i did not awake the next morning till roused by the police, who brought us up before the magistrates. the crowd that followed appeared to make no distinction between the prisoners and the witness, and remarks not very complimentary, and to me very annoying, were liberally made. “he’s a young hand for such work,” cried one. “there’s gallows marked in his face,” observed another, to whom, when i turned round to look at him, i certainly could have returned the compliment. the station was not far from the magistrates’ office, and we soon arrived. the principal officer went into the inner room, and communicated with the magistrates before they came out and took their seats on the bench.
“where is jacob faithful? my lad, do you know the nature of an oath?”
i answered in the affirmative; the oath was administered, and my evidence taken down. it was then read over to the prisoners, who were asked if they had anything to say in their defence. fleming, who had sent for his lawyer, was advised to make no answer. marables quietly replied, that all the boy had said was quite true.
“recollect,” said the magistrate, “we cannot accept you as king’s evidence; that of the boy is considered sufficient.”
“i did not intend that you should,” replied marables. “i only want to ease my conscience, not to try for my pardon.”
they were then committed for trial, and led away to prison. i could not help going up to marables and shaking his hand, before he was led away. he lifted up his two arms, for he was still handcuffed, and wiped his eyes, saying, “let this be a warning to you, jacob—not that i think you need it; but still i once was honest as yourself—and look at me now.” and he cast his eyes down sorrowfully upon his fettered wrists. they quitted the room, fleming giving me a look which was very significant of what my chance would be if ever i fell into his clutches.
“we must detain you, my lad,” observed one of the magistrates, “without you can procure a sufficient bail for your appearance as witness on the trial.”
i replied that i knew of no one except my master, mr drummond, and my schoolmaster; and had no means of letting them know of my situation.
the magistrate then directed the officer to go down by the first brentford coach, acquaint mr drummond with what had passed, and that the lighter would remain in charge of the river police until he could send hands on board of her; and i was allowed to sit down on the bench behind the bar. it was not until past noon that mr drummond, accompanied by the dominie, made his appearance. to save time, the magistrates gave them my deposition to read; they put in bail, and i was permitted to leave the court. we went down by the coach, but as they went inside and i was out, i had not many questions asked until my arrival at mr drummond’s house, when i gave them a detailed account of all that had happened.
“proh! deus!” exclaimed the dominie, when i had finished my story. “what an escape! how narrowly, as propertius hath it femininely, ‘eripitur nobis jumpridem carus puer.’ well was it that thou hadst learnt to swim—verily thou must have struggled lustily. ‘pugnat in adversas ire natator aquas,’ yea, lustily for thy life, child. now, god be praised!”
but mr drummond was anxious that the lighter should be brought back to the wharf; he therefore gave me my dinner, for i had eaten nothing that day, and then despatched me in a boat with two men, to bring her up the river. the next morning we arrived; and mr drummond, not having yet selected any other person to take her in charge, i was again some days on shore, dividing my time between the dominie and mr drummond’s, where i was always kindly treated, not only by him, but also by his wife and his little daughter sarah.
a master for the lighter was soon found; and as i passed a considerable time under his orders, i must describe him particularly. he had served the best part of his life on board a man-of-war, had been in many general and single actions, and, at the battle of trafalgar, had wound up his servitude with the loss of both his legs and an out-pension from the greenwich hospital, which he preferred to being received upon the establishment, as he had a wife and child. since that time he had worked on the river. he was very active, and broad-shouldered, and had probably, before he lost his legs, been a man of at least five feet eleven or six feet high; but as he found that he could keep his balance better upon short stumps than long ones, he had reduced his wooden legs to about eight inches in length, which, with his square body, gave him the appearance of a huge dwarf. he bore, and i will say most deservedly, an excellent character. his temper was always cheerful, and he was a little inclined to drink: but the principal feature in him was lightness of heart; he was always singing. his voice was very fine and powerful. when in the service he used to be summoned to sing to the captain and officers, and was the delight of the forecastle. his memory was retentive, and his stock of songs incredible, at the same time, he seldom or ever sang more than one or two stanzas of a song in the way of quotation, or if apt to what was going on, often altering the words to suit the occasion. he was accompanied by his son tom, a lad of my own age, as merry as his father, and who had a good treble voice and a good deal of humour; he would often take the song up from his father, with words of his own putting in, with ready wit and good tune. we three composed the crew of the lighter; and, as there had already been considerable loss from demurrage, were embarked as soon as they arrived. the name of the father was tom beazeley, but he was always known on the river as “old tom” or, as some more learned wag had christened him, “the merman on two sticks.” as soon as we had put our traps on board, as old tom called them, he received his orders, and we cast off from the wharf. the wind was favourable. young tom was as active as a monkey, and as full of tricks. his father took the helm, while we two, assisted by a dog of the small newfoundland breed, which tom had taught to take a rope in his teeth, and be of no small service to two boys in bowsing on a tackle, made sail upon the lighter, and away we went, while old tom’s strain might be heard from either shore.
