Poll-Higgamy; but, Lord love you! it’s all a cheat, d’ye mind; for
instead of having one Poll, they marry twenty; and only to go for to
think of a man having twenty wives! Howsomever, it’s all a matter of
fact; nay, some have more, and our parson used to read about Solomon
having hundreds! How a solo-man like Solomon could manage to keep ’em
all to their tethers in working ship, I can’t think for the life o’me;
but he was a wise man, and understood all manner of tongues, and so,
mayhap, he had a way of his own. Pretty dears! one’s enough in England.
But I’ve seen ’em, in the hour of peril, in the day of battle and the
storm, conquer all the weakness of their natur, and display such cool
fortitude, such heroic devotion to their husbands, as would astonish
you.
“There was poor Joe Kelson, in the old Sandwich, under Rodney, had his
wife on board when they engaged the French fleet off Martinique. She
was a timid, delicate little body, one who had been tenderly brought
up; yet she left all the luxuries of the shore, a father’s house and a
mother’s love, to brave the dangers of the ocean and share a piece of
salt junk and a biscuit with the being she loved. Ah, I can remember
her looks the morning of the action, while we stood at breakfast!
Her face was pale and her quivering lip and tearful eye told all the
anguish of her soul. Joe tried to comfort her, but ’twas useless: he
talked of honour and of glory; but what was honour and glory to a
fainting spirit? Her heart was overwhelmed, and when she came afterward
to his quarters on the lower deck, she could hardly support her
trembling frame. It was just about noon, and she brought him a bit of
dinner: they sat down upon the gun-trucks; but neither of ’em could
eat, and it was a hard task upon poor Joe to preserve his firmness. All
hands pitied them; and when they parted for the last time, there was
scarce a dry eye at the gun.
“Well, d’ye see, about half an hour afterwards we began to engage;
but there were cowards in the fleet, rank cowards, and the admiral
wasn’t properly supported; so the old Sandwich bore the brunt of the
battle, and hot enough it was, too; many a poor fellow dropt his peak
and bore up, and as is customary, were directly launched out at the
port. At last, poor Joe received a mortal wound that stretched him on
the deck. We lifted him up in our arms to carry him to the surgeons
in the cock-pit; but he opened his eyes, tried to speak, then gave
one convulsive shudder as the last death-pang parted soul and body,
and his mortal agonies were over. We stood for the port to give him a
sailor’s grave; when, just at this moment, his wife appeared close to
us. She had suffered all the tortures of suspense, till apprehension
and anxiety for her husband’s safety overcame every fear, and she stood
at our sides. The body was half out, and perhaps she would not have
recognised it but for her own handkerchief, which she had tied round
his neck. We all looked at each other, and then at her, undetermined
what to do. She stopped for an instant, and gazed at the face of her
husband, as if trying to trace the features; her eye caught the token
on his breast; she sprung forward,--but ’twas too late--the body of
poor Joe was already in the ocean-wave.
“A wild and piercing shriek followed. She ran to the spot, and would
have shared his grave, but was forcibly withheld. She looked at the
dark waters, and then tried to catch a view through the thick smoke
at the enemy’s fleet. It cleared a little; she saw the French ships
to leeward, and her spirit seemed to rise above the noise and din of
battle. The roaring of the guns, the rattling of the tackles, and the
flashes of the powder,--above all, a feeling of revenge, instead of
crushing her delicate frame, appeared to change every operation of her
heart. She watched us for some time, and no entreaty could prevail on
her to go below; till, at last, she inquired what was her husband’s
particular station; and having ascertained it, she instantly supplied
his place, and, with undaunted determination, bravely continued to
fight at the same gun during the remainder of the action. Nor was this
all; for, with the tenderness of a female bosom, she sat up with the
wounded, attended to their wants, soothed their complainings, and tried
to forget her own sorrows by relieving theirs. The brave Rodney, you
may depend upon it, didn’t forget her; and I heard that he obtained a
handsome pension to support her.
“There was Mrs. R--, the captain’s wife of the L---- frigate; though
for the matter o’that, _she_ was captain, although only rated as mate.
