On our way to the rendezvous, I told my companion I should not ship in the John Adams, because so many of the Macedonians were already there, and it was impossible for us to pass for Americans. After some debate, we agreed together not to sign the articles. On entering the house where the stars and stripes were flying over the door, in token of its being the naval rendezvous, being anxious to have my friend Wilson pass the ordeal first, I affected to stumble, and then continued apparently engaged in fixing my shoe-string. “Well, my boy, what is your name? Just sign it here, will you?” said the officer.
I took no notice, but remained very busy with my shoes. My shipmate replied in a low, bashful voice, “I don’t like to ship, sir.”
“Very well, then go below,” said the officer. At this juncture, feeling encouraged by his remark, I looked up; when, to my discomfiture, the officer, fixing his eyes on my retreating companion, observed, “That fellow will certainly be hung;” meaning that he would get caught by the English. Then, addressing me, he said, “Now, my lad, just sign your name.”
“Sir,” said I, “I had better not ship alone. The other boy is only frightened; let me talk to him a little, and I can persuade him to ship with me.”
The shipping officer was too old a bird to be snared with such chaff as this. So, speaking rather sharply, he said, “Let him go, sir, and ship yourself; then he’ll come back and join you; and”—he smiled as he spoke—“I will let you come ashore to persuade him, in a day or two.”
Still I pretended not to be convinced, and, after considerable debate, he let me off. Once more clear, I joined my young shipmate, and we proceeded together to our boarding-house, congratulating ourselves on our fortunate escape, as it appeared to us.
Two weeks of idleness had nearly exhausted the little stock of funds I had picked up on board my old ship, and it was becoming necessary for me to find some means or other of supporting myself; for although the prim widow, with whom I boarded, was quite obliging while her bills were paid, it was altogether probable that she would become a little crusty if they should be neglected. At this crisis I fortunately met with an Englishman, who had visited our frigate at Hurl-gate. His name was Smith; he was a deserter from the British army; but was now settled in New York, as a boot-maker, in the employment of the firm of Benton & Co., Broadway. He offered to take me and initiate me into the art, science and secrets of boot-making. Seeing no better opportunity before me, I accepted his kind offer, and at once entered on my novitiate.
Behold me then, kind reader, transformed from the character of a runaway British sailor, into that of a quiet scholar, at the feet of St. Crispin, where in the matter of awls, wax-ends, lapstones and pegs, I soon became quite proficient.
It is altogether probable that the rest of my life would have glided away in this still and quiet manner, but for a report that reached me, one Sabbath, as I was wasting its precious hours in wandering about among the shipping. This was, that there was a tall, stout seaman on board the United States, named George Turner. From the name and description, I had no doubt that this was my cousin, who (the reader has not forgotten I presume) presented himself so unceremoniously to my aunt at Wanstead.
This intelligence determined me to pay that frigate a visit. Going on board, I found her crew living in a complete Elysium of sensual enjoyment. They had recently received their prize money. Salt beef and pork were now rejected with disdain: Jack’s messkids smoked with more savory viands, such as soft tack (bread) and butter, fried eggs, sausages, &c.; the whole well soaked with copious streams of rum and brandy.