Фредерик Марриет
Poor Jack
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
In which I learn the History of Old Nanny.
The next day, as soon as I had finished a letter to Bessy, in which I gave her a detail of what had passed, I went to old Nanny's to persuade her, if possible, to tell me her history. She was not at home, the door of her house was locked and the shutters of the shop fastened. I was about to return to Fisher's Alley, when I perceived her hobbling down the street. I thought it better to make it appear as if I met her by accident; so I crossed over the way and walked toward her. "Well, mother," said I, "are you out so early?"
"Ah, Jack, is it you? Yes, it is through you that I have had to take so long a walk."
"Through me?"
"Yes, those presents you brought me. I'm almost dead. Why do you bring such things? But I did not do badly, that's the truth."
I knew from this admission that old Nanny had sold them for more than she expected; indeed, she proved it by saying, as she arrived at her house, "Well, Jack, it's very troublesome to have to walk so far; but as you cannot get me bottles or those kind of things, you must bring me what you can, and I must make the best of them. I don't mind trouble for your sake, Jack. Now take the key, unlock the door, and then take down the shutters; and mind how you walk about, Jack, or you'll break half the things in my shop." I did as she requested, and then we sat down together at the door as usual.
"I think I shall go away to-morrow, or early the next morning, mother," said I, "for Bramble is here, and he never stays long from his work"
"That's all right, he sets a good example; and, Jack, if you do go, see if you can't beg a few more shells for me. I like shells."
"Yes, mother, I will not forget; but, as this is the last day I shall see you for some time, will you not keep your promise to me, and tell me your history?"
"Jack, Jack, you are the most persevering creature I ever did see. I'm sure I shall be worried out of my life until I tell you, and so I may as well tell you at once, and there'll be an end of it; but I wish you had not asked me. Jack, I do indeed. I thought of it last night when I was in bed, and at one time I made up my mind that I would not tell you, and then I thought again that I would; for, Jack, as I said yesterday, there's a lesson in every life, and a warning in too many, and maybe mine will prove a warning to you, so far as to make you prevent a mother from being so foolish as I have been.
"Now, Jack, listen to me: mine is an old story, but in most cases the consequences have not been so fatal. I shall not tell you my name; it was once a fair one, but now tarnished. I was the only daughter of a merchant and ship-owner, a rich man, and the first person in consequence in the seaport town where I was born and brought up. I never knew my mother, who died a year after I was born. I was brought up as most girls are who have no mother or brothers; in short, I was much indulged by my father and flattered by other people. I was well educated, as you may suppose; and, moreover, what you may not credit quite so easily, I was very handsome. In short, I was a beauty and a fortune, at the head of the society of the place, caressed, indulged, and flattered by all. This, if it did not spoil me, at least made me willful. I had many offers, and many intended offers, which I nipped in the bud, and I was twenty-three before I saw any one who pleased me. At last a vessel came in consigned to the house, and the captain was invited to dinner. He was a handsome careless young man, constantly talking about the qualities of his ship, and, to my surprise, paying me little or none of that attention which I now considered as my due. This piqued me, and in the end I set my affections on him; either he did not or would not perceive it, and he sailed without showing me any preference. In six months he returned, and whether it was that he was told of by others, or at last perceived, my feelings toward him, he joined the crowd of suitors, made a proposal in his offhand manner, as if he was indifferent as to my reply, and was accepted. My father, to whom he communicated the intelligence as carelessly as if he were talking about freight, did not approve of the match. 'Very well,' replied he, 'I shall say no more; as long as a man has a ship he does not want a wife.' He returned and stated what had passed, and my father also spoke to me. I was self-willed and determined, and my father yielded. We were married, and I certainly had no reason to complain of my husband, who was very kind to me. But I was jealous of—what do you think? Of his ship! For he cared more for it than he did for me; and three months after our marriage, notwithstanding all my tears and entreaties, and the expostulations of my father, he would sail again. He offered to take me with him, and I would gladly have gone, but my father would not listen to it. He sailed, and I never saw him again; his vessel, with all hands, foundered, with many others, in a heavy gale. The news did not arrive until many months afterward, and I had not been a mother more than six weeks when I found that I was a widow. I have passed all this over quickly, Jack, because it is of less moment—my trials had not commenced.
