"Well, I deserved more than kicking, and you're a fine, brave fellow;
and if we get on board the Calliope again--and I trust to God we shall--
I'll take care to blow the trumpet for you as you deserve."
"I don't want any one to blow the trumpet for me," replied I.
"Don't you be proud; a good word from me may be of use to you and it's
what you deserve. The ship's company will think highly of you, I can
tell you. A good name is of no small value--a captain has found out
that before now; you're only a lad, but you're a regular trump, and the
seamen shall all know it, and the officers too."
"We must get on board the ship first," replied I, "and we are a long way
from it just now."
"We're all right, and I have no fear. If we don't see a vessel we shall
fetch the land somewhere before to-morrow morning, and it don't look as
if there would be any more bad weather. I wonder if they have sent
anything out to look after us?"
"What's that?" said I, pointing astern, "it's a sail of some kind."
"Yes," said Peggy, "so it is; it's a square-rigged vessel coming up the
Channel--we had better get on the other tack, and steer for her."
We wore the boat round and ran in the direction of the vessel; in three
hours we were close to her; I hailed her as she came down upon us but no
one appeared to hear us or see us, for she had lower studding-sails set,
and there was no one forward. We hailed again, and the vessel was now
within twenty yards, and we were right across her bows; a man came
forward, and cried out, "Starboard your helm," but not in sufficient
time to prevent the vessel from striking the wherry, and to stave her
quarter in; we dropped alongside as the wherry filled with water, and we
were hauled in by the seamen over the gunwale, just as she turned over
and floated away astern.
"Touch and go, my lad," said one of the seamen who had hauled me on
board.
"Why don't you keep a better look out?" said Peggy Pearson, shaking her
petticoats, which were wet up to the knees. "Paint eyes in the bows of
your brig, if you haven't any yourself. Now you've lost a boatful of
red-herrings, eggs, and soft tommy--no bad things after a long cruise;
we meant to have paid our passage with them--now you must take us for
nothing."
The master of the vessel, who was on deck, observed that I was in the
uniform of an officer. He asked me how it was we were found in such a
situation? I narrated what had passed in few words. He said that he
was from Cadiz bound to London, and that he would put us on shore at any
place up the river I would like, but that he could not lose the chance
of the fair wind to land me anywhere else.
I was too thankful to be landed anywhere; and telling him that I should
be very glad if he could put me on shore at Sheerness, which was the
nearest place to Chatham, I asked leave to turn into one of the cabin
bed-places, and was soon fast asleep.
I may as well here observe, that I had been seen by the sentry abaft to
go down by the stern ladder into the boat, and when the waterman came
back shortly afterwards to haul his boat up, and perceived that it had
gone adrift, there was much alarm on my account. It was too dark to
send a boat after us that night, but the next morning the case was
reported to the admiral of the port, who directed a cutter to get under
weigh and look for us.
The cutter had kept close in shore for the first day, and it was on the
morning after I was picked up by the brig, that, in standing more out,
she had fallen in with the wherry, bottom up. This satisfied them that
we had perished in the rough night, and it was so reported to the
port-admiral and to Captain Delmar, who had just come down from London.
I slept soundly till the next morning, when I found that the wind had
fallen and that it was nearly calm. Peggy Pearson was on deck; she had
washed herself and smoothed out with an iron the ribbons of her bonnet,
and was really a very handsome young woman.
"Mr Keene," said she, "I didn't know your name before you told it to
the skipper here; you're in a pretty scrape. I don't know what Jim
Pearson will say when you go back, running away with his wife as you
have done. Don't you think I had better go back first, and smooth
things over."
"Oh! you laugh now," replied I; "but you didn't laugh the night we went
adrift."
"Because it was no laughing matter. I owe my life to you, and if I had
been adrift by myself, I should never have put my foot on shore again.
Do you know," said she to me, very solemnly, "I've made a vow--yes, a
vow to Heaven, that I'll leave off drinking; and I only hope I may have
strength given me to keep it."
"Can you keep it?" said I.
"I think I can; for when I reflect that I might have gone to my account
in that state, I really feel a horror of liquor. If James would only
give it up, I'm sure I could. I swear that I never will bring him any
more on board--that's settled. He may scold me, he may beat me (I don't
think he would do that, for he never has yet); but let him do what he
pleases, I never will; and if he keeps sober because he hasn't the means
of getting tipsy, I am sure that I shall keep my vow. You don't know
how I hate myself; and although I'm merry, it's only to prevent my
sitting down and crying like a child at my folly and wickedness in
yielding to temptation."
"I little thought to hear this from you. When I was with you in the
boat, I thought you a very different person."
