We got up our anchors, and set sail with a fair wind. I could not describe the emotions I felt, when I saw the vessel’s head turned homewards. I was all joyous anticipation of meeting with my parents. ‘I shall never leave them again,’ thought I. ‘I shall obey them in everything, and we shall be so happy. I have seen my folly, and I shall make a good use of my experience.’
Nothing particular occurred on the passage home, until we got near the British coast, when the weather became extremely cold. The look-out aloft was no longer a pleasant berth. I have often been so benumbed when the man came up to relieve me, that I could scarcely move my limbs to come down upon deck. The weather had been rough for some time, but one afternoon it began to blow uncommonly hard. The wind was fair, however, and the captain seemed unwilling to take in sail, but the gale increasing, he ordered the top-gallant sails to be handed. William and I, with another boy, went up to hand the main top-gallant sail. The vessel was pitching dreadfully. William went to the weather, and I went to the lee earing to haul in the leach of the sail. The part which bound the yard to the mast gave way, and it pitched out with such violence, that William was shook from his hold, and precipitated into the sea. I got a dreadful shock. This was an awful moment. Every pitch that the vessel gave, the yard was thrown out from the mast with such force, that it was a miracle I escaped. The other boy had got in on the mast, but it appeared impossible for me to follow him. Nothing could save me, unless the despairing hold that I retained, and I could not have kept it long, for every shock rendered me weaker; but some of the seaman were sent up with a loose line, and succeeded in bracing the yard to the mast, and I was relieved from my perilous situation.
Poor William! I saw him fall. ‘O God!’ he cried, as he fell. I heard no more. The next moment he was swallowed by the waves. They told me he never rose. It was impossible to do anything to save him in such weather with any effect. His fate made a great impression on my mind, for he was my only companion. He was a clever boy, warm-hearted, and kind in his disposition, although he had become quite broken-hearted. Nor did he seem relieved from his melancholy by the prospect of returning home; for he was sure that his father would do nothing to get him free from the ship; and even if he did, he could feel little pleasure in the anticipation of his usage there. ‘O Joseph!’ he would often say, ‘If I had a father and mother like yours, how happy would I be! but I may truly say that I am an orphan! To be sure, while my mother was living, she was everything that was good and affectionate to me; but when she died, I lost the only friend I had in the world, for my father never was kind to me, and after he married again, I never had a happy minute in the house; and if I were to go home again, even supposing that he would get me free from the ship, things would be worse than before. But I am sure I will not live to return. There is a heavy something hangs on my mind, that tells me I will not see the end of this voyage; but I do not feel grieved at it, I rather feel a pleasure in the idea. Then I will be free from ill usage and persecution; and what makes me long for my death, is the hope that I will meet my mother in heaven, never to part from her again.’ I could not forbear weeping when he spoke in this manner; and I tried to cheer him as much as I could, by putting him in mind of our former schemes of happiness and fortune; but he only shook his head, and said, ‘This is not the world we dreamed it was; but even so, I have no friends, no prospects, and death appears to me to be the only thing that can alter my situation for the better.’ Poor fellow! he little thought it was so near.
The gale still continued to increase, and all our sails were taken in, with the exception of a close-reefed fore-top-sail. The wind veered about, and blew a hurricane. Some of the sails were torn in ribbons before they could be handed. The sea ran mountains high. The sky was darkened, and the flapping of the sails and rattling of the blocks made such a noise that we could scarcely hear our own voices. The sea broke over us in such a way that boats, spars, and camboose, were carried off the deck, and the helm became almost totally unmanageable, although four men were constantly at it. When a sea struck the vessel, she creaked as if her very sides were coming together. The men were obliged to lash themselves to every place where they could find safety, to prevent their being washed overboard; and in this manner we stood in awful suspense, waiting the issue of the storm. One minute she would rise, perched as it were, on the verge of a precipice; the next, she would descend through the yawning gulf as if she would strike the very bottom of the sea, while vivid flashes of lightning contributed to throw a horrific glare over the scene.
Three days were we tossed about in this manner, every day expecting it to be our last, for we thought it impossible that the ship could weather the gale. During that time we could not get below, the hatches being battened down, and we had to subsist on dry biscuit, or eat raw pork with it, for we could get nothing cooked.
