I found that the ship I was on board of was the Rebecca, a large West Indiaman, trading between London and Barbadoes, to which place she was then bound, so that I should have to return there instead of going home. The captain sent for the mate and me into the cuddy-cabin, to inquire about the vessel to which we had belonged. He was a quiet, kind-mannered man, and seemed very much cut up at the loss of the brig, though he said that he could not blame his people for what had occurred. When we had given him all the information he required, he directed that we should have berths and food supplied us. I turned in gladly, though it was some time before I went to sleep, and even then I could not get rid of the recollection of the sinking brig, which had borne me in safety for so many a long year over the wide ocean.
The next morning I was told that the mate was very ill. The doctor of the ship had been attending him, but said that his case was hopeless. I sat by him all day. Sometimes he would be perfectly quiet and do nothing but moan; and then he would start up, and shriek out,—“Luff!—luff!—or she’ll be into us!” and then sink down again, overcome with horror at the recollection of the event. Towards night he grew worse, and, after several fearful shrieks, he sunk back and expired.
Thus twice in less than two years was I mercifully preserved from destruction. There were a number of passengers on board, who were very kind to me, and took pleasure in asking me questions about my life at sea, and in listening to the accounts of my adventures. Among them was a young gentleman, who, when he heard the name of the Rainbow brig, and that she sailed out of Dublin, made many inquiries about her. He told me that he knew Dublin well, and had often heard of the former owners of the Rainbow. He was, I found, going out to Bridge Town, to take the management of a large mercantile house there.
“You must come and see me when we get there,” said he one day. “I am not certain, but I think we have met before.”
“Where could that have been? I don’t remember you, sir,” I said.
“Hadn’t you a very tall seaman aboard the brig when you first went to sea in her?” he asked abruptly.
“Yes, of course, sir!” I exclaimed. “Peter Poplar, my best of friends; I owe everything to him.”
“So do I, then, I suspect,” said he warmly. “Do you remember a little lad sitting crying on the quays at Dublin, to whom he gave a bundle of old clothes? Yours, I believe, they were.”
“Yes,” said I; “I remember, too, how grateful he seemed for them, and how Peter walked away with me that he might not listen to his thanks.”
“He had reason to be thankful,” said the gentleman. “That suit of clothes enabled him to obtain a situation, where, by honesty and perseverance, and an earnest wish to promote his kind master’s interests, he rose by degrees to hold the most responsible situation in his establishment. Do you remember the boy’s name?”