ADVENTURES ON THE ROAD.--WELCOMED AT HOME.--CONFESS MY LOVE FOR THE
LITTLE REBEL.--TOM'S GRIEF FOR HIS MOTHER'S DEATH.--HEAR OF CAPTAIN
COOK'S DEATH.--VISIT TO LONDON.--THE GORDON RIOTS.--ENCOUNTER WITH THE
MOB.--SAVE AN OLD GENTLEMAN IN HIS CARRIAGE.--GIVE HIM MY NAME.--WONDER
WHO HE CAN BE.--JOIN THE CHARON, CAPTAIN THOMAS SYMONDS.--SAIL FOR WEST
INDIES.
Seldom, I suspect, have two rough-looking subjects made their appearance
at an inn in the great City of London than Tom Rockets and I must have
seemed when we arrived there by the Deal heavy coach on the evening of
the 22nd of March, 1780. Our faces were of the colour of dark copper,
and our beards were as rough and thick as holly bushes, while Tom
sported a pig-tail and love-locks, which he flattered himself would
prove the admiration of all the belles in his native village. They, at
all events, drew forth not a few remarks from the little errand-boys in
the streets of London, as we heard such remarks as, "There go two sea
monsters!" "Where can those niggers have come from?" "Look there, at
that sailor man with a bit of a cable fastened on to his pole!" More
than once Tom turned to try and catch hold one of the little jackanapes,
but he was off so fast down some lane or other that even Tom could not
overtake him. I advised him to give up the attempt, and to take their
impertinence coolly. I kept Tom by me wherever I went, for I felt
pretty certain that, should I once lose sight of him, he might never
find his way back to me.
I cannot stop to describe all the sights we saw, and the places we
visited in the mighty metropolis. The town was talking a great deal of
a duel which had taken place the very morning of our arrival in Hyde
Park between Lord Shelbourne and Colonel Fullerton. The quarrel was
about some reflection which the latter gentleman had cast upon his
lordship. On the second shot the colonel hit Lord Shelbourne, who fell
to the ground, but the wound was not considered dangerous. I bethought
me of the duel I had fought when I was a boy, and that these two great
people were very little wiser than I was then.
As soon as we could get places in the old coach we started for Falmouth,
intending to visit the remainder of the sights on our way back to the
ship. Away we rumbled, one fine morning, on board the big coach, as Tom
called it, with a guard behind well armed with a huge blunderbuss and a
brace of horse pistols. We stopped to change horses at an inn about
thirty miles from London. A long line of horses, with packs on their
backs, were collected in front of the stables to be watered. Twenty men
or so were lounging about, apparently belonging to them. Presently
there was a cry of, "The Custom-house officers! the Custom-house
officers!" The men ran up from all directions, unloosed the halters,
leaped on the backs of some saddle-horses standing ready, and the whole
party began to move along the road. They had not gone many yards when
another party of horsemen were seen galloping up from the direction in
which they were going. The smugglers--for such the guard told us they
were--turned round and dashed by us, but they were again met by another
party of Custom-house officers. Swords were drawn, pistols were fired,
the bullets came flying about the coach, greatly to the alarm of some of
the passengers, who cried out and begged the combatants to desist. Our
horses kicked and plunged, and nearly upset the coach. Tom and I could
not help wishing to join the skirmish, and had jumped off for the
purpose, though I had scarcely made up my mind with which party to side,
when some of the smugglers threw down their arms and cried peccavi,
while the rest tried to escape across the country over the hedges and
ditches. Some were caught, but several effected their escape. I was
well satisfied, when I had time to reflect on the matter, that I had not
had time to mix in the affray. Altogether, thirty horses were captured,
as were several of the smugglers, some of whom were wounded, as were
five or six of the horses. We were, when passing through Devonshire,
attacked by a party of highwaymen, but they, finding several armed men
on the top of the coach who did not look as if we would stand any
nonsense, thought it was wiser not to make any further attempt at
robbing us. These trifling circumstances were the only events which
occurred to us worthy of notice till we reached Falmouth. Tom
accompanied me to my father's house, for I wanted to show him to them
all, and also to ascertain whether his mother was living before I let
him go home. We had been so long without hearing that I could not tell
what might have occurred during our absence; my knees positively
trembled as I approached the dear old red-brick house, and I felt as if
I could scarcely walk up the flight of stone steps in front of it. The
door was open. A little child was playing on the steps, and when he saw
us he ran into the house, crying out--
"Oh, Grannie, Grannie! dear me, dear me! there are two big ugly
blackamoors a-coming!"
Tom made a face, and looked at himself as if he did not much like the
compliment, though he might have felt he deserved it. I should have
caught up the little fellow and kissed him heartily, for I guessed that
he must be one of my dear sister Mary's children, and the first kindred
thing I had seen for many a long year. The cry brought out a neat, trim
old lady, in a mob cap. She gave me an inquiring glance through her
spectacles, and then, hurrying forward, caught me in her arms and kissed
me again and again on both cheeks in spite of my huge beard and
whiskers.
"My boy, my boy! you've came back at last to your old father and mother,
bless Heaven far it?" she exclaimed, holding me at arms' length to
examine my features, and then drawing me to her again. Tom pulled off
his hat, and scraped his feet, and hitched up his trousers, and looked
as if he expected to receive a similar welcome. Poor fellow! his heart
yearned, I dare say, to have the arms of his own old mother round his
neck. My mother looked at him to inquire who he was, and when I told
her, an expression of sorrow crossed over her features, and I too truly
guessed that she had some sad tidings for him. She, however, summoned a
maid-servant, to whom she whispered a few words, and then told her to
take him into the kitchen and make him comfortable. My father was out,
but while I was sitting in the parlour I heard him come in. My mother
went out to tell him that I had arrived, and he came hurrying in with
steps far more tottering than was formerly his wont. He wrung my hand
with both of his for more than a minute. From the tremulous motion of
his fingers, and the tone of his voice and his general appearance, with
sorrow I observed that he was much broken and aged. Still his playful
humour had not deserted him, and he soon began to amuse himself by
cutting jokes on my swarthy features and unshorn visage. Mary's little
boy, Jack, in a very short time, became perfectly reconciled to my
looks, and came and sat on my knee and let me dance him and ride him,
and listened eagerly to the songs I sang him and the stories I told.
