Lost Lenore: The Adventures of a Rolling Stone
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theshore; and, soon after, we had the pleasure of looking once more on thecheerful, honest countenance of the old Dutch skipper.
He had not deserted us in our distress, as some had conjectured: and he_did_ know the situation of the island, as was proved by his bringingthe ship back to it.
At the time of his departure, he had not a friend amongst the passengersof the "Ceres." There was not one on that occasion to speak a word inhis favour. But now, as soon as he set foot on the island, he washailed with three hearty cheers, and there was a struggle among thecrowd who surrounded him: as to who should be the first to show theirgratitude by a grasp of the hand!
Volume Two, Chapter XIII.
A HUNGRY PASSAGE.
The ship thus brought to our rescue was a New England whaler, that hadbeen cruising about in pursuit of the sperm whale. The captain askedsix hundred dollars for taking our whole community to New Zealand.
The demand was by no means extortionate. Indeed, it was a moderatesum--considering the trouble and expense he would have to incur: sincehe had already lost a good deal of time on his way to the island.
The voyage to New Zealand might occupy several weeks--during which timewe would be consuming no small quantity of his stores.
But although this price was not too much for the Yankee skipper to ask,it was more than the Dutch skipper was able to pay: since the latter hadnot got the money.
The passengers were called upon to subscribe the amount. Most of themobjected. They had paid a passage once, they said, and would not pay itover again.
To this the captain of the whaler made a very reasonable rejoinder. Ifthere were just grounds for believing that the money could not beobtained, he would have to take us without it: for he could never leaveso many men on so small an island, where they might perish for want offood and water. But as we did not claim to be out of funds, the faultwould be our own if he departed without us, which he would certainly do,unless the passage-money was paid. He also gave us warning, that wemight expect to put up with many inconveniences upon his ship. She wasnot a passenger-vessel, nor was he supplied with provisions for so manypeople.
It was clear that the six hundred dollars must be raised some way orother; and a movement was immediately set on foot to collect it.
Many of the passengers declared that they had no money. Some of themspoke the truth; but the difficulty was to learn who did, and who didnot.
Amongst others, who solemnly declared that they had no money, was aruffian, who had been selling tobacco at the rate of forty dollars perpound. This fact was communicated by the individual, who hadrepurchased, and paid so dearly, for his own weed.
The fellow was now emphatically informed, that unless he paid his shareof the passage-money, he would be left behind upon the island.
This threat had the desired effect. He succeeded in finding therequired cash; and after much wrangling, the sum of six hundred dollarswas at length made up.
Next day we were taken aboard the whaler; and sailed away from theisland in a direct course for the port of Auckland.
I never made a more disagreeable voyage than on board that whaler.There were several reasons that rendered the passage unpleasant. Onewas, that all on board were in an ill-conditioned frame of mind; and,consequently, had no relish for being either civil or sociable. Thediggers had been detained several weeks--on their way to a land theywere anxious to reach in the shortest possible time--and they now wereto be landed at Auckland instead of Sydney. Another voyage would haveto be made, before they could arrive at the gold fields of Australia--ofwhich they had been hearing such attractive tales.
We were not even favoured with a fair breeze. On the contrary, the windblew most of the way against us; and the ship had to make about threehundred miles, while carrying us only fifty in the right direction.
The whaler, moreover, was an old tub--good enough for her properpurpose, but ill adapted for carrying impatient passengers on their wayto a new gold field.
She was kept as much into the wind as possible; but withal made so muchlee-way, that her course was side-ways--in the same manner as a pigwould go into a battle.
There were no accommodations either for sleeping, or eating the littlefood we were allowed; and we were compelled to rough it in the mostliteral sense of the phrase.
By the time we should have reached Auckland, we were not half thedistance; and both the provisions and water of the ship were well nighconsumed.
Between seventy and eighty hungry and thirsty men--added to the originalcrew of the whaler--had made a greater destruction of his ship's storesthan the captain had calculated upon; and the third week, after leavingthe island, we were put on an allowance of one quart of water per diemto each individual. Meat was no longer served out to us; and simple,though not very sweet, biscuits became our food. We were also allowedrice; but this, without garnishing, was still more insipid than thebiscuits.
We thought it hard fare, and complained accordingly, although we had butlittle reason for doing so. We could only blame our fate, or ourfortune; and so the captain of the whaler was accustomed to tell us.
"I warned you," he would say, "that you might expect to have a hard timeof it. I'm sure I did not advertise for you to take passage in myvessel, and you have no reason to complain. I do the best for you Ican. You are growling about having to eat rice. Millions of peoplelive on it for years, while working hard. You have only to live on itfor a few days, and do nothing. I hope, for both our sakes, it won'tlast long."
It was just, because they were _doing nothing_ that the grumblers wereso loud in their complaints.
In justice to many of the passengers, I should state, that those whocomplained the most were the very men who had paid nothing towardsremunerating the captain for his services. They were some of the worstcharacters aboard; and, without making any allowance for thecircumstances under which we were placed, found fault with everything onthe whaler. I believe, they did so for the simple reason that she wasan American ship.