“loose, loose every sail to the breeze,
the course of the vessel improve,
i’ve done with the toil of the seas,
ye sailors, i’m bound to my love.
“tom, you beggar, is the bundle ready for your mother? we must drop the skiff, jacob, at battersea reach, and send the clothes on shore for the old woman to wash, or there’ll be no clean shirts for sunday. shove in your shirts, jacob; the old woman won’t mind that. she used to wash for the mess. clap on, both of you, and get another pull at those haulyards. that’ll do, my bantams.
“hoist, hoist, every sail to the breeze,
come, shipmates, and join in the song,
let’s drink while the barge cuts the seas,
to the gale that may drive her along.
“tom, where’s my pot of tea? come, my boy, we must pipe to breakfast. jacob, there’s a rope towing overboard. now, tom, hand me my tea, and i’ll steer her with one hand, drink with the other, and as for the legs, the less we say about them the better.
“no glory i covet, no riches i want,
ambition is nothing to me.
but one thing i beg of kind heaven to grant—”
tom’s treble chimed in, handing him the pot—
“for breakfast a good cup of tea.
“silence, you sea-cook! how dare you shove in your penny whistle! how’s tide, tom?”
“three quarters ebb.”
“no, it a’n’t, you thief; how is it jacob?”
“about half, i think.”
“and you’re right.”
“what water have we down here on the side?”
“you must give the point a wide berth,” replied i; “the shoals runs out.”
“thanky, boy, so i thought, but wasn’t sure:” and then old tom burst out in a beautiful air:
“trust not too much your own opinion,
when your vessel’s under weigh,
let good advice still bear dominion;
that’s a compass will not stray.”
“old tom, is that you?” hallooed a man from another barge.
“yes; what’s left of me, my hearty.”
“you’ll not fetch the bridges this tide—there’s a strong breeze right up the reaches below.”
“never mind, we’ll do all we can.
“if unassailed by squall or shower,
wafted by the gentle gales
let’s not lose the favouring hour,
while success attends our sails.”
“bravo, old tom! why don’t the boys get the lines out, for all the fishes are listening for you,” cried the man, as the barges were parted by the wind and tide.
“i did once belong to a small craft called the anon,” observed old tom, “and they say as how the story was, that that chap could make the fish follow him just when he pleased. i know that when we were in the north sea the shoals of seals would follow the ship if you whistled; but these brutes have ears—now fish hav’n’t got none.
“oh well do i remember that cold dreary land,
here the northern light,
in the winter’s night,
shone bright on its snowy strand.
“jacob, have you finished your breakfast? here, take the helm, while i and tom put the craft a little into apple-pie order.”
old tom then stumped forward, followed by his son and the newfoundland dog, who appeared to consider himself as one of the most useful personages on board. after coiling down the ropes, and sweeping the decks, they went into the cabin to make their little arrangements.
“a good lock that, tom,” cried the father, turning the key of the cupboard. (i recollected it, and that its snapping so loud was the occasion of my being tossed overboard.) old tom continued: “i say, tom, you won’t be able to open that cupboard, so i’ll put the sugar and the grog into it, you scamp. it goes too fast when you’re purser’s steward.
“for grog is our larboard and starboard,
our main-mast, our mizzen, our log,
on shore, or at sea, or when harbour’d,
the mariner’s compass is grog.”
“but it arn’t a compass to steer steady by, father,” replied tom.
“then don’t you have nothing to do with it, tom.”
“i only takes a little, father, because you mayn’t take too much.”
“thanky for nothing; when do i ever take too much, you scamp?”
“not too much for a man standing on his own pins, but too much for a man on two broomsticks.”
“stop your jaw, mr tom, or i’ll unscrew one of the broomsticks, and lay it over your shoulders.”
“before it’s out of the socket, i’ll give you leg-bail. what will you do then, father?”
“catch you when i can, tom, as the spider takes the fly.”
“what’s the good o’ that, when you can’t bear malice for ten minutes?”
“very true, tom? then thank your stars that you have two good legs, and that your poor father has none.”
“i very often do thank my stars, and that’s the truth of it; but what’s the use of being angry about a drop of rum, or a handful of sugar?”
“because you takes more than your allowance.”
“well, do you take less, then all will be right.”
