Part 2 (1/2)

”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.”

As I always did as father bade me, I ran up and called Ned, who at once came rolling along down the Hard, glad of a job. When he heard what he was wanted for he stepped aboard.

”I hope to be back in a couple of hours, or three at furthest, Polly,”

father sang out to mother, as he shoved off the wherry. ”Good-bye, la.s.s, and see that Peter makes himself useful.”

Mother waved her hand.

”Though two guineas are not to be picked up every day, I would as lief he had stayed in the harbour this blowing weather,” she said to herself more than to me, as on seeing old Tom coming we stepped into her boat.

When father first went to sea, Tom Swatridge had been his s.h.i.+pmate, and had done him many a kind turn which he had never forgotten. Old Tom had lost a leg at Trafalgar, of which battle he was fond of talking. He might have borne up for Greenwich, but he preferred his liberty, though he had to work for his daily bread, and, I am obliged to say, for his daily quantum of rum, which always kept his pockets empty. He had plenty of intelligence, but he could neither read nor write, and that, with his love of grog, had prevented him from getting on in life as well as his many good qualities would otherwise have enabled him to do. He was a tall gaunt man, with iron-grey hair, and a countenance wrinkled, battered, and bronzed by wind and weather.

When he first came ash.o.r.e he was almost as sober a man as father, and having plenty of prize-money he managed to purchase a small dwelling for himself, which I shall have by-and-by to describe. Old Tom taking the oars, we pulled aboard the _Dartmouth_, forty-two gun frigate, just come in from the Mediterranean. Several of the men had been s.h.i.+pmates with father, and all those belonging to Portsmouth knew mother. They were very glad to see her, and she had to answer questions of all sorts about their friends on sh.o.r.e. It is the business of a b.u.mboat-woman to know everything going forward, what s.h.i.+ps are likely to be commissioned, the characters of the captains and officers, when they are to sail, and where they are going to. Among so many friends mother drove a brisker trade than usual, and when the men heard that I was Jack Trawl's son they gave me many a bright s.h.i.+lling and sixpence, and kind pats on the head with their broad palms. ”He's a chip of the old block, no doubt about that, missus,” cried one. ”He'll make a smart young topman one of these days,” said another. Several gave her commissions to execute, and many sent messages to friends on sh.o.r.e. Altogether, when she left the frigate she was in better spirits than she had been for a long time.

Scarcely had we shoved off, however, when down came the rain in torrents, well-nigh wetting us through.

”It's blowing plaguey hard, missus,” observed old Tom, as he tugged away at the oars, I helping him while mother steered. ”I hope as how we shall find your good man safe ash.o.r.e when we gets in.”

On reaching the Hard the wherry was not to be seen. After old Tom had made fast the boat, wet as she was mother waited and waited in the hopes that father would come in. Old Tom remained also. He seemed more than usually anxious. We all stood with our hands s.h.i.+elding our eyes as we looked down the harbour to try and make out the wherry, but the driving rain greatly limited our view.

”Hast seen anything of Jack Trawl's wherry?” asked old Tom over and over again of the men in the different boats, as they came in under their mizens and foresails. The same answer was returned by all.

”Maybe he got a fare at Spithead for Gosport and will be coming across soon, or he's gone ash.o.r.e at the Point with some one's luggage,”

observed old Tom, trying to keep up mother's spirits; but that was a hard matter to do, for the wind blew stronger and stronger. A few vessels could be seen, under close-reefed canvas, running up the harbour for shelter, but we could nowhere perceive a single boat under sail.

Still old Tom continued to suggest all sorts of reasons why father had not come back. Perhaps he had been detained on board the s.h.i.+p at Spithead to which he took the gentleman, and seeing the heavy weather coming on would remain till it moderated. Mother clung to this notion when hour after hour went by and she had given up all expectation of seeing father that evening. Still she could not tear herself from the Hard. Suddenly she remembered me.

”You must be getting wet, Peter,” she said. ”Run home, my child, and tell Nancy to give you your tea and then to get supper ready. Father and I will be coming soon, I hope.”

I lingered, unwilling to leave her.

”Won't you come yourself, mother?” I asked.

”I'll wait a bit longer,” she answered. ”Go, Peter, go; do as I bid you.”

”You'd better go home with Peter, missus,” said old Tom. ”You'll be getting the rheumatics, I'm afraid. I'll stay and look out for your good man.”

I had never seen mother look as she did then, when she turned her face for a moment to reply to the old man. She was as pale as death; her voice sounded hoa.r.s.e and hollow.

”I can't go just yet, Tom,” she said.

I did not hear more, as, according to her bidding, I set off to run home. I found Mary and Nancy wondering what had kept mother so long.