Luckily we reached Auckland at last, though not a day too soon: for bythe time we sighted land the patience of the passengers with each other,and their temper towards the captain, were well nigh exhausted. Had weremained at sea a few hours longer, some strange scenes would have takenplace on the whaler, which all aboard of her would not have survived todescribe.
No doubt the Yankee captain saw us go over the side of his ship withmuch heart-felt satisfaction, though certainly this feeling was not allto himself. His late passengers, one and all, equally participated init.
I saw but very little of Auckland, or rather of the country around it;but, from that little, I formed a very favourable opinion of its naturalresources and abilities; and I believe that colony to be a good home forEnglish emigrants.
Being myself a Rolling Stone, I did not regard it with the eyes of asettler; and therefore I might be doing injustice either to the colonyitself, or to intending emigrants, by saying much about it.
Guided by recent experiences, there is one thing I can allege in favourof New Zealand as a colony, which, in my opinion, makes it superior toany other; that is, that a home can be there had _farther away fromLondon_, than in any other colonial settlement with which I amacquainted.
From Auckland to reach any part of Australia required a further outlayof six pounds sterling.
The gold-diggers thought this rather hard--alleging that they hadalready paid their passage twice; but they were forced to submit tocircumstances.
For myself, after remaining in Auckland a few days, I obtained a passagein a small vessel sailing for Sydney, which port we reached, after ashort and pleasant run of nine days' duration.
I had been exactly five months in getting from San Francisco to Sydney--a voyage that, under ordinary circumstances, might have been made infifty days!
Volume Two, Chapter XIV.
THE GUARDIANS OF THE ORPHAN.
I had at length reached the place where, in all probability, I shouldfind my long-lost mother.
I felt a very singular sort of pleasure, in the anticipation of aninterview with my mother and sister. They would not know me: for I wasbut a boy, when I parted from them in Dublin. They would scarce believethat the fair-skinned, curly-haired, little "Rolling Stone," could havebecome changed to a large bearded man--with a brow tanned by the SouthSea gales, and the hot tropical beams of a Californian sun.
Before leaving San Francisco I had obtained the address of thegrandparents of Mr Leary's child; and also of several other people inSydney--who would be likely to have known something of Leary himselfresiding there.
From some of these persons I hoped to obtain information, that wouldguide me in the search after my relatives.
Mr Davis--the father of the unfortunate girl who had eloped withLeary--was a respectable shopkeeper in the grocery line.
As there could be no great difficulty in finding his shop, I resolved tomake my first call upon the grocer.
Notwithstanding my hatred to Leary, I felt some interest in the child hehad helped to make an orphan. I wished to ascertain, whether it hadbeen safely delivered into the charge of its grandparents--as also thegold, which the Californian miners had so liberally contributed towardsits support.
The next day after landing in Sydney, I made my call upon Mr Davis.
I found his shop without any difficulty; and in it himself--anhonest-looking man, apparently about fifty years of age.
His business appeared to be in a flourishing condition: for theestablishment was a large one, and to all appearance well-stocked withthe articles required in a retail grocery.
There were two young men behind the counter, besides Mr Davis himself,who, as I entered, was in the act of serving a customer.
On the old gentleman being told, that if he was not too much engaged, Ishould like a few minutes' conversation with him, he handed the customerover to one of his assistants; and conducted me into a sitting-room thatadjoined the shop.
After complying with his request to be seated, I told him, I had latelyarrived from California, where I had heard of him, and that I had nowcalled to see him, on a business to me of some importance. I added,that the communication I had to make might awaken some unpleasantthoughts; but that I deemed it better to make it, rather than run therisk of incurring his displeasure, by not communicating with him at all.
Mr Davis then civilly demanded to know the nature of my business,though from his tone I could tell, that he already half comprehended it.
"If I am not mistaken," said I, "you have a child here, that has beensent you from California?"
"Yes," answered he, "one was brought to me from there, about four monthsago. I was told that it was my grandchild; and I received it as such."
"And have you also received a sum of money, that was to have beenintrusted to your care, for its benefit?" I asked.
"I have; and that was some proof to me that the child was really mygrandchild."
To this sage observation of the grocer, I replied, by making to him afull disclosure of my object in visiting Sydney; and that I had calledon himself to learn, if possible, something concerning my own mother.
"You could not have come to a better place to obtain that information,"said he; "a woman calling herself Mrs Leary, and claiming to be thewife of the man who had been known here by the name of Mathews, callshere almost every day. If she be your mother, you will have nodifficulty in finding her: she is a dress-maker, and my wife can tellyou where she resides."
My task had proved much easier than I had any reason to expect; and Iwas now only impatient to obtain the address; and hasten to embrace mylong-lost mother.
"Do not be too fast," said the cautious Mr Davis. "Wait until you havelearnt something more. Let me ask you two or three questions. Do youknow how the man Mathews died?"
"Yes: I saw him die."
"Then you know for what reason he was put to death?"
"I do," was my answer. "And you--?"
