CHAPTER IV.
PRESSED.
FOUR years have passed since Tom Adderley began his new career. He has made four voyages with Captain Collins, and has risen from being ship's boy to being coxswain of the captain's boat. This gave him plenty of opportunities of landing and carrying on his own little trade; and Tom had made thirty pounds, which he kept tied up in a little canvas bag. He could pay his mother three times over, and she would be proud of her sailor son.
The Tom Adderley who was coming back to England with what seemed to him a large sum of money, intending at last to visit his home and repay the ten guineas (faithful to his resolution, he always thought of them as ten) threefold, was a very different person from the slip of a boy who had popped out so easily through the little window in his father's cottage. He had grown a good deal, he was strong and brown and sturdy, he walked with a little roll or swagger, call it which you like, as sailors do; and he was more changed in mind and ideas than in person. He could not read nor write, but he could keep accounts by means of nicks in a stick, and never make a mistake in them. He had learned to be a good sailor, for a merchant sailor; and he loved his profession, and had not a wish beyond it. So that he was now as steady and painstaking as he had once been idle and troublesome, he was well thought of by others, and exceedingly well pleased with himself.
As to being ashamed of having taken his mother's money, he was nothing of the kind. The guineas had increased under his care. Whereas his mother would probably have kept them locked up, laid up rather (Tom laughed to himself as he remembered the old iron pot), idle and useless, waiting for a "rainy day" that might never come. As to the actual arrival of that rainy day, the idea never troubled his head. Nothing ever happened in Burdeck, and nothing ever would happen. Father and mother would live on, just as they had always lived, until he had made enough to buy a farm and stock it. And for this, he would begin to work and save as soon as he had been home and paid mother threefold.
Yet Tom could remember the deaths of poor Harry Sands and his own pretty sister Dolly. The remembrance might have been a warning to him, but it was not.
Tom was picturing to himself his return—his mother's delight, Sam's half-envious admiration, his father's surprise—as he stood one day in the top, holding lightly by the rigging, doing duty as "look-out man." The merchant fleet, about forty ships of varying tonnage, some of them carrying a couple of guns for self-defence, was sweeping along with a favouring breeze; the four ships of war forming the convoy sailed two on one side and two on the other of the fleet. They had had a splendid voyage, and would, if the weather continued to favour them, soon see England again. Some of them could have sailed much faster, had they dared to leave the convoy, but this they could not do.
Suddenly Tom's quick eye caught sight of an unexpected movement on board the "Dauntless," the three-decker commanded by the senior captain present. Presently up ran little coloured balls, which soon shook themselves out into little flags. They were signalling, and not to the fleet. Therefore Tom knew that the signals were intended to reach some vessel seen from the tall mast of the great line-of-battle ship, but not as yet visible to him.
"'Dauntless' signalling!" he called out.
And Mr. Boland, first mate, after a look through his glass, sent for the captain.
Tom saw that the captain was uneasy. Something seemed to worry him a good deal.
Presently Tom called again, "A sail!"
"Where away?" called Captain Collins.
"Coming up with 'Dauntless.' Starboard quarter, sir. 'Dauntless' signalling!"
The captain raised his long glasses, looked steadily, and then grunted as if vexed. "Orders to lay to," said he; "and that means that the stranger is a Frenchman, and that there are others at her heels. I thought we were getting off without a fight this time."
He then gave the necessary orders, and in ten minutes every ship had furled sails and lay as nearly motionless as could be managed.
"I don't understand this," Captain Collins presently remarked, "The ships are not getting ready for action; they are remaining in their stations. Aloft there! Any more sail?"
"No, sir, none."
"I don't like this; I don't like it at all," muttered Captain Collins.
Meantime the stranger had overtaken the "Dauntless," and a boat was seen to leave her and row towards the big ship. The new-comer was a frigate, and Captain Collins pronounced her English.
"Oh, then we're all right, sir," said Boland.
"I hope so," replied the more experienced captain.
Presently Tom gave notice that several boats were leaving the "Dauntless." Captain Collins stood watching them as they swept over the frisky little waves, steadily impelled by the skilful arms of men-o'-war's men. The boats separated, each going towards one of the merchant ships. The boat from the stranger steered straight for the "Star of the Sea."
"Yes," said Captain Collins; "I thought so! Robins, go aloft and send Adderley down. You're safe; you're too old for them, if they can get younger. Adderley, go below and stay there, if you're let. Brown, Carr, Jones, and Seacombe, you go too. I must not overdo it; the rest must remain and take their chance."
