"Why, what's that to you, if my eyes I'm a wiping?
A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way;
'Tis nonsense for trifles, I own, to be piping,
But they that ha'n't pity, why I pities they.
* * * * * * * *
The heart and the eyes, you see feel the same motion,
And if both shed their drops, 'tis all the same end;
And thus 'tis that every tight lad of the ocean
Sheds his blood for his country, his tears for his friend."
CHARLES DIBDIN.
If one wants to find the value of all he has learned in the way of
righteousness, common-sense, and real skill of any sort; or to reap most
quickly what he has sown to obedience, industry, and endurance, let him
go out and rough it in the world.
There he shall find that a conscience early trained to resist temptation
and to feel shame will be to him the instinctive clutch that may now and
again--in an ungraceful, anyhow fashion--keep him from slipping down to
perdition, and save his soul alive. There he shall find that whatever he
has really learned by labour or grasped with inborn talent, will sooner
or later come to the surface to his credit and for his good; but that
what he swaggers will not even find fair play. There, in brief, he shall
find his level--a great matter for most men. There, in fine, he will
discover that there being a great deal of human nature in all men, and a
great deal that is common to all lives--if he has learned to learn and
is good-natured withal, he may live pretty comfortably anywhere--
"As a rough rule,
The rough world's a good school,"--
and if there are a few parlour-boarders it is very little advantage to
them.
For my own part I was almost startled to find how quickly I was
beginning to learn something of the ways of the ship and her crew; and
though, when I asked for information about all the various appliances
which come under the comprehensive sea-name of "tackle," I was again and
again made the victim of a hoax, I soon learned to correct one piece of
information by another, and to feel less of an April fool and more of a
sailor. Reading sea-novels had not really taught me much, for there was
not one in all that the Jew-clerk lent or sold me which _explained_
ship's language and customs. But the school-master had given me many
useful hints, and experience soon taught me how to apply them.
The watch in which Alister and I shared just after we picked up Dennis
O'Moore, was naturally very much enlivened by news and surmises
regarding our new "hand." Word soon came up from below that he was alive
and likely to recover, and for a brief period I found my society in
great request, because I had been employed in some fetching and carrying
between the galley and the steerage, and had "heard the drowned man
groan." We should have gossiped more than we did if the vessel had not
exacted unusual attention, for the winds and the waves had "plenty of
mischief in 'em" yet, as I was well able to testify when I was sent aft
to help the man at the wheel.
"That'll take the starch out o' yer Sunday stick-ups!" said the
boatswain's mate, on hearing where I was bound for, when he met me
clinging to the wet deck with my stocking-feet, and catching with my
hands at every bit of tackle capable of giving support. And as I put out
all my strength to help the steersman to force his wheel in the
direction he meant it to go, and the salt spray smacked my face and
soaked my slops, and every wind of heaven seemed to blow down my neck
and up my sleeves and trousers--I heartily agreed with him.
The man I was helping never spoke, except to shout some brief order into
my ear or an occasional reply to the words of command which rang over
our heads from the captain on the bridge. Of course I did not speak, I
had quite enough to do to keep my footing and take my small part in this
fierce bitting and bridling of the elements; but uncomfortable as it
was, I "took a pride and pleasure in it," as we used to say at home, and
I already felt that strenuous something which blows in sea-breezes and
gives vigour to mind and body even when it chills you to the bone.
That is, to some people; there are plenty of men, as I have since
discovered, who spend their lives at sea and hate it to the end. Boy and
man, they do their hard duty and live by its pitiful recompense. They
know the sea as well as other mariners, are used to her uncertain ways,
bear her rough usage, control her stormy humours, learn all her moods,
and _never feel her charm_.
I have seen two such cases, and I have heard of more, yarned with all
their melancholy details during those night watches in which men will
tell you the ins and outs of many a queer story that they "never talk
about." And it has convinced me that there is no more cruel blunder than
to send a boy to sea, if there is good reason to believe that he will
never like it; unless it be that of withholding from its noble service
those sailor lads born, in whose ears the sea-shell will murmur till
they die.
