Loe raamatut: «Olla Podrida», lehekülg 26

Chapter Fifty One

Moonshine

Those who have visited our West India possessions must have often been amused with the humour and cunning which occasionally appear in a negro more endowed than the generality of his race, particularly when the master also happens to be a humourist. The swarthy servitor seems to reflect his patron’s absurdities; and having thoroughly studied his character, ascertains how far he can venture to take liberties without fear of punishment.

One of these strange specimens I once met with in a negro called Moonshine, belonging to a person equally strange in his own way, who had, for many years, held the situation of harbour-master at Port Royal, but had then retired on a pension, and occupied a small house at Ryde, in the Isle of Wight. His name was Cockle, but he had long been addressed as Captain Cockle; and this brevet rank he retained until the day of his death. In person he was very large and fat—not unlike a cockle in shape: so round were his proportions, and so unwieldy, that it appeared much easier to roll him along from one place to another, than that he should walk. Indeed, locomotion was not to his taste: he seldom went much farther than round the small patch of garden which was in front of his house, and in which he had some pinks and carnations and chrysanthemums, of which he was not a little proud. His head was quite bald, smooth, and shining white; his face partook of a more roseate tint, increasing in depth till it settled into an intense red at the tip of his nose. Cockle had formerly been a master of a merchant-vessel, and from his residence in a warm climate had contracted a habit of potation, which became confirmed during the long period of his holding his situation at Port Royal. He had purchased Moonshine for three hundred dollars, when he was about seven years old, and, upon his return to England, had taken him with him.

Moonshine was very much attached to his master, very much attached to having his own way, and was, farther, very much attached to his master’s grog bottle.

The first attachment was a virtue: the second human nature; and the third, in the opinion of old Cockle, a crime of serious magnitude. I very often called upon Captain Cockle, for he had a quaint humour about him which amused; and, as he seldom went out, he was always glad to see any of his friends. Another reason was, that I seldom went to the house without finding some entertainment in the continual sparring between the master and the man. I was at that time employed in the Preventive Service, and my station was about four miles from the residence of Cockle. One morning I stalked in, and found him, as usual, in his little parlour on the ground-floor.

“Well, Cockle, my boy, how are you?”

“Why, to tell you the truth, Bob, I’m all wrong. I’m on the stool of repentance; to wit, on this easy chair, doing penance, as you perceive, in a pair of duck trousers. Last night I was half-seas over, and tolerably happy; this morning I am high and dry, and intolerably miserable. Carried more sail than ballast last night, and lost my head; this morning I’ve found it again, with a pig of ballast in it, I believe. All owing to my good nature.”

“How is that, Cockle?”

“Why, that Jack Piper was here last night; and rather than he should drink all the grog and not find his way home, I drank some myself—he’d been in a bad way if I had not, poor fellow!—and now, you see, I’m suffering all from good nature. Easiness of disposition has been my ruin, and has rounded me into this ball, by wearing away all my sharp edges, Bob.”

“It certainly was very considerate and very kind of you, Cockle, especially when we know how much you must have acted at variance with your inclinations.”

“Yes, Bob, yes, I am the milk punch of human kindness. I often cry—when the chimney smokes; and sometimes—when I laugh too much. You see, I not only give my money, as others will do, but, as last night, I even give my head to assist a fellow-creature. I could, however, dispense with it for an hour or two this morning.”

“Nay, don’t say that; for although you might dispense with the upper part, you could not well get on without your mouth, Cockle.”

“Very true, Bob; a chap without a mouth would be like a ship without a companion hatch;—talking about that, the combings of my mouth are rather dry—what do you say, Bob, shall we call Moonshine?”

“Why it’s rather broad daylight for Moonshine.”

“He’s but an eclipse—a total eclipse, I may say. The fact is, my head is so heavy, that it rolls about on my shoulders; and I must have a stiffener down my throat to prop it it up. So Moonshine, shine out, you black-faced rascal!”

The negro was outside, cleaning his knives:– he answered, but continued at his work.

“How me shine, Massa Cockle, when you neber gib me shiner?”

