JERRY; OR, THE SAILOR BOY ASHORE.

Walter Aimwell.

[i]

[ii]

[iii]

THE UNFINISHED VOLUME.

JERRY; OR, THE SAILOR BOY ASHORE.

BEING THE SEVENTH—A FRAGMENT—IN THE SERIES OF THE “AIMWELL STORIES.”

BY WALTER AIMWELL.

TO WHICH IS ADDED A Memoir of the Author, with a Likeness.

BOSTON: GOULD AND LINCOLN, 59 WASHINGTON STREET. NEW YORK: SHELDON AND COMPANY. CINCINNATI: GEORGE S. BLANCHARD. 1864.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by GOULD AND LINCOLN, In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts.

GEO. C. RAND & AVERY, STEREOTYPERS AND PRINTERS.

[iv]

[v]

PREFACE.

The story of Jerry, while possessing not the entire completeness of other volumes of the series, owing to the lamented death of the author before he had finished the work, will be found wanting in none of those attractions which have secured for the “Aimwell Stories” their great popularity. Its design is to show the folly of restiveness under parental restraint, and the blighting influence upon character of vicious or low associates; and thus to incite the young reader to the prompt performance of filial duty, and to cherish those high aims which are the basis of manly character. Jerry’s own story of his adventures will be found to contain much useful information pertaining to sailor life, and to the portions of the world which he visited; while the whole work, like its predecessors, has been written with our motto in mind, “Precepts may lead, but examples draw.”

[vi]

[vii]

CONTENTS OF JERRY.

[ix]

CONTENTS OF THE MEMOIR.

[15]

Illustrations.

[16]

[17]

CHAPTER I. THE RUNAWAY’S RETURN.

“I wish I could look out and see father coming; here it is the tenth of the month, and he ought to have got home a week ago. February, March, April, May,—it’s over three months since father went off, and he said he should be back by the first of May. I can’t imagine what has become of him. There’s the doctor coming, I believe. Yes, that’s his wagon. He’s got a man with him—who knows but it’s father? No, it’s a young fellow. I wonder who it is. He’s as black as an Indian; and he’s casting up sheep’s-eyes at me, too. Well, I don’t care for you, whoever you are.”

The doctor’s wagon stopped, and so did the busy tongue whose words we have been repeating. The[18] doctor alighted, and walked into the house without ceremony; and Emily, the proprietor of the tongue aforesaid, flattened her little nose against the chamber-window in her efforts to look down upon the young stranger, who remained seated in the wagon.

“Why, it’s somebody that mother knows,” Emily added, after a few moments’ pause; “she has run out to the wagon, and she’s hugging and kissing him, and he kissed her! Oh, I know now who it is,—it’s Jerry! it’s Jerry!” and the girl, half crazed with excitement, jumped from her seat and ran to the door.

“I’m going, too,” said Harriet, her younger sister, springing toward the door.

“No,” said Emily, holding the door fast; “you mustn’t go now; it won’t do to leave the baby. I’ll come right back in a minute, and let you go.”

“I want to go now; mother told you to tend the baby,” replied Harriet, beginning to snivel.

“You may both go, children, and I’ll see to the baby,” said Dr. Hart, who suddenly opened the door upon them.

The two girls ran down-stairs as fast as possible, without stopping to thank the doctor for his kindness. And, sure enough, it was Jerry, their long-lost brother, who[19] ran away from home fifteen months previous to this time, and had long been regarded as dead. He seemed very glad to see his sisters, and greeted them each with a good “sailor’s smack,” as he termed it.

“And so you thought I shouldn’t know you, sitting in the doctor’s wagon,” said Mrs. Preston. “Don’t you think it must be a queer mother that doesn’t know her own son?”

“That was the doctor’s notion; it wasn’t mine,” replied Jerry. “He overhauled me on the road, and offered to give me a ride; but he didn’t know me until I told him where I was going. He looked at me pretty sharp, and then says he, ‘Why, ain’t you Mr. Preston’s son?’ and I told him I believed I was. Then he said he had got to come here, to see the baby; but he told me I had better sit in the wagon while he was making his call, because everybody thought I was dead, and there would be quite a scene when I made myself known, and he didn’t wish to intrude upon it.”