It had murmured in mine, and enticed me to my fate. I thought so now
that I knew the roughest of the other side of the question, just as much
as when I sat comfortably on the frilled cushion of the round-backed
arm-chair and read the Penny Numbers to the bee-master. Barefoot,
bareheaded, cold, wet, seasick, hard worked and half-rested, would I
even now exchange the life I had chosen for the life I had left?--for
the desk next to the Jew-clerk, for the partnership, to be my uncle's
heir, to be mayor, to be member? I asked myself the question as I stood
by the steersman, and with every drive of the wheel I answered it--"No,
Moses! No! No!"
It is not wise to think hard when you are working hard at mechanical
work, in a blustering wind and a night watch. Fatigue and open air make
you sleepy, and thinking makes you forget where you are, and if your
work is mechanical you do it unconsciously, and may fall asleep over it.
I dozed more than once, and woke with the horrible idea that I had lost
my hold, and was not doing my work. That woke me effectually, but even
then I had to look at my hands to see that they were there. I pushed,
but I could not feel, my fingers were so numb with cold.
The second time I dozed and started again, I heard the captain's voice
close beside us. He was bawling upwards now, to Mr. Waters on the
bridge. Then he pushed me on one side and took my place at the wheel,
shouting to the steersman--"I meant the Scotch lad, not that boy."
"He's strong enough, and steady too," was the reply.
They both drove the wheel in silence, and I held on by a coil of heavy
rope, and sucked my fingers to warm them, and very salt they tasted.
Then the captain left the wheel and turned to me again.
"Are you cold?"
"Rather, sir."
"You may go below, and see if the cook can spare you a cup of coffee."
"Thank you, sir."
"But first find Mr. Johnson, and send him here."
"Yes, sir."
Whilst the captain was talking, I began to think of Dennis O'Moore, and
how he groaned, and to wonder whether it was true that he would get
better, and whether it would be improper to ask the captain, who would
not be likely to humbug me, if he answered at all.
"Well?" said the captain sharply, "what are you standing there like a
stuck pig for?"
I saluted. "Please, sir, _will_ he get better?"
"What the ---- Oh, yes. And hi, you!"
"Yes, sir?"
"He's in the steerage. You may go and see if he wants anything, and
attend on him. You may remain below at present."
"Thank you, sir."
I lost no time in finding Mr. Johnson, and I got a delicious cup of
coffee and half a biscuit from the cook, who favoured me in consequence
of the conscientious scouring I had bestowed upon his pans. Then
mightily warmed and refreshed, I made my way to the side of the hammock
I had swung for the rescued lad, and by the light of a swinging lamp saw
his dark head buried in his arms.
When I said, "Do you want anything?" he lifted his face with a jerk, and
looked at me.
"Not I--much obliged," he said, smiling, and still staring hard. He had
teeth like the half-caste, but the resemblance stopped there.
"The captain said I might come and look after you, but if you want to go
to sleep, do," said I.
"Why would I, if you'll talk to me a bit?" was his reply; and resting
his head on the edge of his hammock and looking me well over, he added,
"Did they pick you up as well?"
I laughed and wrung some salt water out of my sleeve.
"No. I've not been in the sea, but I've been on deck, and it's just as
wet. It always _is_ wet at sea," I added in a tone of experience.
His eyes twinkled as if I amused him. "That, indeed? And yourself, are
ye--a midshipman?"
It had been taken for granted that our new hand was "a gentleman." I
never doubted it, though he spoke with an accent that certainly recalled
old Biddy Macartney; a sort of soft ghost of a brogue with a turn up at
the end of it, as if every sentence came sliding and finished with a
spring, and I did wish I could have introduced myself as a
midshipman--instead of having to mutter, "No, I'm a stowaway."
He raised himself higher in his hammock.
"A stowaway? What fun! And what made ye go? Were ye up to some kind of
diversion at home, and had to come out of it, eh? Or were ye bored to
extinction, or what? (Country life in England is mighty dull, so they
tell me.) I suppose it was French leave that ye took, as ye say you're a
stowaway? I'm asking ye a heap of impertinent questions, bad manners to
me!"
