Читать книгу Jack Buntline - Kingston William Henry Giles - Страница 2

The sailor boy, as he is described in romances, or when he is made to act the part of a hero on the stage, has run away from school or from his parents, and entered under a feigned name on board a man-of-war; there, instead of being punished for his misconduct, he is placed on the quarter deck, and turns out in the end to be the heir to an earldom or to a baronetcy.

Such was not the origin of poor Jack Buntline. He was the only son of his mother, and while he was yet an infant she was left a widow. His father had been a sailor, a true hearted gallant man. He found Bessie Miller, then neither young nor good looking, in distress and poverty. He married her, saying that she should no longer want to the end of her days. How was he mistaken! He went away to sea. In vain his anxious wife waited his return. He never came back. It was supposed that his vessel was run down, and that he and all hands perished. His poor widow struggled hard to support herself and child: for some years she succeeded. She endeavoured also to impart to him what knowledge she possessed. It was but little. But lessons of piety she instilled into his mind at an early age. The following, among many other quotations from Holy Writ, she taught him: “God is love.” “Behold the Lamb of God which taketh away the sins of the world.” “In God put I my trust, I shall never be brought to confusion.” Deep into the inmost recesses of his memory sunk those blessed words, and though long disregarded, there they remained to bring forth fruit in due season.

At length a mortal sickness attacked the poor widow, and Jack was left an orphan, houseless and hungry, to druggie with the hard world. The furniture and clothes his mother possessed were seized for rent, and he was carried off to become an inmate of the workhouse. He knew not where he was going, but he thought the people very harsh and unkind. He was let out the next day to follow a coffin to a pauper’s grave. They told him his mother slept beneath that low green mound. When far, far away over the blue ocean, often would his memory fly back to that one solitary spot, to him the oasis in life’s wilderness. No relation, no friend had he. A pauper he lived for many a day, picking oakum and wishing to be free. That workhouse had a master, a stern, hard man.

An old companion, captain of an African trader, came to see him. As they sipped their brandy and water – “I want a boy or two aboard there,” said Captain Gullbeak, “one o’ mine fell overboard last week and was drownded.”

“You may have as many on ’em as you like, perwided you takes care they none on ’em come back again on the parish. The guardians don’t approve of that ere joke.”

“Not much fear of that, I guess,” replied the captain with a grin; “they has a knack of dying uncommon fast out there in Africa. It’s only old hands like me can stand it do ye see.”

So it was settled that little Jack was to be a sailor. Jack was asked if he would like to go to sea. Would a sky-lark in a cage like to be free? He knew also that his father was lost at sea, and he thought he might find him; so he said “Yes.” The guardians were informed of the lad’s strong desire to go to sea. His resolution was highly approved of, and leave was granted him to go. So under the tender care of Captain Gullbeak, of the Tiger brig, poor Jack commenced his career as a seaman – in mind still a child, in stature a big lad. The only thing he regretted was being separated so far from his mother’s grave. Away over the ocean glided the African trader. Hard had been Jack’s life in the workhouse – much harder was it now. Every man’s hand seemed against him. A cuff or a rope’s end was his only reward for every service done his many masters.

Occasionally in the workhouse he did hear prayers said and a discourse uttered, somewhat hard to understand, perhaps. Now, blaspheming, scoffing, and obscenity were in every sentence spoken by those around him. What words can describe the dark foul hole into which Jack had to creep at night to find rest from his grief in sleep. It was in the very head of the vessel. The ceaseless murmur of the waves was ever in his ears, and as the brig plunged into the seas the loud blows the received on her bows made his heart sink within him, and it was long before he could persuade himself that his last hour was not near at hand.

On, on flew the brig. Hitherto the weather had been fine. Jack had sometimes gone aloft, but as yet he was but little accustomed to the rolling and pitching of a ship at sea. One night he was asleep dreaming of the humble cottage by the greenwood side. He was kneeling, as he was wont, by his mother’s knee, uttering a simple prayer to heaven for protection from peril. Now, alas, he has forgotten when awake how to pray. Loud harsh voices sound in his ear. “All hands shorten sail.” He starts up. “Rouse out there, rouse out,” he hears. He dare not evade the summons. He springs on deck. The wind howls fiercely, the waves leap wildly around, and sheets of spray fly over the deck. Lightning flashes, dark clouds obscure every spot, the thunder growls, scarcely can he lift his head to face the storm. But he must go aloft and lay out on the topgallant yard, high up in the darkness, where the masts are bending like willow wands. So rapidly, too, are they turning here and there, that it seems impossible any human being can hold on to them. A rope’s end urges him on. Up he climbs, the lightning almost blinding him, yet serving to show the wild hungry waves which break ever and anon over the labouring vessel. He reaches the topgallant yard. There he clings, swinging aloft, the rain beating in his face, the wind driving fiercely to tear him off – darkness around him, darkness below him. Not a glimpse can he obtain of the deck. It appears as if the ship had already sunk beneath those foaming waves. How desolate, how helpless he feels! How can he expect to hold on to that unstable shaking mast. Now rolling on one side, now on the other, he hangs over the dark threatening abyss. What can he do to conquer that struggling sail? But there is one who sends help to the helpless, who turns not away from the poor in their distress. Jack there hears the first words of kindness addressed to him since he came on board, and a helping hand is stretched out to aid him. The voice is that of a negro. “No say I wid you,” adds Sambo, “or I no help you again.” The sail is furled, and Jack descends safe on deck, his heart lighter with the feeling that there is near at hand a human being who can sympathise with his lot.