At nineteen years of age he went to Salem, and shipped in a brig bound to Havana, to load with sugar for Europe. He was then a tall, handsome, resolute boy as ever the sun shone upon, without a single vicious habit; for his parents, though poor, were religious, and had brought him up to hard work and the fear of God.
He was passionately fond of a gun and dogs, and what little leisure he ever had was spent in hunting and fowling. As respected his fitness for his position, he could “steer a good trick,” had learned what little seamanship was to be obtained on board a fisherman and coaster, but he could not read, or even write his name.
The mate of the vessel conceived a liking for him the moment he came over the ship’s side, and this good opinion increased upon acquaintance. They had been but a fortnight at sea, when he said to the captain, “That long-legged boy, who shipped for a green hand, will be as good a man as we have on board before we get into the English Channel; he will reeve studding-sail gear, already, quicker than any ordinary seaman. I liked the cut of his jib the moment I clapped eyes on him. If that boy lives he’ll be master of a ship before many years.”
“I hardly see how that can be,” replied the captain, “for he can’t write his own name.”
“Can’t write his own name! Why, that is impossible.”
“At any rate he made his mark on the ship’s articles, and he is the only one of the crew who did.”
“Well,” replied the mate, “I can’t see through it; but he’s in my watch, and I’ll know more about it before twenty-four hours.”
That night the mate went forward where Ben was keeping the lookout.
“Ben!”
“Ay, ay, sir.”