“Your father thought you dead, but I never gave you up,” said Mrs. Preston. “Just as soon as I laid eyes on you I knew you. I asked the doctor whom he had got there, and he looked so queer when he said it was ‘a young friend of his from out of town,’ that I was certain then that it was you.”

[20]

Jerry now went up-stairs with his mother and sisters, and the doctor introduced him to his new brother, the baby, who had been quite ill, but was now getting better.

“You don’t seem to think much of your baby brother,” said Mrs. Preston, observing that he took but little notice of it.

“Yes, I do,” replied Jerry; “but I can’t help thinking about Mary. I didn’t know she was dead until Uncle Henry told me yesterday, and I can’t realize it. I keep looking around, expecting to see her; it doesn’t seem natural without her.”

The mention of the name of Mary brought a shade of sadness to every face, but no one seemed inclined to speak further of the departed. Jerry was more attached to Mary than to either of his other sisters. She was the youngest, and was but six years old when she died. Her death took place only a few weeks after Jerry left home; but as he had not heard of it, and always thought of her as living, it was nearly the same to him as though she had but just died.

The doctor soon withdrew, and Mrs. Preston went down to the kitchen to get something for Jerry to eat, for he had fasted since the night before, and it was now toward the middle of the afternoon. Jerry followed her,[21] promising his sisters that if they would remain with the baby he would shortly return and answer the thousand questions they were so impatient to ask him. As soon as Jerry was alone with his mother, he commenced making a confession to her.

“Mother,” he said, “running away from home was the worst day’s work I ever did. I was a fool to do it, and I’ve got pretty well punished for it. You’ve no idea what a hard time I’ve had. I gave myself up for dead more than once; but I’ll tell you about that this evening, perhaps, when we’re all together. I meant to have brought money enough home to pay back what I took, but I lost everything when we were wrecked.”

“No matter about that,” said Mrs. Preston; “we never shall think of that again, so long as you have got home alive.”

“What do you suppose father will say to me?” inquired Jerry, with some hesitation; for he had serious doubts as to the kind of reception his father would give him.

“He will think you have risen from the dead; I don’t believe he has the least idea that you’re in the land of the living,” replied his mother, evading a direct answer to the question.

[22]

“Do you suppose he will be glad to see me?” inquired Jerry.

“Certainly I do; I can’t imagine how it could be otherwise,” replied Mrs. Preston. After a moment’s pause, she added, “Your father is peculiar about some things; he doesn’t always show his feelings. But I’ve no doubt he’ll be as rejoiced as any of us at your return, whether he says so or not.”

Jerry sat silently speculating upon this reply to his question, while his mother was busy in pantry and cellar, collecting all the good things in the house to prepare a feast for the returned prodigal. To tell the truth, he had serious doubts whether his father would be glad to see him, for he was a stern and seemingly cold man, who did not look with much charity upon the faults of others, and was slow to forgive those who had offended him.

Mr. Preston divided his time between farming and logging. In the summer, he carried on his farm, in the small and retired town of Brookdale. In the fall, he went into the forests in the northern part of Maine, where he usually remained until spring. A gang of men accompanied him, and they formed a camp in the woods, where they lived all winter in a very primitive way. Their business was to cut down trees, trim off the[23] branches, and haul the logs to the river. On the breaking up of the ice in the spring, these logs were floated down the stream to the mill, where they were sawn into lumber.

It was during his father’s absence at the logging camp that Jerry ran away from his home. He was at that time nearly fourteen years old. He had for some time been growing lazy, restless, and unmanageable, so that his mother could not do much with him. His character had suffered greatly from intimacy with a cousin of his, about a year older than himself, named Oscar Preston. Oscar belonged in Boston, but falling into bad habits, his father thought it would benefit him to send him away from the city for a season. So he lived with his uncle’s family, in Brookdale, for several months. His character did not improve, however, and he was finally obliged to leave the State to avoid trial on a charge of setting fire to a wood-lot, his father at the same time paying over one hundred dollars, damages and costs, to effect his release.