Which was true. But he asked them so kindly and eagerly, I could only
feel that sympathy is a very pleasant thing, even when it takes the form
of a catechism that is all questions, and no room for the answers.
Moreover, I suspect that he rattled on partly to give me time to leave
off blushing and feel at ease with him.
"I ran away because of several things," said I.
"I always did want to see the world"--("And why wouldn't ye?" my new
friend hastily interpolated). "But even if I had stayed at home I don't
believe I should ever have got to like being a lawyer"--("Small chance
of it, I should say, the quill-driving thievery!") "It was my uncle's
office"--("I ask his pardon and yours.") "Oh, you may say what you like.
I never could get on with him. I don't mean that he was cruel to me in
the least, though I think he behaved shabbily--"
"Faith, it's a way they have! I've an uncle myself that's a sort of
first cousin of my father's, and six foot three in his stockings,
without a drop of good-nature in the full length of him."
"Where is your home?" said I, for it certainly was my turn to ask
questions.
"Where would it be but ould Ireland?" And after a moment's pause he
added, "They call me Dennis O'Moore. What's _your_ name, ye enterprising
little stowaway?"
I told him. "And where were you going in your boat, and how did you get
upset?" I asked.
He sighed. "It was the old hooker we started in, bad luck to her!"
"Is that the name of the boat you were holding on to?"
"_That_ boat? No! We borrowed _her_--and now ye remind me, I wouldn't
be surprised if Tim Brady was missing her by this, for I had no leisure
to ask his leave at the time, and, as a rule, we take our own coracle in
the hooker--"
"What _is_ a hooker?" I interrupted, for I was resolved to know.
"What's a hooker? A hooker--what a catechetical little chatterbox ye
are! A man can't get a word in edgeways--a hooker's a boat. Ours was a
twenty-ton, half-decked, cutter-rigged sort of thing, built for nothing
in particular, and always used for everything. It was lucky for me we
took Tim Brady's boat instead of the coracle, or I'd be now where--where
poor Barney is. Oh, Barney, Barney! How'll I ever get over it? Why did
ye never learn to swim, so fond of the water as ye were? Why couldn't ye
hold on to me when I got a good grip of ye! Barney, dear, I've a notion
in my heart that ye left your hold on purpose, and threw away your own
life that ye mightn't risk mine. And now I'll never know, for ye'll never
be able to tell me. Tim Brady's boat would have held two as easy as one,
Barney, and maybe the old hooker'd have weathered the storm with a few
more repairs about her, that the squire always intended, as no one knows
better than yourself! Oh, dear! oh, dear! But--Heaven forgive
us!--putting off's been the ruin of the O'Moores from time out of mind.
And now you're dead and gone--dead and gone! But oh, Barney, Barney, if
prayers can give your soul ease, you'll not want them while Dennis
O'Moore has breath to pray!"
I was beginning to discover that one of the first wonders of the world
is that it contains a great many very good people, who are quite
different from oneself and one's near relations. For I really was not
conceited enough to disapprove of my new friend because he astonished
me, though he certainly did do so. From the moment when Barney (whoever
Barney might be) came into his head, everything else apparently went out
of it. I am sure he quite forgot me.
For my own part I gazed at him in blank amazement. I was not used to
seeing a man give way to his feelings in public, still less to seeing a
man cry in company, and least of all to see a man say his prayers when
he was neither getting up nor going to bed, nor at church, nor at family
worship, and before a stranger too! For, as he finished his sentence he
touched his curls, and then the place where his crucifix lay, and then
made a rapid movement from shoulder to shoulder, and then buried his
head in his hands, and lay silent, praying, I had no manner of doubt,
for "Barney's" soul.
His prayers did not take him very long, and he finished with a big
sigh, and lifted his head again. When his eyes met mine he blushed, and
said, "I ask your pardon, Jack; I'd forgotten ye. You're a kind-hearted
little soul, and I'm mighty dull company for ye."
