The sailor boy, as he is described in romances, or when he is made to
act the part of a hero on the stage, has run away from school or from
his parents, and entered under a feigned name on board a man-of-war;
there, instead of being punished for his misconduct, he is placed on the
quarter deck, and turns out in the end to be the heir to an earldom or
to a baronetcy.
Such was not the origin of poor Jack Buntline. He was the only son of
his mother, and while he was yet an infant she was left a widow. His
father had been a sailor, a true hearted gallant man. He found Bessie
Miller, then neither young nor good looking, in distress and poverty.
He married her, saying that she should no longer want to the end of her
days. How was he mistaken! He went away to sea. In vain his anxious
wife waited his return. He never came back. It was supposed that his
vessel was run down, and that he and all hands perished. His poor widow
struggled hard to support herself and child: for some years she
succeeded. She endeavoured also to impart to him what knowledge she
possessed. It was but little. But lessons of piety she instilled into
his mind at an early age. The following, among many other quotations
from Holy Writ, she taught him: "God is love." "Behold the Lamb of God
which taketh away the sins of the world." "In God put I my trust, I
shall never be brought to confusion." Deep into the inmost recesses of
his memory sunk those blessed words, and though long disregarded, there
they remained to bring forth fruit in due season.
At length a mortal sickness attacked the poor widow, and Jack was left
an orphan, houseless and hungry, to druggie with the hard world. The
furniture and clothes his mother possessed were seized for rent, and he
was carried off to become an inmate of the workhouse. He knew not where
he was going, but he thought the people very harsh and unkind. He was
let out the next day to follow a coffin to a pauper's grave. They told
him his mother slept beneath that low green mound. When far, far away
over the blue ocean, often would his memory fly back to that one
solitary spot, to him the oasis in life's wilderness. No relation, no
friend had he. A pauper he lived for many a day, picking oakum and
wishing to be free. That workhouse had a master, a stern, hard man.
An old companion, captain of an African trader, came to see him. As
they sipped their brandy and water--"I want a boy or two aboard there,"
said Captain Gullbeak, "one o' mine fell overboard last week and was
drownded."
"You may have as many on 'em as you like, perwided you takes care they
none on 'em come back again on the parish. The guardians don't approve
of that ere joke."
"Not much fear of that, I guess," replied the captain with a grin; "they
has a knack of dying uncommon fast out there in Africa. It's only old
hands like me can stand it do ye see."
So it was settled that little Jack was to be a sailor. Jack was asked
if he would like to go to sea. Would a sky-lark in a cage like to be
free? He knew also that his father was lost at sea, and he thought he
might find him; so he said "Yes." The guardians were informed of the
lad's strong desire to go to sea. His resolution was highly approved
of, and leave was granted him to go. So under the tender care of
Captain Gullbeak, of the _Tiger_ brig, poor Jack commenced his career as
a seaman--in mind still a child, in stature a big lad. The only thing
he regretted was being separated so far from his mother's grave. Away
over the ocean glided the African trader. Hard had been Jack's life in
the workhouse--much harder was it now. Every man's hand seemed against
him. A cuff or a rope's end was his only reward for every service done
his many masters.
Occasionally in the workhouse he did hear prayers said and a discourse
uttered, somewhat hard to understand, perhaps. Now, blaspheming,
scoffing, and obscenity were in every sentence spoken by those around
him. What words can describe the dark foul hole into which Jack had to
creep at night to find rest from his grief in sleep. It was in the very
head of the vessel. The ceaseless murmur of the waves was ever in his
ears, and as the brig plunged into the seas the loud blows the received
on her bows made his heart sink within him, and it was long before he
could persuade himself that his last hour was not near at hand.
On, on flew the brig. Hitherto the weather had been fine. Jack had
sometimes gone aloft, but as yet he was but little accustomed to the
rolling and pitching of a ship at sea. One night he was asleep dreaming
of the humble cottage by the greenwood side. He was kneeling, as he was
wont, by his mother's knee, uttering a simple prayer to heaven for
protection from peril. Now, alas, he has forgotten when awake how to
pray. Loud harsh voices sound in his ear. "All hands shorten sail."
He starts up. "Rouse out there, rouse out," he hears. He dare not
evade the summons. He springs on deck. The wind howls fiercely, the
waves leap wildly around, and sheets of spray fly over the deck.
Lightning flashes, dark clouds obscure every spot, the thunder growls,
scarcely can he lift his head to face the storm. But he must go aloft
and lay out on the topgallant yard, high up in the darkness, where the
masts are bending like willow wands. So rapidly, too, are they turning
here and there, that it seems impossible any human being can hold on to
them. A rope's end urges him on. Up he climbs, the lightning almost
blinding him, yet serving to show the wild hungry waves which break ever
and anon over the labouring vessel. He reaches the topgallant yard.
There he clings, swinging aloft, the rain beating in his face, the wind
driving fiercely to tear him off--darkness around him, darkness below
him. Not a glimpse can he obtain of the deck. It appears as if the
ship had already sunk beneath those foaming waves. How desolate, how
helpless he feels! How can he expect to hold on to that unstable
shaking mast. Now rolling on one side, now on the other, he hangs over
the dark threatening abyss. What can he do to conquer that struggling
sail? But there is one who sends help to the helpless, who turns not
away from the poor in their distress. Jack there hears the first words
of kindness addressed to him since he came on board, and a helping hand
is stretched out to aid him. The voice is that of a negro. "No say I
wid you," adds Sambo, "or I no help you again." The sail is furled, and
Jack descends safe on deck, his heart lighter with the feeling that
there is near at hand a human being who can sympathise with his lot.