THESE things happened in the spring of ’13, and the war with England
was in full swing. We thought that we knew a great deal about the war
at Eastcaster, but we really knew little or nothing of it.
The Philadelphia stage brought down the _Ledger_ from that town three
times a week, and Joseph Anderson, the teacher at the Friends’ school,
would read it aloud at the “Black Horse” tavern (it was the “Crown and
Angel” then) in the evening. A great many came to hear the news, and it
was said that the tavern did a driving business at the time; for, of
course, no one could come and sit there all evening and drink nothing.
The folks talked with great knowledge about the war; some of them so
wisely that it was a pity that poor President Madison did not have the
chance to hear them.
The truth of the matter was that Eastcaster was too far away from deep
water to feel the full heat and excitement of the trouble.
The part that interested Tom the most was the news that came now and
then of the great sea battles; that being the year that the noble old
_Constitution_ did her best fighting.
When Tom Granger came to Philadelphia, he found matters at a very
different pass from what they were in Eastcaster, for there was
talk just at that time of Commodore Beresford sailing up the river
to bombard the town; so Tom found the streets full of people and
everything in great fervent, as it had been for some time past.
Just outside of the town, the stage passed near to where two regiments
of militia were encamped—one of them not far from Grey’s Ferry.
The next morning after Tom came to Philadelphia, he called at the
office of old Mr. Nicholas Lovejoy, who was the owner of the ship in
which he had last sailed. It was the _Quaker City_, and Tom had had the
berth of third mate aboard her, which was a higher grade than he had
ever held up to that time.
Mr. Lovejoy, beside being the owner of two good ships himself, one of
which, Tom had reason to think, was then lying at the docks, had a
great deal of influence with other merchants and ship owners. He had
always been very friendly to Tom, and had said pleasant things of him
and to him more than once, so Tom had great hopes of getting a berth
through him without much loss of time.
His wish was to ship to the West Indies, if he could, as that did not
seem so far away from home.
Mr. Lovejoy was at his desk when Tom came into the office; a great
pile of letters and papers were in front of him, which he was busy in
looking over. He shook hands cordially with the young man and bade him
be seated. Tom told him what he wanted, and Mr. Lovejoy listened to him
very pleasantly. When he was done, the old gentleman said frankly that
there was a poor chance of his getting any berth just then, for that no
shipping was being done, the Delaware having been blockaded since the
first of the year.
Mr. Lovejoy did not know at that time that the blockade had been
raised, for it was not until a week or so afterward that the despatch
came to Philadelphia telling how Beresford had tried to land for water
at Lewestown, in Delaware, and not being able to do so, had given up
the whole business as an ill piece of work and had sailed away to the
Bermudas.
Mr. Lovejoy furthermore told Tom that there were three privateers being
fitted up at the docks, one of which was about ready to sail.
In those days there was a great deal of feeling against privateering,
and I cannot say that it was altogether ill-grounded, for some very
cloudy things were done by certain vessels that sailed under letters of
marque.
Mr. Lovejoy was a fine looking old gentleman, with a very red face and
very white hair, which was tied behind into a queue with a black silk
ribbon. He was never seen dressed in anything but plain black clothes
with bright silver buttons, black silk stockings and pumps. His frilled
shirt front stood out like a half moon and was stiffly starched and as
white as snow.
After Tom and he had talked a little while together, he arose, and
going to a closet in the side of the chimney place, brought out a
decanter of fine old sherry and two glasses, both of which he filled.
Tom Granger was not fond of wine, not from any conscientious feeling,
but because that the taste was not pleasant to him. Still, he took his
glass of wine and drank it too, for it is never well to decline favors
from men in power, like Mr. Nicholas Lovejoy.
After the old gentleman had finished his glass of wine, he drew out his
fine cambric handkerchief and wiped his lips.
“Tom,” said he.
“Sir,” said Tom.
“Why don’t you ship on board of a privateersman?”
“I couldn’t do it, sir,” said Tom.
“Why not?”
“Well, sir; it may sound very foolish of me to say so, but the truth is
that I don’t like the fighting.”
“Don’t like the fighting!” said Mr. Lovejoy, raising his eyebrows.
“Come, Tom, that won’t do. Why, when that junk attacked the _Quaker
City_ off Ceylon, there was not a man aboard that fought like you.
Captain Austin told me all about it, though you would never do so, and
I haven’t forgotten it. And now you pretend to tell me that you are
afraid.”