"No, you're not," said I. "But--I'm very sorry for you. Was 'Barney'
your--?" and I stopped because I really did not know what relationship
to suggest that would account for the outburst I had witnessed.
"Ah! ye may well say what was he--for what wasn't he--to me, anyhow?
Jack! my mother died when I was born, and never a soul but Barney
brought me up, for I wouldn't let 'em. He'd come with her from her old
home when she married; and when she lay dead he was let into the room to
look at her pretty face once more. Times out of mind has he told me how
she lay, with the black lashes on her white cheeks, and the black
crucifix on her breast, that they were going to bury with her; the women
howling, and me kicking up an indecent row in a cradle in the next
apartment, carrying on like a Turk if the nurse came near me, and most
outrageously disturbing the chamber of death. And what does Barney do,
when he's said a prayer by the side of the mistress, but ask for the
crucifix off her neck, that she'd worn all her girlhood? If the women
howled before, they double-howled then, and would have turned him out
neck and crop, but my father lifted his head from where he was lying
speechless in a kind of a fit at the foot of the bed, and says he,
'Barney Barton! ye knew the sweet lady that lies there long before that
too brief privilege was mine. Ye served her well, and ye've served me
well for her sake; whatever ye ask for of hers in this hour ye'll get,
Barney Barton. She trusted ye--and I may.' 'GOD bless ye, squire,' says
Barney; and what does he do but go up to her and unloose the ribbon from
her throat with his own hands. And away he went with the crucifix, past
the women that couldn't get a sound out of them now, and past my father
as silent as themselves, and into the room where I lay kicking up the
devil's own din in my cradle. And when he held it up to me, with the
light shining on the silver, and the black ribbons hanging down, never
believe him if I didn't stop squalling, and stretch out my hands with a
smile as sweet as sunshine. And Barney tied it round my neck, and took
me into his arms. And they said he spoke never a word when they told him
my mother was dead, and shed never a tear when he saw her lie, but he
sobbed his heart out over me."
"You may well care for him!" said I.
"Indeed I may. He kept my mother's memory green in my heart, and he
taught me all ever I knew but books. He taught me to walk, and he taught
me to ride, and shooting, and fishing, and such like country diversions;
and strange to say, he taught me to swim, the way they learn in my
mother's country, with a bundle of bull-rushes--for the old man couldn't
swim a stroke himself, or he might be here now, alive and hearty, please
GOD."
"Were there only you and he in the hooker?"
"That's all. It was altogether sheer madness, for the old boat was
barely fit for a day's fishing in fine weather, and though Barney nearly
killed himself overhauling her, and patching her sails, I doubt if he
knew very well what he was after. I've been thinking, Jack, that his
mind was not what it was. He was always a bit obstinate, if he got a
notion into his head, but of late the squire himself couldn't turn him.
When he wanted to do a thing about the place that Barney didn't approve,
if he didn't give in (as he was apt to do, being easy-tempered) I can
tell ye he had to do it on the sly. That was how he ordered the new
ploughs that nearly broke Barney's heart, both because of being
new-fangled machines, and ready money having to be paid for them. 'I'll
see the ould place ruined before ye come to your own, Master Dennis,' he
told me. And--Jack! that's another thing makes me think what I tell ye.
He was for ever talking as if the place was coming to me, and I've two
brothers older than myself, let alone my sister. But ye might as well
reason with the rock of Croagh Patrick! Well, if he didn't ask my father
to let him and me run round in the hooker with a load of sea-weed for
Tim Brady's farm, and of course we got leave, and started as pleasant as
could be; barring that if Barney'd been a year or two younger, there'd
have been wigs on the green over the cold potatoes, before we got off."
"_Wigs on the green over cold potatoes?_" I repeated, in bewilderment.
"Tst! tst! little Saxon! I mean we'd have had a row over the provisions.
