JAMES RENFEW.
As they went along, Wilson, feigning fatigue, proposed that they should
sit down to rest, but his real motive was that, undisturbed by his
companions, he might observe this singular youth more at his leisure and
be the better able to form some more definite opinion in his own mind
respecting him.
After long contemplating the features and motions of Jim at his leisure,
Mr. Wilson came to the conclusion that there was no lack of sense, but
that discouragement, low living, absence of all hope for the future,
ignorance and being made a butt of, were the potent causes that had
reduced the lad to what he was; and that, under the influence of good
food and encouragement, he would rally and make an efficient laborer and
perhaps something more, and resolved to sift the matter to the bottom.
From the records of the workhouse he ascertained that the boy’s name was
James Renfew, that he was not born in the institution, but was brought
there with his mother, being at that time three years of age. The mother
was then in the last stages of disease, and in a few weeks died. He was
informed that the boy had been several times put out to different
farmers, who, after keeping him till after harvest, brought him back in
the fall to escape the cost of his maintenance in the winter.
Wilson mentioned what he had been told in respect to his character, to
which the governor replied it was all true, and that he should not be
afraid to trust him with untold gold, that he came and went as he
pleased; and when starved out, and not till then, he came to them and
was housed, fed and made welcome.
“Where did he get ideas in his head so different from those of workhouse
children in general?”
“I am sure I don’t know except they grew there. You seem to have a great
deal of curiosity about the history of Jim, there’s an old Scotchwoman
here, Grannie Brockton, who took care of his mother while she lived and
of the boy after her death; she’s a crabbed venomous old creature, deaf
as a haddock, but if she happens to be in a good mood and you can make
her hear, she can tell you the whole story.”
“I’ll find a way to make her agreeable.”
He found Grannie Brockton, who seeing a stranger approach, drew herself
up, put one hand to her ear, and with the other motioned the intruder
away.
Wilson, without a word, approached and laid a piece of silver on her
knee. This wrought an instantaneous change, turning briskly round she
pulled down the flap of her right ear (the best one) and said,—
“What’s your will wi’ me?”
“I want you to tell me all you know about James Renfew and his parents.”
“It’s Jeames Renfew ye want to speer about, and it’s my ain sel’ wha’
can tell you about him and his kith, and there’s na ither in this place
that can.”
The interrogator felt that the best method of getting at the matter was
to leave the old crone to her own discretion, and without further
questioning placed another small piece of silver in her lap.
“What countryman may ye be?”
“A Scotchman.”
“I kenned as much by the burr on your tongue; ay then, ye’ll mind when
the battle o’ Bannockburn was.”
“The battle of Bannockburn was fought on the twenty-fifth day of June.”
“True for ye. It was sixteen years ago Bannockburn day that this boy’s
mother was brought here sick, and this Jeames wi’ her a bairn about
three years old. A good woman she was too. I’m not a good woman, naebody
ca’s me a good woman, I dinna ca’ myself a good woman, but for all that
I know a good person when I see one.
“She had death in her face when she was brought in, would have been glad
to die, but her heart was breaking about the child to be left to the
tender mercies o’ the work’us.
“When she had been here little better than a week, a minister came to
see her; a young, a douce man. Oh, he was a heavenly man! She was so
rejoiced to see him, she kissed his hands and bathed them wi’ her hot
tears. She thanked him, and cried for joy. I could nae keep from
greeting my ain sel’.”
“Where was he from?”
“He was the curate of the parish where she used to live, was with her
husband when he was sick, and read the service at his funeral; and he
had christened this child, and aye been a friend to them.”
“She told me the parson o’ the parish was a feckless do-little, naebody
thought he had any grace; this curate did all the work and visited the
people, who almost worshipped him.”
“Did he come any more?”
“Ay, till she died, and then attended the burial. For four years after
her death he came three times a year to see the child, and would take
him on his knees and tell him stories out of the Bible and teach him the
Lord’s prayer. He made the child promise him that he would never lie,
nor swear, nor steal, and taught him a’ the commandments. He likewise
made me promise that I would hear him say the Lord’s prayer, when I put
him to bed, and that I would be kind to him. I did hear him say the
prayer, but I was never kind to him, for ‘tis not in my nature to be
kind to any body, but I used to beat him when he vexed me.”
“Who was this boy’s father?”
“He was a hedger and ditcher, and rented a small cottage, and grass for
a cow, in the parish where the curate lived. After his death, his widow
came to Liverpool, because she had a sister here who had saved money by
living at service, and they rented a house, and took boarders, and
washed and ironed; but her sister got married and went to Canada, and
she was taken sick, and came here to die.”
“What became of the curate?”
“He came here till the laddie was seven years auld, and then he came to
bid him good-by, because he was going to be chaplain in a man-of-war,
and the laddie grat as though his heart wad break.
“The curate gave him his mother’s Bible, but little good will it do him,
for he canna read a word, nor tell the Lord’s prayer when he sees it in
print.” Finding her visitor was about to leave, she said,—
“Mind, what ye have heard frae me is the truth, sin a’ body kens that
cross and cankered as auld Janet may be, she’s nae given to falsehood.”
The relation of auld Janet had stirred the conscience of Robert Wilson,
and probed his soul to its very depths.
