Return once more to bless me,
My little Sailor Boy.”
In the course of a few years, Tom became mate of a fine ship in the merchants’ service, and his efforts seemed crowned with success. He enjoyed the sweet satisfaction of seeing his mother comfortably situated, and his heart whispered it was the reward of virtue.
But who can arraign the will of Heaven, or say to Omnipotence, “What doest thou?” War with all its attendant horrors broke out, and the cruel system of impressment was adopted for the purpose of manning our fleets.
At this critical juncture, Tom received information that his parent was rapidly hastening to the mansions of immortality,—“where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.” He had recently arrived in England full of joyous anticipation; but he found the silver cord of existence was loosened, and the golden bowl dashed from his lips:—he reached his home just time enough to receive the last farewell benediction of his dying mother.
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?”
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.