Jacob Faithful Part 9

"You're a dutiful son in that way, at all events; and a sweet child, as far as sugar goes; but Jacob is to sleep in the cabin with me, and you'll shake your blanket forward."

"Now that I consider quite unnatural; why part father and son?"

"It's not that exactly, it's only parting son and the grog bottle."

"That's just as cruel; why part two such good friends?"

"'Cause, Tom, he's too strong for you, and floors you sometimes."

"Well, but I forgives him; it's all done in good humour."

"Tom, you're a wag; but you wag your tongue to no purpose. Liquor ain't good for a boy like you, and it grows upon you."

"Well, don't I grow too? we grow together."

"You'll grow faster without it."

"I've no wish to be a tall man cut short, like you."

"If I hadn't been a tall man, my breath would have been cut short for ever; the ball which took my legs would have cut you right in half."

"And the ball that would take your head off, would whistle over mine; so there we are equal again."

"And there's the grog fast," replied old Tom, turning the key, and putting it into his pocket. "That's a stopper over all; so now we'll go on deck."

I have narrated this conversation, as it will give the reader a better idea of Tom, and his way of treating his father. Tom was fond of his father, and although mischievous, and too fond of drinking when he could obtain liquor, was not disobedient or vicious. We had nearly reached Battersea Fields when they returned on deck.

"Do you know, Jacob, how the parish of Battersea came into the possession of those fields?"

"No, I do not."

"Well, then, I'll tell you; it was because the Battersea people were more humane and charitable than their neighbours. There was a time when those fields were of no value; now they're worth a mint of money, they say. The body of a poor devil, who was drowned in the river, was washed on sh.o.r.e on those banks, and none of the parishes would be at the expense of burying it. The Battersea people, though they had least right to be called upon, would not allow the poor fellow's corpse to be lying on the mud, and they went to the expense. Now, when the fields became of value, the other parishes were ready enough to claim them; but the case was tried, and as it was proved that Battersea had buried the body, the fields were decided to belong to that parish. So they were well paid for their humanity, and they deserved it. Mr Drummond says you know the river well, Jacob."

"I was born on it."

"Yes, so I heard, and all about your father and mother's death. I was telling Tom of it, because he's too fond of _bowsing up his jib_."

"Well, father, there's no occasion to remind Jacob; the tear is in his eye already," replied Tom, with consideration.

"I wish you never had any other _drop_ in your _eye_,--but never mind, Jacob, I didn't think of what I was saying. Look ye, d'ye see that little house with the two chimneys--that's mine, and there's my old woman.--I wonder what she's about just now." Old Tom paused for a while, with his eyes fixed on the object, and then burst out:--

"I've crossed the wide waters, I've trod the lone strand, I've triumphed in battle, I've lighted the brand, I've borne the loud thunder of death o'er the foam; Fame, riches, ne'er found them,--yet still found a home.

"Tom, boy, haul up the skiff and paddle on sh.o.r.e with the bundle; ask the old woman how she is, and tell her I'm hearty." Tom was in the boat in a moment, and pulling l.u.s.tily for the sh.o.r.e. "That makes me recollect when I returned to my mother, a'ter the first three years of my sea service. I borrowed the skiff from the skipper.--I was in a Greenland-man, my first s.h.i.+p, and pulled ash.o.r.e to my mother's cottage under the cliff. I thought the old soul would have died with joy."

Here old Tom was silent, brushed a tear from his eye, and, as usual, commenced a strain, _sotto voce_:--

"Why, what's that to you if my eyes I'm a wiping?

A tear is a pleasure, d'ye see, in its way.

"How, miserable," continued he, after another pause, "the poor thing was when I would go to sea--how she begged and prayed--boys have no feeling, that's sartin."

"O bairn, dinna leave me, to gang far away, O bairn, dinna leave me, ye're a' that I hae, Think on a mither, the wind and the wave, A mither set on ye, her feet in the grave.

"However, she got used to it at last, as the woman said when she skinned the ells. Tom's a good boy, Jacob, but not steady, as they say you are.

His mother spoils him, and I can't bear to be cross to him neither; for his heart's in the right place, after all. There's the old woman shaking her dish-clout at us as a signal. I wish I had gone on sh.o.r.e myself, but I can't step into these paper-built little boats without my timber toes going through at the bottom."

CHAPTER NINE.

THE TWO TOMS TAKE TO PROTOCOLLING--TREATY OF PEACE RATIFIED BETWEEN THE BELLIGERENT PARTIES--LOTS OF SONGS AND SUPPER--THE LARGEST MESS OF ROAST MEAT UPON RECORD.

Tom then shoved off the skiff. When half-way between the lighter and the sh.o.r.e, while his mother stood watching us, he lay on his oars.

"Tom, Tom!" cried his mother, shaking her fist at him, as he stooped down his head; "if you do, Tom!"

"Tom, Tom!" cried his father, shaking his fist also; "if you dare, Tom!"

But Tom was not within reach of either party; and he dragged a bottle out of the basket which his mother had entrusted to him, and putting it to his mouth, took a long swig.

"That's enough, Tom!" screamed his mother, from the sh.o.r.e.

"That's too much, you rascal!" cried his father, from the barge.

Neither admonition was, however, minded by Tom, who took what he considered his allowance, and then very coolly pulled alongside, and handed up the basket and bundle of clean clothes on deck. Tom then gave the boat's painter to his father, who, I perceived, intended to salute him with the end of it as soon as he came up; but Tom was too knowing-- he surged the boat ahead, and was on deck and forward before his father could stump up to him. The main hatch was open, and Tom put that obstacle between his father and himself before he commenced his parley.

"What's the matter, father?" said Tom, smiling, and looking at me.

"Matter, you scamp! How dare you touch the bottle?"

"The bottle--the bottle's there, as good as ever."

"The grog is what I mean--how dare you drink it?"

"I was half-way between my mother and you, and so I drank success and long life to you both. Ain't that being a very dutiful son?"

"I wish I had my legs back again, you rascal!"

"You wish you had the grog back again, you mean, father."

"You have to choose between--for if you had the grog you'd keep your legs."

"For the matter of drinking the grog, you scamp, you seem determined to stand in my shoes."

"Well, shoes are of no use to you now, father--why shouldn't I? Why don't you trust me? If you hadn't locked the cupboard, I wouldn't have helped myself." And Tom, whose bootlace was loose, stooped down to make it fast.

Old Tom, who was still in wrath, thought this a good opportunity, as his son's head was turned the other way, to step over the bricks, with which, as I before said, the lighter had been laden level with the main hatchway, and take his son by surprise. Tom, who had no idea of this manoeuvre, would certainly have been captured, but, fortunately for him, one of the upper bricks turned over, and let his father's wooden leg down between two of the piles, where it was jammed fast. Old Tom attempted to extricate himself, but could not. "Tom, Tom, come here,"

cried he, "and pull me out."

"Not I," replied Tom.