The wary captain, shrewdly suspecting the errand on which the boat came, had now sent the pick of his crew below. One of these men enlightened Tom.
"It's a press-gang, that's what 'tis. Yon frigate has lost some men, and some of us will have to go."
"Oh," cried young Carr, "and me that is to be married the week after I get home. Poor Kitty, she has waited for me so faithful. Look ye, boys; I'll hide here behind this barrel, and maybe they won't see me."
"Whatever you do," said Seacombe, the eldest among them, "make no sort o' resistance if you're took. For there's captains in the navy that would flog ye for it at once."
Tom felt very angry. He could hear, when this conversation ceased, what was going on, on deck, and he stood listening with a miserable conviction in his heart that he would be one of those selected.
He heard the boat touch the ship's side. The next sounds proved that several men had boarded the "Star."
"Captain George Collins, I suppose?" said the young officer in command.
"At your service," replied Captain Collins in a somewhat sulky voice.
"I am Lieutenant Carteret, of his Majesty's ship 'Imogene.' We've been in action and lost some of our men. We cannot leave the station, and we cannot be short-handed. Captain Egerton regrets very much being obliged to take such a step, but we must ask you to give us three men. Captain Strayn, of the 'Dauntless,' says you can spare three. We mean to take some from several ships, so as not to distress any."
"What must be, must," said Captain Collins, "and I won't deny there's justice in it. You defend us, and—My men, you heard what this gentleman said?"
"Will any of you volunteer?" said Mr. Carteret, who liked his present duty as little as did Captain Collins.
"Yes, sir; I may as well go willing," said that sly old fox, Robins, knowing very well that the officer would take younger men.
"No one else volunteers? Well, then, I must choose. But first, Mr. Collins, do I see all your crew?"
"Are ye all on deck, boys?" inquired Collins.
"We're here," answered several voices. But Mr. Carteret, after looking at the men for a moment, said to a little pink-and-white midshipman who stood by his side—
"Mr. Egerton, take two men and go below. Bring up any men you find there."
Mr. Egerton, aged twelve, thought it all great fun. He ran gleefully down the ladder, and presently the sound of a scuffle was heard.
At a word from Mr. Carteret, three more sailors went below, and very soon the five young men were brought on deck, Dick Carr in custody, as he had resisted when dragged out of his hiding-place.
"Five skulkers, Mr. Carteret; and this fellow resisted."
"Ah, well, we'll overlook that. Let him go, Collier. These are the men for us. I'll take you—" pointing at Tom—"and you—" Dick Carr—"and you—" the last being Jones. "Now, my lads, I'm sorry this duty fell to me, for I hate having to do it. But I must do my duty, and you must submit. You'll find yourselves better off in many ways than you are here; plenty of fighting—every Englishman likes that—plenty of prize-money, and a very comfortable ship. If I give you five minutes to get your kits, will you keep faith with me, and give me no further trouble?"
Tom stepped forward and said, "Captain Collins, must we go?"
"No help for it, Adderley. Go below and get your kit."
Tom lingered for a moment, but catching little Egerton grinning at him, he walked off in sulky silence. Carr followed him. In a few minutes they all reappeared, each man carrying a bundle. Tom had his precious canvas bag tied up in his bundle, for as a sailor from the stranger's boat had gone below with the "Star's" men, apparently to keep an eye on them, Tom had not cared to be seen concealing it about his person.
Captain Collins shook hands with each man as he went over the side. Carr asked him to give a message to his Kitty, and Jones gave him some money to carry to his old mother. Tom for a moment thought of doing the same. He knew that Captain Collins would spare no trouble about it. But then, how terribly the honour and glory of his return would be impaired—to go home with no store of golden guineas, and causing no surprise in Burdeck! No, a year or two could make no real difference to mother, so he merely shook hands and went over the side.
As Mr. Carteret was about to follow, Robins came up to him. "What about me, sir? I volunteered."
"I have a great mind to take you, you old humbug!" said the young officer, laughing.
The men laughed too—all except the three pressed men. And Robins retreated very hastily.
As they rowed to the frigate, Dick Carr, who was sitting beside Tom, suddenly cried out, "I can't bear it, and I won't. Good-bye, Tom." And, quick as light, he flung himself overboard.
Tom grasped at him as he sprang, caught him by the leg, and held on. Help was promptly given, and Carr was dragged into the boat again, and handcuffed, but the plunge seemed to have brought him to his senses, for he sat quite quiet. Tom now stooped to pick up his precious bundle, which he had dropped at his feet when he saw what Carr was about. It was gone!
"My kit—my money!" he cried.
