Фредерик Марриет
Poor Jack
"I can tell you that I could hardly take breath when I came to the surface, for my head came up through a quantity of tar, which floated like fat on a boiler, and it nearly smothered me; for, you see, there had been one or two casks of tar on the decks, which had stove when the ship was going down, and the tar got up to the top of the water before I did. It prevented me from seeing at first, but I heard the guns firing as signals of distress." Here Turner drank some ale.
"Well," said he, after a short pause, "I may as well finish my story. As soon as I could clear the tar from my eyes, I saw the main topsail halyard-block about level with the water's edge about eight or ten yards from me; so I swam to it and rode on it, holding on by the halyards, and then I looked about me. The fore, main, and mizzentops were all above water, as was a part of the bowsprit, and also part of the ensign-staff, with the flag hoisted—for, you see, messmates, we went down in only thirteen and a half fathom water, that is, about eighty feet; and, as I said before, she measured sixty-six feet from the keelson up to the taffrail; and she grounded as nearly upright as a vessel could; for the lighter, which was fast to leeward when she went down, caught the main yard, which helped to right her as she sank—but the lighter went down with her. Well, as I looked round, I saw the admiral's baker in the mizzen shrouds, and there was the body of the woman I had dragged out of the port rolling about close to him. The baker was an Irishman, of the name of Claridge; and I called out to him, 'Bob, reach out your hand and catch hold of that woman, I daresay she is not dead.'
"He said, 'She's dead enough; it's no use to lay hold of her.'
"I answered, 'She is not dead.' He caught hold of the woman and hung her head over one of the rattlings of the mizzen shrouds, and there she swung by her chin till a wash came and lifted her off, and then she rolled about again. Just then one of the captains of the frigates came up in his boat. I waved my hand toward the woman—he stopped pulling, the men dragged her into the boat, and laid her in the sternsheets.
"'My man,' said the captain, 'I must pick up those who are in more danger than you.'
"'All right, sir,' said I; 'I'm safe moored here.'
"There was one of our men hanging on the mainstay, and roaring like a bull, as he tried to climb by it out of the water. Had he only remained quiet, he would have done well enough. The boat took him off first, and the others of the people who were clinging about the masts and rigging, including the baker and myself. It then pulled on board the 'Victory' with us; and I once more found a good dry plank between me and the salt water."
"Was the captain and admiral saved?"
"Captain Waghorn was. He could not swim; but one of the seamen held him up. The admiral was drowned in his cabin. Captain Waghorn tried to acquaint him that the ship was sinking; but the heeling over of the ship had so jammed the doors of the cabin that they could not be opened."
"What became of the lieutenant of the watch and the carpenter?"
"The lieutenant of the watch was drowned—and so indeed was the carpenter. His body was taken up, I believe, by the same boat which picked up Lieutenant Durham3. When I went on board of the 'Victory,' I saw the carpenter's body before the galley fire—some women were attempting to recover him, but he was quite dead. There was a strong westerly breeze, although the day was fine; and the wind made the water so rough that there was great danger of the boats getting entangled in the rigging and spars, when they came to take the men off, or more would have been saved."
"How many do you think were lost altogether?" inquired Anderson.
"We had our whole complement on board, eight hundred and sixty-five men; and there were more than three hundred women on board, besides a great many Jews with slops and watches; as there always are, you know, when a ship is paid and the men have any money to be swindled out of. I don't exactly know how many men were saved, but there was only one woman, which was the one I dragged out of the port. There was a great fat old bumboat woman, whom the sailors used to call the 'Royal George'—she was picked up floating, for she was too fat to sink; but she had been floating the wrong way uppermost, and she was dead. There was a poor little child saved rather strangely. He was picked up by a gentleman who was in a wherry, holding on to the wool of a sheep which had escaped and was swimming. His father and mother were drowned, and the boy did not know their names; all that he knew was that his own name was Jack; so they christened him John Lamb, and the gentleman took care of him."
"Have you no idea how many men were saved, Turner?"
"I only know this—that the Admiralty ordered five pounds a man to be given to the seamen who were saved, as a recompense for the loss of their clothes, and I heard that only seventy-five claimed it; but how many marines were saved, or other people who were on board, I do not know; but perhaps, altogether, there might be two hundred or more—for you see the seamen had the worst chance of being saved, as they were almost all down in the hold, or on the lower and main decks at their guns. A few days after the ship went down the bodies would come up, eight or ten almost the same time—rising to the top of the water so suddenly as to frighten people who were passing near. The watermen made a good thing of it; for, as the bodies rose, they took from them their shoe-buckles, money, and watches, and then towed them on shore to be buried."
"That lieutenant had much to answer for," observed Ben. "His false pride was the cause of it all."
