Volume One—Chapter Twelve.
An Encounter with a Coward.
About a week after my interview with Mrs Hyland and her daughter, I saw what I had been daily looking for—a notice in one of the Liverpool papers, under the head of “Shipping Intelligence,” announcing the arrival of the ship “Lenore,” Captain Adkins, from New Orleans.
After reading the notice, I hastily flung aside the paper; and proceeded direct to the docks—where I found the vessel had already arrived.
As I might have expected, Adkins was not aboard. He had landed several hours before, while the ship was still in the river. Having ascertained the name of the hotel where he was in the habit of staying, while in Liverpool, I lost no time loitering on board the ship, but went in search of him. On reaching the hotel, I found that he had slept there the night before, but had gone out after breakfast in the morning.
My conjecture was, that he would be found at the house of Mrs Hyland; and it now occurred to me that I had been wonderfully stupid in not looking for him there in the first instance.
From the hotel, I proceeded direct to Mrs Hyland’s residence, as I walked along, anticipating much pleasure in the task of compelling Adkins to refute his own falsehoods. I feared, however, that shame would hinder him telling the truth; and that even in my presence he would stick to his infamous story. I feared it, because I did not wish to kill him.
As I had conjectured, he was visiting at Mrs Hyland’s. Just as I reached the door, Adkins was coming out.
I controlled my temper as well as I could. I did not wish to defeat my purpose by an exhibition of idle anger.
“Good morning Mr Adkins!” said I. “We meet again; and I assure you, on my part, with profound pleasure.”
He would have passed without speaking, had I not placed my body so as to block the way.
“Who the devil are you; and what do you want?” he asked, with a bullying tone and air that I had often known him assume before.
“I am Rowland Stone,” I answered, “and I wish to see you on a matter of considerable importance.”
“You see me then! what the important business?”
“It can only be made known in the presence of Mrs Hyland and her daughter.”
“Mrs Hyland does not wish to see you,” said Adkins, “and much less her daughter, I should think. As for myself, I want nothing to do with you.”
“I can believe the latter part of your assertions,” I answered, “but it is necessary that we should sometimes do what may not be exactly agreeable to us. If there is a spark of manhood in you, walk back into the house, and repeat to Mrs Hyland in my presence, what you have said behind my back.”
“I shall not take the trouble to do any thing of the kind. I tell you again, I want nothing to say to you. Give me the way!”
As Adkins said this, he made a gesture as if he intended to pass me.
“I’ll give you the way to hell,” said I, “unless you do as I bid you,” and I caught him by the collar to drag him into the house.
He resisted this attempt by aiming a blow at me, which I returned with such interest, that while I still kept my legs, the captain of the “Lenore” missed his; and, staggering backward, he fell heavily on the door-step.
I had now lost all command of myself; and, after ringing the bell, to have the door re-opened, I seized him by the hair of the head—for the purpose of hauling him inside.
My purpose would have been accomplished. I would have broken down the door, dragged him into the house, confronted him with Mrs Hyland, and made him swallow his false words, but for the arrival of a trio of policemen.
I was not overcome until after a long struggle, in which the exertions of the three policemen, Adkins himself, and another man, who was passing at the time, were united against me. It ended in their putting me in irons.
As I was led away from the house, I noticed that Mrs Hyland and Lenore were both at the window—where, I had no doubt, they had been witnesses of the affray.
I was at once taken to a police station, and locked up in one of its cells.
Next morning I was brought before a magistrate. Adkins was there to prosecute. The three policemen were present as witnesses, as also the Liverpool citizen, who had aided in putting me in irons.
After evidence was heard against me, I was called upon for my defence. I had nothing to say to the charge.
The magistrate emphatically declared that a case of a more unprovoked assault had never been brought before him; and that he did not think the ends of justice would be met by the infliction of a fine. He therefore sentenced me to fourteen days’ imprisonment.
I thought none the less of myself for that; and, under other circumstances, two weeks in a prison might not have been passed unpleasantly. But it was bitterness to reflect, that while I was passing my time in the companionship of petty thieves, Edward Adkins was daily visiting Lenore.
Fourteen days must I pass as a prisoner, while my vile enemy would be enjoying the society of Mrs Hyland and her daughter—no doubt doing all he could to blacken my character, and lower me still further in their estimation!
The reflection was anything but pleasant, though I might have partly consoled myself by another: that I was much better off inside the gaol, than millions of my fellow countrymen outside of it. Had I committed some crime, that really deserved this confinement, then would I, indeed, have felt really wretched; but conscience accused me of no wrong; and I was not without those tranquillising emotions ever springing from a sense of rectitude and innocence.
I was not afraid that Adkins would gain any great advantage over me in winning the affections of Lenore—even though aided by the influence of her mother. It was not that which troubled me during my sojourn within the walls of a prison. If Lenore should prove capable of choosing such a man for her husband, I need not regret her loss. My spirit was more harassed by the thought: that wrong should have thus triumphed—that Adkins should be in the society of Lenore, when he should have been in my place in the prison, and I in his.
