Part 9

Before the earth had closed over the remains of his parent,--before she had become mingled with the clods of the valley, the press-gangs were actively on the alert, and poor Tom fell into their hands. No time was allowed to lay his mother in the silent grave;--he kissed the clay-cold bosom on which he had hung in infancy, and with stern serenity yielded himself a prisoner. He loved his country, and would not have shrunk from its service in the hour of battle; but at such a moment to be forced away!--it was draining the cup of anguish to the very dregs.

At this period I had commenced my career as a sailor, and was then lying in a ship of war at Plymouth under sailing-orders for a foreign station, but waiting for a full complement of hands;--indeed, men were so scarce, that some of the ablest felons had been selected from the jails to make up the crews.

I was walking the deck, when a party of these convicts came alongside with a draught of seamen from the flag-ship, and among the latter I recognised Tom Brookes; he was dressed in deep black, and his fine and manly countenance betrayed the indignation and agony that struggled in his heart. Surely it was impossible to mistake his character, for when called before the captain he behaved with a gentlemanly respect that commanded admiration. But Captain S----[4] was one of those (happily there were but very few in the service) who were tyrannical and brutal by nature; and when poor Tom approached, he exclaimed, “Well, fellow, whose pocket have you been picking?”

[4] He was afterwards dismissed by the navy for cruelty.

Surely this might have been spared; for Tom’s countenance was an index to an honest and an upright mind; his attire was most respectable, and every action bespoke the experienced seaman. Never shall I forget his look; it showed the conflicting struggles of a proud spirit; but it was only for a moment. He fixed his steady gaze upon the inquirer, who shrank before it. Captain S---- seemed to read his thoughts, and he was a man that never forgave.

A boatswain’s-mate was directed to cut off the tails of his coat,[5] so as to render it more like a seaman’s jacket. The man approached, but this coat was the mourning he wore for his mother, and bitter recollections crossing his mind, he threw the boatswain’s-mate from him to the opposite side of the deck. This was considered an act of mutiny, and poor Tom was put in irons, with his legs stapled to the deck. Being, however, a good seaman, his services were required; so that he was shortly afterwards released, and sent to do his duty on the forecastle.

[5] This was a common practice in the service when men were first impressed.

We sailed in a few days, and after being some time at sea, the captain remembering what had taken place in harbour, ordered poor Tom, by way of punishment, to perform most of the menial offices of his station, and at length insisted on his executing the most degrading duty in a ship of war,--that of sweeping the decks. This he refused with a respectful firmness; and in that he certainly was wrong, for obedience is the first test of duty--no matter from what motive the order proceeds, and in refusing to obey, Tom acted improperly as a seaman; but who can condemn him, having the feelings of a man? His refusal, however, was of no avail; the broom was lashed by small cords to his hands, and a boatswain’s-mate stood ready with a rope’s end to enforce command. Tom obstinately declared that he would die rather than submit to unmerited oppression; the blows fell heavy on his back, but they could not change the purpose of the heart. In the moment of his anguish, whilst smarting from the stripes, but writhing still more with inward torture that bowed his spirit, he uttered some severe invectives upon the tyranny of his commander. The hands were immediately turned up, the gratings were seized to the gangway, and poor Tom was ordered to strip for flogging. Resistance was useless, his outspread arms and extended legs were lashed to the gratings, and after reading the Articles of War for disobedience of orders, the captain directed the boatswain’s-mate to give him two dozen.

This was not the first time I had witnessed punishment at the gangway, for scarcely a day had passed without it since my joining the ship. But poor Tom had been my early friend; I called to mind the happy hours we had passed together, and now to see him with his back lacerated and bleeding, the cat o’ nine tails cutting deep into his flesh,--oh, it was too much for me to endure, and I fell at the captain’s feet. He spurned me from him, and the first dozen having been given, a fresh boatswain’s-mate was called to give the second.