Ah, that was an Irish ship; captain Irish,--officers Irish,--men Irish;
the ship’s name ought to have been Pat. She dearly loved her lads,--her
boys, as she called them,--particularly Mr. O’Shaughnessy, the
first-lieutenant, though the midshipmen knew pretty well how to get
the weather-gage of her, especially when their case was in a pitiable
condition, ‘showing a beggarly account of empty bottles.’ She was a
lady, every inch of her, and used to come round the mess-deck morning,
noon, and night, to see that all hands were comfortable and happy. If
any body wanted liberty, it was only spinning a yarn to the petticoat
captain, and they had it directly. Well, d’ye see, we had orders to
sail; and so, to the great grief of all hands, Mrs. R. was obliged to
leave us, with a heavy heart and a sorrowful countenance. ‘But never
mind, boys,’ says she; ‘may be you’ll come back some day; and then,
oh!--good bye to you, my boys, and stand by your captain to the last,
like Erin’s own sons. Remember, Irishmen must never lose their laurel!’
And so we gave her three cheers as she went over the side.
“Well, after several months’ absence on a long cruise, we once more
reached Spithead, and in a day or two a pretty little yacht came
working in from St. Helen’s to the anchorage. The officers got their
glasses, and word was soon passed that our friend Mrs. R. was on board
of her. All hands crowded on deck,--not an officer or man remained
below. The captain took his station on the quarter-deck abaft, the
officers, especially the midshipmen, were more in advance, while at the
gangway stood the old master-at-arms, Michael Malone.
“Mich was a perfect original,--neither sailor nor sodger,--but a
strict disciplinarian, as all the boys in the ship could testify. He
was, in fact, the very squint-essence of an Irishman. On nine hairs of
his head was stuck a little trencher-like hat, with a roof not much
bigger than half-a-crown. Behind projected a tail-piece that would
have puzzled Hogarth. It was about nine inches long, and stretched out
from the neck in a horrorzontal direction, like a tiller shipped the
wrong way. His jacket, was of a sandy-gray-russet, embellished with
ornamental designs of all colours and shapes. Huge pockets, well filled
with rolls of paper, were prominent features, his trousers, (barring
the breaches) well patched with corderoy, and his legs were sometimes
cased in leather, that had formerly been a pair of military boots;
but now, by continual cobbling, had lost their prime-itive shape and
looked like a couple of fire-buckets. His countenance was open; for he
had a marvellous mouth, that stretched as wide as a turnpike-gate; and
his nose hung dangling down, as if to see that nothing passed through
without paying toll. But for his eyes, he had a pair of odd ones, that
gave you the most agreeable squint in the world, and made him see two
ways at once. Many a poor boy has got thrashed for quizzing him,
thinking he was looking another way.
“Well there old Mich stood, adjusting his cravat with the utmost
gravity, when Mrs. R---- came over the side. Of course every body
expected she would have walked aft to the captain; but her delight was
so great, that she no sooner got upon the deck than she caught old
Mich (being nearest) round the neck, and began kissing him like fury.
Mich, equally pleased, returned her embrace with interest, to the great
amusement of every soul, fore-and-aft. ‘Oh, my boys,--my boys,’ says
she, as soon as Mich let her get breath; ‘joy to the hour that I see
you again! Arrah! R---- dear, sure, and I’m so happy!’--So catching the
captain in her arms, she gave full evidence of the fact.
“The officers wiped their mouths and smacked their lips, expecting it
would go round, and were anticipating the salute of her sweet kiss, for
she was really a beautiful woman; but they were disappointed; for the
first moment of exquisite feeling having subsided, she became sensible
of what had passed. Howsomever, the captain laughed heartily, and
old Mich looked as if he was ready for a second edition. Mrs. R----
called him and apologized for her conduct, blushing all the time most
glowingly. ‘Och!’ says she, ‘my joy was so great that I couldn’t help
it!’
“‘Be aisey, my lady, be aisey,’ says Mich: ‘I’d do the same for your
ladyship any day, and every day. Sure didn’t I have the best of it,
then? Faith, and I did, any how; for I gave you two for one. Oh, don’t
mention it, my lady.’
“Well, and all hands had an extra allowance of grog, and Mich declared
that ’twas the happiest day of his life; for her ladyship’s two-lips
were like full-blown roses, moistened with dews; and but for his ugly
nose, that came in the way, he would have had half a dozen more.”
