At that time there were no steamships and no regular packets from Europe. The only way of coming was by a merchant-vessel. So Bernard, who was looking and longing for the arrival of his brother, did not think it strange when six weeks passed away without bringing him. But when two months passed, and he did not appear, poor Bernard began to be anxious. Four months, five months, six months, passed. Nothing was heard of John. Not a word came from Mr. Trainier. More than a year passed away, and still there was no news. Bernard was in despair.
One August day (it must have been, I think, in the year 1805), when my father had occasion to visit Boston, he took Bernard with him; and, while there, went with him to call on Mr. Duprez, from whom they hoped to hear some good news.
But there was no comfort for poor Bernard in what Mr. Duprez had to tell. He had learned from friends in Toulon that Mr. Trainier, soon after sending his youngest son to America, had gone to St. Domingo to look after some estates. St. Domingo was then in a state of insurrection. The slaves had risen against their masters. When last heard from, Mr. Trainier had been taken prisoner, and it was feared that he had been put to death. As to John Trainier, all that could be learned was that he had been put on board a vessel bound from Marseilles to Boston, but the name of the vessel or what had become of her nobody knew.
You may imagine the distress of Bernard at hearing this, and how sad my father was when he took the poor boy's hand to return with him to Hingham. The packet station was at the head of Long Wharf. They reached it long before the vessel was ready to sail: so, to pass away the time, they walked slowly down the wharf,—my father still holding Bernard by the hand. They stopped a few minutes at the end of the wharf, then walked back again.
They had got about half way up the wharf when they heard a shout behind them. They looked around. The voice seemed to come from the water side. As they looked, a boy about eleven years old, dressed in rough sailor-clothes, jumped ashore from a brig at the wharf, and came running towards them, calling, "Bernard! Bernard!" again and again.
Bernard stood a moment as if amazed; then, suddenly letting go of my father's hand, he gave a cry of joy, sprang forward and caught the little sailor in his arms. It was his brother John.
Here grandma stopped. There was silence a few minutes. Then the questions began to come thick and fast. "Where had John been all this time?" "And why didn't he get to Boston before?"
"Well," said grandma, "I must tell that in a few words; for my story is getting long."
The captain of the brig had promised Mr. Trainier that he would see the little boy safely landed at the house of Mr. Duprez in Boston. But the captain was a bad man. Instead of treating John as a passenger, he forced him to do duty as a cabin-boy.