“No, sir,” said Tom Granger, very hot about the ears; “it ain’t that;
it’s the _kind_ of fighting that I don’t like. When such a junkfull of
coolies as that was came down on us, a man was bound to fight for his
own life and the lives (and more beside) of the women aboard, and there
was no great credit to him in doing it. If the worst came to the worst,
I wouldn’t so much mind entering the navy, but I don’t like the notion
of going out to run foul of some poor devil of a merchant captain, who,
maybe, has all of his fortune in his ship,—and that’s the truth sir.”
“But, Tom, the navy does the same thing.”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom, “but they do it for the sake of war, while
privateers go out for their own gain alone. I don’t see, sir, that they
are so very much better than pirates, except that they don’t do so much
murder and that the law allows them.”
At this, Mr. Lovejoy’s face began to grow a little bit redder than
usual. “Very well,” said he, getting up and standing with his back to
the fire, “suit yourself.”
By this Tom knew that it was intended for him to go, which he
accordingly did.
Just as he got to the door, Mr. Lovejoy spoke again: “Look’ee, Tom,
you are an able seaman,—none better. Think this matter over a little
more, and if you are inclined to go on a privateering cruise, after
all, I think that I may, perhaps, be able to get you a place aboard
of as tight a craft as ever floated on salt water, and, maybe, a
better berth than you ever had in your life before. There are some
fat pickings down toward the West Indies just now; I shouldn’t wonder
at all if, with the berth that I think I can get you, you would clear
a thousand or twelve hundred dollars in the first twelve months. Good
morning; come to-morrow and let me know what you decide on.” Then the
old gentleman seated himself at the desk and began to look over his
papers again, and Tom left him.
He went straight to his lodging-house (it was the old “Ship and
Anchor,” a great place for sailors in those days), and his mind was all
of a swirl and eddy like the waters astern.
It was a nasty, drizzly, muggy day, and Tom stood leaning on the
window-sill in the bar-room, trying to look out into the street through
the dirty, fly-specked window. The room was full of sailors, many of
them, no doubt, belonging to the privateers that were fitting out at
the docks, of which Mr. Lovejoy had spoken. There was a party of them
playing cards at a sloppy table that stood beside the bar. The day was
so dark with the rainy drizzle that they had a lighted candle amongst
them, so that they might be able to see the game. The room, hazy with
tobacco smoke, was full of the noise of loud talking and the air was
reeking with the heavy smell of hot liquors. But, Tom stood looking
out of the window, with his mind all of a toss and a tumble; for the
last words of old Nicholas Lovejoy sounded in his ears through all the
loud talking and foul words:—“I shouldn’t wonder if you would clear a
thousand or twelve hundred dollars in the first twelve months.”
At times they sounded so clearly that he could almost believe that they
were spoken by some one standing beside him. The more that the words
rang in his ears, the more he thought what a fool he had been in not
taking up with Mr. Lovejoy’s half offer. Why should he be squeamish? If
every one were so, things would come to a pretty pass, for the navy was
weak—in numbers—and the British were sending out their privateers all
over the ocean; and who was to fight them and protect our own shipping
if no one helped the navy?
So Tom argued within himself in the most reasonable way in the world,
for the temptation was very great.
As he stood thus, looking out of the window and seeing nothing, for his
eyes were turned within himself, some one suddenly smote him upon the
shoulder, and a voice roared in his ear, “Helloa, Tom Granger! where
are you bound?”
It was a voice that Tom Granger knew very well, for there could be no
other such in all of the world; it made one’s ears quiver, even when it
was softened somewhat to talking. So, even before Tom turned his head,
he knew that Jack Baldwin was standing behind him.
Jack Baldwin had been second mate of the _Quaker City_ on the voyage to
the East Indies.
Tom Granger never saw in all his life such another man as Jack
Baldwin. He stood nearly six feet and two inches in his stockings. His
hair and beard were black and curly, and his eyes were as black as two
beads. Tom once saw him pick up a mutinous sailor—a large and powerful
man—and shake him as you might shake a kitten. To be sure, he was in
a rage at the time. He was better dressed than Tom had ever seen him
before. There was something of a half naval smack about his toggery,
and, altogether, he looked sleek and prosperous,—very different from
what Jack ashore does as a rule.
Jack Baldwin saw that Tom Granger was looking him over. “I’m on the
crest of the wave now,” said he, in his great, deep voice, grinning as
he spoke. “Look’ee, Tom,” and he fetched up a gold eagle from out of
his breeches pocket. He spun it up into the air, and caught it in his
palm again as it fell. “There’s plenty more of the same kind where this
came from, Tom.”
“I wish that I only knew where the tree that they grow on is to be
found,” said Tom, ruefully.