* * * * *
The afternoon having by this time drawn pretty well to a close, I
rose; and having said a few words expressive of the pleasure I had
experienced in their society, with a promise to pay them another visit
before long, I took my departure amidst the hearty cheers of the old
men; and if their blessings can have any influence in smoothing the
path of life, mine would be smooth indeed.
TOM BROOKES.
No cannon peal’d his knell,
No shout that gain’d the day,
Gave his frail spirit one farewell,
To waft it on its way.
He rush’d all life into the wave,
And found at once his death and grave!
’Twas in the days of my boyhood, and though since that time many years
have rolled their burdens on my head,--years that, like billows on the
sand, have smoothed the traces which memory once had made, yet I can
remember the circumstances as if it was but yesterday and the tears
still wet upon my cheek; for I had known Tom Brookes from my infancy,
and he had often brought me home some curiosity from distant lands,
where the cedar and the pine-tree grow in rich luxuriance. Indeed it
was his tales of the ocean, when the spreading sail was filled to waft
the gallant ship to foreign climes, that first excited my desires to
become a sailor.
Poor Tom had been brought up in expectation of a genteel fortune,
and had been educated most scrupulously to revere a rigid sense of
virtue, and to maintain that independency of spirit, which can only
be fully appreciated by a noble mind. But ah! how soon can adversity
cloud the fairest prospects! And here it came, not like the rising
gale that gives a timely warning of its approach; no, it resembled the
wild tornado, bursting with sudden vengeance on its victim, without a
moment’s space to tell that death rides on the blast.
His father was ruined by an unforeseen reverse in trade; he could not
stand against the shock, and he sank broken-hearted to the grave,
leaving a widow and one child to mourn the unexpected change in their
prosperity, but still more to grieve for him who could never return
again.
Mrs. Brookes had a brother, who had been nearly all his life at
sea; and to him poor Tom was consigned, to brave the perils of the
briny deep. “Don’t cry, mother,” he exclaimed at the parting, “don’t
cry; I shall soon come back, and be enabled to provide for your
support. Providence may smile upon us yet, and your last days be your
best.”--“Go, my child,” replied the mother, whilst her heart swelled
almost to bursting, “go, my child; I will resign you to the merciful
care of that Being who is a father to the fatherless, and the widow’s
God and Judge.”
After his departure, poor Tom received one letter from his mother
before he sailed. It inculcated all the moral and religious duties;
requested him to peruse his bible, and near the close were the
following lines, which he committed to memory; and in after years, when
an infant sitting on his knee, he repeated them to me so often, that
they became deeply impressed upon my mind:--
TO MY SAILOR BOY.
“When sailing on the ocean,
In foreign climes you roam,
Oh, think with fond emotion,
upon your distant home;
And never strive to smother,
But treasure up with joy,
Remembrance of a mother,
Who loves her Sailor Boy.
When thunders loud are roaring,
And vivid lightning flies,
The rain in torrents pouring,
Sleep will depart my eyes;
Tears will bedew my pillow,
You all my thoughts employ,
Tossed on the angry billow
A little Sailor Boy.
Kind Providence protect you,
And bring you back again;
Your mother will expect you,
Safe from the troubled main.
No, Heaven will not distress me,
The widow’s hope destroy;
Return once more to bless me,
My little Sailor Boy.”
In the course of a few years, Tom became mate of a fine ship in the
merchants’ service, and his efforts seemed crowned with success.
He enjoyed the sweet satisfaction of seeing his mother comfortably
situated, and his heart whispered it was the reward of virtue.
But who can arraign the will of Heaven, or say to Omnipotence, “What
doest thou?” War with all its attendant horrors broke out, and the
cruel system of impressment was adopted for the purpose of manning our
fleets.
At this critical juncture, Tom received information that his parent was
rapidly hastening to the mansions of immortality,--“where the wicked
cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” He had recently
arrived in England full of joyous anticipation; but he found the
silver cord of existence was loosened, and the golden bowl dashed from
his lips:--he reached his home just time enough to receive the last
farewell benediction of his dying mother.
Before the earth had closed over the remains of his parent,--before she
had become mingled with the clods of the valley, the press-gangs were
actively on the alert, and poor Tom fell into their hands. No time was
allowed to lay his mother in the silent grave;--he kissed the clay-cold
bosom on which he had hung in infancy, and with stern serenity yielded
himself a prisoner. He loved his country, and would not have shrunk
from its service in the hour of battle; but at such a moment to be
forced away!--it was draining the cup of anguish to the very dregs.