“No: but I’ll give you a shinner on your lower limb, that shall make you feel planet-struck, if you don’t show your ugly face,” replied Cockle.

“Massa Cockle, you full of dictionary dis marning.”

“Come here, sir!”

“Why you so parsonal dis marning, sar,” replied Moonshine, rubbing away at the knifeboard—“my face no shine more dan your white skull widout hair.”

“I pulled one out, you scoundrel, every time you stole my grog, and now they are all gone.—Hairs; what should I do with heirs when I’ve nothing to leave,” continued Cockle, addressing me—“hairs are like rats, that quit a ship as soon as she gets old. Now, Bob, I wonder how long that rascal will make us wait. I brought him home and gave him his freedom—but give an inch and he takes an ell. Moonshine, I begin to feel angry—the tip of my nose is red already.”

“Come directly, Massa Cockle.”

Moonshine gave two more rubs on the board, and then made his appearance.

“You call me, sar?”

“What’s the use of calling you, you black rascal?”

“Now sar, dat not fair—you say to me, Moonshine, always do one thing first—so I ’bey order and finish knives—dat ting done, I come and ’bey next order.”

“Well, bring some cold water and some tumblers.”

Moonshine soon appeared with the articles, and then walked out of the room, grinning at me.

“Moonshine, where are you going, you thief?—when did you ever see me drink cold water, or offer it to my friend?”

“Neber see you drink it but once, and den you tipsy, and tink it gin; but you very often gib notin but water to your friends, Massa Cockle.”

“When, you scoundrel?”

“Why, very often you say dat water quite strong enough for me.”

“That’s because I love you, Moonshine. Grog is a sad enemy to us.”

“Massa Cockle real fine Christian—he lub him enemy,” interrupted Moonshine, looking at me.

“At all events, I’m not ashamed to look mine enemy in the face—so hand us out the bottle.”

Moonshine put the bottle on the table.

“Now, Bob,” said Cockle, “what d’ye say to a seven bell-er? Why, hallo! what’s become of all the grog?”

“All drank last night, Massa Cockle,” replied Moonshine.

“Now, you ebony thief, I’ll swear that there was half a bottle left when I took my last glass; for I held the bottle up to the candle to ascertain the ullage.”

“When you go up tairs, Massa Cockle, so help me Gad! not one drop left in de bottle.”

“Will you take your oath, Moonshine, that you did not drink any last night?”

“No, Massa Cockle, because I gentleman, and neber tell lie—me drink, because you gib it to me.”

“Then I must have been drunk indeed. Now, tell me, how did I give it to you?—tell me every word which passed.”

“Yes, Massa Cockle, me make you recollect all about it. When Massa Piper go away, you look at bottel and den you say, ‘’Fore I go up to bed, I take one more glass for coming up.’—Den I say, ‘’Pose you do, you nebber be able to go up.’ Den you say, ‘Moonshine, you good fellow (you always call me good fellow when you want me), you must help me.’ You drink you grog—you fall back in de chair, and you shut first one eye, and den you shut de oder. I see more grog on the table: so I take up de bottel and I say, ‘Massa Cockle, you go up stairs?’ and you say, ‘Yes, yes—directly.’ Den I hold de bottel up and say to you, ‘Massa, shall I help you?’ and you say, ‘Yes, you must help me.’ So den I take one glass of grog, ’cause you tell me to help you.”

“I didn’t tell you to help yourself though, you scoundrel!”

“Yes, Massa, when you tell me to help you with de bottel, I ’bey order, and help myself. Den, sar, I waits little more, and I say, ‘Massa now you go up ’tairs,’ and you start up and you wake, and you say, ‘Yes, yes;’ and den I hold up and show you bottel again, and I say, ‘Shall I help you massa?’ and den you say ‘Yes.’ So I ’bey order again, and take one more glass. Den you open mouth and you snore—so I look again and I see one little glass more in bottel, and I call you, ‘Massa Cockle, Massa Cockle,’ and you say, ‘high—high!’—and den you head fall on you chest, and you go sleep again—so den I call again and I say; ‘Massa Cockle, here one lilly more drop, shall I drink it?’ and you nod you head on you bosom, and say noting—so I not quite sure, and I say again, ‘Massa Cockle, shall I finish this lilly drop?’ and you nod you head once more. Den I say, ‘all right,’ and I say, ‘you very good helt, Massa Cockle;’ and I finish de bottel. Now, Massa, you ab de whole tory, and it all really for true.”