“So you shall, my hearty. And do you want me to tell you where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Tom, you’re a loon!”
“Why so? Because I want to know where the tree grows where gold eagles
may be had for the picking?”
“You were at the place this very blessed morning, and might have
gathered a pocketful of the bright boys if you hadn’t run before a
little wind as though it was a hurricane.”
“What do you mean?” said Tom, though he half knew without the asking.
“That I’ll tell you—here, you, bring me a glass of hot brandy and
water; will you splice, Tom?”
“Not I.”
“I bring to mind that you were always called the Quaker aboard ship,
and the name fits you well. You will neither fight nor drink, without
you have to.”
So the grog was brought, and Jack Baldwin and Tom Granger sat down,
opposite to one another, at a rickety deal table.
Presently Jack leaned over and laid his hand on Tom’s arm. “Where do
you think I hail from, Tom?” said he.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll tell you: from old Nick, or old Lovejoy, or Davy
Jones,—whichever you choose to call him. I was with him not ten minutes
after you left. He sent me after you, to hunt you up; so I came
straight here, like a hot shot, for I knew I’d find you in the old
place. Sure enough, I’ve found you, and here we are,—shipmates both.”
“And what did you want of me?”
“That I’ll tell you. Tom,”—here he lowered his voice to a deep
rumble—“have you seen the _Nancy Hazlewood_?”
“No.”
“Well I’ll show her to you after a bit. She is lying in the river,
just below Smith’s Island. She’s the new privateer.”
Tom’s heart beat more quickly, but he only said, “Is she?”
“Who do you think’s the owner, Tom?”
“How should I know?”
“Old Lovejoy!” Here Jack raised his glass of grog, and took a long pull
at it, looking over the rim at Tom all the while. Tom was looking down,
picking hard at the corner of the table.
“I don’t see that this is any concern of mine,” he said, in a low voice.
“Don’t you? Well, I’ll tell you what concern it is of yours; I’m to be
first mate, and I want you to be second,—and now the murder’s out!”
Tom shook his head, but he said nothing.
Jack Baldwin slid his palm down, until it rested on the back of Tom’s
hand. “Look’ee, Tom Granger,” said he, roughly; “I like you. We’ve been
messmates more than once, and I don’t forget how you kept that yellow
coolie devil from jabbing his d—d snickershee into my back, over off
Ceylon. There’s no man in all the world that I’d as soon have for a
shipmate as you. Old Lovejoy, too;—he says that he must have you. He
knows very well that there isn’t a better seaman living than the one
that stands in Tom Granger’s shoes. Don’t be a fool! Go to the old man,
name your own figure, for he’ll close with you at any reasonable terms.”
So Jack talked and talked, and Tom listened and listened, and the
upshot of it was that he promised to go and see old Mr. Lovejoy again
the next morning.
You may easily guess how it all turned out, for when a man not only
finds that he is in temptation, but is willing to be there, he is
pretty sure to end by doing that which he knows is not right.
So Tom drank another glass of Mr. Lovejoy’s fine old sherry, the
old gentleman offered liberal terms, and the end of the matter was
that Tom promised to enter as second mate of the _Nancy Hazlewood_,
privateersman.
Tom Granger has always felt heartily ashamed of himself because of the
way that he acted in this matter. It is not that privateering was so
bad; I pass no judgment on that, and I know that there were many good
men in that branch of the service.
I have always held that a man is not necessarily wicked because he
does a bad action; he may not know that it is bad, and then, surely,
no blame can be laid to his account. But when he feels that a thing is
evil, he is wrong in doing it, whether it is evil or not.
Jack Baldwin did nothing wrong in going on this privateering cruise,
for he saw nothing wrong in it, but Tom Granger thought that it was
wrong, and yet did it; therefore he has always felt ashamed of himself.
In looking back, after all these years, it is hard to guess what
he expected would be the end of the matter. If he had come back in
a year’s time,—which he did not do,—and if he had brought home a
thousand dollars of prize money from a privateering cruise, I am very
much inclined to think that Elihu Penrose would hardly have judged that
it had been fairly earned.
Friends were very much more strict in their testimony against war then
than they are now. Numbers of young men went from here during the
rebellion, and nothing was thought of it. I myself had a grandson in
the navy;—he is a captain now.
As I said, Elihu Penrose would hardly have fancied Tom Granger’s way of
earning money, if it had been won in that way; as for what Patty would
have said and done,—I do not like to think of it.
However, it is no use trying to guess at the color of the chicks that
addled eggs might have hatched out, so I will push on with my story,
and tell how the _Nancy Hazlewood_ put to sea, and what befell her
there.