Tom never flinched; he remained immovable as a rock, and the only indication of bodily pain, was occasionally a contraction of the muscles of his face,--a deeper, an all-absorbing agony seemed to have triumphed over mere corporeal suffering,--an agony arising from the desperate struggles of his soul. I looked at the countenances of the men, but the generality seemed to have sunk into a settled apathy, and only a few, who had recently joined us from the Barfleur, displayed the workings of determined minds. They gazed at each other and tried to catch the sentiments of the crew; and it was plain, that had a corresponding feeling animated the whole, consequences the most fatal and desperate must have ensued. But the ship’s company had not been long together, and mutual distrust prevented an open declaration of discontent.

The flogging ceased, and poor Tom was consigned to the master-at-arms, and his legs once more fixed in the shackles. I tried to approach him, but was prevented by the marine who stood sentinel over him; my attempt was not however unnoticed, and the unfortunate victim gave me a look, and even a smile of grateful acknowledgment. Ah! then my heart sunk within me. I retired to the dark recess of the cable-tier,[6] and gave vent to my tears,--for what could a child in his twelfth year do to save the sufferer from the strong arm of power? I consoled myself with the idea that Tom would soon be released, but in this too I was mistaken; for on the following morning he persisted in his refusal to sweep the decks, was again seized up to the gangway, and two dozen lashes more were inflicted upon his already scored and mangled back.

[6] The place where the cables are coiled away.

The torture was beyond human endurance, and though no shriek betrayed the anguish of the smart, yet a convulsive spasm too clearly indicated the rending of the wounds. Still his firmness did not forsake him, and whilst the cat fell heavy on his shoulders, he remonstrated with his persecutor, and appealed to the officers whether he had not always performed his duty. No voice was raised in his behalf, though looks spoke, as forcibly as looks could speak, the detestation of every one for such merciless cruelty. At this moment, Will Scott stepped from among the assembled crew; he looked wildly upon his shipmates, particularly upon his old messmates, the Barfleurs; but all remained motionless as statues, and he resumed his station. Again the lash descended, and again the instrument of punishment was stained with the blood of the wretched man. Imprecations on the captain burst from his lips, and madness seemed to dictate his wild incoherent ravings; he was no longer passive, his mind gave way, and at the last stroke he hung senseless by the cords which bound his wrists to the gratings.

He was cast loose, and on his reviving, was again shackled in the irons, with the promise of a renewal of punishment on the morrow if he still disobeyed. In fact, the captain found his authority was at stake; he saw that he had excited disaffection; he knew that the principal portion of his crew (many of them desperate characters,) were not to be trusted, and the very men on whom he placed reliance--the Barfleurs--were disgusted with his treatment. To have receded, he considered, would have been an acknowledgment of error, and one triumph of the people would have been the prelude to more humiliating concessions. Thus he argued, and his very existence seemed to depend upon the issue.

* * * * *

It was one of those beautiful evenings in June, when the setting sun upon the verge of the horizon tinges the whole expanse of ocean with its golden brightness, that I stood upon the forecastle contemplating the glories of creation, and presumptuously arraigning Divine Providence for what I foolishly deemed an unequal distribution of good and ill. The seamen were formed in groupes along the gangway and waist, and the officers were pacing the larboard side of the quarter-deck, leaving the starboard side to the captain, who walked sullenly and alone. The lieutenant of the watch stood on the gangway, and did not join him; and there he strode, pale discontent upon his cheek and keen mistrust in the restless glancing of his eye.

The evening was indeed lovely, and calculated to calm the raging passions of the soul. The sea was beautifully smooth, the sails slept deep and still, and though scarcely a breath was felt, yet the breeze upon the quarter was carrying the vessel almost imperceptibly at the rate of five knots[7] an hour. I was but a boy,--a mere child, and whilst looking at the mild blue sky I thought of my home and of my mother. Poor Tom, too, he whose arms had cradled me in infancy! but what could I do? Whilst my thoughts were thus occupied, a marine with his drawn bayonet appeared ascending the fore-ladder; close behind came poor Tom Brookes, and every tongue was hushed. The captain caught sight of him and stopped; the officers continued their walk, but their eager gaze alternately changed from the captain to the suffering victim of his austerity; but no voice gave utterance to thought.