"The loss of my husband, as may be supposed, only endeared my child the more to me, and I wept over him as he smiled upon me in his cradle. My father had reverses in his business, but those I cared little for. He did, however: he had been the richest man in the town, he was now comparatively poor; his pride was crushed, it broke his heart, and he died; the whole of his assets at the winding up of his affairs not exceeding ten thousand pounds. This was, however, quite enough, and more than enough, for me. I thought but of one object—it was my darling boy; he represented to me all I had lost; in him I saw my husband, father, and everything. I lived but for him. He was my idolatry, Jack. I worshiped the creature instead of the Creator.
"As he grew up I indulged him in everything; he never was checked; I worried myself day and night to please him, and yet he never was pleased. He was so spoiled that he did not know what he wanted. He was a misery to himself and all about him, except to me, who was so blinded by my love. As he advanced to manhood his temper showed itself to be violent and uncontrollable; he was the terror of others, and prudent people would shake their heads and prophesy. He would not submit to any profession; the only wish that he had was to go to sea, and that was my terror. I implored him on my knees not to think of it, but in vain; at first he used to threaten when he wanted money for his extravagances, and it was a sure way to obtain it; but one day I discovered that he had quitted the port without saying farewell, and that he had sailed in a vessel bound to the coast of Africa. A short letter and a heavy bill was received from Portsmouth, and I did not hear of him for two years. I was heartbroken, but not weaned from him; I counted the days for his return. At last he came—browned by the climate, full of oaths, savage in his bearing, and occasionally referring to scenes which made me shudder; but he was my son, my only son, and I loved him as much as ever. He was now but seldom at home, for he lived almost at the gaming-tables; if he came to me, it was to extort money, and he never failed. I sold out my property to support his extravagance, and by degrees it was rapidly diminishing. I begged him, I entreated him, to be more prudent, but he laughed, and promised to return me all the first lucky hit he should make; but that lucky hit never came, and at last I had but two thousand pounds left. This I positively refused to part with: the interest of it was barely sufficient for my wants; I asked no more, but I expostulated and I reasoned with him in vain. He only begged me for five hundred pounds; if I sold the money out, he would tell me where I might have as good interest for the fifteen hundred pounds as I now received for the two thousand pounds. He begged and entreated me, he kissed, and he even wept. I could not withstand his importunities: I sold out the money, and gave him the sum he wanted; the fifteen hundred pounds I put by in my desk, to invest as he had pointed out. That very night he forced the lock, took out the money, and left me without a sixpence in the world."
"What a villain!" exclaimed I.
"Yes, you may so. Jack; but who made him such a villain but his foolish doting mother? Had I done him justice, had I checked him when young, had I brought him up as I ought to have done, he might now have been a happiness and a blessing to his mother. I was the person to blame, not he; and many years of anguish have I lamented my folly and my wretchedness."
"You loved him too much, mother, but it was a fault on the right side."
"No, Jack, that is an error of yours; it was a fault on the wrong side. There is no credit to a mother in loving her children, for she cannot help it. It is a natural instinct implanted in the mother's heart by the Almighty, and in following this instinct we do no more than the beasts of the field. The duty of a mother is to check that feeling as far as it interferes with the happiness and well-doing of her children, and it is her duty to do so, and to punish herself in correcting her children. Jack, it is a selfish feeling which induces mothers to spoil their children."
"At all events my mother has never spoiled me," replied I.
"No, Jack, she has not; but observe the consequence. You said just now that excessive tenderness was a fault on the right side; now, how completely have you proved the contrary! I do not intend to defend your mother's conduct toward you; she has been unkind to you in your childhood, and has never shown the affection that a mother ought; but is not her fault a fault on the right side? Jack, you recollect my saying 'what a difference,' when you told me what you had done for your mother; I then referred to my son and to you. I indulged him in everything, sacrificed everything, and he robbed me and left me a beggar. Your mother has been severe upon you, and yet the first time you have the means of showing your duty you give her all the money you have in the world. You mother may not be right, Jack, but I was dreadfully wrong, and the result has proved it."
"Well, mother, go on, pray."
