Фредерик Марриет
Jacob Faithful
Chapter Eighteen
The art of hard lying made easy, though I am made very uneasy by hard lying—I send my ruler as a missive, to let the parties concerned know that I am a rebel to tyrannical rule—I am arraigned, tried, and condemned without a hearing—What I lose in speech is made up in feeling, the whole wound up with magnanimous resolves, and a little sobbing
It was the captain of the American schooner, from out of which we were then taking the casks of flour.
“We’ve no sarvice in our country, I’ve a notion, my old bobtail roarer,” said he. “When do you come alongside of my schooner, for tother lading with this raft of yours? Not to-night, I guess.”
“Well, you’ve guessed right this time,” replied old Tom; “we shall lie on the mud till to-morrow morning, with your permission.”
“Yes, for all the world like a Louisiana alligator. You take things coolly, I’ve a notion, in the old country. I don’t want to be hanging head and starn in this little bit of a river of your’n. I must be back to New York afore fever time.”
“She be a pretty craft, that little thing of yours,” observed old Tom; “how long may she take to make the run?”
“How long? I expect in just no time; and she’d go as fast again, only she won’t wait for the breeze to come up with her.”
“Why don’t you heave-to for it?” said young Tom.
“Lose too much time, I guess. I have been chased by an easterly wind all the way from your Land’s End to our Narrows, and it never could overhaul me.”
“And I presume the porpoises give it up in despair, don’t they?” replied old Tom, with a leer; “and yet I’ve seen the creatures playing across the bows of an English frigate at her speed, and laughing at her.”
“They never play their tricks with me, old snapper; if they do, I cuts them in halves, and a-starn they go, head part floating on one side, and tail part on the other.”
“But don’t they join together again when they meet in your wake?” inquired Tom.
“Shouldn’t wonder,” replied the American captain.
“Pray, captain, what may be that vessel they talk so much about at New York?” Old Tom referred to the first steam vessel, whose qualities at that time had been tried, and an exaggerated report of which had been copied from the American papers. “That ship, or whatever she may be, that sails without masts, yards, or canvas; it is quite above my comprehension.”
“Old country heads can’t take it in. I’ll tell you what—she goes slick through the water, a-head or a-starn, broadside on, or up or down, or any way; and all you have to do is to poke the fire and warm your fingers; and the more you poke, the faster she goes ’gainst wind and tide.”
“Well, I must see that to believe it, though,” replied old Tom.
“No fear of a capsize, I calculate. My little craft did upset with me one night, in a pretty comfortable heavy gal; but she’s smart, and came up again on the other side in a moment, all right as before. Never should have known anything about it, if the man at the wheel had not found his jacket wet, and the men below had a round turn in all the clews of their hammocks.”
“After that round turn, you may belay,” cried young Tom, laughing.
“Yes, but don’t let’s have a stopper over all, Tom,” replied his father. “I consider all this excessively divarting. Pray, captain, does everything else go fast in the new country.”
“Everything with us clean slick, I guess.”
“What sort of horses have you in America?” inquired I.
“Our Kentucky horses, I’ve a notion, would surprise you. They’re almighty goers; at a trot, beat a North West gal of wind. I once took an Englishman with me in a gig up Allibama country, and he says, ‘What’s this great churchyard we are passing through?’ ‘And stranger,’ says I, ‘I calculate it’s nothing but the milestones we are passing so slick.’ But I once had a horse, who, I expect, was a deal quicker than that. I once seed a flash of lightning chase him for half-an-hour round the clearance, and I guess it couldn’t catch him. But I can’t wait no longer. I expect you’ll come alongside to-morrow afore meridian.”
“Ay, ay, master,” replied old Tom, tuning up—
“’Twas post meridian, half-past four,
By signal I from Nancy parted,
At five she lingered on the shore,
With uplift eyes and broken-hearted.”
“I calculate you are no fool of a screamer,” said the American, shoving off his boat from the barge, and pulling to his vessel.
“And I calculate you’re no fool of a liar,” said young Tom.
“Well, so he is; but I do like a good lie, Jacob, there’s some fun in it. But what the devil does the fellow mean by calling a gale of wind—a gal?”
“I don’t know,” replied Tom, “unless for the same reason that we call a girl a blowing.”
Our conversation was here interrupted by Mr Hodgson, the new head clerk, of whom I have hitherto said nothing. He came into the establishment in the place of Mr Tomkins, when we quitted the Battersea wharf, and had taken an evident dislike to me, which appeared to increase every day, as Mr Drummond gave me fresh marks of his approbation. “You, Faithful, come out of that barge directly, and go to your desk. I will have no eye-servers under me. Come out, sir, directly.”