"It would seem so—but God only knows," replied Anderson. "Come, my lads, the beer is out, and it's two bells in the middle watch. I think we had better turn in. Jack, what's to become of you?"
"Oh, I'll find a plank," said I.
"So you shall, boy, and a bed upon it," replied Ben. "Come and turn in with me, and don't you dream that the larboard lower deck ports are open."
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
My Father makes his Appearance, having left his Leg, but not his Tail, behind him—My Father is pensioned off by my Mother as well as by his Country.
About six weeks after the intelligence of the battle of the Nile, as I was sweeping away from the steps the mud which had been left by the tide, a King's tender, that I had been watching as she came up the river, dropped her anchor in the stream, abreast of the hospital.
Shortly afterward the lieutenant who commanded her pulled on shore in his boat, and, landing at the steps, proceeded to the governor's house. The men having orders not to leave the boat, requested me to procure them some porter, which I did; and on my return with it, they informed me that they had come round from Portsmouth with sixty-three men, who had lost their limbs, or had been otherwise so severely wounded in the late action as to have been recommended for Greenwich.
I felt very anxious for the men to land, as it was possible that my father might be one of them. The lieutenant soon returned, jumped into the boat, and shoved off. I perceived that the disabled men were getting ready to land, hauling their chests and kits on deck. In about half-an-hour a boat full of them came to the steps. I ran down to assist; and as I held on to the gunnel of the boat, while they threw out their gang-board, the first person who stumped out was my father, minus his left leg.
"Father!" cried I, half sorry and half pleased.
"Who calls me father?" replied he, looking at me. "Why, you don't mean to say that you're my boy Tom?"
"Yes, indeed!" said I.
"Ah! yes—I recollect your smile now. Why, what a big fellow you've grown!"
"It's four years since you left, father."
"Well! I suppose it is, since you say so," replied he, taking me by the arm, and stumping a little to one side, when he said in a low tone, "I say, Jack, what became of the old woman? Did I settle her?"
"Oh, no," replied I, laughing, "she was only shamming."
"Shamming was she? Well! it's all the better—for she has been a little on my conscience, that's truth. Shamming? Heh! She won't sham next time, if I fall foul of her. How does she get on?"
"Oh, very well indeed."
"And how's your little sister? What's her name—Jenny lengthened at both ends? I never could recollect it, though I've often thought of her sweet little face."
"She's quite well, and as pretty and as good as ever."
"Well, Tom, my boy, you stood by your father when he was in trouble, and now he'll stand by you. How does your mother treat you?"
"We get on pretty well—not over-fond of each other."
"Well, Tom, I've only one pin left; but I say," continued my father, with a wink of his eye, "I haven't left my tail behind me, 'cause it may be useful, you know. Now we must all go up to the governor of the hospital for inspection, and I suppose we shall be kept for some time; so you may run home and tell your mother that I've come back in a perfect good-humor, and that it will be her fault if she puts me out—that's all."
"I will, father; and then I'll come to you at the hospital."
I ran home to communicate the important intelligence to my mother and to Virginia, who had as usual come from school for her dinner.
"Mother," says I, out of breath, "who do you think has come back?"
"Comeback?" said she. "Back? Not your father?"
"Yes," says I, "my father. I just left him."
My mother turned deadly pale, and dropped the hot iron from her hand, so as to spoil a frilled nightcap belonging to one of her lady customers. She staggered to a chair, and trembled all over. I really believe that had she been aware of his being about to return, she would have quitted Greenwich before his arrival; but now it was too late. Virginia had run for the salts as soon as she perceived that her mother was unwell, and as she smelled them she gradually recovered. At last she inquired how my father looked and what he said.
I told her that he had lost his leg, and had been sent as a pensioner to the hospital; that he had looked very well, and that he had told me to say that "he was in a perfect good humor, and it would be her fault if she put him out of it; and that if she did—"
"Well, what then?" inquired my mother.
"Oh, the tail—that's all."
At the mention of the tail my mother very nearly went off in a swoon—her head fell back, and I heard her mutter, "So vulgar! so ungenteel!" However, she recovered herself, and appeared to be for some time in deep thought. At last she rose up, ordered me to fetch something extra for supper, and recommenced her ironing.
As soon as I had executed her commission I went to the hospital, where I found my father, who, with the other men, had just been dismissed. He accompanied me to my mother, shook hands with her very good-humoredly, kissed Virginia, whom he took on his knee, praised the supper, drank only one pot of porter, and then returned to the hospital, to sleep in the cabin which had been allotted to him in the Warriors' Ward, of which Anderson was the boatswain. My mother, although not very gracious, was much subdued, and for a few days everything went on very comfortably; but my mother's temper could not be long restrained. Displeased at something which she considered as very vulgar, she ventured to assail my father as before, concluding her tirade as usual, with "There—now you're vexed!"