"My story is now soon told. I struggled on how I could for more than two years by selling my furniture and a few ornaments, then the blow came. When I heard it I would not remain in the town; I left for London, picked up my living how I could and where I could, till at last I came down here. Time was as a dream; reflection was too painful. I felt that it was all my fault, all my own doing. My heart became hardened, and continued so till I loved you, Jack; and now I have better feelings, at least I think so."
"But, mother, what was the blow? Is he dead?"
"Yes, Jack, dead—dead on the gibbet. He was hanged for piracy at Port Royal, Jamaica. Jack," said Nanny, seizing my hand, and pressing it in her long fingers, "this is a secret; recollect, a secret deep as the grave; promise me, as you hope for heaven!"
"I do, mother, as I hope for heaven."
"Now, Jack, leave me. Good-by. You will come and see me when you return, and never bring this subject up again. Bless you, my child! bless you!"
I left poor old Nanny with her face buried in her apron; and it was in a very melancholy mood that I returned home. I could not help thinking of the picture in the spelling-book, where the young man at the gallows is biting off the ear of his mother, who, by her indulgence, had brought him to that disgrace.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Strong symptoms of Mutiny, which is fortunately Quelled by granting a Supply.
It was a beautiful sunshiny warm morning when I arose, and, as Bramble intended that we should leave Greenwich the next day, I thought I might as well call at the house of Dr. Tadpole, and try if I could see him before I went. When I arrived there he was not at home, but my namesake Tom was, as usual, in the shop. Tom was two or three years older than me, being between seventeen and eighteen, and he had now grown a great tall fellow. We always were very good friends, when we occasionally met, and he generally appeared to be as good tempered and grinning as ever; but when I now entered the shop I found him very grave and dejected, so much so that I could not help asking him what was the matter.
"Matter enough, I think," said Tom, who was pounding something in the mortar. "I'll not stay here, that's flat. I'll break my indentures, as sure as my name's Tom Cob, and I'll set up an opposition, and I'll join the Friends of the People Society, and the Anti-Bible Society, and every other opposition Anti in the country."
"Why, what has happened, Tom?"
"I'll make speeches against Church and against State, and against the Aristocracy, and Habeas Corpus, and against Physic, and against Standing Armies, and Magna Charta, and every other rascally tyranny and oppression to which we are subjected, that I will!" Here Tom gave such a thump with the pestle that I thought he would have split the mortar.
"But what is it, Tom?" inquired I, as I sat down. "What has the doctor done?"
"Why, I'll tell you, the liquorice is all gone, and he won't order any more."
"Well, that is because you have eaten it all."
"No, I haven't; I haven't eaten a bit for these five weeks: it's all been used in pharmacopey, honestly used, and he can't deny it."
"Who used it?"
"Why, I did: he said he wouldn't stand my eating liquorice, and I told him that I shouldn't eat any more. No more I have, but I ain't well, and I prescribes for myself. Haven't I a right to do that? Mayn't I physic myself? I am a doctor as well as he is. Who makes up all the medicine, I should like to know? who ties up the bottles and writes directions? Well, my insides are out of order, and I prescribes for myself—black draughts 'omnes duas horas sumendum'; and now he says that, as the ingredients are all gone, I shan't take any more."
"And pray what were the ingredients, Tom?"
"Why, laxative and alterative, as suits my complaint—Extract. liquor.—aqua pura—haustus."
"And what is that?"
"Liquorice and water, to be sure; there's nothing else I can take. I've tasted everything in the shop, from plate powder to aqua fortis, and everything goes against my stomach."
"Well, Tom, it's a hard case; but perhaps the doctor will think better of it"
"He'd better, or I'll set up for myself, for I won't stand it any longer; it ain't only for myself but for others that I care. Why, I've a hankering for Anny Whistle (you know her, don't you?), a pretty little girl with red lips—lives in Church Street. Well, as long as I could bring her a bit of liquorice when I went to see her all was smooth enough, and I got many a kiss when no one was nigh; but now that I can't fork out a bit as big as a marble, she's getting quite shy of me, and is always walking with Bill, the butcher's boy. I know he gives her bull's eyes—I seed him one day buying a ha'p'orth. Now, ain't that hard?"
"Why, certainly, the affair becomes serious; but, still, how you are to set up for yourself I don't know. You are not qualified."