At this period I had commenced my career as a sailor, and was then
lying in a ship of war at Plymouth under sailing-orders for a foreign
station, but waiting for a full complement of hands;--indeed, men were
so scarce, that some of the ablest felons had been selected from the
jails to make up the crews.
I was walking the deck, when a party of these convicts came alongside
with a draught of seamen from the flag-ship, and among the latter I
recognised Tom Brookes; he was dressed in deep black, and his fine and
manly countenance betrayed the indignation and agony that struggled in
his heart. Surely it was impossible to mistake his character, for when
called before the captain he behaved with a gentlemanly respect that
commanded admiration. But Captain S----[4] was one of those (happily
there were but very few in the service) who were tyrannical and brutal
by nature; and when poor Tom approached, he exclaimed, “Well, fellow,
whose pocket have you been picking?”
[4] He was afterwards dismissed by the navy for cruelty.
Surely this might have been spared; for Tom’s countenance was an index
to an honest and an upright mind; his attire was most respectable, and
every action bespoke the experienced seaman. Never shall I forget his
look; it showed the conflicting struggles of a proud spirit; but it
was only for a moment. He fixed his steady gaze upon the inquirer, who
shrank before it. Captain S---- seemed to read his thoughts, and he was
a man that never forgave.
A boatswain’s-mate was directed to cut off the tails of his coat,[5]
so as to render it more like a seaman’s jacket. The man approached,
but this coat was the mourning he wore for his mother, and bitter
recollections crossing his mind, he threw the boatswain’s-mate from
him to the opposite side of the deck. This was considered an act of
mutiny, and poor Tom was put in irons, with his legs stapled to the
deck. Being, however, a good seaman, his services were required; so
that he was shortly afterwards released, and sent to do his duty on the
forecastle.
[5] This was a common practice in the service when men were first
impressed.
We sailed in a few days, and after being some time at sea, the captain
remembering what had taken place in harbour, ordered poor Tom, by
way of punishment, to perform most of the menial offices of his
station, and at length insisted on his executing the most degrading
duty in a ship of war,--that of sweeping the decks. This he refused
with a respectful firmness; and in that he certainly was wrong, for
obedience is the first test of duty--no matter from what motive the
order proceeds, and in refusing to obey, Tom acted improperly as a
seaman; but who can condemn him, having the feelings of a man? His
refusal, however, was of no avail; the broom was lashed by small cords
to his hands, and a boatswain’s-mate stood ready with a rope’s end to
enforce command. Tom obstinately declared that he would die rather than
submit to unmerited oppression; the blows fell heavy on his back, but
they could not change the purpose of the heart. In the moment of his
anguish, whilst smarting from the stripes, but writhing still more with
inward torture that bowed his spirit, he uttered some severe invectives
upon the tyranny of his commander. The hands were immediately turned
up, the gratings were seized to the gangway, and poor Tom was ordered
to strip for flogging. Resistance was useless, his outspread arms
and extended legs were lashed to the gratings, and after reading the
Articles of War for disobedience of orders, the captain directed the
boatswain’s-mate to give him two dozen.
This was not the first time I had witnessed punishment at the gangway,
for scarcely a day had passed without it since my joining the ship.
But poor Tom had been my early friend; I called to mind the happy hours
we had passed together, and now to see him with his back lacerated and
bleeding, the cat o’ nine tails cutting deep into his flesh,--oh, it
was too much for me to endure, and I fell at the captain’s feet. He
spurned me from him, and the first dozen having been given, a fresh
boatswain’s-mate was called to give the second.
Tom never flinched; he remained immovable as a rock, and the only
indication of bodily pain, was occasionally a contraction of the
muscles of his face,--a deeper, an all-absorbing agony seemed to have
triumphed over mere corporeal suffering,--an agony arising from the
desperate struggles of his soul. I looked at the countenances of the
men, but the generality seemed to have sunk into a settled apathy, and
only a few, who had recently joined us from the Barfleur, displayed
the workings of determined minds. They gazed at each other and tried
to catch the sentiments of the crew; and it was plain, that had a
corresponding feeling animated the whole, consequences the most fatal
and desperate must have ensued. But the ship’s company had not been
long together, and mutual distrust prevented an open declaration of
discontent.
