Chapter XIII: Captain Rhines and Dick Cameron

During the day they were occupied in discharging cargo, were tired at night, and turned in early to make up their sleep. But the night following the same company assembled again in the cabin of the Arthur.

"Now," said Captain Rhines, "for the crew."

"Ned and I are officers and crew," said Walter; "we can handle her."

"You could handle her in good weather, or in a gale of wind, if it gave you time, but you might lose your masts in a sudden squall; besides, you must have more than one in a watch. You must have a lookout, and you might have a scuffle to get Peterson. You must have two men, and a boy for a cook: one stout, reliable man, an able seaman, and an ordinary, or stout, smart boy, eighteen or nineteen. One of you may be sick, or washed overboard. However, there's time enough for that. I think I know where to find the able seaman."

A week after this Captain Rhines takes a walk to "Black Dog Alley."

"Where is Dick Cameron?" he inquired of the bar-keeper.

"On that bench," pointing to a wooden settee, on which lay Dick, drunk and sound asleep.

"Been out all night?"

"Ay."

"Got the 'horrors'?"

"Never has 'em; head's too hard."

"I suppose you had his advance."

"Yes."

"How much money has he left?"

"When his board is paid, Saturday night, he'll have three dollars and some cents left."

"Has he sold or pawned his clothes?"

"No. He has boarded with me, off and on, a good many years, and I never knew him to do that."

"Well, will you ask him to meet me at Washburn's at four o'clock this afternoon?"

"I will."

At the appointed time the captain found Dick on the spot.

"Dick, how many times, since we have been acquainted, have I told you that you was an out-and-out fool?"

"Shiver my limbs if I know, cap'n; mayhap as many times as there are yarns in the best bower cable."

"It has done a great deal of good. You are just the same old sixpence you were when you sailed with me, fifteen years ago."

"Well, cap'n, you take a little something when you have a mind. Why shouldn't an old sailor--that nobody cares anything about, and that's going to be thrown overboard when he's worn out, just like the cook's hot water and ashes--take his comfort while he can? I tell you, cap'n, you don't know anything about it. It ain't so easy to get clear of your shipmates. Here's mayhap half a dozen, or mayhap twenty-five of us, been on a long vige or a short vige. We come ashore; go to a boarding house. They treats me. Of course I must treat them. One glass brings on another, till we are all blind drunk."

"_Don't_ I know all about it? Haven't I been through it all? Wasn't I a sailor, before the mast, years and years?"

"Not such a sailor as Dick Cameron, poor, God-forsaken devil. When you got into port, you had something ahead. You had a good home, father, mother, brothers and sisters, way back in the bush, that you carried to sea with you in your heart. When you turned in, and when you turned out, they turned in and turned out with you. They were close by you all the while. When you was at the wheel, on the lookout, or walking the deck in the middle watch, they were there. When you got farther along you thought of that young wife, dutiful woman, the little children, the trees you had planted; and though, mayhap, your body was in Trieste, Antigua, or Calcutta, your heart was at home with the wife and the little ones. You could see their faces, hear the fire snap. The moment you got in, and the vessel was made fast, the grass didn't grow under your feet till you was at home. You didn't see anything else. You looked right over everything else to that home."

"That is true, Dick, every word of it."

"You see, cap'n, with all these shrouds, and head-stays, and back-stays to hold you up, you could take your liquor in moderation, and stop when you had enough. But here's old Dick comes ashore. He's no parents, no home; nothing but his shipmates. They go to a rum mill. He's a drunkard, they are drunkards, and you know the rest. I drew up a strong resolution this time. Before I come ashore, says I to myself, 'I'll take my glass in moderation, just as my old cap'n, Ben Rhines, used to, and not make a beast of myself.' But it all ended in smoke."

"I don't take my glass in moderation, Dick. I've knocked off; flung it all overboard. Ben has done the same. We don't drink, nor keep it in the house."

"That's a go, now! Slipped the cable, and let the end run out the hawse-hole?"

"Yes, Dick; and haven't buoyed the cable, neither."

"But what was the need of that? You never abused yourself with liquor. You could stop at the score."

"Ben begun it. You know John Strout, who was such a great friend of his."

"Was mate of the Leonidas?"

"The same. Well, he fell overboard drunk, after getting his liquor at Ben's house. Ben swore then that he'd never drink another drop, and he never has. I held out a good while; but at length I found I was making drunkards of the young folks by the wholesale. They had no idea of imitating old Uncle Yelf, who died drunk among the pigs; but they were going to do like Captain Rhines, who drank in moderation; and three fourths of them ended in becoming drunkards."

"This is all very fine for you, cap'n; but here's poor Dick comes ashore, goes into a boarding-house. If he don't drink, his shipmates tell him he's no part of a man. The landlord tells him, says he, 'Dick, you're a disgrace to the place. You're taking the shingles off the house, the shoes off my children's feet. You must drink for the good of the house.' I've no home to go to, no place to be decent in."

Our readers must recollect this was long before the era of "sailors' homes."

"Look here, my old web-foot," said the captain, bringing down his hand on Dick's shoulder with a force that would have made a less stalwart man wince; "you shall have a place to be decent in. You shall go home with me."

"_Go home with you_, cap'n! What could you do with such a rough customer as me? I should scare your family. You wouldn't try to make a farmer of an old shell-back. I might, perhaps, do something with horses, for my father carried the king's mail from Greenock; and, since I was knee high to a toad, I have been used to horses; but it's little old Dick knows about your horned cattle."

"I'll tell you what I want of you. Have you forgotten James Peterson, that used to go with me?"