"Oh! ain't I? Just as much as most doctors are. There must be a beginning, and if I gives wrong medicine at first, then I'll try another, and so on, until I come to what will cure them. Soon learn, Tom."
"Well, but how will you do about surgery?"
"Surgery? Oh, I'll do very well; don't know much about it just now—soon learn."
"Why, would you venture to take off a man's leg, Tom? Do you know how to take up the arteries?"
"Would I take off a man's leg? To be sure I would, as quick as the doctor could. As for the arteries, why, I might puzzle a little about them; but by the time I had taken off three or four legs I should know something about them. Practice makes perfect—soon learn, Tom."
"But all your first patients would die."
"I don't know that. At all events I should do my best, and no man can do more, and if they did die, why, it would be by the visitation of God, wouldn't it?"
"Not altogether, I'm afraid. It won't do, Tom."
"It has done from the beginning of the world, and will do. I say there's no learning without practice. People spoil at first in every trade, and make afterward, and a man ain't born a doctor any more than he is a carpenter."
"No, but if I recollect right, to be a surgeon you ought to walk the hospital, as they term it."
"Well, and haven't I for these last four years? When I carries out my basket of physic I walks the hospital right through, twice at least every day in the week."
"That's Greenwich Hospital."
"Well, so it is, and plenty of surgical cases in it. However, the doctor and I must come to a proper understanding. I didn't clean his boots this morning. I wish, if you see him, Tom, you'd reason with him a little."
"I'll see what I can do, but don't be rash. Good-by, Tom; mind you tell the doctor that I called."
"Well, I will; but that's not in my indentures."
I called in at the widow's after I left the doctor's shop, and communicated the intended rebellion on the part of Tom.
"Well," said Mrs. St. Felix, "I shall not forget to make the Spanish claim, and prevent Tom from walking Spanish. The doctor is very inconsiderate; he forgets that Tom's regard for liquorice is quite as strong as his own liking for a cigar. Now, if the doctor don't promise me to have a fresh supply for Tom, I won't let him have a cigar for himself."
The doctor was compelled to surrender at discretion. The next wagon brought down one hundred weight of liquorice, and Tom recovered his health and the smiles of Anny Whistle.
When I left the widow's I proceeded to the hospital to find Anderson and my father. As I walked along I perceived Dick Harness on a bench, who hailed me.
"Well, Tom, I haven't seen anything of you for I don't know how long, since you've taken to a seafaring life. This is a beautiful day, is it not? It makes one feel so happy and cheerful such a day as this. Everybody and everything looks gay, the birds seem so merry, and the little clouds seem to scud away as if their hearts were as light as themselves. Come, sit down a minute; here's a song for you you've never heard, one I don't often sing, because they say it's all about myself."
"Well, then, I should like to hear that."
"Here goes, then.
"Sam Swipes, he was a seaman true,
As brave and bold a tar
As e'er was dressed in navy blue
On board a man-of-war.
"One fault he had—on sea or land
He was a thirsty dog;
For Sammy never could withstand
A glass or so of grog.
"He always liked to be at sea,
For e'en on shore, the rover,
If not as drunk as he could be
Was always 'half seas over.'
"The gunner, who was apt to scoff,
With jokes most aptly timed,
Said Sam might any day go off,
'Cause he was always 'primed,'
"Sam didn't want a feeling heart,
Though never seen to cry;
Yet tears were always on the start,
'The drop was in his eye.'
"At fighting Sam was never shy,
A most undoubted merit;
His courage never failed, and why?
He was so full of 'spirit.'
"In action he had lost an eye,
But that gave him no trouble;
Quoth Sam, I have no cause to sigh,
I'm always 'seeing double.'
"A shot from an unlucky gun
Put Sam on timber pegs;
It didn't signify to one
Who ne'er could 'keep his legs.'
"One night he filled a pail with grog,
Determined he would suck it;
He drained it dry, the thirsty dog!
Hiccupped, and 'kicked the bucket.'"
"There's Bill's fiddle, Dick," said I, getting up; "I thought you would bring him out."
"Yes, I was sure of that. I'll sing another verse or two, and then be off to the park, and leave him in the lurch."
"I can't wait any more, Dick; I must go to my father," said I.