[7] Five miles.

Poor Tom, I think I see him now! Ah! well do I remember the ghastly dolor of his look as he approached me; his eyes cast down, and his whole thoughts apparently rivetted on one object alone,--but it is impossible to describe it. I touched his arm, for nature spoke within me, and I could not help it. He paused for one moment, and a roseate flush suffused his cheeks; he seized my hand, and I felt that his was burning. I looked in his face, it was lightened up by a smile--but such a smile! It struck me he was thinking of his mother.

“Henry,” he said, whilst grasping my hand, “Henry, your parents! Do me justice, I ask no more.” He drew his hand away, passed it over my face as he was wont to do when I was an infant, and as his features contracted with a long convulsive sob he added, “Henry, your mother! Be good, be kind, be dutiful!” and turning round, he walked forward to the bows.[8]

[8] The head of a ship.

I felt as if something was strangling me; my blood rushed to my head, and a dread of I knew not what sickened my very soul. A death-like stupor pervaded my faculties; but I was aroused from this state by the voice of the marine shouting “A man overboard! a man overboard!” The truth flashed upon my mind, and as the ship rounded-to (for the helm was instantly put down) I ran to the lee cat-head,[9] and saw the dark body as it sank in the gurgling eddy which the plunge had made. Yes, it was Tom Brookes, and he never rose again. Some heavy shot were missing from the place where he had been confined, and these he had no doubt concealed about his person to facilitate the work of destruction. Poor Tom, the waters closed above his head, and who can read his doom!

[9] A piece of timber projecting from the bows, by which the anchor is hoisted up for security.

May my young readers learn, from his untimely end, to temper judgment with mercy; and if power should ever be placed in their hands, to receive it as a sacred deposit for which they must render an account. May they use, but not abuse it; for a day is coming when the oppressor and the oppressed will meet before the same tribunal; when the individuals of whom I have been writing will stand with them at the bar of Omnipotence, and hear the sentence of that Judge from whose tribunal there is no appeal!

DADDY DAVY, THE NEGRO.

“A negro has a soul, an please your honour, said the corporal, (_doubtingly_.)

I am not much versed, corporal, said my Uncle Toby, in things of that kind; but I suppose God would not leave him without one, any more than thee or me.”

STERNE.

“I have now no written memorandums of the storms, the battles, the scenes which I have witnessed; no description of the beautiful shores of the Mediterranean, the ice-bound rocks of Greenland, the burning regions of the torrid zone, or the mild and salubrious climate of the Rio de la Plata. In my youth I trusted to a retentive memory, little thinking that time and the cares of the world would obliterate the recollection of past events.”

Such was the apostrophe of my worthy grandfather, a veteran captain in his Majesty’s navy, one winter evening, when a little orphan in my seventh year I climbed upon his knee (which he always called one of his timbers) and begged very hard that he would tell me some pretty story. The candles were not yet lighted in the parlour; but the glowing fire sent forth its red blaze, and its cheering heat seemed ten times more grateful from a heavy fall of snow, which was rapidly collecting in piles of fleecy whiteness on the lawn.

My grandfather was a man of a kindly and compassionate heart; and though I used to play him many a sly trick and sometimes grieve his spirit, yet he was always lenient to my failings; and now that he lies in yonder village churchyard, this often causes me a pang of unfeigned contrition for the past. It was my chief delight to hear him tell of the roaring of the guns when ships met in deadly strife, or the howling of the winds when the bitter tempest and the raging sea threatened destruction to the mariner; and he would so mingle his stories with the generous sympathies of his nature, that many a night has sleep dried the tears from my eyes as I lay on my pillow after retiring to bed.