"Your kit!" said Mr. Carteret. "What is the matter about it?"
"It is gone!" said Tom.
"It went overboard in the scuffle, sir," said one of the rowers. "Summat heavy it seemed, too, for it went down like lead."
"Are you 'sure' it went overboard?" cried Tom despairingly.
"Never mind, my man," Mr. Carteret said kindly. "We'll rig you out on board the 'Imogene.'"
"But maybe you took it," Tom said to the rower who had spoken. "You're the man that followed me below, and maybe you saw—"
"Keep a civil tongue in your head, youngster," said the man, "or you'll find the mess a little too hot for you. 'I' take your kit, forsooth! A lubberly merchant sailor!"
Tom sank down, utterly wretched. What followed, he did not know. When he recovered himself a little, he was one of a long row of men, all like himself taken from the merchant ships, and now standing before a naval officer in the undress uniform of a post captain. A man of middle height, with dark hair, grizzled here and there, and very curly; handsome clear features, bronzed by many a burning sun, and strangely light grey eyes.
He looked at his new men kindly and gravely, and after a few minutes spoke to them.
"My lieutenants have done well; you are all fine fellows, and look sailor-like and ship-shape. Nov, my lads, listen to me for a moment. Necessity knows no law, and this was a plain case of necessity. I could not leave the station; no ship on the station could spare me a single man, and I can't have the old 'Imogene' short-handed, and see her towed into a French port some fine day. I'm sorry for you, lads, and yet I'm a little ashamed of you, too. Ashamed to find that Englishmen pull a long face over having to serve their king and their country, to do which is the bounden duty of every able-bodied man in times like these. You'll live, I hope, to be proud of being king's men. And I'll see that you have fair play, and share and share alike with the rest, of work and of play, of grog and of prize-money, and—what some of you will think best of all—the chances of winning honour and glory for your king and Old England. Come now, three cheers for the king—King George and Old England! And if you do your duty by me, you shall find that I'll do mine by you."
Three cheers, tolerably hearty ones, were raised. The little mite of a middy who had been with Mr. Carteret was standing close to the captain, whose son he was.
"That fellow did not cheer," said he, pointing at Tom, "all because he lost his kit!"
"Mr. Egerton, go below," said the captain, shortly enough. "When you are a little older and a little wiser, you will know that sometimes it is well to be blind and deaf."
Little Mr. Egerton coloured all over his pretty little impudent face, and made off as fast as he could go.
"What is your name?" Captain Egerton asked of Tom.
"Adderley—Tom Adderley."
"Say 'sir;' we must have no merchant ship manners here. Touch your cap and say 'sir.' You lost your hit in saving this half-drowned lad here?"
"Yes."
Captain Egerton waited. Something in his cool, quiet eyes made Tom's hand find its way to his cap, and forced him to add "sir," after a very perceptible pause.
"Well, go to the purser and tell him to rig you out comfortably. You look a sailor, every inch of you, but don't ruin your chances by showing temper.—You are Richard Carr, I think?"
"Yes, sir."
"If I overlook your silly conduct in the boat, will you promise better behaviour for the future? I can make allowance for the surprise."
"Yes, sir; I won't do the like no more."
"That's right. Now go below and get dry."
The captain turned away, and as soon as he was out of hearing, Tom Adderley uttered a few words in a low, hissing tone—if his good mother could have seen his face and heard those words, she would have cried out in fear and amazement. An old sailor who stood near turned round and said gently—
"Don't thee use words like that, my lad. It's clear against the law of God and the rules of the service. Come along, both of ye, and I'll show you where to go. You'll like the life after a bit. I wouldn't change, not to be a bishop!"
Now, Gideon Terlizzeck was a fine-looking old salt, and a very good man, but he was not exactly one's idea of a bishop, as he stood before the two young men, hitching up his trousers and shaking his head amiably at them, so that his stiff pigtail flew about, describing a half-circle in the air. Many sailors of the Royal Navy still wore pigtails, and Gideon had a splendid one—long and thick and nearly white. Tom did not know what a bishop was, and replied roughly—
"What's that to me? I say it's a shame, a cruel shame; it's unjust—it's not to be put up with. I'll never do a stroke of work aboard this prison of a frigate."
"My lad," said old Terlizzeck, after a glance all round, "be you thankful as none heard that but me. You've served aboard a trader all your life, but maybe you know what I mean when I makes mention of the boatswain's mate and the cat?"
Tom started. "Let me see the man that will lay a hand on me!" said he, with a flash in his eyes.
