Jack Buntline. Kingston William Henry Giles

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.

      Chapter Two

      The storm increased, but the brig, brought under snug canvas, rides buoyantly over seas. “Hillo, youngster, you are afraid of drowning are you?” cried old Joe Growler, as he saw Jack’s eye watching the heavy seas, which came rolling up as if they would engulf the vessel. “This is nothing to what you may have to look out for, let me tell you.” Jack thought the sea rough enough as it was, but he made no reply, for old Joe seldom passed him without giving him the taste of his toe or of a rope’s end. The other sailors laughed and jeered at Jack. He was not, however, afraid of the heavy seas. He soon got accustomed to the look of them. He had a feeling also that God, who had put it into the heart of the negro to help him on the topgallant yard, would not desert him. The other men often reminded him of that awful name, but, alas, they used it only to blaspheme and curse.

      During the day the weather appeared finer, though the brig still lay hove to; but at night the wind blew fiercer and fiercer, the sea broke more wildly than ever. Towards morning a loud report was heard, as if a gun had been fired on board: the fore-topsail had been blown from the bolt-ropes. Before another sail could be set a terrific sea struck the ship, washing fore and aft. “Hold on, hold on for your lives,” sung out the master. Jack grasped the main rigging, so did Sambo and others; but two men were forced from their hold by the water and carried overboard. A flash of lightning revealed their countenances full of horror and despair. A shriek – their death wail – reached his ears. Jack never forgot those pale terror-struck faces.

      When morning broke, the crew no longer seemed inclined to jeer and laugh at Jack. The ship was labouring heavily. About noon, the carpenter, who had been below, appeared on deck with a countenance which showed that something was the matter. “What’s wrong now?” asked the captain. “Why, the ship’s sprung a leak, and if we don’t look out we shall all go to the bottom,” answered the carpenter gruffly. He and the captain were on bad terms. “All hands man the pumps,” sung out the captain. The men looked sulkily at each other, as if doubting whether or not they would obey the order. “Let’s get some grog aboard; and no matter, then, whether we sink or swim,” said one. “Ay, hoist up a spirit cask, and have one jolly booze before we die,” chimed in another. It was evident that they would if they could break into the spirit room, and steeping their senses in liquor, die like brute beasts. Sambo and Jack, however, rushed to the pumps to help the mates rig them. When the captain saw the hesitation of the rest of the crew, uttering a dreadful oath, he entered his cabin, and immediately returned on deck with a pistol in each hand. “Mutiny – mutiny!” he exclaimed. “You know me, my lads – just understand I’ll shoot the first man who disobeys me.” Strange, that the men who an instant before would not have hesitated to rush into the presence of their Maker, were now afraid of the captain and his pistols. Without another word they went to the pumps. The labour was incessant, but they were able to prevent the water from increasing. All day, and through the next