I had taken my favourite seat on the evening I have mentioned, just as a poor negro with scarcely any covering appeared at the window and supplicated charity. His dark skin was deeply contrasted with the unblemished purity of the falling snow, whilst his trembling limbs seemed hardly able to support his shivering frame; and there he stood, the child of an injured race, perishing in the land of boasted hospitality and freedom!

With all the active benevolence which my grandfather possessed, he still retained the usual characteristics of the hardy seaman. He discouraged every thing that bore the smallest resemblance to indolence. The idle vagrant dared not approach his residence; but he prized the man of industrious habits, however lowly his station, and his influence was ever extended to aid the destitute and to right the injured. On his first going to sea, he had been cabin boy on board a Liverpool ship, which was engaged in that horrible traffic--the Slave-trade; and towards the poor anathematized descendants of Ham he had already imbibed erroneous prejudices, which after-years could not wholly eradicate though they were chiefly manifested in the unmeaning jokes so common among British sailors. He had also held an official appointment for several years in the island of Trinidad, where the negroes were more rigorously treated than in any other part of the West Indies, and where their debased condition rendered them more depraved in their habits and more treacherous in their actions. In England, however, the very colour of the skin is a passport to commiseration, and my grandfather no sooner saw the dark countenance of the perishing creature than he hastily rang the bell, and a footman entering, “Robert,” said he, “go and bring yon pale-face here directly.”

“Pale face, did you say, sir?” inquired the man.

“Yes, yes,” replied my grandfather, “yon black fellow; fetch him hither to me.”

The servant quitted the room, and it was not without some feelings of fear, as well as hopes of amusement, that a few minutes afterwards I saw the poor African stand bowing at the parlour door. The twilight had faded away, and except the reflection from the snow, night had thrown its sable shadows on the scene; but as the bright gleam of the fire shed its red hue upon the jetty features of the negro and flashed upon his rolling eyes, he presented rather a terrific appearance to my young mind.

“Come in!” exclaimed my grandfather in a shrill voice; but the poor fellow stood hesitatingly on the borders of the carpet till the command was repeated with more sternness than before, and then the trembling African advanced a few steps towards the easy chair in which the veteran was sitting. Never shall I forget the abject figure which the poor black displayed. He was a tall large-boned man, but was evidently bent down under the pressure of sickness and of want rather than age. A pair of old canvass trousers hung loosely on his legs, but his feet were quite naked. On the upper part of his body was a striped flannel shirt, one of the sleeves of which was torn away; he had no covering for his head, and the snow which had fallen on it having melted in the warmth of the room, large transparent drops of clear water hung glistening on his thick woolly hair. His look was inclined downwards, as if fearful of meeting the stern gaze of my grandfather, who scanned him with the most minute attention not unmingled with agitation. Every joint of the poor fellow’s limbs shook as if struck with ague, and the cold seemed to have contracted his sinews; for he crouched his body together, as if to shrink from the keen blast. Tears were trickling down his cheeks, and his spirit seemed bowed to the earth by distress.

“Don’t stand showing your ivories[10] there,” said my grandfather; “but tell me, sir, what brought you to England, and what you mean by strolling about the country here as a beggar? I have a great mind to order you to be put in the stocks.”

[10] Ivories is a common term among the negroes for teeth.

“Ah, massa!” replied the negro, “Buckra[11] neber hab stocks for nigger-man in dis country; yet nigger-man die, if massa neber give him something for fill hungry belly.”

[11] White man.

Whilst he was speaking, my grandfather was restless and impatient. He removed me from his knee and looked with more intense eagerness at the black, who never raised his head. “But we have beggars enough of our own nation,” said the veteran, “without having a swarm of black beetles to eat up the produce of our industry.”