After I had passed eight days of my confinement, I was surprised one morning by the announcement that I was to receive visitors.
Two persons had called, and inquired for Rowland Stone. They were outside—waiting to be admitted to my cell.
Both proved to be old acquaintances. One was a man named Wilton, who had been the second mate of the ship “Lenore,” under Captain Hyland. The other was Mason, the steward of the same ship.
As both these men had been very kind to me when I was in the ship, I was pleased to see them; but much more so, when I learnt to whom I was indebted for their visit. Mason told me that he was still steward of the “Lenore,” and that Miss Hyland had come to him on board: for the purpose of obtaining a true account of the circumstances that stood between me and Adkins.
“I was glad to learn, Rowley, that you had turned up again,” said Mason, “but at the same time, sorry to hear of your present trouble. I at once resolved to try and get you out of at least a part of it, although I may lose my situation by doing so. I told Miss Hyland, plainly enough, that Adkins was a villain, and that I could prove it. I promised her that I would come and see you. Wilton here, is now the skipper of a tug-boat on the river, and I brought him along—knowing that he can lend a hand to help us.”
“Nothing can please me more than to see Adkins lose the command of the ‘Lenore,’” interposed Wilton, “for I know that he is not an honest man; and that he has been all along robbing the widow. We must decide on some plan to convince Mrs Hyland, that she is placing confidence in a scoundrel.”
Wilton and Mason remained with me nearly an hour; and it was decided that nothing should be done openly, until my term of imprisonment should expire. We were then to ascertain when Adkins would be on a visit to Mrs Hyland’s house, when we should all three go together, meet him there, and tell Mrs Hyland the whole story of his falsehood and dishonesty.
“Should she not believe us, and still continue to trust him,” said Wilton, “then she deserves to be robbed, that’s my way of thinking.”
I thought the same, so far as robbing her of her worldly wealth; but it was bitter to believe that the rascal might also rob her of a jewel more priceless than all else—of Lenore. But I could not believe that the most insane folly on her part would deserve so extreme a punishment, as that of having Adkins for a son-in-law!
Mason gave me his address, so did Wilton, and I promised to call on them, as soon as I should be set at liberty.
They left me happy, and hopeful. I was happy, not because I was young, and in good health—not because I had found friends who would aid me in subduing an enemy; but because the beautiful Lenore had interested herself in my misfortunes, and was trying to remove them.
That was a theme for many long and pleasant reveries, which while they rendered me impatient to be free, at the same time enabled me to pass the remainder of my term of imprisonment, with but slight regard for the many petty annoyances and discomforts of the situation.
I accepted my liberty when it was at length given me; and on the same day went to visit Mason and Wilton.
What had been done already by Lenore, left me under the impression that she would still further aid me in establishing the truth. I felt confident, that she would not object to letting us know on what day and hour we might meet Adkins at her mother’s house; and with this confidence, I wrote a note to her, containing the request that she would do so. Then, in pleasant expectation of soon having an opportunity of clearing my character, I awaited the answer.
Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.
A Reckoning Up.
Lenore did not disappoint me. Two days after getting out of the prison, I received her reply—informing me that Adkins would be at her mother’s house the next day, and advising me to call with my friends, about half-past ten. I had made known to her the object of my desire to meet him.
After receiving her note, I went immediately to Mason and Wilton; and we appointed a place of rendezvous for the next morning.
That evening, I was as uneasy as the commander-in-chief of an army on the eve of a great battle. I had an enemy to confront and conquer—a reputation already sullied to restore to its former brightness.
I could not help some anxiety as to the result.
In the morning, I met my friends at the appointed place; and as the clock struck ten, we started for the residence of Mrs Hyland.
As we came within sight of the house, I perceived Lenore at the window. She recognised us, rose from her seat, and disappeared towards the back of the room. When I rang the bell, the door was opened by herself.
Without hesitating, she conducted us all three into the parlour, where we found Adkins and Mrs Hyland.
The latter appeared to be no little astonished by our unexpected entrance; but as for Adkins himself, he looked more like a frightened maniac than a man.
“What does this mean?” exclaimed Mrs Hyland, in a voice that expressed more alarm than indignation.
“These gentlemen have called to see you on business, mother,” said her daughter. “There is nothing to fear from them. They are our friends.”
Having said this, Lenore requested us to be seated; and we complied.
Adkins did not speak; but I could read from the play of his features, that he knew the game was up, and that he had lost.
“Mrs Hyland,” said Wilton, after a short interval of silence, “I have called here to do what I believe to be a duty, and which I ought to have done long ago. If I am doing any wrong, it is only through my ignorance of what’s right. I was your husband’s friend, and we sailed together, for nine years or thereabouts. I was on the ship ‘Lenore’ when Captain Hyland died, in New Orleans; and I have heard the stories that Mr Adkins here has told about this young man. Those stories are false. When in New Orleans, at the time of your husband’s death, Adkins was most of the time drunk, and neglecting his duty. Rowley did not desert from the ship, neither did he neglect the captain, but was the only one of the ship’s company with him, or taking care of him, when he died. Mr Adkins never liked Rowley; and the only reason I can think of for his not doing so, is just because it is natural for a bad man to dislike a good one. When Mr Adkins obtained the command of the ship, he would not let Rowley come aboard again—much less return in her to Liverpool. I made one voyage with Adkins as first mate after Captain Hyland’s death, and learnt, while making it, that I could not continue with him any longer—unless I should become nearly as bad as himself. For that reason I left the ship.