"There's three hundred odd on board this here frigate would do it as soon as look at you, if the captain gave the word. Now, don't you be a fool, my lad. I'm sorry, for you—you seem to have some private reason for being angry, but you'll only knock your own head against a bulkhead, if you set yourself against discipline."
Tom was silent, but his heart was very full, more of anger than of sorrow.
CHAPTER V.
OLD GIDEON.
TOM Adderley, for the first time in his life, had been forced to do what he did not like. One way or another, he had generally had his own way at home, and since he had gone to sea, all things had prospered with him. All through his last voyage he had been looking forward to his visit to Burdeck; wondering if Sam had married Jane Waters that he was so sweet on; if little Dolly promised to be as pretty as her poor mother; if old Dwight were still alive; if father would heartily sanction his going to sea again (which he quite meant to do, anyhow); above all, if mother would throw her arms round his neck, kiss his brown face, and be proud of her sailor. Nay, he had even sent an occasional thought in the direction of Lucy Trayner. Lucy must be quite a woman now—would she have forgotten him? Ah, well! He would soon know. And by thus thinking of home, he had begun to feel more real love for his people than he had ever felt before; and added to this was the pride of showing them how he had succeeded in life—how he could pay thirty guineas for ten, and yet still have enough in hand to replenish the box for his next voyage.
And they had been so nearly home, too. And no one had a right to make a man-o'-war's man of him against his will. So, being thoroughly out of temper and disgusted with his lot, Tom vowed that the king should have a bad bargain of him; he would be as useless, troublesome, and disobedient as he could be, without actually getting punished.
Well! He kept his word. No one knew what a smart sailor he really was, and no one would have found it out from his proceedings now. He obeyed orders, of course—he must indeed have been a reckless man who had disobeyed orders on board a king's ship in those days, or, for that matter, should try it in these, though flogging is no longer the order of the day. But he did everything badly and slowly, and in a slovenly way, causing Mr. Carteret to regret that he had been taken in by the fellow's good looks, and Mr. Duncan, first lieutenant, to remark that merchant captains seldom trained smart sailors.
"That fellow hasn't sense enough to coil a rope," one sailor said to another, while watching Tom at work one day.
"Do you mean Tom Adderley?" cried Dick Carr, standing near. "Why, he's the best sailor, all round, that ever I saw."
"Oh, very like, but you're another of the same kidney," was the reply.
"Carr's not a bad man," said Gideon Terlizzeck.
"I couldn't hold a candle to Tom," replied Carr, laughing.
"Did well enough aboard the 'Lively Polly,' or whatsoever you called your old tub," said the first speaker. "But here, aboard the old 'Imogene,' he ain't up to the mark, that's plain."
Old Gideon walked away and stood thinking—about Tom.
"'Twould be a Christian deed to bring that poor lad to a better mind," said he to himself, "before he makes himself a bad name and gets punished, 'and' takes to drink, as lads do sometimes when they're crossed in love or the like."
So Gideon watched for an opportunity, and soon found one. Being on deck one afternoon, he saw Tom, who was one of the men on duty, standing alone, leaning over the taffrail, staring down into the water. Going to his side, Gideon pulled out a couple of pieces of tobacco, and said—just to start a conversation—
"We can't smoke here, Tom, but do you chew? Hev a bit, if so."
"I don't chew, nor yet smoke," Tom answered ungraciously.
"I smoke, but I allow it's wasteful," answered Gideon. "Still, I don't mind. A man must have some little comforts, and I have none depending on me."
Tom remained silent, keeping his shoulder turned to the speaker so as to hide his face.
"When I were a youngster, Tom Adderley," said the old man, approaching his subject in what he considered a most diplomatic and delicate way, "it befell me, as it do befall a many, for to fall in love. And although it came to nothing, seeing the lass took up with a soldier while I were at sea, and I found her a married woman and the mother of three when I got back, still it caused me a deal o' thought—an uneasiness, a pining in myself for some one that I could talk to about her. Ay, in all the troubles of life, a friend is a help and a comfort. You go with me so far?"
"Oh yes," said Tom, carelessly.
"And you're in trouble. And why I don't know, but you don't seem to take overmuch to your old messmates, Carr and Jones. So it did seem to me as you might find a relief in talking to one as has known trouble and knows the way out of it."
"There's no way out of mine," replied Tom.
"Is it a love affair, Tom?"
"Not it! I leave that balderdash to Dick Carr. No—and you can do nothing for me, though I believe you mean kindly. I'd rather be left alone."
"Well, if I must. But, Tom, I do truly know a cure for all troubles. If it's not love, Tom—Have you a mother at home?"