Though I had not had a child in my hands for I don't know how many
years, it all came naturally, and the little chap and I became great
friends. Only my sister Jane, the one just above me in age, was at
home. All my brothers were scattered about, some in England, others in
different parts of the world seeking their fortunes. I was in a great
hurry to talk to Jane about Madeline. I knew that she would sympathise
with me. I had not written home a word about her, for I knew that it
would never do to say that I had fallen in love with the daughter of a
rebel, as my feelings and motives and reasons would not fail to be
misunderstood. I thought that I would first interest Jane, and then
that we could win over my mother to listen to what we had to say, and
then that my father would easily be brought round. Of course I knew
that two important events must occur before anything I could say or do
would be of any use. The abominable war between England and the United
States must cease, and I must become possessed of a competence to
support a wife as I felt Madeline ought to be supported.
I had not been long in the house before the news of my arrival had
spread among our friends and neighbours. Many came in to see the
long-absent sailor, as the ladies called me, and some to inquire about
their relatives, my old shipmates and comrades. Of too many, unhappily,
I could give but a bad account. Some had died of fever, others had been
killed fighting with the enemy, and many, knocked up by hard work and
disease, would, I thought, never return, or, if they found their way
home, it would be but to die. I tried, however, to make the best of all
the accounts I had to give, but I strained my conscience not a little a
times to do so. This was a moral cowardice, I own. I could not stand
the tears and sorrowful faces of friends when I would have wished to
have had smiles and laughter. Still there can be no doubt that the
truth should be spoken on all occasions, and I should, at every cost,
have had it out at once. After all, the worst was to have to tell poor
Tom that his mother was dead. For the life of me I could not do it, so
I got Jane to go and break the sad news to him. I knew that the good
girl would do it as gently as it could be done. She screwed up her
courage, and went into the kitchen and sat down, and began to tell him
how she was always talking of him, and hoping that he was a good lad,
and then how ill she had been. At last Tom got up--
"Oh, Miss Jane!" said he, almost choking, "I know by your looks what you
are going to tell me. Bless you for your kindness. The old lady has
gone to heaven; that's it, I know. She was a good mother to me, and I
don't care who knows, I would sooner by half have died myself. Bless
you, miss! Bless you, miss!"
Then Tom sat down, and, putting his hands on the kitchen table, hid his
face in them, and by the working of his brawny shoulders I knew how much
he was affected. We left him to the care of our old cook, Betsy
Treggle, who, we knew, could minister to his sorrow better than we
could, and returned into the parlour.
"Sailors have got hearts, I see," observed my mother.
"I should think so, mother," said I; "the sea does not wash them away;
and yet there isn't a braver fellow ever stepped the deck of a ship than
the same Tom Rockets, who seems to be almost pumping his heart out
yonder."
Then I gave them all an account of his adventure at the taking of San
Fernando D'Omoa, when he handed the Spanish officer a cutlass to fight
with him. In the first few days I was at home I was made more of than I
ever had been before in my life. Tom stayed on with us. He had now no
home to go to--no friends for whom he cared. He recovered his spirits
and became as great a lion among his class as I was among mine--indeed,
I suspect a far greater, as he made more than I could of all the
adventures he had gone through, and was eager to tell about. The days
passed by very pleasantly, but I felt a weight oppressing me, and could
not rest till I had unburdened my mind to Jane about Madeline early on.
At last I got her alone quietly, and told her all that had happened from
beginning to end, and all my hopes and fears and wishes. She listened
attentively. Her countenance changed its expression frequently as I
went on. I looked at her earnestly to try and discover what she
thought.
"Oh, brother," she exclaimed at last, "I doubt not that she is a dear
charming girl. I doubt not that you love her, and that she is deserving
of your love, but she is the daughter of a rebel. She is living among
rebels; she will not leave them; but for you to go to them, to wed with
her would assuredly bring dishonour and disgrace upon your name."
"Why, Jane, I did not expect you to speak thus," I exclaimed. "You are
hard upon me. I would not wish to go and live with rebels; but the
Americans will not be rebels much longer. We are pressing them hard by
land and sea, and they will soon come to terms. If they do not give in
I think we shall give up, for everybody is heartily sick of the war.
Nobody is gaining anything, and everybody is losing by it. Fighting the
French and the Spaniards is a very different thing. Everybody feels
that. It's all natural, you know."
"I'm sure that I shall be glad to hear that the war is over," said Jane,
with a sigh, "but surely the Americans must be very wicked people to
behave as they have done to their lawful sovereign King George."
"They say that he has been a very ill-advised King to behave as he has
done to them," I replied. "You see, dear Jane, that there are two sides
to every question; but do not let us discuss that matter just now.
You'll say that, for the sake of Madeline Carlyon, I am siding too much
with the Americans, but that is not the reason. I have been on the
spot. I know the feelings of both sides. I have seen how things have
been managed. I am sure the war can bring no honour or profit to
England, and I heartily wish that it was ended one way or the other."
"So do I, brother, believe me," said Jane warmly; "and then, if Miss
Carlyon is all you describe her, I for one will cordially welcome her as
a sister if you can persuade her to come over here to visit our kith and
kin."