I perceived that Cockle was quite as much amused at this account of Moonshine’s as I was myself, but he put on a bluff look.

“So, sir, it appears that you took advantage of my helpless situation, to help yourself.”

“Massa Cockle, just now you tell Massa Farren dat you drink so much, all for good nature Massa Piper—I do same all for good nature.”

“Well, Mr Moonshine, I must have some grog,” replied Cockle, “and as you helped yourself last night, now you must help me;—get it how you can, I give you just ten minutes—”

“’Pose you give gib me ten shillings, sar,” interrupted Moonshine, “dat better.”

“Cash is all gone. I havn’t a skillick till quarter-day, not a shot in the locker till Wednesday. Either get me some more grog, or you’ll get more kicks than halfpence.”

“You no ab money—you no ab tick—how I get grog, Massa Cockle? Missy O’Bottom, she tells me, last quarter day, no pay whole bill, she not half like it; she say you great deceiver, and no trust more.”

“Confound the old hag! Would you believe it, Bob, that Mrs Rowbottom has wanted to grapple with me these last two years—wants to make me landlord of the Goose and Pepper-box, taking her as a fixture with the premises. I suspect I should be the goose and she the pepper-box;—but we never could shape that course. In the first place, there’s too much of her; and, in the next, there’s too much of me. I explained this to the old lady as well as I could; and she swelled up as big as a balloon, saying, that, when people were really attached, they never attached any weight to such trifling obstacles.”

“But you must have been sweet upon her, Cockle?”

“Nothing more than a little sugar to take the nauseous taste of my long bill out of her mouth. As for the love part of the story, that was all her own. I never contradict a lady, because it’s not polite; but since I explained, the old woman has huffed, and won’t trust me with half a quartern—will she, Moonshine?”

“No, sar: when I try talk her over, and make promise, she say dat all moonshine. But, sar, I try ’gain—I tink I know how.” And Moonshine disappeared, leaving us in the dark as to what his plans might be.

“I wonder you never did marry, Cockle,” I observed.

“You would not wonder if you knew all. I must say, that once, and once only, I was very near it. And to whom do you think it was—a woman of colour.”

“A black woman?”

“No: not half black, only a quarter—what they call a quadroon in the West Indies. But, thank Heaven! she refused me.”

“Refused you? hang it, Cockle, I never thought that you had been refused by a woman of colour.”

“I was, though. You shall hear how it happened. She had been the quadroon wife (you know what that means) of a planter of the name of Guiness; he died, and not only bequeathed her her liberty, but also four good houses in Port Royal, and two dozen slaves. He had been dead about two years, and she was about thirty, when I first knew her. She was very rich, for she had a good income and spent nothing, except in jewels and dress to deck out her own person, which certainly was very handsome, even at that time, for she never had had any family. Well, if I was not quite in love with her, I was with her houses and her money; and I used to sit in her verandah and talk sentimental. One day I made my proposal. ‘Massa Cockle,’ said she, ‘dere two ting I not like; one is, I not like your name. ’Pose I ’cept your offer, you must change you name.’

“‘Suppose you accept my offer, Mistress Guiness, you’ll change your name. I don’t know how I am to change mine,’ I replied.

“‘I make ’quiry, Massa Cockle, and I find that by act and parliament you get another name.’

“‘An act of parliament!’ I cried.

“‘Yes, sar; and I pay five hundred gold Joe ’fore I hear people call me Missy Cockle—dat shell fish,’ said she, and she turned up her nose.

“‘Humph!’ said I, ‘and pray what is the next thing which you wish?’

“‘De oder ting, sar, is, you no ab coat am arms, no ab seal to your watch, with bird and beast ’pon ’em; now ’pose you promise me dat you take oder name, and buy um coat am arms; den, sar, I take de matter into ’sideration.’