“and why should i take less, pray?”
“because you’re only half a man; you haven’t any legs to provide for, as i have.”
“now, i tell you, tom, that’s the very reason why i should have more to comfort my old body for the loss of them.”
“when you lost your legs you lost your ballast, father, and, therefore, you mustn’t carry too much sail, or you’ll topple overboard some dark night. if i drink the grog, it’s all for your good, you see.”
“you’re a dutiful son in that way, at all events; and a sweet child, as far as sugar goes; but jacob is to sleep in the cabin with me, and you’ll shake your blanket forward.”
“now that i consider quite unnatural; why part father and son?”
“it’s not that exactly, it’s only parting son and the grog bottle.”
“that’s just as cruel; why part two such good friends?”
“’cause, tom, he’s too strong for you, and floors you sometimes.”
“well, but i forgives him; it’s all done in good humour.”
“tom, you’re a wag; but you wag your tongue to no purpose. liquor ain’t good for a boy like you, and it grows upon you.”
“well, don’t i grow too? we grow together.”
“you’ll grow faster without it.”
“i’ve no wish to be a tall man cut short, like you.”
“if i hadn’t been a tall man, my breath would have been cut short for ever; the ball which took my legs would have cut you right in half.”
“and the ball that would take your head off, would whistle over mine; so there we are equal again.”
“and there’s the grog fast,” replied old tom, turning the key, and putting it into his pocket. “that’s a stopper over all; so now we’ll go on deck.”
i have narrated this conversation, as it will give the reader a better idea of tom, and his way of treating his father. tom was fond of his father, and although mischievous, and too fond of drinking when he could obtain liquor, was not disobedient or vicious. we had nearly reached battersea fields when they returned on deck.
“do you know, jacob, how the parish of battersea came into the possession of those fields?”
“no, i do not.”
“well, then, i’ll tell you; it was because the battersea people were more humane and charitable than their neighbours. there was a time when those fields were of no value; now they’re worth a mint of money, they say. the body of a poor devil, who was drowned in the river, was washed on shore on those banks, and none of the parishes would be at the expense of burying it. the battersea people, though they had least right to be called upon, would not allow the poor fellow’s corpse to be lying on the mud, and they went to the expense. now, when the fields became of value, the other parishes were ready enough to claim them; but the case was tried, and as it was proved that battersea had buried the body, the fields were decided to belong to that parish. so they were well paid for their humanity, and they deserved it. mr drummond says you know the river well, jacob.”
“i was born on it.”
“yes, so i heard, and all about your father and mother’s death. i was telling tom of it, because he’s too fond of bowsing up his jib.”
“well, father, there’s no occasion to remind jacob; the tear is in his eye already,” replied tom, with consideration.
“i wish you never had any other drop in your eye,—but never mind, jacob, i didn’t think of what i was saying. look ye, d’ye see that little house with the two chimneys—that’s mine, and there’s my old woman.—i wonder what she’s about just now.” old tom paused for a while, with his eyes fixed on the object, and then burst out:—
“i’ve crossed the wide waters, i’ve trod the lone strand,
i’ve triumphed in battle, i’ve lighted the brand,
i’ve borne the loud thunder of death o’er the foam;
fame, riches, ne’er found them,—yet still found a home.
“tom, boy, haul up the skiff and paddle on shore with the bundle; ask the old woman how she is, and tell her i’m hearty.” tom was in the boat in a moment, and pulling lustily for the shore. “that makes me recollect when i returned to my mother, a’ter the first three years of my sea service. i borrowed the skiff from the skipper.—i was in a greenland-man, my first ship, and pulled ashore to my mother’s cottage under the cliff. i thought the old soul would have died with joy.” here old tom was silent, brushed a tear from his eye, and, as usual, commenced a strain, sotto voce:—
“why, what’s that to you if my eyes i’m a wiping?
a tear is a pleasure, d’ye see, in its way.
“how, miserable,” continued he, after another pause, “the poor thing was when i would go to sea—how she begged and prayed—boys have no feeling, that’s sartin.”
“o bairn, dinna leave me, to gang far away,
o bairn, dinna leave me, ye’re a’ that i hae,
think on a mither, the wind and the wave,
a mither set on ye, her feet in the grave.
“however, she got used to it at last, as the woman said when she skinned the ells. tom’s a good boy, jacob, but not steady, as they say you are. his mother spoils him, and i can’t bear to be cross to him neither; for his heart’s in the right place, after all. there’s the old woman shaking her dish-clout at us as a signal. i wish i had gone on shore myself, but i can’t step into these paper-built little boats without my timber toes going through at the bottom.”