"I too--alas! too certainly," rejoined Mr Davis in a sorrowful tone."But stay!" he continued, "I have something more to say to you, beforeyou see the woman who calls herself his wife, and whom you believe to beyour mother. She does not know that Mathews is dead. I did not wish itto go abroad, that my daughter had been murdered, and that the man withwhom she eloped had been hanged for the deed. Her running away with himwas sorrow and shame enough, without our acquaintances knowing any more.They think that my daughter died in a natural way; and that the manMathews, has merely sent the child back to us, that we might bring it upfor him. The woman, you think is your mother, believes this also; andthat Mathews is still alive, and will soon return. She seems to lovehim, more than she does her own life. I have informed you of this, sothat you may know how to act. She comes here often to see the child--because her husband was its father. She is a strange woman: for sheseems to love the little creature as though it was her own; and I haveno doubt would willingly take sole charge of it on herself, were we toallow her."
All this was strange information, and such as gave me exceeding pain.It was evident that my unfortunate mother had profited nothing by theexperience of the past. She was as much infatuated with Leary as ever--notwithstanding that he had again deserted her, after she had made avoyage of sixteen thousand miles to rejoin him!
I saw Mrs Davis and the young Leary. It was an interesting child--aboy, and bore no resemblance to the father, that I could perceive. Hadit done so, I should have hated it; and so did I declare myself in thepresence of its grandmother. In reply to this avowal, the old ladyinformed me that Mrs Leary and I held a different opinion upon thepoint of the child's resemblance: for she thought it a perfect image ofits father, and that was the reason why she was so dotingly fond of it!
"Thank God!" said the grandmother, "that I myself think as you do. No.The child has no resemblance to its unworthy father. I am happy inthinking, that in every feature of its face it is like its mother--myown unfortunate child. I could not love it were it not for that; butnow I don't know what I should do without it. God has surely sent usthis little creature, as some compensation for the loss we sustained bybeing deprived of our dear daughter!"
The grief of the bereaved mother could not be witnessed without pain;and leaving her with the child in her arms, I withdrew.
Volume Two, Chapter XV.
A MEETING WITH A LONG-LOST MOTHER.
From Mrs Davis I had obtained my mother's address; and I went at oncein search of the place.
Passing along the street, to which I had been directed, I saw a small,but neat-looking shop, with the words "_Mrs Leary, Milliner andDress-Maker_" painted over the door. I had journeyed far in search ofmy mother; I had just arrived from a long voyage--which it had takenthree ships to enable me to complete. The weariness of spirit, andimpatience caused by the delay, had been a source of much misery to me;but now that the object of my search was found--and there was nothingfurther to do than enter the house and greet my long-lost relatives--strange enough, I felt as if there was no more need for haste! Insteadof at once stepping into the house, I passed nearly an hour in thestreet--pacing up and down it, altogether undetermined how to act.
During that hour my thoughts were busy, both with the past and future:for I knew that in the interview I was about to hold with my mother,topics must come into our conversation of a peculiar kind, and such asrequired the most serious reflection on my part, before making myselfknown to her.
Should I make her acquainted with the ignominious termination of MrLeary's career; and by that means endeavour to put an end to her strangeinfatuation for him? If what Mrs Davis had told me regarding hershould turn out to be true, I almost felt as if I could no longer regardher as a mother. Indeed, when I reflected on her affection for such awretch as Leary, I could not help some risings of regret, that I shouldhave lost so much time, and endured so many hardships, in search of a
relative who could be guilty of such incurable folly.
Notwithstanding the time spent in pacing through the street, I coulddetermine on no definite course of action; and, at length, resolving tobe guided by circumstances, I stepped up to the house, and knocked atthe door.
It was opened by a young woman, about nineteen years of age.
I should not have known who she was, had I not expected to meetrelatives; but the girl was beautiful, and just such as I should haveexpected to find my sister Martha. My thoughts had so often dwelt uponmy little sister; that I had drawn in my mind an imaginary portrait ofher. Her blue eyes and bright hair, as well as the cast of hercountenance, and form of her features, had ever remained fresh andperfect in my memory. I had only to gaze on the young girl before me,refer to my mental picture of little Martha, remember that eleven yearshad passed since last I saw her, and be certain that I had found mysister.
I knew it was she; but I said nothing to make the recognition mutual. Isimply asked for Mrs Leary.
I was invited in; and requested to take a seat.
The apartment, into which I was conducted, seemed to be used as asitting-room as well as a shop; and from its general appearance I couldtell that my mother and sister were not doing a very flourishingbusiness. There was enough, however, to satisfy me, that they wereearning their living in a respectable manner.
To prevent being misunderstood, I will state, that, by a respectablemanner, I mean that they, to all appearance, were supporting themselvesby honest industry; and in my opinion there can be no greater evidence,that they were living a life that should command respect.
The young girl, without a suspicion of the character of her visitor,left me to summon the person for whom I had made inquiry; and in a fewminutes time, Mrs Leary herself entered from an adjoining room. I sawat a glance that she was the woman I remembered as _mother_!
The face appeared older and more careworn; but the features were thesame, that had lived so