"Well, off with you, then, and I'm off, too. Sing tura la, tura la, tura lura la. Bill's coming down. How savage the nigger will be!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
In which my Father proves he can give good Advice as well as Peter Anderson.
I found my father under the colonnade, and inquired of him if Anderson was there.
"No, he's not," replied my father; "he has been sent for by the officers; so stop, Tom—that is, if you can spare a minute for your own father."
"Of course I can," replied I, taking my seat by him.
"Why, you see, boy," said my father, "I have but very little of your company, and I feel it, Tom, I do indeed. I'm not jealous, and I know that Peter Anderson has done more for you than ever I could, for I've no larning to signify; but still, Tom, I am your father, and I don't think Peter, although he may be proud of your turning out so well, can feel exactly for you what a father does. I'm proud enough of you, Heaven knows, and it does hurt me a little when I find that, whenever you come here, it is for Peter Anderson, and it makes me wish sometimes that I had been Peter Anderson instead of your father."
"Indeed, father," replied I, "I hope you don't think that I like Anderson better than I do you; but you recollect that I have been accustomed all my life to take his advice."
"I know it, boy, I know it. I was serving my country and doing my duty on board of a King's ship, and you were left here, and therefore lucky it was that you fell in with old Peter; but, Tom, I could not be in two places at the same time, and if I did not do my duty as a father toward you, at all events I was doing my duty to my country."
"To be sure you were, and it was of more importance than looking after a brat like me," replied I, soothingly, for I really never had the idea that my father could have showed so much feeling.
"Why, Tom, I can't say that I thought so, for the fact is I didn't think about it; indeed, I thought about nothing. Sailors afloat have little time to think; they can't think when it's their watch on deck, for they are too busy; nor at their watch below, for they're too tired; nor at meal-times, for they must look after their share of the victuals; indeed, there is not any time to think on board ship, and that's a fact. But, Tom, since I've been laid up here I have thought a good deal. All is calm and quiet, and one day passes just like the other, and no fear of interruption when one don't wish it—and I have thought a good deal. At first I thought it a hard case to be shoved on the shelf at my age, but I don't think so now—I'm quite satisfied."
"I'm glad to hear you say so, father."
"Yes, Tom. And then, you see, when I was afloat, I didn't think any good of your mother, and I was glad to keep out of her way; and then I didn't care about my children, for I didn't know them; but now I've other thoughts, Tom. I don't think your mother so bad, after all; to be sure, she looks down upon me 'cause I'm not genteel; but I suppose I aren't, and she has been used to the company of gentlefolk; besides she works hard, and now that I don't annoy her by getting tipsy, as I used to do, at all events she's civil; and then I never knew what it was to have children until I came here, and found Virginia and you; and I'm proud of you both, and love you both better than anything on earth; and, although I may not be so well brought up or so well taught as you both are, still, Tom, I'm your father, and all I can say is, I wish for your sakes I was better than I am."
"Don't say so, father. You know that Virginia and I are both as fond of you as you are of us."
"Well, mayhap you are; I don't say no. You are both good children, and at all events would try to like me; but still I do feel that you can't look up to me exactly; but that's my misfortune, Tom, more than my fault. I haven't larning like Anderson, or gentility like your mother. I've only a true heart to offer to you. You see, Tom, I've said all this because you are always after Anderson; not but that I like Anderson, for he's a good man, and has been of sarvice to me, and I don't think he would ever say anything to you that would make you think less of me."
"No, indeed, father; on the contrary, I once asked him his opinion about you, and he spoke most highly of you; and whenever I go to him for advice, he always sends me to you to approve of what he has said."
"Well, he is a good man, and I'm very sorry to have any feeling of envy in me, that's the truth; but still a father must have a father's feelings. Don't let us say anything more about it, Tom; only try next time, when you want advice, whether I can't give it. You can always go to Peter afterward, and see whether I'm right or wrong."
"I will indeed, my dear father, now I know that you wish it."
I never felt so warm toward my father as after this conversation; there was so much affection toward me, and yet so much humility shown by him, as respected himself, that I was quite touched with it, and I began to think that he really had had occasion to complain, and that I had not treated him with that respect which he deserved.
