom was young and unhappy. He stood
quite still, with his back to Gideon, but his eyes filled, and a
strangled sob presently escaped him.
"Can't ye let me alone?" he growled. "See now, you've made a baby of
me—me, that's been a sailor these four years! Yes, I have a mother, as
good a mother as ever lived; and I was going home to her, when—Well,
never mind."
And Tom rubbed his eyes, and then put his hands into his pockets and
began whistling.
Gideon listened to the clear, sweet sounds, and said when they ceased—
"You've a sweet pipe, Tom; for all the world like a thrush. There was
one used to sing in an old elder-bush just over my mother's cottage,
away in Devonshire; and I do seem to hear that bird now, along o' you."
"There was thrushes in Burdeck, too," said Tom.
"Where's Burdeck? 'Your' place, I suppose. Is it in Cornwall?"
"I—don't rightly know," answered Tom. "It's ten days from Liverpool,
but maybe I didn't go the shortest way."
"Liverpool! Oh, I've been there," said Gideon. "Your ship belonged
there, I suppose?"
"She does. She's there by this, and—Ah, well, never mind."
"Four year at sea, and never saw your mother! It's hard to bear. But
we'll be going home—Plymouth, most like—and then you can work your
passage round to Liverpool, make sail for Burdeck, and—Eh, what's that
you say?"
"That I'll never go now."
Gideon stared. "Why so, mate?" said he.
Tom put his arms on the top rail of the taffrail, and laid his head
down on them.
"No use going now. I had my earnings, my savings—thirty golden
guineas!—to take to her; now they're at the bottom of the sea, they
tell me. No use going home now."
"Why, lad, you said your mother were a good woman!"
"Just as good a woman as ever lived," Tom replied.
"And yet you think she'd fail to welcome her son, because he brought
her no money? Well, I wouldn't expect that, even of a bad mother.
Mostly, they do love their sons."
"You don't understand," muttered Tom.
"I understand this much, Tom. When I went home from my first voyage,
my mother—she's in heaven these thirty years—just catched me in her
two arms and cried hearty. And 'twas not till next day that I so much
as gave a thought to the handful of money I had for her. And, you may
believe me, 'twould be the same with your mother."
"No, no; you don't know. Did your mother give consent to your being a
sailor?"
"'Course she did. Father had been a sailor, my brothers were sailors;
it runs in the family," said Gideon.
"But—mine didn't; nor yet father. We're inland folks. I ran away—if you
must know."
"And I'm sorry to know it, Tom. And so you worked and saved, thinking
to buy forgiveness? Oh, boy, it's never to be bought; you'd get it
free! Listen to this here."
He pulled out a small and shabby Bible.
"What! Can you read?" said Tom, full of admiration.
"A little, when I know what's coming. Luke fifteen—that's the place."
And, without further preface, he read the parable of the Prodigal Son.
But it had by no means the effect he expected. Tom listened
attentively, but his face grew red and his eyes full of scorn.
"And do ye think I'm going to do like he—a fellow as wasted his money,
and lived like a pig? I never did the like. No; till I can take mother
her golden guineas, I won't go anigh her. And since I lost them, I keep
thinking, thinking, she may be wanting them."
"She lent you money, then? I thought you ran away?"
"So I did. I—borrowed ten guineas she had saved. She lent Sam—that's my
brother—five or six to buy a horse and cart, and he paid her back. She
would have lent it to me, willing, for anything of that kind, but not
for going to sea to seek my fortune, because that's a thing our folk
don't understand. So I saved and worked for to pay her threefold, and I
had it—thirty golden guineas—in a canvas bag; and it was lost with my
kit when that everlasting booby, Dick Carr, wanted to drown himself,
and I wish I'd let him do it. My kit went in the kick-up—and that's all
about it."
Gideon looked at him sadly.
"Tom Adderley," said he, "I seem to see that you stole that money from
your mother?"
"I did 'not!' I borrowed it—without leave."
"Which is just stealing," said the old man. "And you thinking yourself
better than the son in the parable, who only spent what was his own!"
"Wasted it shameful," said Tom, "and I never wasted a penny. Kept it
all for mother. And now they tell me the mermaids has it. And never
will Burdeck see me any more. 'I'll' never go home, snivelling to be
forgiven."
"Truly then, Tom, you do need forgiveness as sorely as he, or any man,
ever did! And till you give up your wicked pride, and confess that
you've sinned, you're in a very bad way, Tom. And I'll pray for you, my
lad, for I misdoubt you don't pray for yourself."
"No," said Tom. "I used to, but I've forgotten how. It don't matter.
Praying won't give me back my gold."
"No, perhaps not, but it may make you content to lose it," said Gideon.
"All hands to shorten sail!" sang out Mr. Carteret at this moment.
And Tom, excited by this long talk, forgot to crawl unwillingly up the
rigging, and to handle the ropes as if they burnt his fingers. He was
one of the first on the yard, and did his work in splendid style, until
he saw Carr nudge one of the men and point at him. He relapsed into
stupidity and laziness at once.
But Mr. Carteret, watching the men at their work, could not fail to
perceive this little incident, and from that time Tom had really a
hard life of it. Of course, he deserved it. I am not defending him.
What Captain Egerton had said was perfectly true; every man is bound
to defend his country and to obey his king, and this was what Tom
was asked to do. But he was very ignorant, and the loss of his money
embittered him. Without being actually insubordinate or impertinent, he
was a most troublesome, uncomfortable sort of sailor.
Gideon Terlizzeck alone seemed inclined to befriend him, and for this
Tom was really grateful, though he never showed it. Gideon insisted
upon reading the Bible to him, and more than once asked him to join him
in prayer. But Tom kept up a sulky, distant air, and only seemed to
listen because he could not well help it.
But in his own mind, he wondered why a man like Gideon, a favourite
both with officers and men, should take so much trouble about a sulky
cub like himself. Tom used those very words—"a sulky cub;" he chose to
appear like a sulky cub, and no one could deny that he succeeded to
perfection.
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