“Mrs Hyland!” continued Wilton, fixing his eye upon Adkins, and speaking with determined emphasis, “I have no hesitation in pronouncing Mr Adkins to be a wicked, deceitful man, who has been robbing you under the cloak of friendship; and still continues to rob you.”
“These men have formed a conspiracy to ruin me!” cried Adkins, springing to his feet. “I suppose they will succeed in doing it. Three men and one woman are more than I can contend against!”
Mrs Hyland paid no attention to this remark; but, turning to Mason, said, “I believe that you are Mr Mason, the steward of the ‘Lenore.’ What have you to say?”
“I have to state that all Mr Wilton has told you, is true,” said Mason. “Rowley, to my knowledge, has never done anything to forfeit your friendship. I have long known that Captain Adkins was a scoundrel; and my desire to expose him—overcome by the fact that I have a large family to support, and was afraid of losing my situation—has caused me to pass many a sleepless hour. I had made up my mind not to go another voyage along with him—before learning that my testimony was wanted in aid of Rowley here. On hearing that he had robbed the young man—not only of his old friends, but of his liberty—I no longer hesitated about exposing him. He is a dishonest villain; and I can prove it by having the ship’s accounts overhauled.”
“Go on! go on!” cried Adkins. “You have it all your own way now. Of course, my word is nothing.”
“He is telling the truth for once in his life,” said Mason to Mrs Hyland. “For his word is just worth nothing, to any one who knows him.”
“Now, Rowland,” said Mrs Hyland, “what have you to say?”
“Very little,” I answered. “I did not wish you to think ill of me. There is nothing that can wound the feelings more than ingratitude; and the kindness with which you once treated me, was the reason why I have been so desirous of proving to you that I have not been ungrateful. You have now evidence that will enable you to judge between Adkins and myself; and after this interview, I will trouble you no more, for I do not desire to insist upon a renewal of the friendship you have suspected. I only wished you to know that I had given you no cause for discontinuing it.”
“Now, gentlemen!” said Adkins, “having been amused by all each of you has to say, I suppose I may be allowed to take my leave of you; and,” said he, turning to Mrs Hyland, “I’ll see you again, madam, when you have not quite so much interesting company to engage your attention.”
He arose, and was moving towards the door.
“Stop!” shouted Mason, stepping before him. “Mrs Hyland,” continued the steward, “I know enough about this man, and his management of your business, to justify you in giving him in charge to a policeman. Shall I call one?”
For a minute Mrs Hyland was silent.
I looked at Adkins, and saw that my triumph over him was complete. His own appearance condemned him; and anyone to have seen him at that moment—humiliated, cowed, and guilty—would ever after have dreaded doing wrong; through very fear of looking as he did.
In truth, he presented a melancholy spectacle: for he had not the courage to assume even a show of manliness.
To complete my triumph, and his discomposure, Lenore, who had been all the while listening with eager interest, and apparent pleasure to what had been said, cried out, “Let him go, mother, if he will promise never to come near us again!”
“Yes, let him go!” repeated Mrs Hyland. “I must think before I can act.”
Mason opened the door; and Adkins sneaked out in a fashion that was painful, even for me—his enemy—to behold. After his departure, each waited for the other to speak.
The silence was broken by Mrs Hyland, who said:
“Of you, Mr Wilton, and you, Mr Mason, I have often heard my late husband speak in the highest terms; and I know of no reason, why I should not believe what you have told me.”
“With you, Rowland,” she continued, turning her eyes upon me, with something of the old friendly look, “with you, I have been acquainted many years; and the principal reason I had for doubting your integrity and truthfulness, was because I thought that, had you possessed the regard for us, you should have had, you would certainly have come back after the death of my husband.
“You did not; and the circumstance, as you will admit, was strong against you. I have now much reason to believe that I have been deceived in Adkins; and I do not know whom to trust. I must suppose that all of you have come here without any ill feeling towards me: for I know not why you should wish to do me an injury.
“I have a respect for those in whom Mr Hyland placed confidence. I have heard him speak well of all of you; and I do not remember now of anything he ever said that should give me a favourable opinion of Adkins. Indeed, I never heard Mr Hyland speak much concerning him. It is my duty to think of the past as well as the present, before I can say anything more.”
Wilton and Mason both assured Mrs Hyland that they had only acted under the influence of a sense of duty—inspired by the respect they had for the memory of her husband.
We left the house; but not till Mrs Hyland had shaken hands with me, and at the same time extended to me an invitation to call the next day; and not till Mrs Hyland’s daughter had given me reason to believe that my visit would be welcome.
Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.
Once More Friends.
I did call the next day, and had no particular reason to be dissatisfied with my reception.
Mrs Hyland did not meet me in the same motherly manner, she once used to exhibit; but I did not expect it; and I could not feel displeased at being admitted on any terms, into the presence of a being so beautiful as Lenore.
Neither did she receive me in the same manner she used to do in the past; but neither was I annoyed by that circumstance. It was necessary that the child-like innocence and familiarity, once existing between us, should cease; and it was no chagrin to me to perceive that it had done so.
I confessed to Mrs Hyland, that I had acted wrong in not returning to Liverpool after her husband’s death; but I also explained to her how, on being discharged from the ship, I had felt myself sorely aggrieved; and, having no longer a home, I had to wander about as circumstances dictated. I added, of course, that could I have had the least suspicion that my absence would have been construed into any evidence of crime or ingratitude, I would have returned long before to refute the calumny.
Lenore did not try to conceal her pleasure, at seeing her mother and myself conversing once more as friends.
“You must not leave us again, Rowland,” said she, “for we have not many friends, and can ill-afford to lose one. See how near we have been to losing you—all through your being absent.”
“Yes, Rowland,” said Mrs Hyland. “My house was once your home; and you are welcome to make it so again. I shall only be fulfilling the wishes of my husband, by renewing the intimate friendship that once existed between us.”
Her invitation to make her house once more my home, I reluctantly declined. Lenore seemed no longer my sister; and with some sorrow the conviction forced itself on my mind—that my fate was to love—to love, yet wander far from the one I loved.
Lenore was now a young lady. I thought myself a man. As children, we could no longer live together—no longer dwell under the same roof. Lenore was too beautiful; and I was too much afflicted with poverty. Any further acquaintance between us might not contribute to my future happiness but the contrary.
I left the house with mingled feelings of pleasure and despair, pleased to find myself once more restored to the good opinion of Mrs Hyland—despairing of being able to resist the fascinations of her daughter’s beauty.
Every time I gazed upon her fair face, could only add to my misery. I was young; and as I had been told, good-looking. Lenore and I had been old friends and playmates. It was possible for me to win her love; but would it be honourable?
Would it be a proper return for the kindness of Captain Hyland and his widow, for me, a penniless “rolling stone,” to try to win the affections of their only child, and subject her to the misery of my own unfortunate lot? No! I could love Lenore; but I could not act in such an unworthy manner.
Then followed the reflection, that Mrs Hyland had some property. Her home would be mine. She needed a son-in-law to look after the ship; and I was a seaman.
These thoughts only stirred within me a feeling of pride, that would not allow me to receive any advantage of fortune from one I could choose for a wife. I knew that with all the exertions a man may make—and however correct his habits may be—he cannot live happily with a wife who brings into the firm of husband and wife more money than himself.
Another unpleasant consideration came before me. Why should I be seeking for reasons against marrying Lenore, when perhaps she might not consent to marry me? Because we were old friends, was no reason why she should ever think of me as a husband. By trying to make her love me, I might, as she had said of Mr Adkins, cause her only to hate me.
The day after my visit to Mrs Hyland and Lenore, I went to see Mason, the steward, in order that I might thank him for the good word he had spoken for me—as well as for much kindness he had shown towards me, when we were shipmates in the ‘Lenore.’ He received me in a cordial manner, that caused me to think better of mankind, than I had lately done. In a long conversation I held with him, he told me of many acts of dishonesty, in the committal of which he had detected Adkins, who, he said, had been robbing Mrs Hyland in every way he could.
“Captain Hyland took much trouble in giving you some education,” said he; “why don’t you marry the daughter, and take command of the ship?”
“I am a poor penniless adventurer,” I replied, “and dare not aspire to so much happiness as would be mine, were I to become the husband, as well as captain, of ‘Lenore.’ I am neither so vain nor ambitious.”
“That’s a fact,” said Mason. “You have not enough of either. No man ever did any thing for himself, or any one else, without thinking something of himself, and making such a trial as you decline to undertake. He is a lucky man who wins without trying.”
There was truth in what the steward said; but the Hylands had been my friends, and were so again; and I could not bring myself to abuse the confidence they had placed in me. I could not speak of love to Lenore, and so I told the steward.
In this interview with Mason, I learnt from him that Adkins had disappeared, and could no more be found!
“His flight,” said Mason, “will be positive proof to Mrs Hyland that he was unworthy of the confidence she had placed in him. She cannot be too thankful, that your return has been the means of her discovering his true character. I would have exposed him long ago, but I did not think that I could succeed; and that I would only be doing myself an injury—in short, ruining my poor family, without the consolation of knowing that I had also ruined a scoundrel. Thank the Lord for all his mercies! The villain has been uncloaked at last.”
With this pious thanksgiving ended the interview, between the honest steward and myself.
Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.
Love and Poverty.
From that time I called every day to see Lenore and her mother; and each time came away more hopelessly infatuated.