“‘Save yourself the trouble, ma’am,’ said I, jumping up; ‘my answer is short—I’ll see you and your whole generation hanged first!’

“Well, that was a very odd sort of a wind-up to a proposal; but here comes Moonshine.”

The black entered the room, and put a full bottle down on the table.

“Dare it is, sar,” said he, grinning.

“Well, done, Moonshine, now I forgive you; but how did you manage it?”

“Me tell you all de tory, sar—first I see Missy O’Bottom, and I say, ‘How you do, how you find himsel dis marning? Massa come, I tink, by an bye, but he almost fraid,’ I said. She say, ‘What he fraid for?’ He tink you angry—not like see him—no lub him any more: he very sorry, very sick at ’art—he very much in lub wid you.”

“The devil you did!” roared Cockle; “now I shall be bothered again with that old woman; I wish she was moored as a buoy to the Royal George.”

“Massa no hear all yet. I say, ‘Miss O’Bottom, ’pose you no tell?’ ‘I tell.’—‘Massa call for clean shirt dis morning, and I say, it no clean shirt day, sar;’ he say, ‘Bring me clean shirt;’ and den he put him on clean shirt and he put him on clean duck trowsers, he make me brush him best blue coat. I say, ‘What all dis for, massa?’ He put him hand up to him head, and he fetch him breath and say—‘I fraid Missy O’Bottom, no hear me now—I no hab courage;’ and den he sit all dress ready, and no go. Den he say, ‘Moonshine, gib me one glass grog, den I hab courage.’ I go fetch bottle, and all grog gone—not one lilly drop left; den massa fall down plump in him big chair, and say, ‘I neber can go.’ ‘But,’ say Missy O’Bottom, ‘why he no send for some?’ ‘’Cause,’ I say, ‘quarter-day no come—money all gone.’—Den say she, ‘If you poor massa so very bad, den I trust you one bottel—you gib my compliments and say, I very appy to see him, and stay at home,’—Den I say, ‘Missy O’Bottom pose massa not come soon as he take one two glass grog cut my head off.’ Dat all, sar.”

“That’s all, is it? A pretty scrape you have got me into, you scoundrel! What’s to be done now?”

“Why, let’s have a glass of grog first, Cockle,” replied I, “we’ve been waiting a long while for it, and we’ll then talk the matter over.”

“Bob, you’re sensible, and the old woman was no fool in sending the liquor—it requires Dutch courage to attack such a Dutch-built old schuyt; let’s get the cobwebs out of our throats, and then we must see how we can get out of this scrape. I expect that I shall pay ‘dearly for my whistle’ this time I wet mine. Now, what’s to be done, Bob?”

“I think that you had better leave it to Moonshine,” said I.

“So I will.—Now, sir, as you have got me into this scrape, you must get me out of it.—D’ye hear?”

“Yes, Massa Cockle, I tink—but no ab courage.”

“I understand you, you sooty fellow—here, drink this, and see if it will brighten up your wits. He’s a regular turnpike, that fellow, every thing must pay toll.”

“Massa Cockle, I tell Missy O’Bottom dat you come soon as you hab two glass grog; ’pose you only drink one.”

“That won’t do, Moonshine, for I’m just mixing my second; you must find out something better.”

“One glass grog, massa, gib no more dan one tought—dat you ab—”

“Well, then, here’s another.—Now recollect, before you drink it, you are to get me out of this scrape; if not, you get into a scrape, for I’ll beat you as—as white as snow.”

“’Pose you no wash nigger white, you no mangle him white, Massa Cockle,” added Moonshine.

“The fellow’s ironing me, Bob, ar’n’t he?” said Cockle, laughing. “Now, before you drink, recollect the conditions.”

“Drink first, sar, make sure of dat,” replied Moonshine, swallowing off the brandy; “tink about it afterwards.—Eh! I ab it,” cried Moonshine, who disappeared, and Cockle and I continued in conversation over our grog, which to sailors is acceptable in any one hour in the twenty-four. About ten minutes afterwards Cockle perceived Moonshine in the little front garden. “There’s that fellow, Bob; what is he about?”