The question was unexpected, and Tom was young and unhappy. He stood quite still, with his back to Gideon, but his eyes filled, and a strangled sob presently escaped him.
"Can't ye let me alone?" he growled. "See now, you've made a baby of me—me, that's been a sailor these four years! Yes, I have a mother, as good a mother as ever lived; and I was going home to her, when—Well, never mind."
And Tom rubbed his eyes, and then put his hands into his pockets and began whistling.
Gideon listened to the clear, sweet sounds, and said when they ceased—
"You've a sweet pipe, Tom; for all the world like a thrush. There was one used to sing in an old elder-bush just over my mother's cottage, away in Devonshire; and I do seem to hear that bird now, along o' you."
"There was thrushes in Burdeck, too," said Tom.
"Where's Burdeck? 'Your' place, I suppose. Is it in Cornwall?"
"I—don't rightly know," answered Tom. "It's ten days from Liverpool, but maybe I didn't go the shortest way."
"Liverpool! Oh, I've been there," said Gideon. "Your ship belonged there, I suppose?"
"She does. She's there by this, and—Ah, well, never mind."
"Four year at sea, and never saw your mother! It's hard to bear. But we'll be going home—Plymouth, most like—and then you can work your passage round to Liverpool, make sail for Burdeck, and—Eh, what's that you say?"
"That I'll never go now."
Gideon stared. "Why so, mate?" said he.
Tom put his arms on the top rail of the taffrail, and laid his head down on them.
"No use going now. I had my earnings, my savings—thirty golden guineas!—to take to her; now they're at the bottom of the sea, they tell me. No use going home now."
"Why, lad, you said your mother were a good woman!"
"Just as good a woman as ever lived," Tom replied.
"And yet you think she'd fail to welcome her son, because he brought her no money? Well, I wouldn't expect that, even of a bad mother. Mostly, they do love their sons."
"You don't understand," muttered Tom.
"I understand this much, Tom. When I went home from my first voyage, my mother—she's in heaven these thirty years—just catched me in her two arms and cried hearty. And 'twas not till next day that I so much as gave a thought to the handful of money I had for her. And, you may believe me, 'twould be the same with your mother."
"No, no; you don't know. Did your mother give consent to your being a sailor?"
"'Course she did. Father had been a sailor, my brothers were sailors; it runs in the family," said Gideon.
"But—mine didn't; nor yet father. We're inland folks. I ran away—if you must know."
"And I'm sorry to know it, Tom. And so you worked and saved, thinking to buy forgiveness? Oh, boy, it's never to be bought; you'd get it free! Listen to this here."
He pulled out a small and shabby Bible.
"What! Can you read?" said Tom, full of admiration.
"A little, when I know what's coming. Luke fifteen—that's the place." And, without further preface, he read the parable of the Prodigal Son.
But it had by no means the effect he expected. Tom listened attentively, but his face grew red and his eyes full of scorn.
"And do ye think I'm going to do like he—a fellow as wasted his money, and lived like a pig? I never did the like. No; till I can take mother her golden guineas, I won't go anigh her. And since I lost them, I keep thinking, thinking, she may be wanting them."
"She lent you money, then? I thought you ran away?"
"So I did. I—borrowed ten guineas she had saved. She lent Sam—that's my brother—five or six to buy a horse and cart, and he paid her back. She would have lent it to me, willing, for anything of that kind, but not for going to sea to seek my fortune, because that's a thing our folk don't understand. So I saved and worked for to pay her threefold, and I had it—thirty golden guineas—in a canvas bag; and it was lost with my kit when that everlasting booby, Dick Carr, wanted to drown himself, and I wish I'd let him do it. My kit went in the kick-up—and that's all about it."
Gideon looked at him sadly.
"Tom Adderley," said he, "I seem to see that you stole that money from your mother?"
"I did 'not!' I borrowed it—without leave."
"Which is just stealing," said the old man. "And you thinking yourself better than the son in the parable, who only spent what was his own!"
"Wasted it shameful," said Tom, "and I never wasted a penny. Kept it all for mother. And now they tell me the mermaids has it. And never will Burdeck see me any more. 'I'll' never go home, snivelling to be forgiven."
"Truly then, Tom, you do need forgiveness as sorely as he, or any man, ever did! And till you give up your wicked pride, and confess that you've sinned, you're in a very bad way, Tom. And I'll pray for you, my lad, for I misdoubt you don't pray for yourself."
"No," said Tom. "I used to, but I've forgotten how. It don't matter. Praying won't give me back my gold."
"No, perhaps not, but it may make you content to lose it," said Gideon.