My money was gradually growing easier to count—until I found that I had but a few shillings left, and necessity must soon force me to seek employment. Of course I contemplated going to sea, and making my living on board some ship; but I found it impossible to come to a determination.
How was I to leave Liverpool, where I could gaze each day on the beauty that adorned Lenore?
I could not take my departure until circumstances should compel me. In order to protract my stay as long as possible, I lived on but one meal per diem; and as I had also to keep a little money for my lodgings, I made that meal upon a penny roll.
Mrs Hyland had determined on giving up the ship—a resolution no doubt due to the mismanagement, or rather dishonesty, of him who had lately commanded her. I assisted her in finding a purchaser; and she was very fortunate in disposing of the vessel at a good price.
She had plenty of money, and was willing to aid me. But pride prevented me from accepting of anything but her friendship; and ofttimes did I appear in the presence of Lenore while suffering the pangs of hunger! Was that love?
I thought it was; and on this fancy, and a single roll of bread, I lived from day to day. Never had I been so happy, and, at the same time, so wretched. I could look upon her I loved, and converse with her for hours at a time. That was happiness. But I loved Lenore, and must leave her. That was misery.
Lenore seemed to meet me with so much cheerfulness, that my resolution to leave her—without being absolutely compelled to it—was often nearly broken; and I believe there are but few who would have resisted the temptation to stay. But pride, a sense of justice, and a love of independence, prompted me to go forth again upon the world, and seek fortune afresh. Perhaps, too, the fact that I was naturally a “rolling stone,” might have had much to do in my determination, at length arrived at, of bidding adieu to Lenore. There was yet another motive urging my departure—one which had been too long allowed to lie dormant within my bosom; my relatives were lost, and I knew not where to find them. This thought often arose, causing me much regret. I had as yet no reason to believe that they had left Liverpool; but if such should prove to be the case, the sooner I started in search of them, the sooner would my conscience be satisfied.
I waited till my last shilling was spent; and then sold a signet ring—which I had taken from the finger of a dead Mexican, on the field of battle—obtaining thirty shillings for it. With this trifling sum I had a great deal to accomplish. It constituted the sole fund with which my relatives were to be sought and found. It was the capital I had to invest, in the business of making a fortune worthy of Lenore!
I advertised for my mother in some of the Liverpool papers; but the only result was the loss of the greater part of my cash. She had probably gone after Mr Leary to Australia. Having followed him from Dublin to Liverpool, was proof that she was foolish enough to follow him to the Antipodes; and the money she had received for the lease of her house, would enable her to go there.
Had I been certain that she had sailed to Australia, I should have gone after her; but I could scarce believe that she had been guilty of an act of folly; which even the absence of common sense would neither excuse nor explain. Because she had once acted foolishly, was not positive proof that she still continued the victim of her unfortunate infatuation.
The mere conjecture that my mother had emigrated to Australia, would not have been a sufficient reason for my going so far in search of her—so far away from Lenore. Still it was certain I must go somewhere. I had a fortune to make; and, in my belief, Liverpool was the last place where an honest man would have stood any chance in making it.
My clothing had become threadbare, and my hat and boots were worn to such a dilapidated condition, that I became every day more ashamed to pay my visits to Lenore. I at length resolved upon discontinuing them.
I arose one morning, with the determination of making a move of some kind during the day: for the life that I had been leading for the past six weeks could be endured no longer.
I made an excursion to the docks, where I soon succeeded in finding a berth; and shipped for the “run” in a large vessel—a “liner”—bound to New York. This business being settled, I proceeded to the house of Mrs Hyland—to bid her and her daughter “good-bye.”
They showed every evidence of regret at my departure; and yet they did not urge me very strenuously to remain: for they knew something of my disposition.
I had a long conversation with Lenore alone.
“Miss Hyland,” said I, “I am going in search of a fortune—a fortune that must be obtained by hard toil; but that toil shall be sweetened by hope—the hope of seeing you again. We are both young; and the knowledge of that gives me encouragement to hope. I shall not now speak to you of love; but I shall do so on my return. I believe that we are friends; but I wish to make myself worthy of something more than your friendship.”
I fancied that Lenore understood me. I cannot describe the exquisite pleasure that thrilled me, as I noted the expression of her features while she stood listening. It did not forbid me to hope.
“I will not try to detain you, Rowland,” she answered, “but if you are unsuccessful abroad, do not remain long away. Return to us; and you will find those who can sympathise with your disappointments. I shall pray that no harm may befall you; and that we may soon meet again.”
I could perceive her bosom trembling with some strong emotion, as she uttered these parting words.
As I took her hand to bid the final “good bye,” we were both unable to speak; and we parted in silence.
The memory of that parting cheered me through many a dark and stormy hour of my after life.
Volume One—Chapter Sixteen.
Atlantic Liners.
Perhaps the most worthless characters, who follow the sea as a profession, are to be found among the crews of Atlantic liners—especially those trafficking between Liverpool and New York.