On the fourth day the storm abated, and the weather cleared up, but the vessel rolled so that we expected her masts to go overboard. After the gale we fell in with some vessels which had suffered severely, one in particular had lost all her masts. We were at this time near the mouth of the Channel; and next day, we made Cape Clear. I could not express what I felt at again seeing the shores of Britain. My imagination was hard at work drawing pictures of the future. We ran up along the Irish coast with a fair wind, and at last came in sight of the well-known Craig of Ailsa; and passing it, and the Cumbrays and the Clough light-house, we anchored in Greenock roads. I was in transports of joy at the idea of getting home again; but a doubt would often cross my mind, whether my father might feel inclined to get me free from the vessel, after so obstinately persisting in going to sea; I, at least, felt sensible that I did not deserve such indulgence. The day after we arrived, however, my mind was set at ease, for my mother came from Glasgow to see me, and the first words she said, were, ‘Well, Joseph, are you tired of the sea?’ The tears came into my eyes, but I could not speak. ‘I find you don’t like it,’ said she: ‘you have found out, I believe, that your father’s description of a sea life was a true one—well, we must try and get you home again.’ A day or two afterwards, my father came to Greenock, and having settled matters with the owners, I went home with him on the coach, fully resolved that I should be more wise in future. I had a joyful meeting with my friends, and, for a time, all went on pleasantly; but my restless disposition still remained the same, and I soon grew tired of home. My parents expected a miraculous change in me; and when they found that my voyage had made me little wiser, any indiscretion was generally checked with an allusion to my former conduct. This irritated my feelings. Those boys who used to associate with me now avoided my company; most of them, I believe, by the injunction of their parents. There were two boys with whom I had been on the most friendly terms—their parents and mine were very intimate—they were constant playfellows of mine before I went to sea, and I had occasionally seen them after my return, without their seeming any way reserved towards me. Some months after I came home, however, I happened to be diverting myself with them in their court-yard, we were playing at hide-and-seek, having hid myself in the straw-house, I heard their father call them and ask who was with them; when they told him, he said, ‘Never let me see you in that boy’s company again, for he ran away from his parents, and he may induce you to do the same.’ This went like a dagger to my heart. It humbled me severely in my own eyes. I waited until he went into the house, and then slunk away like a felon. From that day I thought every one who looked at me were passing similar observations in their minds. My temper became soured, and I grew melancholy and restless. I brooded continually over the indignity which I conceived I had suffered. ‘Then,’ said I to myself, ‘I have become an object of contempt to every one. I can never endure this—I will not remain in Glasgow.’
FOOTNOTES:
[3] There is a cavity in the bottom of the lead, which is filled with tallow, to which sand or gravel, composing the bed of the sea, adheres.
CHAPTER V.
One evening, in January, 1809, returning from dinner to school, brooding over my real or imaginary evils—my mind in such a state of despondency that I could almost have taken away my life,—I determined to leave Glasgow, for, I thought, if once out of it I should be happy. In this state of mind, walking down the High Street, I met a soldier. The thought struck me instantly that I would enlist, although I rather felt a prejudice against the army. Yet, by enlisting, I would get out of Glasgow, and to me that was everything. I followed the soldier, and asked him where his officer lodged. He showed me the place, and I enlisted, with the proviso that he would send me out of the town immediately. I was sent to Paisley, and remained with the party there until the recruits were ordered to march for head-quarters. When I came into Glasgow to join them, in passing through the Bridgegate, I met my mother. I had never written to my parents, nor had they heard of me from the time I enlisted. I could scarcely define my feelings: shame—grief—a sort of sullen despair—a sense that I had cut myself off from the world—that I had done my worst, and a determination to push it to the utmost—were mingled together in my mind. My mother first broke silence. ‘Poor, infatuated boy!’ said she, the tears flowing down her cheeks, ‘what new calamity have you brought on yourself by your wild, inconstant disposition?’ I told her I had enlisted, and was going that day to join my regiment,—‘Alas!’ said she, ‘you have now finished it. Now you are lost to us and to yourself; but will you not come home, and see your father before you go?’ I hesitated. ‘Perhaps,’ said she, ‘it will be the last time you may ever see him. Come, you had better go with me.’ I consented, and we went home together. It was near four o’clock. My father generally came at that hour to dinner. My mother met him as he came in, and explained matters to him. He strove to assume an air of calmness; but his countenance showed the emotions that were working in his mind. We sat down at the table to dinner; but no one seemed inclined to eat. My father cut some meat on his plate, but instantly pushed it from him. He rose from his seat, and walked about the floor with a rapid pace. He opened his waiscoat.—He seemed suffocating. I could no longer endure to see the convulsive agony with which his whole frame was agitated. I sunk on my knees at his feet, and cried out, ‘Forgive me, O father—forgive me!’