We had not heard from brother Jack since he went aboard the Lapwing. Mother thought that he might have got some one to write for him, though he was no great hand with a pen himself. All we knew was that the brig had gone out to the East Indies, which being a long way off would have accounted for our not often getting letters from him; but just one father hoped he would have contrived to send after he had been a year away; now nearly three years had passed since then. Had the Lapwing been fitted out at Portsmouth, we should have got news of him from others, but as none of her crew hailed from our town, there was no one to whom we could go to ask about him. Father had taken lately to talk much about Jack, and sometimes regretted that he had let him go away.
“You acted for the best, and so don’t be blaming yourself,” observed mother, trying to console him. “There’s One aloft looking after him better than we can, and He’ll bring our boy back to us if He thinks fit.”
Mary and I little knew all the trials father and mother had to go through. Mother’s trade was bad, and father was often out all day without bringing a shilling home. Younger men with more gaily-painted boats—he would not acknowledge that they were better—got fares when he could not manage to pick up one. Sometimes also he was laid up with the rheumatics, and was unable to go afloat. One day, while thus suffering, mother fetched Dr Rolt to see him. Father begged the doctor to get him well as soon as he could, seeing that he wanted to be out in the wherry to gain his livelihood.
“All in good time, my man,” answered the doctor. “You’ll be about again in a few days, never fear. By-the-bye, I saw our friend Mr Gray lately, Mrs Trawl, and he was inquiring for you. He would have come to see your husband had he known that he was ill, but he went away to London yesterday, and may, I fear, be absent for some time. Many will miss him should he be long away.”
Sooner than father expected he was about again. I had gone down with father and mother to the Hard, mother to board a ship which had just come in, and father to look out for a fare, while Mary remained at home with Nancy. It was blowing pretty fresh, and there was a good deal of sea running outside, though in the harbour the water was not rough enough to prevent mother from going off. While she was waiting for old Tom Swatridge, who had been with grandmother and her for years to bring along her baskets of vegetables from the market, a gentleman came hurrying down the Hard, and seeing father getting the wherry ready, said:
“I want you to put me aboard my ship, my man. She’s lying out at Spithead; we must be off at once.”
“It’s blowing uncommon fresh, sir,” said father. “I don’t know how you’ll like it when we get outside; still there’s not a wherry in the harbour that will take you aboard drier than mine, though there’s some risk, sir, you’ll understand.”
“Will a couple of guineas tempt you?” asked the stranger, thinking that father was doubting about the payment he was to receive.
“I’ll take you, sir,” answered father. “Step aboard.”
I was already in the boat, thinking that I was to go, and was much disappointed when father said, “I am not going to take you, Peter, for your mother wants you to help her; but just run up and tell Ned Dore I want him. He’s standing by the sentry-box.”