“I say, Mr Quilldriver,” cried old Tom, “do you mean for to say that Jacob is an eye-sarver?”
“Yes, I do; and want none of your impertinence, or I’ll unship you, you old blackguard.”
“Well, then, for the first part of your story, my sarvice to you and you lies; and as for the second, that remains to be proved.”
Mr Hodgson’s temper was not softened by this reply of old Tom. My blood was also up, for I had borne much already; and young Tom was bursting with impatience to take my part. He walked carelessly by the head clerk, saying to me as he passed by, “Why, I thought, Jacob, you were ’prentice to the river; but it seems that you’re bound to the counting-house. How long do you mean to sarve?”
“I don’t know,” replied I, as I walked away sulkily; “but I wish I was out of my time.”
“Very well, sir, I shall report your behaviour to Mr Drummond. I’ll make him know your tricks.”
“Tricks! you won’t let him know his tricks. His duty is to take his trick at the wheel,” replied old Tom; “not to be brought up at your cheating tricks at the desk.”
“Cheating tricks, you old scoundrel, what do you mean by that?” replied Mr Hodgson, in a rage.
“My father means ledgerdemain, I suppose,” replied young Tom.
This repartee from a quarter so little expected sent off the head clerk more wroth than ever.
“You seemed to hit him hard there, Tom,” said his father; “but I can’t say that I understand how.”
“You’ve had me taught to read and write, father,” replied young Tom; “and a’ter that, a lad may teach himself everything. I pick up every day, here and there; and I never see a thing or a word that I don’t understand but I find out the meaning when I can. I picked up that hard word at Bartlemy fair.”
“And very hard you hit him with it.”
“Who wouldn’t to serve a friend? But mark my words, father, this won’t last long. There’s a squall blowing up, and Jacob, quiet as he seems to be, will show his teeth ere long.”
Tom was correct in his surmise. I had not taken my seat at my desk more than a minute, when Mr Hodgson entered, and commenced a tirade of abuse, which my pride could no longer allow me to submit to. An invoice, perfectly correct and well-written, which I had nearly completed, he snatched from before me, tore into fragments, and ordered me to write it over again. Indignant at this treatment, I refused, and throwing down my pen, looked at him determinedly in the face. Irritated at this defiance, he caught up a directory, and threw it at my head. No longer able to command myself, I seized a ruler and returned the salute. It was whizzing through the air as Mr Drummond entered the room; and he was just in time to witness Mr Hodgson struck on the forehead and felled to the ground, while I remained with my arm raised, standing upon the cross-bar of my high stool, my face glowing with passion.
Appearances were certainly against me. Assistance was summoned, and the head clerk removed to his chamber, during all which time I remained seated on my stool before the desk, my breast heaving with tumultuous feelings. How long I remained there I cannot say, it might have been two hours; feelings long dormant had been aroused, and whirled round and round in a continual cycle in my feverish brains. I should have remained probably much longer in this state of absorption, had I not been summoned to attend Mr Drummond. It appeared that in the meantime Mr Hodgson had come to his own senses, and had given his own version of the fracas, which had been, to an unjustifiable degree, corroborated by the stupid young clerk, who was no friend of mine, and who sought favour with his principal. I walked up to the drawing-room, where I found Mr and Mrs Drummond, and little Sarah, whose eyes were red with crying. I entered without any feeling of alarm, my breast was too full of indignation. Mrs Drummond looked grave and mournful, Mr Drummond severe.
“Jacob Faithful, I have sent for you to tell you that in consequence of your disgraceful conduct to my senior clerk, you can no longer remain under my roof. It appears that what I have been a witness to this day has been but a sequel to behaviour equally improper and impertinent; that so far from having, as I thought, done your duty, you have constantly neglected it; and that the association you have formed with that drunken old man and his insolent son has led you into this folly. You may say that it was not your wish to remain on shore, and that you preferred being on the river. At your age it is too often the case that young people consult their wishes rather than their interests; and it is well for them if they find those who are older, and wished them well, to decide for them. I had hoped to have been able to place you in a more respectable situation in society than was my original intention when you were thrown upon me, a destitute orphan; but I now perceive my error. You have proved yourself not only deceitful but ungrateful.”
“I have not,” interrupted I, calmly.