“Massa speak for true,” replied the African meekly; “distress lib every where; come like race-horse, but go away softly, softly.”

Again my grandfather scanned the dark features of the negro, and showed signs of agitation in his own. “Softly! Softly!” said he, imitating the black; “that’s just your negro cant! I know the whole gang of you; but you are not going to deceive me. Why, sirrah! I know you would sacrifice me and all I am worth for a bunch of plantains.”[12]

[12] The plantain is a fruit which when ripe is very sweet; but roasted when green, it resembles a chesnut in taste. It is a general article of food instead of bread in the West Indies.

“Massa hab eat de plantains den,” responded the black; “and yet massa tink hard of poor nigger who work for make ’em grow. Gor Amighty send rain,--Gor Amighty send sun: but Gor Amighty send poor nigger too.”

“Well, well,” said my grandfather, softening his voice to its accustomed tone of mildness; “the Omnipotent is no respecter of colours, and we must not let you be put in the stocks till the morning, daddy;[13] so Robert, tell the cook to get some warm broth for this shivering piece of ebony; and bid her bear a hand about it.”

[13] Daddy is a familiar term of kindness used by the male negroes to each other, as “Aunty” is used by the females; and it is nothing uncommon to hear children, as soon as they can talk, calling one another, “daddy” and “aunty.”

“Gor Amighty for eber bless massa!” exclaimed the negro; and his countenance underwent an instantaneous change, as he listened to the order, and keenly directed his eye towards the person who had issued it; but my grandfather had turned his head towards me, so that his face was concealed from the grateful black.

“So, I suppose you are some runaway slave,” said my grandfather harshly.

“No, massa,” rejoined the African, more assured; “no massa, me neber run away; I free man. Good buckra gib freedom; but den I lose kind massa, and--”

“Ay, ay,” replied my grandfather, interrupting him. “I think you said something about Plantation Josef, in Trinidad?”

“Ky!” responded the negro as his eyes were bent upon his interrogator, who again concealed his face; “de buckra sabby [knows] ebery ting; him like angel of light for know de secret of de heart.”

“Come nearer the fire, Daddy Davy,” said my grandfather, as he extended his hand to the poker and bent down his body to stir the burning coals.

Never shall I forget the look of the African; joy, wonder, and admiration were pictured on his countenance as he exclaimed, whilst advancing forward, “De buckra know my name too! How dis?”

My grandfather having rekindled a bright flame that illuminated the whole room, turned his face carelessly towards the black; but no sooner had the poor fellow caught sight of his features, than throwing himself at his feet, he clasped the old man’s knees, exclaiming, “My own massa! what for you give Davy him life? what for you give Davy him freedom? and now de poor nigger die for want! But no!” checking himself, “neber see de day for go dead, now me find my massa!”

“Confound the cold!” said my grandfather, thrusting his thumb and forefinger to his eyes, “how it makes one’s eyes run! William, my boy,” turning to me, “fetch that pocket handkerchief off the sofa.”

I immediately obeyed, and felt as if the cold had affected me too; for I employed my grandfather’s handkerchief two or three times to wipe the trickling drops from my face, before I delivered it into his hands. At this moment the footman opened the door to say that the broth was ready, but stood transfixed with amazement at seeing the half-naked black at his master’s feet.

“Go, Davy,” said my grandfather, “go, and get some food; and Robert, tell the cook to have a warm bath ready, and the housemaid must run a pan of coals over the little bed in the blue room, and put some extra blankets on. You can sleep without a night-cap, I dare say, Davy; and, Robert, tell the butler to give you a bottle of Madeira; simmer half of it over the fire, and when heated beat up an egg in it,--it will be better than cold sangaree, Davy; and d’ye hear, Robert, grate a little nutmeg on the top, and carry it to the pale face as soon as he gets into bed. There, go along, Davy, go along!” and the gratified negro left the room with unfeigned ejaculations of “Gor Amighty for eber bless kind massa!”