"A woman who drinks, Mr Keene, is lost to everything. I've often
thought of it, after I've become sober again. Five years ago I was the
best girl in the school. I was the monitor and wore a medal for good
conduct. I thought that I should be so happy with James; I loved him
so, and do so still. I knew that he was fond of liquor, but I never
thought that he would make me drink. I thought then that I should cure
him, and with the help of God I will now; not only him, but myself too."
And I will here state that Peggy Pearson, whose only fault was the
passion she had imbibed for drinking, did keep her vow; the difficulty
of which few can understand who have not been intemperate themselves;
and she not only continued sober herself, but by degrees broke her
husband of his similar propensity to liquor.
It was not till the evening of the fourth that we arrived at the Nore.
I had four pounds in my pocket at the time that I went adrift, which was
more than sufficient, even if I had not intended to go and see my
mother. A wherry came alongside, and Peggy Pearson and I stepped into
it, after I had thanked the captain, and given a sovereign to the seamen
to drink my health.
As soon as we landed at Sheerness I gave another of my sovereigns to
Peggy, and left her to find her way back to Portsmouth, while I walked
up to Chatham to my mother's house.
It was past eight o'clock and quite dark when I arrived; the shop was
closed, and the shutters up at the front door; so I went round to the
back to obtain admittance. The door was not fast, and I walked into the
little parlour without meeting with anybody. I heard somebody upstairs,
and I thought I heard sobbing; it then struck me that my supposed loss
might have been communicated to my mother. There was a light on the
parlour table, and I perceived an open letter lying near to it. I
looked at it; it was the handwriting of Captain Delmar. The candle
required snuffing; I raised the letter to the light that I might read
it, and read as follows:--
"MY DEAR ARABELLA:--
"You must prepare yourself for very melancholy tidings, and it is most
painful to me to be compelled to be the party who communicates them.
A dreadful accident has occurred, and indeed I feel most sincerely for
you. On the night of the 10th, Percival was in a boat which broke
adrift from the ship in a gale of wind; it was dark, and the fact not
known until too late to render any assistance.
"The next day a cutter was despatched by the admiral to look for the
boat, which must have been driven out to sea; there was a woman in the
boat as well as _our_ poor boy. Alas! I regret to say that the boat
was found bottom up, and there is no doubt but that _our_ dear child
has perished.
"You will believe me when I say that I deeply lament his loss; not
only on your account, but because I had become most partial to him for
his many good qualities, and often have I regretted that his peculiar
position prevented me from showing him openly that regard which, as
_his father_, I really felt for him.
"I know that I can say nothing that will alleviate your sufferings,
and yet I fain would, for you have been so true, and anxious to please
me in every point since our first acquaintance and intimacy, that
there is nothing that you do not deserve at my hands.
"Comfort yourself, dear Arabella, as well as you can with the
reflection that it has been the will of Heaven, to whose decrees we
must submit with resignation. I am deeply suffering myself; for, had
he lived, I swear to you that I intended to do much more for him than
ever I had promised you. He would have made a good and gallant sailor
had it pleased Heaven to spare him, and you would have been proud of
him; but it has been decided otherwise, and we must bow in obedience
to His will. God bless you, and support you in your afflictions, and
believe me still,
"Yours, most sincerely and faithfully,
"PERCIVAL DELMAR."
"Then it is so," thought I; "here I have it under his own hand." I
immediately folded up the letter, and put it into my bosom. "You and I
never part, that is certain," murmured I. I had almost lost my breath
from emotion, and I sat down to recover myself. After a minute or two I
pulled the letter out and read it over again. "And he is my father, and
he loves me, but dare not show it, and he intended to do more for me
than even he had promised my mother."
I folded up the letter, kissed it fervently, and replaced it in my
bosom. "Now," thought I, "what shall I do? This letter will be
required of me by my mother, but never shall she get it; not tears, nor
threats, nor entreaties shall ever induce me to part with it. What
shall I do? Nobody has seen me--nobody knows that I have been here. I
will go directly and join my ship; yes, that will be my best plan."
I was so occupied with my own reverie, that I did not perceive a
footstep on the stairs, until the party was so far down that I could not
retreat. I thought to hide myself. I knew by the list shoes that it
must be my grandmother. A moment of reflection. I blew out the light
on the table, and put myself in an attitude: one arm raised aloft, the
other extended from my body, and with my mouth wide open and my eyes
fixed, I awaited her approach. She came in--saw me--uttered a fearful
shriek, and fell senseless on the floor; the candle in her hand was
extinguished in the fall: I stepped over her body; and darting out into
the back-yard, gained the door, and was in the street in a minute.