“Only picking a nosegay, I believe,” replied I, looking out of the window.

“The rascal, he must be picking all my chrysanthemums. Stop him, Bob.”

But Moonshine vaulted over the low pales, and there was no stopping him. It was nearly an hour before he returned; and when he came in, we found that he was dressed out in his best, looking quite a dandy, and with some of his master’s finest flowers, in a large nosegay, sticking in his waistcoat.

“All right, sar, all right; dat last glass grog gib me fine idee; you neber ab more trouble bout Missy O’Bottom.”

“Well, let’s hear,” said Cockle.

“I dress mysel bery ’pruce, as you see, massa. I take nosegay.”

“Yes, I see that, and be hanged to you.”

“Neber mind, Massa Cockle. I say to Missy O’Bottom, ‘Massa no able come, he very sorry, so he send me;’ ‘well,’ she say, ‘what you ab to say, sit down, Moonshine, you very nice man.’ Den I say, ‘Massa Cockle lub you very much, he tink all day how he make you appy; den he say, Missy O’Bottom very fine ’oman, make very fine wife.’ Den Missy O’Bottom say, ‘’Top a moment,’ and she bring a bottel from cupboard, and me drink something did make ’tomach feel really warm; and den she say, ‘Moonshine, what you massa say?’ den I say, massa say, ‘You fine ’oman, make good wife;’ but he shake um head, and say, ‘I very old man, no good for noting; I tink all day how I make her appy, and I find out—Moonshine, you young man, you ’andsome feller, you good servant, I not like you go away, but I tink you make Missy O’Bottom very fine ’usband; so I not care for myself, you go to Missy O’Bottom, and tell I send you, dat I part wid you, and give you to her for ’usband.’”

Cockle and I burst out laughing. “Well, and what did Mrs Rowbottom say to that?”

“She jump up, and try to catch me hair, but I bob my head, and she miss; den she say, ‘You filthy black rascal, you tell you massa, ’pose he ever come here, I break his white bald pate; and ’pose you ever come here, I smash you woolly black skull.’—Dat all, Massa Cockle; you see all right now, and I quite dry wid talking.”

“All right! do you call it. I never meant to quarrel with the old woman; what d’ye think, Bob—is it all right?”

“Why, you must either have quarrelled with her, or married her, that’s clear.”

“Well, then, I’m clear of her, and so it’s all right. It a’n’t every man who can get out of matrimony by sacrificing a nosegay and two glasses of grog.”

“Tree glasses, Massa Cockle,” said Moonshine.

“Well, three glasses; here it is, you dog, and its dog cheap, too. Thank God, next Wednesday’s quarter day. Bob, you must dine with me—cut the service for to-day.”

“With all my heart,” replied I, “and I’ll salve my conscience by walking the beach all night; but, Cockle, look here, there is but a drop in the bottle, and you have no more. I am like you, with a clean swept hold. You acknowledge the difficulty?”

“It stares me in the face, Bob; what must be done?”

“I’ll tell you—in the first place, what have you for dinner?”

“Moonshine, what have we got for dinner?”

“Dinner, sar?—me not yet tink about dinner. What you like to eat, sar?”

“What have we got in the house, Moonshine?”

“Let me see, sar? first place, we ab very fine piece picklum pork; den we have picklum pork; and den—let me tink—den we ab, we ab picklum pork, sar.”

“The long and the short of it is, Bob, that we have nothing but a piece of pickled pork; can you dine off that?”

“Can a duck swim, Cockle!”

“Please, sar, we ab plenty pea for dog baddy,” said Moonshine.

“Well, then, Cockle, as all that is required is to put the pot on the fire, you can probably spare Moonshine, after he has done that, and we will look to the cookery; start him off with a note to Mr Johns, and he can bring back a couple of bottles from my quarters.”

“Really dat very fine tought, Massa Farren; I put in pork, and den I go and come back in one hour.”