These men seldom make voyages to any other ports, than the two above mentioned; and their custom is to “ship for the run” in one vessel, and return in another. They do not affect long voyages; and prefer that between Liverpool and New York to any other.
There are several reasons for this preference on their part.
One is the facility with which—on an Atlantic liner—they can rob each other, and steal from the passengers.
Another is, that being, even for seamen, a profligate, dissipated set, these short voyages give them more frequent opportunities of being in port—where they can indulge in the vices and habits so congenial to their vulgar tastes.
A third reason is, the great number of emigrant-passengers carried between those ports, along with the loose observance of the Passenger Act—the rules of which are less strictly enforced upon Atlantic liners, than aboard ships going on longer voyages.
It may be inferred from this, that the ruffians comprising the crews of the Atlantic liners, have a better opportunity of plundering the passengers than in any other ships.
When embarking on one of these vessels to recommence my duties as a seaman, I was not encumbered with much luggage; and I was not very long in her forecastle, before discovering that this was rather an advantage than a misfortune!
I had spent so much of my money, that I should have been absolutely unable to buy an outfit for any other “trip” than that between Liverpool and New York.
The less a sailor takes aboard with him on such a voyage, the less will he lose before it is terminated.
One of the crew of the ship in which I sailed, was a young seaman, who had never made the voyage from Liverpool to New York; and therefore lacked experience of the evil doings incidental to such a trip. He had been foolish enough to bring on board a large “kit” of good clothing. The first night out of port, when this young man was keeping his watch on deck, one of his comrades below took notice of his chest.
“It’s locked,” said the man, stretching out his hand to try the lid.
“Blast him!” cried another, “I suppose he thinks we are all thieves here!”
“Sarve him right if he were to lose every-things that’s in it,” significantly remarked a third.
“So say I,” chimed in a fourth speaker, drawing nearer to the kit, in order to be at hand in case of a scramble—which the moment after was commenced.
The chest was turned over, all hands taking share in the act; and without further ado, its bottom was knocked in. Most of the sailor’s effects were pulled out, and scattered about—each of the ruffians appropriating to himself some article which he fancied.
Amongst other things, was a new pair of heavy horseskin boots, which were obtained by a fellow, who chanced to stand in need of them; and who pulled them on upon the spot.
The next day, the young sailor having missed his property, of course created a disturbance about it. For this, he was only laughed at by the rest of the crew.
He complained to the officers.
“Had your clothes stole, have you?” carelessly inquired the first mate. “Well, that’s what you might have expected. Some of the boys are queer fellows, I dare say. You should have taken better care of your togs—if you cared anything about them.”
The next day, the young sailor saw one of the men with the stolen boots upon his feet, and at once accused the wearer of the theft. But the only satisfaction he obtained, was that of getting kicked with his own boots!
We had on board between three and four hundred passengers—most of them Irish and German emigrants.
Several deaths occurred amongst these poor people. Whenever one of them died, the fact would be reported to the officers; and then the first mate would order the sailmaker to enclose the body in a sack—for the purpose of its being thrown overboard. This command to the sailmaker was generally given as follows:
“Sails! there’s a dead ’un below. Go down, and sack ’im.”
As these words were heard by the passengers—alas! too often repeated—the sailmaker was known during the remainder of the voyage by the name of Mr Sackem; and this unfortunate functionary became an object of mysterious dread to many of the passengers—especially the women and children.
Women generally have a great horror of seeing the dead body of any of their relatives thrown into the sea; and Mr Sackem incurred the ill-will of many of the female emigrants, who were simple enough to think that he was someway or other to blame for the bodies being disposed of in this off-hand, and apparently unfeeling fashion!
A young child—one of a large family of Irish people—had died one night; and the next morning the sailmaker went into the steerage where the body lay—to prepare it for interment in the usual way.
The first attempt made by Mr Sackem, towards the performance of his duty, brought upon him an assault from the relatives of the deceased child, backed by several others who had been similarly bereaved!
Poor Sails was fortunate in getting back upon deck with his life; and he came up from the hatchway below with his clothing torn to rags! He had lost the greater part of a thick head of hair, while his countenance looked like a map of North America, with the lakes and rivers indicated in red ink.
It was not until the captain had gone down—and given the passengers a fine specimen of the language and manners of the skipper of an Atlantic liner in a rage—that the body was allowed to be brought up, and consigned to its last resting place in the sea.
I landed in New York, with the determination of trying to do something on shore, for I was by this time convinced, that a fortune was not to be made by following the occupation of a common sailor.
I did not remain long in New York. Too many emigrants from Europe were constantly arriving there; and continuing that same struggle for existence, which had forced them into exile.
I had every reason to believe, that a young man like myself was not likely to command his full value, where there were so many competitors; and I determined to go on to visit the West.
Is it true, a life on the sea might have been preferable to the hardships, that were likely to be encountered beyond the borders of civilisation; but Lenore was not to be won by my remaining a common sailor, nor would such a profession be likely to afford me either time or opportunity for prosecuting the search after my lost relations. I knew not whether I was acting prudently or not; but I directed my course westward; and did not bring to, until I had reached Saint Louis, in the State of Missouri. There I stopped for a time to look about me.