"All hands to shorten sail!" sang out Mr. Carteret at this moment.
And Tom, excited by this long talk, forgot to crawl unwillingly up the rigging, and to handle the ropes as if they burnt his fingers. He was one of the first on the yard, and did his work in splendid style, until he saw Carr nudge one of the men and point at him. He relapsed into stupidity and laziness at once.
But Mr. Carteret, watching the men at their work, could not fail to perceive this little incident, and from that time Tom had really a hard life of it. Of course, he deserved it. I am not defending him. What Captain Egerton had said was perfectly true; every man is bound to defend his country and to obey his king, and this was what Tom was asked to do. But he was very ignorant, and the loss of his money embittered him. Without being actually insubordinate or impertinent, he was a most troublesome, uncomfortable sort of sailor.
Gideon Terlizzeck alone seemed inclined to befriend him, and for this Tom was really grateful, though he never showed it. Gideon insisted upon reading the Bible to him, and more than once asked him to join him in prayer. But Tom kept up a sulky, distant air, and only seemed to listen because he could not well help it.
But in his own mind, he wondered why a man like Gideon, a favourite both with officers and men, should take so much trouble about a sulky cub like himself. Tom used those very words—"a sulky cub;" he chose to appear like a sulky cub, and no one could deny that he succeeded to perfection.
CHAPTER VI.
THE ARTICLES OF WAR.
OLD Gideon Terlizzeck, as the men all called him, was not really an old man; he did not know his age exactly himself, so that I cannot be expected to do so. There could hardly be a more striking evidence than that afforded by his life, of what the grace of God can do for us, even in very adverse circumstances. His mother had been one of the earliest followers of John Wesley, when he preached in the fields near her native place, which was in Cornwall. She married young, and was early left a widow. She brought up her boys most carefully, and with wonderful success—they all turned out well. If in many respects she was but an ignorant woman, no wiser than others, she had the best learning and the highest wisdom—she could read her Bible, and she loved it; she could pray, and prayer brought her wisdom.
You will find plenty of people in these days to tell you that the Bible can teach you nothing, and that prayer is a superstitious waste of time. But you will generally find that these are people who do not read the Bible, and who do not pray. Those who do will tell you a very different story. And surely common sense teaches us that these last must know more about it than the others. Of religion only, among all the studies pursued by man, does the world believe that those who have only an outside acquaintance with it are better judges of the truth or falsehood of its assertions, than those who know it well and love it better than their lives.
Well, to return to Gideon's mother. Her husband was a Plymouth man and a sailor, and her sons were all sailors. As Gideon said, it ran in the family. They were all dead now, except Gideon, who had been the eldest. He had gone to sea as a boy, and had served afloat, with intervals of a month or two, ever since. He had seen much hard fighting, had endured much hardship; he had witnessed much sin, and heard much swearing and bad language. Yet now, with his hair white, and his strength beginning to be touched by the hand of age, Gideon had still the child's heart, the child's faith, and the child's hope, with which he had left his mother's cottage. I know he called himself a grievous sinner; that is one of the contradictions of which outsiders can make nothing. But though human, and therefore, of course, often going wrong, he was, like the prophet Samuel, one who, having been given to God by a pious mother, walked with God all the days of his life.
Gideon was a shy man, and very humble. He was no great talker when the men were all together, though to one companion he would talk freely. The men liked him—he was always so kind and helpful; to be in trouble was to have Gideon's hand held out to help you. They respected him; his presence restrained the worst of them in the use of bad language, and on Sundays they would often let him read the Bible to them. The "Imogene" being a frigate, did not carry a chaplain, but the captain read the Church service to the men every Sunday. It was the first time that Tom had ever been brought into contact with religion since he left his mother, and he was interested and impressed, in spite of himself. But he did not show it in any way, and Gideon, who had taken a fancy to him, was quite distressed about him.
Tom's discontent was not lessened when he discovered that the "Imogene" had only just come to the station, so that, for three or four years at the least, he would be kept out of England. Though he said he would not go home, yet now that he certainly 'could' not go, he longed to hear something of his people.
The "Imogene" was one of the small fleet employed in defending England's West Indian possessions against being surprised by the French, with whom, at that time, we were at war. Formerly the French had made constant attempts at these surprises, but since the great battle of Trafalgar, France had not so many ships to send to distant stations, and encounters between our ships and those of France were less frequent. Still, an occasional cruiser would appear, and it was in a very tough encounter with a French frigate that Captain Egerton had lost so many men that he had to take some from the merchant ships.