"Now, Tom, I've something to say to you. When Anderson, Bramble, and I were taking a pipe together last night, Bramble said that he had a letter from the captain of the Indiaman, offering you a berth on board as guinea-pig, or midshipman. He said that he had not shown it to you as yet, because it was of no use, as he was sure you would not accept it. Well, Anderson and I said that at least you ought to know it, and have the refusal; and your mother pricked up her ears and said that it was much more genteel than being a pilot; so I now put the question to you.'
"Thank you, father; but Bramble was right. I shall not accept of it, although I am much obliged to the captain."
Here my father stopped me. "First, Tom," said he, "we must overhaul the pros and cons, as people call them. Old Anderson weighed them very closely, and now you shall hear them." Here my father commenced a long story, with which I shall not tire the reader, as to the prospects on either side; but as soon as he had finished I replied:
"That all he said was very true; but that I had made up my mind that, if ever I were regularly to serve, it should be in a man-of-war, not in a merchant vessel; that it was certainly possible that I might, after serving many years, become a captain of an Indiaman, which was a high position, but I preferred being a pilot, and more my own master; that if there were no other objections, that of being absent for three years at a time from him and Virginia would be more than sufficient, and that I was very happy where I was, as Bramble and little Bessy were almost equal to another father and another sister. A rolling stone gathers no moss, they say, father. I have entered into the pilot service, and in that I hope to remain."
"Well, you're right, Tom; Bramble said you would decide so. There's nothing like being contented with what we are and what we have got."
"I might probably become a richer man if I were to be a captain of an Indiaman," observed I; "but I'm sure if ever I'm able to buy a little farm, as Bramble is now able to do, I shall think myself quite rich enough."
"You see, Tom, it all depends upon what people's ideas are. One man thinks himself rich with what another would think that he was a beggar. Now I dare say old Nanny thinks that shop of old iron and rubbish that she has got together the finest shop in all Greenwich."
"I believe she does, and the prettiest," replied I, laughing.
"Well now, Tom, an odd thing happened the other day while you were away, just to prove how true that is. You may recollect a little old man in our ward, Phil Nobbs they called him, who walked with his chin half a yard before him. Well, he took to the sick ward and died, since you have been gone. I went to see him, of course, and he was always talking about his property; and none of us knew where it was, but we supposed that he had it somewhere. One day, as I was sitting by his bed, he says, 'Saunders, the doctor's coming round, just tell him I want to make my will, for I feel as if I were slipping my wind.' Well, the doctor and the chaplain both came to his bedside with the paper, and Nobbs raised himself on his elbow, and said, 'Are you ready, sir? Well, then, I'll make short work of it. This is my last will and testament: first, I wish a white pall over me, when I'm buried, and that expense must be deducted, after which I bequeath to my nephews and nieces, James Strong, Walter Strong, Ellen Strong, Mary Williams, the one married, Peter Strong, all of Rotherhithe, and to Thomas Day, Henry Day, and Nicholas Day, of Eltham, the whole of my money and personal effects, share and share alike, equally divided among them all. There, sir, that will do. I can't write, but I'll put my cross to it.' Well, the old fellow died that night, and notice of his will was sent to his nephews and nieces, who all came on the day of his burial dressed in their best, for they were all mechanics and laborers, poor people, to whom, I suppose, a legacy was a great object. The chaplain had asked Nobbs where his money was, and he replied that it was in the hands of Lieutenant –, who knew all about his affairs. After the funeral they all went in a body to the lieutenant, who stated that he had ten shillings belonging to Nobbs, out of which seven shillings were to be deducted for the white pall; and that as for his other effects, they must be in his cabin, as he never heard of his having anything but what was there. So we went to his cabin, and there we found five or six penny prints against the wall, two pair of old canvas trousers, and an old hat, six cups and saucers, cracked and mended; and this was all his property, altogether not worth (with the three shillings) more than seven or eight at the outside, if so much. You may guess the disappointment of his nephews and nieces, who had lost a good day's work and come so far for nothing; and I must say they were not very dutiful in their remarks upon their old uncle as they walked off. Now you see, Tom, this old fellow had been in the hospital for more than twenty years, and had been able to save no more than what he had out of his shilling per week, and in his eyes this small property was very large, for it was the saving of twenty years. He thought so, poor fellow, because he probably had never saved so many shillings in his life. There was no joking about it, I can assure you."