When his cousin returned to Boston, Jerry grew lonesome, uneasy, and unhappy. He wanted to go to sea, or to travel over the country, or to live in some great city; anywhere, he thought, he could be happier than at home. His father would not hear a word on the subject, and his[24] mother would not give the slightest encouragement to any such whims. So, at length, he concluded to shake off parental authority; and one Sunday morning, soon after the rest of the family started for church, he hastily gathered up a bundle of clothing, and set out on a longer journey than he then imagined.[1]

There was one act, connected with Jerry’s flight from home, which he had always regretted, and which, more than anything else, made him dread to meet his father. On going off, he took with him every cent of money in the house,—the allowance which Mr. Preston had left for the necessities of the family during his absence. Conscience began to reprove Jerry for his theft as soon as he had leisure to think about the matter, and he resolved to pay back the whole amount out of his first earnings. When, after a few days, his pockets were picked clean, and nearly every dollar of his mother’s money went into the hands of a second thief, the wickedness and folly of his own offence were still more deeply impressed on his mind. He came back to his father’s house not merely a runaway, but a thief.

[25]

Mrs. Preston, notwithstanding her reply to Jerry’s last question, had some slight misgivings in regard to the reception his father would give him. She knew that Mr. Preston, whatever he may have felt, had never manifested any relentings or parental yearnings toward his lost son in her presence, though she had been told that he had evinced some feeling when conversing about him with others. But, so far as she could judge, he had never forgiven his erring boy’s last offence. He seldom alluded to Jerry in the family, and when he did, he spoke of him only as a lazy, heartless, and ungrateful boy, who was bent on evil, and he was seemingly quite indifferent as to whether he ever came back again or not. Even when news came of the wreck of Jerry’s vessel and his supposed loss, he exhibited no feeling, though, for many days after, he was unusually silent and reserved, and seemed to take little notice of what was going on around him. From that day, he never alluded to his son, except once or twice, when he tried to convince his wife of the folly of expecting ever to see him again. The

wayward boy was dead and buried to him, and, so far as human eye could see, few paternal sighs and tears were called forth by his untimely end.

The table was soon spread, and Jerry ate a hearty[26] meal. How delicious mother’s light bread and sweet butter tasted to the hungry wanderer, so long used to the sailor’s coarse fare! And what a treat was a tumbler of new, rich milk, after drinking ship-water and sea-slops for over a year!

As soon as the family could all get together, after supper, Jerry spun his “yarn,” as he called it, and gave them a brief account of his adventures during the fifteen months of his absence. His narrative follows in the succeeding chapters.

[27]

CHAPTER II. JERRY BEGINS HIS STORY.

“Now I’ll spin that yarn, if you would like to hear it,” said Jerry, after tea. “I suppose you don’t want to hear about the voyage out, for nothing very remarkable happened, only we came amazing near getting wrecked, and I believe I wrote you something about it.”

“Yes, begin at the beginning, and tell us the whole story,” said Emily, and Hattie seconded the request.

“It would take me more than a week to do that,” replied Jerry, “if I talked as fast as I could. I can’t tell the whole story now; but I’ll tell you about some of the most important events of the voyage, and save the rest for another time.

“Well, I went straight to Boston, after I left home, and the first thing I did was to try to get a chance to go to sea. As luck would have it, I fell in with the brig Susan, bound for Valparaiso, just as she was hauling off from the wharf. They had shipped a boy the day before, but he went ashore, and hadn’t come back, and[28] the captain told me I might take his place. So I bundled right in, without stopping to think. I didn’t know the name of the vessel, nor where she was bound, nor what wages I was to have, nor anything else. I only knew I was going to sea, and that was all I cared about.

“Before I got out of sight of land, I began to be dreadful seasick; but it isn’t worth while to tell you about that now. And, if you’ll believe me, the very first job I had to do, on board the Susan, was to clear out the pigsty! and I had to do it every day through the voyage!”

“Why, do they have pigsties on board vessels?” inquired Harriet.

