“What were you talking about?” I asked, having a feeling that something had happened to my father, though I scarcely dared to ask what.
“As I was saying, Ben, you have a friend in me if you have no other,” said Jerry, again taking my hand. “You will grieve, my boy, I know, but it can’t be helped; so I must out with it. We have not lost many men, but one has gone who was worth a dozen of the best; the Frenchman’s round shot coming aboard took off his head, and deprived you of your father and us of our bo’sun.”
“Do you mean to say that father’s killed?” I asked in a trembling voice, unable to believe the fact.
“Yes, boy, he has sounded his last pipe; we shall no more hear his voice rousing up all hands, or hailing the maintop; but he died doing his duty. We could have better spared a worse man, but there is no help for it and so, Ben, don’t pipe your eye.”
Notwithstanding Jerry’s exhortations, I did, however, cry heartily as I lay in my hammock; and even the other boys respected my sorrow, though it did not last long, I must confess.
The next day was an exciting one. As the morning broke, we saw our prize on shore, and another French ship at anchor dismasted; she, on seeing us, also ran on shore; when the Essex, a sixty-four, being sent in to take possession of her, was also wrecked; while another ship, the Resolution, seventy-four, was discovered on the rocks, the sea beating over her; and, before assistance could be sent, most of her gallant crew had perished. We succeeded, however, in burning the two French ships; but others, which were almost falling into our hands, by heaving their guns overboard, managed to escape up the river, where we could not follow.
“Although we have gained the victory, I do not see that we have gained much else for our trouble,” observed Jerry, who was a philosopher in his way. “We have, you see, destroyed four French ships, and sent well-nigh two thousand Frenchmen, more or less, out of the world, but then we have lost two of our own ships and some hundred British seamen; and, worse than all, our brave bo’sun, your father.”
The loss of my father was not to be repaired. I cannot say what might have happened had he lived, but losing him I grew up from boy to man, knocking about the world with many a chance of being knocked on the head, and yet with not the slightest hope of ever treading the quarter-deck as an officer—not that I ever thought about that. Jerry proved my firm friend. Though fond of his grog, for my sake he kept sober, that he might better look after me.
“Your father, Ben, lent me a helping hand when I had not a shot in the locker and was well-nigh starving, and it’s my duty to help you; and so I will, boy, as long as I can keep my fiddle-stick moving, and get a crust to put into my mouth.”
Jerry did me an essential service, for having seen better days he had got some learning, which was more than most men in the ship possessed, and he taught me to read and write, of which I knew nothing when I came to sea. Even my father, though boatswain of a line-of-battle ship, had not been much of a scholar. However, I am not now going to write about myself or my own adventures. When the ship was paid off, as my poor mother could not support me, and I had no fancy for any other calling, I went to sea again with Jerry, who got the rating of cook’s mate on board the Thunderer, seventy-four.