It wasn't too hours' run round to Tim Brady's, and I found the old man
stowing away half-a-peck of cold boiled potatoes, and big bottles of
tea, and goodness knows what. 'Is it for ballast ye're using the
potatoes, Barney?' says I. 'Mind your own business, Master Dennis'--(and
I could see he was cross as two sticks),--'and leave the provisioning to
them that understands it,' says he. 'How many meals d'ye reckon to eat
between this and Tim Brady's?' I went on, just poking my fun at him,
when--would ye believe it?--the old fellow fired up like a sky-rocket,
and asked me if I grudged him the bit of food he ate, and Heaven knows
what besides. 'Is it Dennis O'Moore you're speaking to?' says I, for
I've not got the squire's easy temper, GOD forgive me! We were mighty
near to a quarrel, Jack, I can tell ye, but some shadow of a notion
flitting across my brain that the dear soul was not responsible
entirely, stopped my tongue, and something else stopped his which I
didn't know till we got to Tim Brady's, and found that all we wanted
with him was to borrow his boat, and that the sea-weed business was no
better than a blind; for Barney had planned it all out that we were to
go down to Galway and fetch the new ploughs home in the hooker, to save
the cost of the land-carriage. 'Sure it's bad enough for the squire to
be soiling his hands with trumpery made by them English thieves, that's
no more conscience over bothering a gentleman for money nor if he was
one of themselves,' said Barney; 'sorra a halfpenny shall the railway
rogues rob him of.' Ah, little stowaway, ye may guess my delight! And
hadn't we glorious weather at first, and wasn't the dear old man happy
and proud! I can tell ye I yelled, and I sang, and I laughed, when I
felt the old hooker begin to bound on the swell when we got into the
open, but not a look would Barney turn on me for minding the boat; but I
could hear him chuckling to himself and muttering about the railway
rogues. It wasn't much time we either of us had for talking, by and by.
I steered and saw to the main sheet, and Barney did look-out and minded
the foresail, Tim Brady's boat towing astern, getting such a dance as
it never had before, and at last dragging upside down. We'd one thing in
our favour, anyhow. There was no disputing or disturbing of our minds as
to whether we'd turn back or not, for the gale was at our backs; and the
old hooker was like my father's black mare--you might guide her, but she
was neither to stop nor turn. How the gallant old boat held out as she
did, Heaven knows! It was not till the main-sail had split into ribbons
with a noise like a gun going off, and every seam was strained to
leaking, and the sea came in faster than we could bale it out, that we
righted Tim Brady's tub and got into her, and bade the old hooker
good-bye. The boat was weather-tight enough--it was a false move of
Barney's capsized her,--and I'd a good hold of her with one hand when I
gripped him with the other. Oh! Barney dear! Why would ye always have
your own way? Oh, why--why did ye lose your hold? Ye thought all hope
was over, darling, didn't ye? Ah, if ye had but known the brave hearts
that--"
I suppose it was because I was crying as well as Dennis that I did not
see Mr. Johnson till he was standing by the Irish boy's hammock. I know
I got a sound scolding for the state of his pulse (which the third mate
seemed to understand, as he understood most things), and was dismissed
with some pithy hints about cultivating common-sense and not making a
fool of myself. I sneaked off, and was thankful to meet Alister and pour
out my tale to him, and ask if he thought that our new friend would have
brain-fever, because I had let him talk about his shipwreck.
Alister was not quite so sympathetic as I had expected. He was so much
shocked about the crucifix and about Dennis praying for Barney's soul,
that he could think of nothing else. He didn't seem to think that he
would have fever, but he said he feared we had small reason to reckon on
the prayers of the idolatrous ascending to the throne of grace. He told
me a long story about the Protestant martyrs who were shut up in a
dungeon under the sea, on the coast of Aberdeenshire, and it would have
been very interesting if I hadn't been thinking of Dennis.
We had turned in for some sleep, and I was rolling myself in my blanket,
when Alister called me--
"Jack! did ye ever read Fox's _Book of Martyrs_?"
"No."
"It's a gran' work, and it has some awful tales in it. When we've a bit
of holiday leesure I'll tell ye some."
"Thank you, Alister."