“Yes, sometimes,” continued Jerry. “But our pigs were not to be killed for fresh meat,—they were a choice kind, that somebody was sending out to Valparaiso for breeding. But I thought it was rather queer, after I had run away from home to get rid of such work, that I should have to feed pigs and clean out their pen at sea. And it wasn’t many days, I tell you, before I wished myself home again. Everybody, from the captain down, cursed and cuffed and kicked me, because I was so green,—just as if I ought to have known every rope of the brig, when I never saw a brig before. If I didn’t[29] happen to do a thing just right, down would come a rope’s-end across my shoulders, as like as not; and if I dared to say a word, I would find myself sprawling on the deck the next minute. The men, too, played off all sorts of tricks upon me.[2] And then the living was enough to sicken anybody. It was salt beef and hard bread morning, noon, and night, and week after week, only, once in a while, we were treated with stewed beans or peas, or boiled rice, or duff,—a kind of pudding made

of flour. And I wish you could have seen the place where we slept. The forecastle is the name of it. It was a little, narrow, dark, and dirty hole, with berths on the sides, like shelves, where the men slept. Why, our cock-loft is a perfect parlor compared with it.”

“No wonder you wished yourself home, poor fellow!” said Mrs. Preston.

“Well, after all, mother,” continued Jerry, “it wasn’t so dreadful bad, when a fellow got used to it. In a few weeks I kind of got the hang of things, and made[30] the best of them, and after that I got along a good deal easier. My sea-sickness went off, and I could eat my allowance with the smartest of them, salt-junk or anything they’d a mind to bring on. The weather was fine for several weeks; we’d got into a warm latitude, and the old brig made a handsome run. There was one time that we didn’t shorten sail once for a week,—she kept right along on her course, with a fair wind, without starting tack or sheet. We had some rare sport, too, about that time. We killed a shark that was hanging around the brig, for one thing. One of the men heated a brick as hot as he could, and then wrapped it up in some greasy cloths, and chucked it to him. Sharks, you know, will jump at anything you throw at them, and this fellow smelt the grease, and down went the brick, before you could say Jack Robinson. And then you ought to have seen him thrash

round. Why, it looked as if the water was boiling, where he was, he lashed it so, and the spray came down upon us like a shower. But in a few minutes it was all over, and his ugly carcass rose to the top and floated off.”

[31]

“Oh, that was cruel!” said Mrs. Preston.

“Well, mother, the sharks are cruel, too,” said Jerry; “and the sailors don’t have any love for them, I can tell you. The rascals would eat a man just as quick as anything else, if they could get a chance. They’d snap a leg off just as a boy bites a stick of candy, and they’d finish the rest of him in two or three mouthfuls.

“A day or two after that, we caught an albatross. There were several of them that had been following us three or four days. They are a curious bird. They are very large, and their wings opened from twelve to fifteen feet. We sailed at the rate of about two hundred miles a day, for several days running, and yet these birds kept up with us all the time. But they went more than double the distance that we did, because they kept making circles round us for miles, and then coming back in our wake. They follow vessels to pick up the stuff that is thrown overboard. One of our men baited a hook with a piece of salt pork, and towed it from the stern by a strong line. In a few minutes one of the birds swallowed the bait, and we pulled him on deck.[32] He was a monstrous fellow, but he didn’t try to defend himself only by biting at us a little. He was so clumsy he couldn’t stand up on the deck. He had great webbed feet. The sailors began to skin his feet, to make purses, before the poor fellow was dead.”

“Oh, what hard-hearted wretches!” exclaimed Emily.

“Well, I must hurry along with my yarn,” said Jerry, “or I shan’t get through to-night. We crossed the line,—the equator, I suppose you call it,—and I was introduced to King Neptune, and was shaved and washed by him in great style; but I can’t stop to tell you about that, now. Every greenhorn has to go through the ceremony the first time he crosses the line. We didn’t have any very rough weather till after we had passed Cape St. Roque. Do you know where that is, Emily? Get your atlas, and I’ll show you.”

Emily brought her school atlas, and found Cape St. Roque, the extreme eastern point of South America, about five degrees below the equator.