“That you never will, Mr Moonshine; what’s o’clock now? mercy on us, how time flies in your company, Cockle, it is nearly four o’clock; it will be dark at six.”

“Neber mind, sar, me always ab moonshine whereber I go,” said the black, showing his teeth.

“It will take two hours to boil the pork, Bob; that fellow has been so busy this morning that he has quite forgot the dinner.”

“All you business, Massa Cockle.”

“Very true; but now start as soon as you can, and come back as soon as you can; here’s the note.”

Moonshine took the note, looked at the direction, as if he could read it, and in a few minutes was seen to depart.

“And now, Cockle,” said I, “as Moonshine will be gone some time, suppose you spin us a yarn to pass away the time.”

“I’ll tell you what, Bob, I am not quite so good at that as I used to be. I’ve an idea that when my pate became bald, my memory oozed away by insensible perspiration.”

“Never mind, you must have something left, you can’t be quite empty.”

“No, but my tumbler is; so I’ll just fill that up, and then I’ll tell you how it was that I came to go to sea.”

“The very thing that I should like to hear, above all others.”

“Well, then, you must know that, like cockles in general, I was born on the sea-shore, just a quarter of a mile out of Dover, towards Shakespeare’s Cliff. My father was a fisherman by profession, and a smuggler by practice, all was fish that came to his net; but his cottage was small, he was supposed to be very poor, and a very bad fisherman, for he seldom brought home many; but there was a reason for that, he very seldom put his nets overboard. His chief business lay in taking out of vessels coming down Channel, goods which were shipped and bonded for exportation, and running them on shore again. You know, Bob, that there are many articles which are not permitted to enter even upon paying duty, and when these goods, such as silks, etcetera, are seized or taken in prizes, they are sold for exportation. Now, it was then the custom for vessels to take them on board in the river, and run them on shore as they went down Channel, and the fishing-boats were usually employed for this service; my father was a well-known hand for this kind of work, for not being suspected, he was always fortunate; of course, had he once been caught, they would have had their eyes upon him after he had suffered his punishment. Now the way my father used to manage was this: there was a long tunnel-drain from some houses used as manufactories, about a hundred yards above his cottage, which extended out into the sea at low-water mark, and which passed on one side of our cottage. My father had cut from a cellar in the cottage into the drain, and as it was large enough for a man to kneel down in, he used to come in at low-water with his coble, and make fast the goods, properly secured from the wet and dirt in tarpaulin bags, to a rope, which led from the cellar to the sea through the drain. When the water had flowed sufficiently to cover the mouth of the drain, he then threw the bags overboard, and, securing the boat, went to the cottage, hauled up the articles, and secured them too; d’ye understand? My father had no one to assist him but my brother, who was a stout fellow, seven years older than myself, and my mother, who used to give a helping hand when required; and thus did he keep his own counsel, and grow rich; when all was right, he got his boat over into the harbour, and having secured her, he came home as innocent as a lamb. I was then about eight or nine years old, and went with my father and brother in the coble, for she required three hands, at least, to manage her properly, and like a tin-pot, although not very big, I was very useful. Now it so happened that my father had notice that a brig, laying in Dover harbour, would sail the next day, and that she had on board of her a quantity of lace and silks, purchased at the Dover custom-house for exportation, which he was to put on shore again to be sent up to London. The sending up to London we had nothing to do with; the agent at Dover managed all that; we only left the articles at his house, and then received the money on the nail. We went to the harbour, where we found the brig hauling out, so we made all haste to get away before her. It blew fresh from the northward and eastward, and there was a good deal of sea running. As we were shoving out, the London agent, a jolly little round-faced fellow, in black clothes, and a bald white head, called to us, and said that he wanted to board a vessel in the offing, and asked whether we would take him. This was all a ruse, as he intended to go on board of the brig with us to settle matters, and then return in the pilot boat. Well, we hoisted our jib, drew aft our foresheet, and were soon clear of the harbour; but we found that there was a devil of a sea running, and more wind than we bargained for; the brig came out of the harbour with a flowing sheet, and we lowered down the foresail to reef it—father and brother busy about that, while I stood at the helm, when the agent said to me, ‘When do you mean to make a voyage?’ ‘Sooner than father thinks for,’ said I, ‘for I want to see the world.’ It was sooner than I thought for too, as you shall hear. As soon as the brig was well out, we ran down to her, and with some difficulty my father and the agent got on board, for the sea was high and cross, the tide setting against the wind; my brother and I were left in the boat to follow in the wake of the brig; but as my brother was casting off the rope forward, his leg caught in the bight, and into the sea he went; however, they hauled him on board, leaving me alone in the coble. It was not of much consequence, as I could manage to follow before the wind under easy sail, without assistance: so I kept her in the wake of the brig, both of us running nearly before it at the rate of five miles an hour, waiting till my father should have made up his packages, of a proper size to walk through the tunnel drain.