“You have. I have been a witness myself to your impropriety of conduct, which, it appears, has long been concealed from me; but no more of that. I bound you apprentice to the river, and you must now follow up your apprenticeship; but expect nothing farther from me. You must now work your own way up in the world, and I trust that you will reform and do well. You may return to the lighter until I can procure you a situation in another craft, for I consider it my duty to remove you from the influence of those who have led you astray, and with the old man and his son you will not remain. I have one thing more to say. You have been in my counting-house for some months, and you are now about to be thrown upon the world. There are ten pounds for your services,” (and Mr Drummond laid the money on the table). “You may also recollect that I have some money belonging to you, which has been laid by until you shall be out of your apprenticeship. I consider it my duty still to retain that money for you; as soon as your apprenticeship is expired you may demand it, and it shall be made over to you. I trust, sincerely trust, Jacob, that the severe lesson you are now about to receive will bring you to a sense of what is right, and that you will forget the evil counsel you have received from your late companions. Do not attempt to justify yourself; it is useless.” Mr Drummond then rose and left the room.
I should have replied, had it not been for this last sentence of Mr Drummond’s, which again roused the feeling of indignation, which, in their presence, had been gradually giving way to softer emotions. I therefore stood still, and firmly met the glance of Mr Drummond as he passed me. My looks were construed into hardness of heart.
It appeared that Mr Drummond had left the room by previous arrangement, that he might not be supposed to be moved from this purpose, and that Mrs Drummond was then to have talked to me, and to have ascertained how far there was a chance of my pleading guilty, and begging for a mitigation of my sentence; but the firm composure of innocence was mistaken for defiance; and the blood mounting to my forehead from a feeling of injustice—of injustice from those I loved and venerated—perhaps the most poignant feeling in existence to a sensitive and generous mind—was falsely estimated as proceeding from impetuous and disgraceful sources. Mrs Drummond looked upon me with a mournful face, sighed, and said nothing; little Sarah watching me with her large black eyes, as if she would read my inmost soul.
“Have you nothing to say, Jacob,” at last observed Mrs Drummond, “that I can tell Mr Drummond when his anger is not so great?”
“Nothing, madam,” replied I, “except that I’ll try to forgive him.”
This reply was offensive even to the mild Mrs Drummond. She rose from her chair. “Come, Sarah,” said she: and she walked out of the room, wishing me, in a kind, soft voice, a “good-bye, Jacob,” as she passed me.
My eyes swam with tears. I tried to return the salutation, but I was too much choked by my feelings; I could not speak, and my silence was again looked upon as contumacy and ingratitude. Little Sarah still remained—she had not obeyed her mother’s injunctions to follow her. She was now nearly fourteen years old, and I had known her as a companion and a friend for five years. During the last six months that I had resided in the house we had become more intimately acquainted. I joined her in the evening in all her pursuits, and Mr and Mrs Drummond appeared to take a pleasure in our intimacy. I loved her as a dear sister; my love was based on gratitude. I had never forgotten her kindness to me when I first came under her father’s roof, and a long acquaintance with the sweetness of her disposition had rendered the attachment so firm, that I felt I could have died for her. But I never knew the full extent of the feeling until now that I was about to leave her, perhaps for ever. My heart sank when Mr Drummond left the room—a bitter pang passed through it as the form of Mrs Drummond vanished from my sight; but now was to be the bitterest of all. I felt it, and I remained with the handle of the door in my hand, gasping for breath—blinded with the tears that coursed each other rapidly down my cheeks. I remained a minute in this state, when I felt that Sarah touched my other listless hand.
“Jacob!” she would have said, but before half my name was out she burst into tears, and sobbed on my shoulder. My heart was too much surcharged not to take the infection—my grief found vent, and I mingled my sobs with those of the affectionate girl. When we were more composed, I recounted to her all that had passed, and one, at least, in the world acknowledged that I had been treated unjustly. I had but just finished, when the servant interrupted us with a message to Sarah, that her mother desired her presence. She threw herself into my arms, and bade me farewell. I released her, she hastened to obey her mother, but perceiving the money still upon the table, she pointed to it. “Your money, Jacob!”
“No Sarah, I will not accept it. I would accept of anything from those who treat me kindly, and feel more and more grateful to them; but that I will not accept—I cannot, and you must not let it be left here. Say that I could not take it.”
Sarah would have remonstrated, but perceiving that I was firm, and at the same time, perhaps, entering into my feelings, she again bade me farewell, and hastened away.
The reader may easy imagine that I did not put off my departure. I hastened to pack up my clothes, and in less than ten minutes after Sarah had quitted me, I was on board the lighter, with old Tom and his son, who were then going to supper. They knew a part of what had happened, and I narrated the rest.