“I cannot,” he said within himself, “leave the boy here. The curse of
that dying mother would fall on me if I did. He must come out of this
place. Let me see what can I do with him? Could I only hope to prevail
upon Bradford Whitman to take him—I know he hates the very sight of me
and of a redemptioner, but a friendless boy of this one’s character,
that I can get a certificate from the governor of the workhouse to
establish, might operate to move him, and he’s a jewel of a man. I’ll
try him. If I can do nothing with him, I’ll try Nevins or Conly, but
Whitman first of all. If none of them’ll keep him, you must take him
yourself, Robert Wilson; take him from here, at any rate.”
Mr. Wilson made his way back to the authorities, and said to them:—
“I’m taking some redemptioners to the States; if you’ll pay this boy’s
passage, I’ll take him off your hands, but you must put some decent
clothes on him.”
To this the chairman of the board replied: “We cannot do that. We will
let you have the boy and put some clothes on him, and that’s enough. You
make a good thing out of these men; you don’t have to advance anything,
the farmers pay their passage and pay you head-money.”
“Thank you for nothing, that’s not enough. The rest of my redemptioners
are able-bodied men used to farm-work, but this creature is but
nineteen, don’t know much of anything about farm-work; only fit to pick
oakum or break stones on the highway, and there’s none of that work to
be done in the States. He’ll be a hard customer to get rid of, for he
don’t seem to have hardly the breath of life in him; these Americans are
driving characters; they make business ache, and will say right off he’s
not worth his salt. I shall very likely have him thrown on my hands (if
indeed he don’t die before he gets there) for I have no order for any
boy.”
“You are very much mistaken, Mr. Wilson, that boy will lift you and your
load, will do more work than most men, is better fitted for a new
country than one who has been delicately brought up.”
“Mr. Governor, I have made you a fair offer. This boy has got a
settlement in this parish, and you cannot throw it off, so you will
always have him on your hands more or less. By and by he’ll marry some
one as poor as himself, and you’ll have a whole family on your hands for
twenty, perhaps fifty years. You know how that works, these paupers
marry and raise families on purpose, because they know they will then be
the more entitled to parish help. Give him up to me and pay his passage,
you are then rid of him forever and stop the whole thing just where it
is. I’ve told you what I’ll do. I won’t do anything different.”
After consultation the authorities consented to pay his passage and give
him second-hand but whole shoes, shirts, and stockings enough for a
shift, and a Scotch cap.
Mr. Wilson then took him into a Jew’s shop, pulled off his rags,
furnished him with breeches and upper garments, and put him on board the
brig.
Mr. Wilson was an old practitioner at the business of soul-driving. His
custom was to stop a week in Philadelphia in order to let his men
recover from the effects of the voyage, which at that day, in an
emigrant ship, was a terrible ordeal, for there were no laws to restrain
the cupidity of captains and owners. This delay answered a double
purpose, as his redemptioners made a better appearance, and were more
easily disposed of and at better prices. He also improved the
opportunity to send forward notices to his friends, the tavernkeepers,
stating the day on which he should be at their houses; and they in turn
notified the farmers in their vicinity, some of whom came out to receive
the men they had engaged, and others came to look at and trade with
Wilson for the men he might have brought on his own account, of whom he
sometimes had a number, and not infrequently his whole gang were brought
on speculation.
It was about nine o’clock on the morning of the second day after his
arrival in Philadelphia, and Mr. Wilson, having partaken of a bountiful
meal, was enjoying his brief rest in a most comfortable frame of mind.
He had good reason to congratulate himself, having safely passed through
the perils of the voyage, and, on the first day of his arrival disposed
to great advantage of the man he had brought at his own risk; the other
eleven were engaged, and the boy alone remained to be disposed of.
His cheerful reflections were disturbed by a cry of pain from the
door-yard, and James was brought in, the blood streaming from a long and
deep gash in his right leg.
The tavern-keeper asked him to cut some firewood, and the awkward
creature, who had never in his life handled any wood tool but an English
billhook, had struck the whole bit of the axe in his leg. The blood was
staunched, and a surgeon called to take some stitches, at which the boy
neither flinched nor manifested any concern.
The doctor and the crowd of idle onlookers, whom the mishap of James
drew together, had departed, the landlord had left the bar to attend to
his domestic concerns. Mr. Wilson, his serenity of mind effectually
broken, paced the floor with flushed face and rapid step, and talking to
himself.
“Had it been his neck, I wad nae hae cared,” he muttered (getting to his
Scotch as his passion rose) “here’s a doctor’s bill at the outset; and I
maun stay here on expense wi’ twelve men, or take him along in a wagon.
“I dinna ken, Rob Wilson, what ailed ye to meddle with the gauk for an
auld fool as ye are, but when I heard that cankered dame wi’ the tear in
her een tell how his mother felt on her deathbed, and a’ about the
minister taking sic pains wi’ him, it gaed me to think o’ my ain mither
and the pains she took tae sae little purpose wi’ me. I thocht it my
duty to befriend him and gi’ him a chance in some gude family, and
aiblins it might be considered above, and make up for some o’ thae hard
things I am whiles compelled in my business to do. I did wrang
altogether; a soul-driver has nae concern wi’ feelings, nor conscience
either. He canna’ afford it, Rob, he suld be made o’ whin-stone, or he
canna thrive by soul-driving.”
Mr. Wilson arrived in Lancaster county, within a few miles of the
residence of the Whitmans and their neighbors, the Nevins, Woods, and
Conlys, with only three redemptioners, who were already engaged to
farmers in the vicinity, and the boy Jim, who was so lame that he had
been obliged to take him along in a wagon.