My father looked at her very sternly.—At last he said, "You're just right—I am vexed; and whenever you tell me so in future I'll prove that it's no lie." He then rose, stumped upstairs to my room, in which he had deposited his sea-chest, and soon made his appearance with the formidable and never-to-be-forgotten tail in his hand. "Mistress," said he, as my mother retreated, "you said, 'Now you're vexed' to me just now. I ask you again, am I vexed, or am I not?" and my father flourished the tail over his head.
My mother looked at the strange weapon: the remembrance of the past was too painful; she was conquered by her fear.
"Oh, no," cried she, falling on her knees. "You're not vexed—indeed you are not."
"You're quite sure of that?" responded my father authoritatively, as he advanced toward her.
"Oh! yes, yes," cried my mother, trembling; "indeed you're not."
"Ain't I in a very good humor?" continued my father.
"Yes, you are in the best of humors, and always are so, unless—I aggravate you," replied my mother, whimpering.
"Well," replied my father, lowering his tail, "I expect we've come to a right understanding at last. So now get up and wipe your eyes; but recollect, that whenever you dare to tell me that I'm vexed, I won't be so ungenteel as to contradict you."
Thus was the mastery gained by my father, and never lost. It is true that sometimes my mother would forget herself, and would get on as far as "There now, you're—," but she would stop there, and correct herself, saying, "No, you're not," and allow her temper to evaporate by singing one of her usual ditties, as "Hush-a-by, baby, on the tree-top;" but my father never took notice of her singing; and being really a very good-tempered man, my mother's temper gradually became improved.
The return of my father made some alteration in our mode of life. He might, if he had pleased, have lived as an out-pensioner with my mother; but this he would not do. He used to come in almost every evening to see her, and she used to provide for him a pot of porter, which he seldom exceeded. If he had friends with him, they paid for what they drank. This pot of porter per diem was the only demand made upon my mother for permission to remain separate, and she did not grumble at it. His tobacco he found himself out of the tobacco money allowed at the hospital. He had received some pay, which, contrary to his former custom, he had laid by in the charge of one of the lieutenants of the hospital, for at that time there were no savings banks.
As a married man my father had the liberty to introduce his wife and children into the hospital at meal-times, to share his allowance with them. This my mother would not listen to, as regarded herself and my sister; but my father messed in what is called the married men's room, on my account, and instead of buying my own dinner, or applying to my mother for it, I now always took it with my father in the hospital. In consequence of my father's admittance as a pensioner, both I and my sister might have been instructed at the hospital school; but my mother would not premit Virginia to go there, and I found it much more convenient to go to Peter Anderson in the evening, when I had nothing to do. On the whole, we all went on much more comfortably than we did before my father's return.
One evening I was, as usual, with Anderson in his cabin; my father having been drafted into his ward, I could not help asking Anderson how he liked him. His reply was, "I like your father, Jack, for he is a straightforward, honest, good-tempered man, and, moreover, has a good natural judgment. I think it a great pity that such a man as he is should be so early in life lost, as it were, to the country. He is a first-rate seaman; and although there are many like him, still there are none to spare. However, if his country loses, he may himself gain, by being so soon called away from a service of great temptation. The sailor who has fought for his country, Jack, has much to be thankful for when he takes in moorings at Greenwich Hospital. He is well fed, well clothed, tended in sickness, and buried with respect; but all these are nothing compared with the greatest boon. When I reflect what lives sailors live, how reckless they are, how often they have been on the brink of eternity, and wonderfully preserved, without even a feeling of gratitude to Him who has watched over them, or taking their escapes as warnings; when I consider how they pass their whole lives in excess, intemperance, and, too often, blasphemy, it is indeed a mercy that they are allowed to repose here after such a venturous and careless career; that they have time to reflect upon what has passed, to listen to the words of the Gospel, to hate their former life, and trusting in God's mercy to secure their salvation. This is the greatest charity of this institution, and long may it flourish, a blessing to the country which has endowed it, and to the seamen, who are not only provided for in this world, but are prepared in it for the next."
Such were continually the style of admonitions given me by this good old man, and I need not point out to the reader how fortunate it was for me that I had secured such a preceptor.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
In which is proved the Truth of the Proverb, "When your own House is made of Glass, you never should be the first to throw Stones"
One evening, when I went to the shop of the widow St. Felix to purchase some tobacco for my father, she said, "Why don't your father come himself, Jack? I want to make his acquaintance, and see how he looks without his pigtail."
"Why, you never saw him when he had it on," replied I.
"No, that's the truth; but still I wish to have a sight of him: the fact is, I want to laugh at him."
"Very well, I'll bring him here; but, recollect, it's a very sore subject with him," replied I, "and that you may have a sharp answer."
