Fortunately the fine weather continued, and by nightfall we were able to rig a jury-mast and make sail on the brig. By the time we reached Gibraltar the Juno had sailed, and, as may be supposed, I being a pressed-man, did not feel myself bound to follow her. I was very well satisfied with the treatment I had received in the navy, and do not think that I should have quitted it for any other vessel but my own brig; but as Captain Gale was willing to take me, I could not resist the temptation of remaining with him. After nearly foundering in a heavy gale, being more than once chased by an enemy’s cruiser, and narrowly escaping being run down by one of our own line-of-battle-ships, we reached Bristol, to which we were then bound, in safety.
I had not forgotten my promise to poor James Martin, my shipmate in the Syren, who was killed in our action with the French frigate; and knowing that his family lived at a village within forty or fifty miles of Bristol, I set off to visit them. Except a small amount of pay due to me for the voyage home, I had little enough money in my pocket, so I was obliged to go on foot. I had never seen anything of the interior of England before, and knew nothing of its varied beauties, especially of its rural districts—the rich meadows, the waving corn-fields, the thick woods, and, more than all, the shady lanes and green hedges, full of roses and honeysuckles, with numberless beautiful flowers growing on the mossy bank beneath them. But still deeper impression did the sequestered village make on me, with its open green and neat cottages, surrounded by pretty gardens; and its clear pond, with gravelly bed; and its neighbouring coppice; and its quiet church, with graceful spire; and the neat and unpretending parsonage; and the old minister, with thin cheeks and long white hair, and grave, yet kind loving countenance, to whom all smiled and courtesied or doffed their hats as he passed; and the long low school-house, with rosy, noisy children rushing out of it, and scattering here and there instantly to begin their play; and the buxom mothers and old dames coming out from their doors to watch them, or to chat with each other in the intervals of work; and the sheep on the sunny downs above; and the sparkling stream which came murmuring by, half overgrown with bushes, so that its pleasant sound alone showed its locality; and its deep pool, where the trout loved to lie; and the cattle in the green meadow, seeking for shade under the tall elms, or with lazy strokes of their tails whisking off the flies; and the boys whistling in the fields; and the men, with long white smocks and gay handkerchiefs worked in front, tending the plough or harrow, or driving the lightly-laden waggon or cart with sturdy well-fed horses. And then the air of tranquillity and repose which pervaded the spot, the contentment visible everywhere, made an impression on me which time has never been able to obliterate, and which, in far, far-off regions, has come back on me with greater force than ever, and prevented me from remaining, as many of my companions did, among their half-savage inhabitants, to enjoy the supposed delights of idleness, and has renewed in me the desire to end my days in my fatherland.
In such a scene as I have described I found the family of my poor shipmate. I easily made myself known. They had no doubt of the truth of my story, and gave me a kind though tearful welcome. The old mother seized my arm and pushed me into a seat, which she mechanically wiped with her blue apron; the tall sunburned father, with grizzled locks, and dressed in long smock and yellow gaiters, grasped my hand.
“And you were with our James when he was struck down in battle, and he thought of us all here! Bless him!”
The old man could say no more. I told him how he not only thought of them, but prayed for them, and spoke of the great comfort which the prayers his mother had taught him had been to him, especially in his last mortal agony.
The old woman alone wept, but not vehemently. They had long before this heard of his death. My message rather brought comfort than sorrow.
After a time George came in—a sturdy young man, with well-knit limbs, and round, good-humoured countenance, with the universal smock, and shoes few legs but such as his could lift. When I spoke of James, his countenance grew sad, and, rising from his three-legged stool, he left the cottage, and did not return for nearly half an hour.
One daughter came in from milking the cows at a neighbouring farm. She reminded me of James. How neat and clean she looked, even coming from work! and how modest and retiring in her manner! She might have been pretty—I don’t remember: she was far better than pretty, I judged from all she said. Her sisters were away at service, I found. She asked many questions about James; and though her voice was more than ever subdued when she mentioned his name, my replies seemed to give her satisfaction. But I had the sense gradually to leave off talking of my dead shipmate, and began to tell them of the adventures I had gone through, and of the strange scenes I had witnessed.
There was an old black oak desk, or sloping board, near the small latticed window in the thick wall. On the desk was a large well-worn Bible open, with a green spectacle-case to keep down the page. After supper the old man approached it, as was evidently his custom; and, while all sat round in reverential silence, he began to read slowly and distinctly, though not without difficulty, from the Word of God. One thing struck me—that he read not for form’s sake, but that he and his hearers might reap instruction for faith and practice from what he read. He was evidently aware of the truth, that those sacred pages before him were written for our instruction, to be a guide unto our feet, and a light unto our path. Then he prayed—his words came from his heart—for all present, and for guidance and protection for those absent. He did not forget our king and country, and pleaded that God would prosper England’s arms by sea and land in a righteous struggle. Surely those prayers, rising from many a humble hearth, were not unheeded by the King of kings. Then, I say to those who themselves believe, teach, oh, teach the poor to pray! for their own sakes, for your sake, for England’s sake. Such prayers alone can maintain her as she is—great, glorious, and free.
The Martins would not let me go to the village inn, as I proposed, but insisted on my taking a shake-down in the common room with George. The rest slept in a room above. The moonlight came through the lattice window. I saw George sitting up in his bed.