On acquaintance with it I did not discover much in this western city to admire. A person of sanguine hopes, and anxious to accomplish great things in a very little time, is, perhaps, not in a fit frame of mind to form correct conclusions; and this may account for my being discontented with Saint Louis.
I could not obtain a situation in a city where there was but little to be done, and no great wages for doing it. I was told that I might find employment in the country—at splitting rails, cutting wood, and other such laborious work; but in truth, I was not in the vein to submit myself to this kind of toil. I was disappointed at finding, that in the great West I should have much more work to do than I had previously imagined.
It chanced that at this time there was a grand commotion in Saint Louis. Gold had been discovered in California—lying in great quantities in “placers,” or gold washings; and hundreds were departing—or preparing to depart—for the land where fortunes were to be made in a single day.
This was precisely the sort of place I was looking for; but to reach it required a sum of money, which I had not got. I had only the poor satisfaction of knowing that there were many others in a similar situation—thousands of them, who wished to go to California, but were prevented by the same unfortunate circumstances that obstructed me.
Many were going overland—across the prairies and mountains; but even this manner of reaching the golden land required more cash than I could command. A horse, and an outfit were necessary, as well as provisions for the journey, which had to be taken along, or purchased by the way.
I regretted that I had not shipped in New York, and worked my passage to California round the Horn. It was too late now. To get back to any seaport on the Atlantic, would have required fifteen or twenty dollars; and I had only five left, of all that I had earned upon the liner. I spent these five dollars, before I had succeeded in discovering any plan by which I might reach California. I felt convinced that my only chance of finding my relatives, and making myself worthy of Lenore, lay in my getting across, to the Pacific side of America.
While thus cogitating, I was further tantalised by reading in a newspaper some later accounts from the diggings. These imparted the information that each of the diggers was making a fortune in a week, and spending it in a day. One week in California, was worth ten years in any other part of the world. Any one could get an ounce of gold per diem—merely for helping the giver to spend the money he had made!
Should I—the Rolling Stone—stay where I could find employment at nothing better than splitting rails, while Earth contained a country like California?
There was but one answer to the interrogation: No.
I resolved to reach this land of gold, or perish in the attempt.
Volume One—Chapter Seventeen.
On Horseback Once More.
The same newspaper that had imparted the pleasing intelligence, supplied me with information of another kind—which also produced a cheering effect upon my spirits.
The emigrants proceeding overland to California, required protection from the Indians—many hostile tribes of whom lived along the route. Military stations, or “forts” as they were called, had to be established at different points upon the great prairie wilderness; and, just then, the United States’ Government was enlisting men to be forwarded to these stations.
Most of the men enrolled for this service, were for its cavalry arm; and after my last quarter of a dollar had been spent, I became one of their number. My former experience in a dragoon saddle—of which I could give the proofs—made it no very difficult matter for me to get mounted once more.
Enlisting in the army, was rather a strange proceeding for a man who was anxious to make a fortune in the shortest possible time; but I saw that something must be done, to enable me to live; and I could neither hold a plough, nor wield an axe.
At first, I was not altogether satisfied with what I had done, for I knew that my mother was not to be found in the wilds of America; and that, after remaining five years in the ranks of the American army, I would be as far as ever from Lenore.
There was one thought, however, that did much to reconcile me to my new situation; and that was, that our line of march would be towards California!
Three weeks after joining the cavalry corps, we started for a station lying beyond Fort Leavenworth.
Our march was not an uninteresting one: for most of my comrades were young men of a cheerful disposition; and around our camp-fires at night, the statesman, philosopher, or divine, who could not have found either amusement or instruction, would have been a wonderful man.
Our company was composed of men of several nations. All, or nearly all, of them were intelligent; and all unfortunate: as, of course, every man must be, who enters the ranks as a common soldier.
Man is the creature of circumstances, over which he has no control. The circumstances that had brought together the regiment to which I belonged, would probably make a volume much more instructive and interesting than any “lady novel,” and this, judging from the taste displayed by the majority of readers of the present day, is saying more than could be easily proved.
Many European officers would have thought there was but slight discipline in the corps to which I was attached; but in this opinion, they would be greatly in error.
The efficiency of our discipline consisted in the absence of that pretty order, which some French and English martinets would have striven to establish; and which would have been ill-suited for a march over the sterile plains, and through the dense forests encountered in the line of our route. This absence of strict discipline did not prevent us from doing a good day’s march; and yet enabled us to have plenty of game to cook over our camp-fires by night.
We had no duty to trouble ourselves with, but what the common sense of each taught him to be necessary to our safety and welfare; and we were more like a hunting party seeking amusement, than like soldiers on a toilsome march.
For all this, we were proceeding towards our destination, with as much speed as could reasonably be required.
We had one man in the company, known by the name of “Runaway Dick”—a name given to him after he had one evening, by the camp-fire, entertained us with a narration of some of the experiences of his life.
