Will Weatherhelm: The Yarn of an Old Sailor

by William Henry Giles Kingston

We reached the water’s edge. I was shoved into a boat with several other men who had been captured during the night. They all were sitting stunned, or drunken, or sulky (or some too probably broken-hearted and miserable), at the bottom of the boat, not exchanging a word with each other or with those who had pressed us. I also fell down stunned and unconscious. Who could have discovered the difference between me and my companions in misfortune? When I again opened my eyes, I found that the boat was almost at Spithead. I tried to sit up to look about me, but I could not, and, after a feeble attempt to rise, I again sank back, and once more oblivion of all that had passed stole over my senses. I had a sort of dreamy feeling that I was lifted up on the deck of a big ship, and then handed below and put into a hammock. Then I was aware that some one came and felt my pulse and gave me medicine, but I had no power to think, to recollect the past or to note the present.

At last, by degrees, I found that I was becoming more alive to what was taking place. I felt the movement of the ship. She was heeling over to a strong breeze. Then suddenly the recollection of my wife, of the way I had been torn from her, of the wretchedness I knew she must suffer, of the uncertainty she must feel for my fate, burst like a thunder-clap on me, and almost sent me back into the state from which I was recovering. I groaned in my agony. I wished that death might kindly be sent to relieve me of my misery. But the instant after I felt that such a wish was impious.

I lay quiet for some time, thinking and praying that strength might be given for my support. No, no, I’ll try to live, that I may get back to comfort her. What joy it would be once more to return to her! The very contemplation of such an idea revived me. “Whatever comes, I’ll do my duty like a man.”

“That’s right, my lad; that’s the proper spirit in which to take our misfortunes,” said a voice near me.

Unconsciously, I had spoken aloud. I turned round my head, and saw a gentleman I knew at once was the doctor of the ship.

“I know your story. You have told me a good deal about yourself while you have been lying there,” he remarked, in a kind voice. “I pity you from my heart, and will do what I can for you.”

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” I answered warmly, and almost melting into tears, for I was very weak. “Where are we? Where are we going? What ship is this? Is Iffley here?”

“One question at a time, my lad, and you will have a better chance of an answer, as a general rule,” he answered, smiling.

He was a Scotchman, and as warm-hearted, generous a man as the north ever produced, though somewhat peculiar in his manners. To a stranger he appeared slow; but, when time would allow it, he knew the advantage of deliberation.

“First, then, I will tell you that you are on board the Albion, and that we have under our convoy a large fleet of merchantmen. We are somewhere to the southward of Cape Finisterre. What you are thinking about is, how you can write home to let your wife know what has become of you. You’ll very likely soon have an opportunity. Let that comfort you.” He said all this that he might break more gradually all that was coming.