“Well,” replied old Tom, after I had finished my story, “I didn’t know that I have done you any harm, Jacob, and I’m sorry that Mr Drummond should suppose so. I’m fond of a drop, that’s true; but I appeals to you, whether I ever force it on you—and whether I don’t check that boy as much as I can; but then, d’ye see, although I preach, I don’t practise, that’s the worst of it; and I know I’ve to answer for making Tom so fond of grog; and though I never says anything about it, I often think to myself, that if Tom should chance to be pressed some of these days, and be punished for being in liquor, he’ll think of his old father, and curse him in his heart, when he eyes the cat flourishing round before it strikes.”
“I’ll curse the cat, father, or the boatswain’s mate, or the officer who complained of me, or the captain who flogs me, or my own folly, but I’ll be hanged if ever I curse you, who have been so kind to me,” replied Tom, taking his father’s hand.
“Well, we must hope for the best, my dear boy,” replied old Tom; “but, Jacob, you’ve not had fair play, that sartain. It’s very true that master did take you as an orphan, and help you to an education; but that’s no reason why he should take away your free will, and after binding you ’prentice to the river, perch you up on a high stool, and grind your nose down to the desk. If so be he was so kind to you only to make you a slave, why, then, there was no kindness at all, in my opinion: and as for punishment without hearing what a man has to say in his own defence—there’s ne’er a Tartar in the sarvice but would allow a man to speak before he orders him to strip. I recollect a story about that in the sarvice, but I’m in no humour to spin a yarn now. Now, you see, Jacob, Master Drummond has done a great deal for you, and now he has undone a great deal! I can’t pretend to balance the account, but it does appear to me that you don’t owe him much; for what thanks is there if you take a vessel in tow, and then cast her off, half-way, when she most needs your assistance? But what hurts me most is his saying that you sha’n’t stay in the lighter with us; if you had, you shouldn’t have wanted, as long as pay and pension are forthcoming. Never mind—Tom, my boy, bring out the bottle—hang care: it killed the cat.”
The grog did not, however, bring back old Tom’s spirits; the evening passed heavily, and we retired to our beds at a seasonable hour, as we were to drop down to the schooner early the next morning. That night I did not close my eyes. I ran over, in my mind, all that had occurred, and indignation took full possession of my soul. My whole life passed in review before me. I travelled back to my former days—to the time which had been almost obliterated from my memory, when I had navigated the barge with my father. Again was the scene of his and my mother’s death presented to my view; again I saw him disappear, and the column of black smoke ascend to the sky. The Dominie, the matron, Marables, and Fleming, the scene in the cabin—all passed in rapid succession. I felt that I had done my duty, and that I had been unjustly treated; my head ached with tumultuous and long suppressed feelings. Reader, I stated that when I was first taken in hand by Mr Drummond I was a savage, although a docile one, to be reclaimed by kindness, and kindness only. You may have been surprised at the rapid change which took place in a few years; that change was produced by kindness. The conduct of Mr Drummond, of his amiable wife and daughter, had been all kindness; the Dominie and the worthy old matron had proved equally beneficent. Marables had been kind; and, although now and then, as in the case of the usher at the school, and Fleming on board the lighter, I had received injuries, still, these were but trifling checks to the uninterrupted series of kindness with which I had been treated by everybody. Thus was my nature rapidly formed by a system of kindness assisted by education; and had this been followed up, in a few years my new character would have been firmly established. But the blow was now struck, injustice roused up the latent feelings of my nature, and when I rose the next morning I was changed. I do not mean to say that all that precept and education had done for me was overthrown; but if not overthrown, it was so shaken to the base, so rent from the summit to the foundation, that, at the slightest impulse in a wrong direction, it would have fallen in and left nothing but a mixed chaos of ruined prospects. If anything could hold it together it was the kindness and affection of Sarah, to which I would again and again return in my revolving thoughts, as the only bright star to be discovered in my clouded horizon.
How dangerous, how foolish, how presumptuous it is in adults to suppose that they can read the thoughts and the feelings of those of a tender age! How often has this presumption on their part been the ruin of a young mind, which, if truly estimated and duly fostered, would have blossomed and produced good fruit! The blush of honest indignation is as dark as the blush of guilt, and the paleness of concentrated courage as marked as that of fear, the firmness of conscious innocence is but too often mistaken as the effrontery of hardened vice, and the tears springing from a source of injury, the tongue tied from the oppression of a wounded heart, the trembling and agitation of the little frame convulsed with emotion have often and often been ascribed by prejudging and self-opinionated witnesses to the very opposite passions to those which have produced them. Youth should never be judged harshly, and even when judged correctly, should it be in an evil course, may always be reclaimed;—those who decide otherwise, and leave it to drift about the world, have to answer for the cast-away.
