Till, brought up by the Diver, I
Go rolling on again!
FROM those wild bush-lands I passed away into the cities and on to ships, then again back to the cities and seaports of the world.
I have often thought of the old crews that I sailed with as a boy. I’ve met them sometimes in grog saloons and sailors’ homes in seaport towns of far-away countries; only some of them though—for many went down to the sea in ships and never returned. I have stood alone at night, in the far-off seaport’s little street, and heard the drunken laughter of sailormen by their ships at the wharves below as I gazed into the windows of the second-hand slop-shop at the relics. Old binoculars, compasses, oilskin caps and big sea-boots hanging on pegs, in rows, for sale. As I looked a mist crept under the rotting rafters of the dingy, musty, oil-lit room, the old oilskins swelled, and bearded wraiths of dead sailors danced. The big sea-boots tumbled about in a jig by the broken window as I watched, and sounds of long-dead laughter echoed in my ears. Then up the little seaport street, from the bay, came a gust of wind and blew me into the fo’c’sle of a ship far away at sea. I played the fiddle to the dancing dead men and climbed aloft as their hollow voices shouted a muffled, windy chantey. The old skipper, with his hand arched beneath his oilskin sou’wester, looked up aloft and shouted, and we all echoed back: “Aye, aye, sir,” and my comrade touched me on the shoulder and said: “Come on, Middleton, you don’t want to buy any of those d——d old oilskins.”
Once more I found myself off, homeward bound round the Horn, crashing and rolling along, the howling sails aloft singing to the humming winds that we loved to hear, for the harder they blew the sooner we should be in England.
When I arrived in London the autumn rains were falling, and the population of the mighty city of pavements and stone walls moved along under a myriad umbrellas, as old St Paul’s at flying intervals voiced forth from its mellow, iron throat the flight of Time.
Some musical friends in the city had suggested to me that I should do a wise thing if I went to the fashionable winter resorts in France. The idea struck me as a very good one. I was told that instrumental players had gone to France, Spain and Italy and come back wealthy. I had seen a good deal of the world, at its outposts, and had not succeeded in making even a portion of a fortune, so I resolved to get out of England without delay. Before I went I felt that I must have a comrade. The thought of old age with its boon companion, decrepitude, had always filled me with a strange horror, as something worse than death, and so for old age I always felt a commiseration and tenderness which gave me confidence in grey hairs, which often got me into trouble, but more often brought advice and sensible comradeship.
When in London, a year or so before, I had made friends with a gentleman whose name was Bonnivard. He had been educated in France, was a clever man and could speak French, Spanish and Italian. It struck me that if I could find out his whereabouts I might persuade him to come with me, for he was a jovial man, and his knowledge of French would help me in my travels. To tell you the truth, too, I was rather short of money and thought perhaps he might even lend me a little towards the expenses of the trip. I was getting older, and experience had taught me that too much money was not so inconvenient as too little. I went off to his villa in the suburbs; the old place had “To Let” in the window. No one in the district knew of his whereabouts, but at last, just as I was almost disheartened and giving up the thought of finding him, I met a gentleman who had known him. He at once gave me his address—inmate, Homerton Workhouse, Hackney! I was very much upset. I knew too well what trials, insults and sufferings my friend must have experienced before he sought a haven of rest in that terrible inquisition, the English workhouse.
I went to Homerton. The officials treated me most politely directly they discovered the reason of my visit. When I told my old comrade I wanted to take him to France, as my guest and interpreter, I was considerably affected by his delight. He had aged since I had last seen him; the old stiff military moustachios had turned white and had lost their aristocratic, upward twirls. Next day they were once more alert and alive with renewed majesty, and the handsome old face, though deeply wrinkled, was boyish-looking with delight. He was a new being in his frock-coat and tall hat, which I purchased remarkably cheaply at a pawnbroker’s shop. The gloss of his hat was perfection, and as he smoothed it with his sleeve, in the old way, he laughed almost hysterically, with a schoolboy’s laughter, but my ear detected the wizened, high note of age in it, and it made him more pathetic than ever.