He had run away from home, and gone to sea. He had run away from every ship in which he had sailed. He had started in business several times, and had run away each time in debt. He had married two wives, and had run away from both; and, before joining our corps, he had run away from the landlord of a tavern—leaving Boniface an empty trunk as payment for a large bill.
“Runaway Dick” was one of the best marksman with a rifle we had in the company; and it was the knowledge of this, that on one occasion caused me perhaps the greatest fright I ever experienced.
I had risen at an early hour one morning, which being very cold, I had lighted a fire. I was squatted, and shivering over the half kindled faggots, with a buffalo robe wrapped around my shoulders, when I saw “Runaway Dick” steal out from his sleeping place under a waggon. On seeing me, he turned suddenly round, and laid hold of his rifle.
I had just time to throw off the hairy covering, and spring to my feet, as the rifle was brought to his shoulder. Three seconds more, and I should have had a bullet through my body!
“Darn it! I thought you was a bar,” said Dick coolly, putting down his rifle, as I fancied, with a show of some chagrin at having been undeceived, and “choused” out of his shot.
I afterwards heard that he was only trying to frighten me. If so, the experiment proved entirely successful.
After reaching the post we were to occupy, I was not so well satisfied with my situation, as when on the march.
The discipline became more strict, and we had a good deal of fatigue-work to do—in building huts, stables, and fortifications.
Besides this unsoldierly duty by day, we had at night to take our turn as sentinels around the station.
Emigrants on the way to California passed us daily. How I envied them their freedom of action, and the bright hopes that were luring them on!
One morning, “Runaway Dick” was not to be found. He had run away once more. It was not difficult to divine whither—to California.
In this, his latest flight, he appeared to give some proof that he had still a little honesty left: for he did not take along with him either his horse, or his rifle.
I overheard some of the officers speaking of him after he was gone, one of them pronounced him “a damned fool” for not taking the horse—so necessary to him upon the long journey he would have to perform, before reaching his destination.
On hearing this remark, I registered a resolve, that, when my turn came to desert, they should not have occasion to apply the epithet to me, at all events, not for the same reason that Runaway Dick had deserved it.
Whether Dick’s example had any influence on me, I do not now remember. I only know that I soon after determined to desert, and take my horse with me.
I had served the Government of the United States once before; and did not think myself any too well rewarded for my services. I might probably have believed that “Uncle Sam” was indebted to me; and that by dismissing myself from his employ, and taking with me some of his property, it would be only squaring accounts with him; but I did not then take the trouble to trifle with my conscience—as I do not now—to justify my conduct by any such excuse. To carry off the horse would be stealing; but I required the animal for the journey; and I did not like to leave my officers under the impression that I was a “damned fool.”
“Every one who robs a government is not called a thief,” thought I, “and why should I win that appellation when only trying to win Lenore?”
I could not afford to squander the best part of my life in a wilderness—standing sentry all the night, and working on fortifications all the day.
It was absurd for any one to have enlisted an intelligent-looking young fellow like myself, for any such occupation. Was I not expected to take French leave on the first favourable opportunity? And would I not be thought a “fool” for not doing so?
These considerations did not influence me much, I admit, for the true cause of my desertion, was the knowledge that neither my relatives nor Lenore would ever be encountered in the middle of the great American prairie, and that to find either I must “move on.”
One night I was dispatched on patrol duty, to a place some two miles distant from the fort. The sky was dark at the time; but I knew the moon would be shining brightly in an hour.
A better opportunity would perhaps never occur again; and I resolved to take advantage of it and desert.
By going through the wilderness alone, I knew that I should have many dangers and hardships to encounter; but the curiosity, of learning how these were to be overcome, only added to my desire for entering upon them.
My patrol duty led me along the trail of the emigrants proceeding westward; and even in the darkness, I was able to follow it without difficulty, riding most of the way at a trot. When the moon rose, I increased my pace to a gallop, and scarce halted until daybreak, when, perceiving a small stream that ran through the bottom of a narrow valley, I rode toward it. There dismounting, I gave my horse to the grass—which was growing so luxuriantly as to reach up to his knees.
The horse was more fortunate than I: for the long night’s ride had given me an appetite, which I had no means of satisfying. I was hungry and happy—happy, because I was free; and hungry for the same reason! A paradox, though a truth.
There were birds warbling among the trees by the side of the stream. I could have shot some of them with my rifle, or revolver, and cooked them over a fire—for I had the means of making one. But I was not hungry enough to risk the report of a shot being heard; and after tethering my horse, to make secure against his deserting me, I lay down upon the long grass and fell fast asleep.
I dreamt no end of dreams, though they might all have been reduced to one; and that was: that the world was my inheritance, and I was on my way to take possession of it.
When I awoke, the sun was in the centre of the sky. My horse had satisfied his hunger; and, following the example of his master, had laid down to sleep.
I did not hesitate to disturb his repose; and, having saddled and remounted him, I once more took to the emigrant trail, and continued on towards fortune and Lenore!