Of course, a good look-out was of the utmost importance. And when Tom had been some time on board, the look-out man, from some unaccountable carelessness, allowed a ship to come near enough to be seen by those on deck, before he gave notice of her approach.
She proved to be English, but this did not alter the fact that a grave offence had been committed; and the man who had offended was condemned to be flogged, according to the Articles of War in that case made and provided.
Captain Egerton seldom flogged, but in this case he thought it necessary. People in those days did not think of such things as we do, but Tom had never seen a man flogged, and the sight made a terrible impression upon him.
All hands were piped on deck; the Article of War dealing with the offence was read aloud by the captain, who looked very stern in his cocked hat, and then John Callcutt, able seaman, received four dozen lashes, and, if the truth must be told, did not think half as much of it as we are apt to fancy. But Tom was like one in a frenzy. He was faint and sick, angry and frightened, and, in fact, did not know what he was about. Gideon, with Dick Carr's assistance, hustled him away and took him below. Carr returned on deck, but Gideon stayed with Tom, and tried to calm him.
"Why, Tom," said he, "what a fellow you are! Here's a pother about a four dozen, well deserved, as we must all own! Why, if you'd served with Sir Lucas Cochrane as I did, you'd have seen six, ay, and seven dozen, given for half that. He'd flog a man for being last up the rigging! Ah, he were a bad-tempered man, but a grand officer. Now, our captain never is severe; and you'll see Callcutt about again in a week or so, not a hair the worse."
"Were you ever flogged?" asked Tom, looking up with white face and gleaming eyes.
"N—no, Tom, I can't say I ever was. I've been always very fortunate; and as to you, it's all in your own hands. You do your duty, and you and the cat will never come together."
"Now, look here," said Tom. "John Callcutt shipped with Captain Egerton of his own free will, and has been a man-o'-war's man all his life, so that he knew what lay before him. Equally, so did you. Maybe you like being treated like slaves or dumb beasts, but I was never asked my consent to being here. And I just tell you, what is no more than the truth, that if the like is ever done to me, I'll end my life the very first time I get the chance. I'll manage better than Dick Carr did, too. Do you think that I'm going back to my people, to tell them I was flogged like a hound? Never! I mean what I say, and—"
"Tom, be quiet; not so loud. No one's going to flog you unless 'you' go and deserve it."
"Deserve it! How can I deserve it, for not keeping rules I never promised to keep? You drag me away from my ship and my captain; you read me a lot of rules and laws that I know nothing about; I'm robbed of my hard-earned money, and—"
"Nonsense, Tom. My lad, you're off your head. Your money went to the bottom, as you yourself told me."
"I told you they all said so. But it's my belief that they grabbed it while I was laying hold of Carr."
"You're beside yourself. Tom, be quiet; here's an officer."
Gideon stood up; Tom jumped up too.
"The captain wants to know what is wrong with Adderley," said Mr. Carteret.
"First punishment he ever saw, sir; that's all," answered Gideon.
"Ay? Mr. Egerton fainted; so, you see, you're not the only one. I hope you're all right again, Adderley?"
"Yes—sir."
"What were you saying about being robbed, as I came in?"
"Nothing, sir," said Tom, sullenly.
"That's no answer; I heard you plainly. It is the first that has been heard of it. Were you robbed?"
"Greg Collier saw the kit go overboard," remarked Gideon.
But Mr. Carteret waited for Tom to reply, and he had to speak at last.
"I had my money in my kit, sir—a good deal of money—and when Carr jumped overboard and I caught hold of him, my kit disappeared. I dropped it at my feet as Carr passed me, and I don't see how it got overboard."
"Terlizzeck, were you with me? I forget."
"No, sir. But Greg Collier sat on the next bench, and he saw the kit go overboard."
"What made it go? No one had any call to touch it," said Tom, doggedly.
"Why did you not speak of this at once?" inquired Mr. Carteret.
"Because I knew 'twould be no use; they'd all stick together."
"The captain must be told of this," said Mr. Carteret.
And the captain was told, and inquired carefully into the matter. Three of the best men in the ship deposed to having seen the bundle go overboard and sink at once, and one said that Carr had kicked it as he made his spring. There was no reason to doubt this testimony, and all that Tom gained by his foolish suspicions was the dislike of Collier and of some others, and a good deal of joking about his "fine fortune that was in Davy Jones's locker."
All this combined to make Tom more miserable every day, until at last he was really in a very desperate humour; and just at this time the ship touched at Jamaica.
Captain Egerton found it necessary to get water, and as the beef and biscuits were getting low, he determined to make for Port Royal, as there he was sure of getting what he wanted.
