When I was on board the Siren, I was contented. The officers were kind, the crew were peaceful and well-behaved; but in the Boxer, some of the officers were severe, and the crew corrupt, and I did not enjoy myself at all. Some said that in time of war the men were better treated than in time of peace; but though this may be true to a limited extent, yet I think the difference in these two brigs was owing more to the character of their respective officers than anything else. Be this as it may, my experience in the Boxer had completely sickened me of man of war life, and I determined, if possible, to get free of it at once and forever.
My station, as one of the crew of the jolly-boat, gave me frequent opportunities to accomplish my purpose. So, one day, at the solicitation of a shipmate, I resolved to make the attempt. Cruel treatment was my excuse; yet I have sometimes been ashamed of my course in this instance; and would heartily advise all boys in the naval service to stay their time out. We were successful in escaping; and as we had but little money, I therefore proceeded directly from the shore to a pawn shop, and there disposed of our pea-jackets, which were new, and for which the purser had charged us ten dollars apiece. We obtained the pitiful sum of six dollars for the two. With this, we started in a hack, which was to carry us outside of the city. We then travelled hard all day, resting at night in a barn, where we suffered extremely from the cold. The next day we pursued our way towards New Haven. The day after, we were still on the road. This was the Sabbath, and we felt strangely at seeing the good people of the village, through which we passed, going to meeting. The foot-stoves, that the grave matrons bore in their hands, were things I had never seen before; so, to the great merriment of my companion, I observed that they were excellent contrivances to carry their books in to meeting! We reached New Haven on Monday evening, where we put up at a sailors’ boarding-house for the night. Here my shipmate left me, and I proceeded alone to Hartford, begging my support by the way, for my money was by this time all exhausted.
At Hartford I tried to ship on board some merchant vessel. Not succeeding, I strove to find some one to take me as an apprentice to instruct me in the art of bootmaking, but with no better success. These repulses discouraged me. It was Christmas day, and the associations connected with the day—the merry-makings of my early boyhood—were anything but pleasant to me in my distress. The bell was tolling for the funeral of priest Strong, and it seemed as if the melancholy of the mourners fully accorded with my feelings, and was preferable in my mind to the spirit of rejoicing that prevailed among those who were keeping merry Christmas in merry mood. Perhaps, if they had invited me to partake of their cheer, I should have changed my opinion. As it was, with only five cents in my pocket, I wandered lonely and sad through the city. With a feeling of despair I stepped into a cellar for something to drink. They charged me five cents, and left me at once friendless and penniless. At the bridge, the toll-keeper demanded a cent. I looked at him fiercely, and told him I had nothing. He let me pass over toll free. Towards night, feeling tired and hungry, I endeavored to hire myself. But who would employ an utter stranger? I went to a number of houses, imploring a lodging for the night. With freezing coldness, I experienced repulse after repulse, until my heart chilled with horror, with the fear of spending that long, cold night out of doors. At last I called on a kind-hearted Presbyterian, who gave me a supper, lodging and breakfast. Their morning and evening devotions were peculiarly interesting to me; for, excepting while a prisoner at the Cape of Good Hope, I had never listened to an extemporaneous prayer.
The next morning I left this truly hospitable family, and pursued my inquiries for employment. Some asked if I could chop wood; others, if I knew anything about farming; and when I answered “No,” they shook their heads, and I trudged on. Sometimes I offered to work for my board, but, being a sailor, and having no recommendations, people were afraid to take me into their families. Still I pushed on. A man overtook me in the town of Coventry, and began a very interesting and faithful discourse about religion. I listened respectively; he took me home with him, where, although he was a deacon, he gave me some cider-brandy: but these were not the days of temperance. After this he sent me to Pomeroy’s tavern, where he thought they would hire me. This application failing, he advised me to apply at the glass works which were a little distance from that place. With this advice, I took leave of Deacon Cook, and proceeded towards the glass-houses.
Before reaching them, however, night came. A family, who occupied a red house, received me, whose hospitality I returned by singing a number of sea songs. Early the next morning, I tried to get work at the glass-house, but though I was willing to stay for my board, they would not take me. Mr. Turner, the agent, very kindly gave me a breakfast, and then I left him, determined to get to Boston if possible, and go to sea once more.
My situation was really a trying one: my only clothing was a blue jacket and trousers; shoes more than half worn out, and a little tarpaulin hat stuck on the back of my head, in genuine sailor fashion.[27] Mittens and money were alike far off from my fingers, and friends were as scarce as money. People, too, seemed afraid of a sailor; and this, in addition to all my other troubles, rendered me an object of suspicion. At such times, I assure my young reader, that the picture of a kind mother and a good home, are but too faithfully presented to the mind, filling it with a thousand vain and useless regrets. No young man need desire to be in the outcast prodigal condition in which I stood, in the depth of that cold winter.
When I reached the town of Mansfield, I called at the house of a Mr. Nathaniel Dunham; the kind manners and friendly language of whose lady I shall never forget. She told me that if I was honest, Providence would shortly open some way by which I could live. Her words fell on my ear like a prophecy, and I left the house, confident of some favorable turn in my affairs before long. At Mansfield Four Corners, I inquired of Dr. Waldo, who, with several others, sat under a piazza, and afterwards of a Mr. Edmund Freeman, for employ. They gave me no encouragement. Persevering, I at last met with a Mr. Peter Cross, who, seeing my sailor garb, asked what ships I had sailed in. Hearing me mention the Macedonian, he said, “There is a man here whose name is William Hutchinson. He was taken in her. Do you know him?”
“Yes,” said I, after a moment’s recollection; “he was our armorer’s mate.”
Of course, I lost no time in seeking for my old shipmate. After crossing various lots, and getting vexed and perplexed for want of proper direction, I reached his comfortable homestead. He did not recognise me at first, on account of the great alteration a few years had made in my size and appearance; but, when he did recall me to his recollection, with the generous frankness of a sailor, he offered me all the hospitality and assistance in his power. A good supper was speedily spread; and then, seated before his ample fireplace, sparkling and crackling with a cheerful blaze, we recounted our adventures. He had wandered into Connecticut, and married a very respectable woman. They now owned a house and some land, and were in tolerably comfortable and thriving circumstances. With such discourse, we talked away the better part of the night, when the old tar showed me my chamber, archly observing that “my bed would not rock much.”