"That I'll take my chance of, Jack," replied the widow, laughing.
In consequence of this intimation, one evening when my father was walking in the hospital, I persuaded him to call at the shop.
"This is my father, Mrs. St. Felix," said I.
"Most happy to see him. What shall I have the pleasure of assisting you to, Mr. Saunders?" said the widow.
"My sarvice to you, marm—if you please, to two penn'orth of pigtail and a paper of shorts."
"Much obliged to you, Mr. Saunders," replied she. "Sure we're much indebted to Admiral Lord Nelson for sending us such fine-looking pensioners. I shouldn't wonder if I were to choose a husband out of the hospital yet."
"I'm afeard we're all too mauled, marm, to suit a pretty young woman like you," replied my father, very gallantly.
"Thank you for that, Mr. Saunders; but you're mistaken entirely. I don't consider the loss of a leg, for instance, as anything; I never look at men's legs, and therefore care little whether they are made of wood or not, provided they don't tread on my corns."
"Well, marm, I'm glad that you don't consider a timber toe as any obstacle to matrimony; but, I fear, having a wife already may be considered by you a sort of objection."
"Why, sure, I must have the whole of my husband; I couldn't afford to share him, especially when one limb is gone already. That puts me in mind of my want of manners. I hope Mrs. Saunders is quite well. I hear from Jack that you have a separate maintenance—that's very genteel."
"Why, yes, marm," replied my father; "the King maintains me, and my wife maintains herself; so, as you say, we have a separate maintenance."
"Well, that's the best way when married people don't agree. What are you laughing at, Mr. Jack? did I hint that your father and mother ever had any little matrimonial differences? I certainly did hear that there was a trifling dispute when they last parted; but when they bring me such tales I always cut them short. Here's your pigtail, Mr. Saunders," continued the widow, laughing, as she put the tobacco on the counter.
I looked at my father, who did not seem to relish the hint, but he answered very frankly, "If you cut them as short as my wife cut mine, why, then you won't be troubled with them any more. I see, marm, you know all about it, and you may have your laugh if it pleases you; but I can tell you that my tail has done me better sarvice since it was off than when it hung down my back."
"Become useful, instead of ornamental, I presume, Mr. Saunders."
"Just made this difference—when it was on it made my wife's tongue to go; now it is off, it has stopped it."
"An extraordinary powerful instrument, to stop a woman's tongue!"
"Well, you've only to ax Mistress Saunders, she'll tell you all its virtues."
"Well, Mr. Saunders, I don't know whether you have any idea of taking another wife some future day. If so, say nothing about it, or you'll never get one."
"Well, marm—I don't know whether you ever think of taking another husband; but if so, I think it would be kind on my part to lend it to him. Can you tell me why widows' tongues run so much faster than other women's?"
"Mercy! what put that idea in your head, Mr. Saunders?"
"You, and half a dozen more that I happen to know. May I make so bold as to ask you, marm, how long you may have been a widow?" continued my father.
"Bless me! so long that I quite forget all about it," replied Mrs. St. Felix, turning away from the counter to the jars behind.
I gave my father a wink to let him know that it was his turn now: he understood me, hitched up his waistband and nodded.
"How did you lose your first husband, marm? What did he die of?"
The widow colored, and my father perceiving it, followed up his question.
"Did he die of a fever, marm?"
"I'm not exactly sure," replied she, hurriedly.
"May I ask how long it is since he died?" continued my father.
"Oh! Mr. Saunders," replied the widow, confusedly, "I really don't recollect just now. It's very painful to answer such questions."
"Not if you've been a widow so long that you forget all about it; that's all sham and nonsense. So you ain't sure what he died of, nor when it was that he died? Are you quite sure, marm, that your husband is dead?"
Mrs. St. Felix started, turned very red, and then very pale.
"My sarvice to you for the present, marm," said my father, after a pause, taking off his hat. "I suspect that I've found a way to stop your tongue as well as my wife's. Broadside for broadside, that's fair play."
So saying, my father stumped away out of the shop door. Mrs. St. Felix put her apron up to her eyes, with her elbows resting on the counter. I waited a little, and then I said, "What is the matter, Mrs. St. Felix?"
She started at my voice.
"You here, Jack? I thought you had gone out with your father. Well," continued she, wiping her eyes, "it serves me right. I forgot that in amusing myself I annoyed him. Jack, don't you mention anything about this. Do you think your father will?"
"I don't think he will, for he cannot do so without talking about having his pigtail cut off, and I know he cannot bear to think of it."
"Well, then, pray don't you, that's a good boy."
"I never will, I promise you."
"Then, good-night, Jack; you must leave me now, I don't feel quite well."
I wished the widow good-night, and went back to my mother's house. My father was there, but he never hinted at the conversation which had taken place, neither at that time nor afterward.
