I had breakfasted, and was just about to take my wherry and go down to acquaint the old couple with the bad success of my application. I had been reflecting with gratitude upon my own happiness in prospect, indulging in fond anticipations, and then, reverting to the state in which I had left Mary Stapleton and Tom’s father and mother, contrasting their misery with my joy, arising from the same source, when, who should rush into the dining-room but young Tom, dressed in nothing but a shirt and a pair of white trousers, covered with dust, and wan with fatigue and excitement.
“Good heavens! Tom! are you back? then you must have deserted.”
“Very true,” replied Tom, sinking on a chair, “I swam on shore last night, and have made from Portsmouth to here since eight o’clock. I hardly need say that I am done up. Let me have something to drink, Jacob, pray.”
I went to the cellaret and brought him some wine, of which he drank off a tumbler eagerly. During this I was revolving in my mind the consequences which might arise from this hasty and imprudent step. “Tom,” said I, “do you know the consequences of desertion?”
“Yes,” replied he, gloomily, “but I could not help it. Mary told me in her letter that she would do all I wished, would accompany me abroad; she made all the amends she could, poor girl! and, by heavens, I could not leave her; and when I found myself fairly under weigh, and there was no chance, I was almost mad; the wind baffled us at the Needles, and we anchored for the night; I slipped down the cable and swam on shore, and there’s the whole story.”
“But, Tom, you will certainly be recognised and taken up for a deserter.”
“I must think of that,” replied Tom; “I know the risk I run; but if you obtain my discharge, they may let me off.”
I thought this was the best plan to proceed upon, and requesting Tom to keep quiet, I went to consult with Mr Wharncliffe. He agreed with me that it was Tom’s only chance, and I pulled to his father’s, to let them know what had occurred, and then went on to the Drummonds. When I returned home late in the evening the gardener told me that Tom had gone out and had not returned. My heart misgave me that he had gone to see Mary, and that some misfortune had occurred, and I went to bed with most anxious feelings. My forebodings were proved to be correct, for the next morning I was informed that old Stapleton wished to see me. He was ushered in, and as soon as he entered, he exclaimed, “All’s up, Master Jacob—Tom’s nabbed—Mary fit after fit—human natur’.”
“Why, what is the matter, Stapleton?”
“Why, it’s just this—Tom desarts to come to Mary. Cause why?—he loves her—human natur’. That soldier chap comes in and sees Tom, clutches hold, and tries to take possession of him. Tom fights, knocks out sergeant’s starboard eye, and tries to escape—human natur’. Soldiers come in, pick up sergeant, seize Tom, and carry him off. Mary cries, and screams, and faints—human natur’—poor girl can’t keep her head up—two women with burnt feathers all night. Sad job, Mister Jacob. Of all the senses love’s the worst, that’s sartain—quite upset me, can’t smoke my pipe this morning—Mary’s tears quite put my pipe out,”—and old Stapleton looked as if he was ready to cry himself.