“The Channel was full of ships, for the westerly winds had detained them for a long time. I had followed the brig about an hour, when the agent went on shore in a pilot boat, and I expected my father would soon be ready; then the wind veered more towards the southward, with dirt: at last it came on foggy, and I could hardly see the brig, and as it rained hard, and blew harder, I wished that my father was ready, for my arms ached with steering the coble for so long a while. I could not leave the helm, so I steered on at a black lump, as the brig looked through the fog: at last the fog was so thick that I could not see a yard beyond the boat, and I hardly knew how to steer. I began to be frightened, tired, and cold, and hungry I certainly was. Well, I steered on for more than an hour, when the fog cleared up a little, and to my joy I saw the stern of the brig just before me. I expected that she would round-to immediately, and that my father would praise me for my conduct; and, what was still more to the purpose, that I should get something to eat and drink. But no: she steered on right down Channel, and I followed for more than an hour, when it came on to blow very hard, and I could scarcely manage the boat—she pulled my little arms off. The weather now cleared up, and I could make out the vessel plainly; when I discovered that it was not the brig, but a bark which I had got hold of in the fog, so that I did not know what to do; but I did as most boys would have done in a fright,—I sat down and cried; still, however, keeping the tiller in my hand, and steering as well as I could. At last. I could hold it no longer; I ran forward, let go the fore and jib haul-yards, and hauled down the sails; drag them into the boat I could not, and there I was, like a young bear adrift in a washing-tub. I looked around, and there were no vessels near; the bark had left me two miles astern, it was blowing a gale from the SE, with a heavy sea—the gulls and sea-birds wheeling and screaming in the storm. The boat tossed and rolled about so that I was obliged to hold on, but she shipped no water of any consequence, for the jib in the water forward had brought her head to wind, and acted as a sort of floating anchor. At last I lay down at the bottom of the boat and fell asleep. It was daylight before I awoke, and it blew harder than ever; and I could just see some vessels at a distance, scudding before the gale, but they could hardly see me. I sat very melancholy the whole day, shedding tears, surrounded by nothing but the roaring waves. I prayed very earnestly: I said the Lord’s Prayer, the Belief, and as much of the Catechism as I could recollect. I was wet, starving, and miserably cold. At night I again fell asleep from exhaustion. When morning broke, and the sun shone, the gale abated, and I felt more cheered; but I was now ravenous from hunger, as well as choking from thirst, and was so weak that I could scarcely stand. I looked round me every now and then, and in the afternoon saw a large vessel standing right for me; this gave me courage and strength. I stood up and waved my hat, and they saw me—the sea was still running very high, but the wind had gone down. She rounded-to so as to bring me under her lee. Send a boat she could not, but the sea bore her down upon me, and I was soon close to her. Men in the chains were ready with ropes, and I knew that this was my only chance. At last, a very heavy sea bore her right down upon the boat, lurching over on her beam ends, her main chains struck the boat and sent her down, while I was seized by the scruff of the neck by two of the seamen, and borne aloft by them as the vessel returned to the weather-roll. I was safe. And, as soon as they had given me something to eat, I told my story. It appeared that she was an East India-man running down Channel, and not likely to meet with anything to scud me back again. The passengers, especially the ladies, were very kind to me: and as there was no help for it, why, I took my first voyage to the East Indies.”