Often had Tom been in Port Royal before; many a bright kerchief and gay ribbon had he sold there to black damsels, who used to declare that "Massa Add'ley had de lubly taste!"
The "Imogene" was detained for several days, getting in water and shipping stores, but at last she was ready to sail. Tom was one of several who went ashore on the morning of the last day, on the understanding that they would be ready when the boat came up for them in the afternoon. Captain Egerton wished to get them all on board early, as he meant to sail in the morning.
But when the midshipman in command counted his passengers, one was missing. And when he had called over the names, that one proved to be Tom Adderley. Gideon, who had been sent to ensure the discretion and safety of the mid, advised his commanding officer to wait a while. But Tom did not come, and a gun from the frigate warned them that they were delaying too long. It was very unwillingly, and with a foreboding heart, that Gideon heard the orders given, though he knew that there was no help for it.
All that night he kept hoping that the morning would see Tom alongside in a shore-boat, for then, of course, he would escape with a severe reprimand—what Gideon called "a proper wigging."
But the morning came, and Tom did not. Captain Egerton was not going to delay on account of the loss of Tom's not very valuable services. He communicated the fact that one of his men was "absent without leave" to the proper authorities, and sailed a little after daybreak.
This was just what Master Tom wished and expected. He was hidden in the house of an old negro, who was also an old acquaintance of his. He meant to discard his sailor dress and lie quiet until Captain Collins came into port. Then he would get on board the old "Star of the Sea," and be happy again.
Of course Captain Collins would have had nothing to say to him; equally, of course, he would have been arrested the first time he ventured out. But, as it happened, he never had time to experience these disappointments.
The "Imogene" met a French privateer before she was quite out of sight of Port Royal, took her, and came back into port with her, Captain Egerton not caring to spare men and officers to form a prize crew. Mr. Carteret, with a number of the "Imogene's" men, had just marched the few prisoners to the barracks, when Greg Collier caught sight of old Agamemnon, the negro, peeping nervously round a corner. Collier laid hold of him and took him to Mr. Carteret.
"This here knows where Adderley is, I'm pretty certain, sir. I've seen them discoursin' each other. Scouting round the corner, he were; and frightened out of his wits, as all may see!"
"Do you know where Thomas Adderley, able seaman, belonging to his Majesty's ship 'Imogene,' is hiding?" said Mr. Carteret, blandly.
But Agamemnon shook and shivered, and turned from black to a livid grey, so certain did he feel that this gentleness covered fearful designs. Still, Tom had been kind to him; and the poor old fellow was divided between fear for himself and a desire to save Tom. So, not being particular as to truth, he replied—
"Hidin'! Oh no, capta'n, not hidin'. Sick! Oh, he were berry sick—sick 'nuff to die nearly! When de ship sailed he were lyin' dar, most dead."
"Drunk, I suppose?" said Mr. Carteret.
Agamemnon rolled his eyes in a way which might mean yes or no, just as you liked to take it.
"Show me where he is!" Mr. Carteret went on.
And poor Agamemnon, all unworthy to bear the name of the "king of men," obeyed very meekly, so that in a few minutes, Tom was in custody, and was marched down to the landing-place, and conveyed on board the 'Imogene.' He was put in irons, and kept in strict confinement; and it is easy to imagine that he was very miserable. Now that he had tried and failed, he saw plainly enough the utter folly of his attempt to escape. Gideon's warnings came back to him; his entreaties that Tom would submit to what 'must' be, and try to do his duty in his new position. Now, too, that to see it was of no use to him, he saw that he had been leniently treated—that his officers had been very patient with him; and always he saw before him the punishment he had brought upon himself. Oh, if only he could begin again, and be once more the newly pressed man, how differently he would behave!
Even the loss of his money seemed nothing to him now; he felt that he had lost everything that made life worth having. It seemed to him that the only thing to be done was to get rid of his wretched life as soon as he could. I do not know that he would have kept to this resolution, but these were his thoughts as he sat there, alone, in his terrible misery. What! Go home, not only penniless, but disgraced? Go home to see his father ashamed of him, and his mother trying to keep his disgrace a secret? Never! He would die twenty times over, sooner than do that. Why, even to face the men of the "Imogene" after they had been witnesses of his degradation, was more than his proud heart could bear!
There he sat, poor Tom! almost in the dark, with heavy irons on his ankles, his face hidden in his hands. And all the time his imprisonment lasted, he never once looked up when any one spoke to him, or when his meals were brought to him, but just sat without a sound or a movement, and with black despair in his heart.