The flogging ceased, and poor Tom was consigned to the master-at-arms,
and his legs once more fixed in the shackles. I tried to approach
him, but was prevented by the marine who stood sentinel over him; my
attempt was not however unnoticed, and the unfortunate victim gave me
a look, and even a smile of grateful acknowledgment. Ah! then my heart
sunk within me. I retired to the dark recess of the cable-tier,[6] and
gave vent to my tears,--for what could a child in his twelfth year do
to save the sufferer from the strong arm of power? I consoled myself
with the idea that Tom would soon be released, but in this too I was
mistaken; for on the following morning he persisted in his refusal to
sweep the decks, was again seized up to the gangway, and two dozen
lashes more were inflicted upon his already scored and mangled back.
[6] The place where the cables are coiled away.
The torture was beyond human endurance, and though no shriek betrayed
the anguish of the smart, yet a convulsive spasm too clearly indicated
the rending of the wounds. Still his firmness did not forsake him, and
whilst the cat fell heavy on his shoulders, he remonstrated with his
persecutor, and appealed to the officers whether he had not always
performed his duty. No voice was raised in his behalf, though looks
spoke, as forcibly as looks could speak, the detestation of every
one for such merciless cruelty. At this moment, Will Scott stepped
from among the assembled crew; he looked wildly upon his shipmates,
particularly upon his old messmates, the Barfleurs; but all remained
motionless as statues, and he resumed his station. Again the lash
descended, and again the instrument of punishment was stained with the
blood of the wretched man. Imprecations on the captain burst from his
lips, and madness seemed to dictate his wild incoherent ravings; he was
no longer passive, his mind gave way, and at the last stroke he hung
senseless by the cords which bound his wrists to the gratings.
He was cast loose, and on his reviving, was again shackled in the
irons, with the promise of a renewal of punishment on the morrow if
he still disobeyed. In fact, the captain found his authority was at
stake; he saw that he had excited disaffection; he knew that the
principal portion of his crew (many of them desperate characters,) were
not to be trusted, and the very men on whom he placed reliance--the
Barfleurs--were disgusted with his treatment. To have receded, he
considered, would have been an acknowledgment of error, and one
triumph of the people would have been the prelude to more humiliating
concessions. Thus he argued, and his very existence seemed to depend
upon the issue.
* * * * *
It was one of those beautiful evenings in June, when the setting sun
upon the verge of the horizon tinges the whole expanse of ocean with
its golden brightness, that I stood upon the forecastle contemplating
the glories of creation, and presumptuously arraigning Divine
Providence for what I foolishly deemed an unequal distribution of good
and ill. The seamen were formed in groupes along the gangway and waist,
and the officers were pacing the larboard side of the quarter-deck,
leaving the starboard side to the captain, who walked sullenly and
alone. The lieutenant of the watch stood on the gangway, and did not
join him; and there he strode, pale discontent upon his cheek and keen
mistrust in the restless glancing of his eye.
The evening was indeed lovely, and calculated to calm the raging
passions of the soul. The sea was beautifully smooth, the sails slept
deep and still, and though scarcely a breath was felt, yet the breeze
upon the quarter was carrying the vessel almost imperceptibly at the
rate of five knots[7] an hour. I was but a boy,--a mere child, and
whilst looking at the mild blue sky I thought of my home and of my
mother. Poor Tom, too, he whose arms had cradled me in infancy! but
what could I do? Whilst my thoughts were thus occupied, a marine with
his drawn bayonet appeared ascending the fore-ladder; close behind came
poor Tom Brookes, and every tongue was hushed. The captain caught sight
of him and stopped; the officers continued their walk, but their eager
gaze alternately changed from the captain to the suffering victim of
his austerity; but no voice gave utterance to thought.
[7] Five miles.
Poor Tom, I think I see him now! Ah! well do I remember the ghastly
dolor of his look as he approached me; his eyes cast down, and his
whole thoughts apparently rivetted on one object alone,--but it is
impossible to describe it. I touched his arm, for nature spoke within
me, and I could not help it. He paused for one moment, and a roseate
flush suffused his cheeks; he seized my hand, and I felt that his was
burning. I looked in his face, it was lightened up by a smile--but such
a smile! It struck me he was thinking of his mother.