"I never had any shipmate of that name that I knows of."

"Yes, you had. He was a negro. I used to hire him of his master. He was with us in the James Welch to Cadiz the time I had the big dog."

"I don't mind any nigger, only Flour."

"Well, it's _Flour_ I mean. His real name is Peterson."

"Ay, I mind him well, and liked him well."

"You know the blacks are free here at the north since the war."

"I've heard so. Then they are a mighty sight better off than the sailors."

"He went out of here to Martinique, with a great villain, in one of our vessels. I coaxed him to go, because it was hard to get a crew; and the rascal has sold him to a planter there. I am going to have him back."

"If you can get him."

"I shall get him."

"Why don't you get your government to demand him of the French government, if he's a citizen, and save the expense and trouble?"

"They have no government that amounts to anything. They don't like us because we won't go into a war with England on their account. Peterson might die of old age, and I likewise, before they could be got to move in the matter. Ben has got a vessel that sails like a witch; she has been repaired this winter past; we are going to put new rigging and a new suit of sails on her; and two of our boys have volunteered to take charge, and go after Peterson, and get him back by hook or by crook."

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to go home with me. You, myself, and Ben will cut and make the sails, rig and load her. You will live in my family, get all the salt junk and bad rum out of you, be amongst steady people, away from temptation, go out in the vessel with the boys, and, perhaps, a couple more of our young men; no rum, no landlords, no drunken shipmates. I'll give you better wages than you ever had in your life, because you shall have a share of the profits when the voyage is up. I'll build you a vessel; and, as you are no navigator, you shall coast along the shore in her, Captain Richard Cameron, marry some one of our good girls, and be a man. Is not there a chance to be decent? and do as I have done--let the liquor alone."

"God bless you, cap'n; will you do all that for old Dick?"

"I will, and there's my hand on it."

The seaman grasped the extended hand of his benefactor, exclaiming, "I'll do it, cap'n. Don't think the manhood is all so leached out of me by rum and bad company that I can't rally with such a motive as that."

"I don't want you to feel that the obligation is all on one side. It is not so. I know you, Richard Cameron, through and through; you are a cool, resolute, powerful, noble-hearted man. I never expected to meet you again; but I have always said, that, in a real trying time, you were worth any two men I ever had. I can't help thinking you have been sent to help me at this present time. You have had experience, and are seasoned to all climates and all kind of hardships, and you may have to throttle somebody."

"I don't profess to be much of a saint, cap'n; but, if there's any throttling to do, I am as good as the next one."

"Well, take your dunnage, and come right on board the brigantine. There's room enough and grub enough. You'll get acquainted with the boys, and be out of harm's way."

After listening to the story of Percival, the captain had written to his wife, recounting all the particulars. Such a commotion as it created in the quiet community of Pleasant Cove has rarely been seen. Peterson was known and liked by every one. The story, with all manner of additions and exaggerations, flew from mouth to mouth, increasing as it went, formed the staple of conversation at every fireside, and excited universal concern and indignation. It was asserted that he was compelled to work every day with a ball and chain fastened to his leg, and flogged till the blood ran. Persons who would hardly have spoken to him if they had met him on the street before his misfortune were outrageous at this violation of the rights of an American citizen. Any number of plans were devised; some were for bringing the matter before President Washington at once; others proposed to raise money to ransom him; but it was finally concluded to wait till Captain Rhines came home, who, no one doubted, would stir at once in the matter.

Sewall Lancaster expressed his willingness to go, and Captain Rhines gladly accepted him, as he was well acquainted in Martinique and with their trade; and, two days after the Arthur Brown was discharged, the captain, with the boys and seamen, started in a coaster for Pleasant Cove.

They found everything ripe and ready for their purpose. Lion Ben told the boys they were welcome to the schooner, and refused to receive a cent of remuneration.

The whole community rose up as one man to load her. Every household contributed its supply of butter, candles, and vegetables.

Captain Rhines said if they were going round to the plantations it was no use to carry fowl, as there were enough there; but they took a few to sell in St. Pierre, as everybody was eager to contribute something, and some who had nothing else could furnish fowls.

Twenty-five young men, with Charlie Bell at their head, went into his woods, cut down the trees, rolled them into the pond, floated them to the saw-mill, sawed them into joist, and framed the small houses. Others contributed money to buy locks, hinges, and nails.

The boys were not permitted to contribute a cent, it being agreed on all sides that whatever was made should be divided between the rescuers and Peterson's family. Captain Rhines had also brought with him in the coaster from Boston a large lot of spermaceti candles, which Arthur Brown, Mr. Welch, and the crew of the brigantine contributed.

I trust you will not think that Captain Rhines, Lion Ben, and the boys were idle amid all this commotion. You may believe this experienced seaman, and the boys, full of enthusiasm, made the Perseverance look saucy enough. Dick Cameron was in the right place now. As they sewed on the sails, he told yarns that excited as much laughter as wonder; for Dick, as our readers may suspect, was a jolly soul, and, as he was in agreeable company, had a clear conscience, was full of good resolutions and new-born hopes, a happier fellow you never saw. They grafted, hitched, and pointed every rope on board of her that admitted of it, even to the bucket-rope, and holy-stoned the deck till it was white as snow. Didn't they put the muslin on her--a bonnet on her jib for light winds, a lug foresail that trimmed way aft to the tiller-head, a squaresail that travelled on an up-and-down stay, and two gaff-topsails that set from the deck? These were all kites for light winds, and could be set or taken in very quick. I wish you could have seen her boat. The readers of the Elm Island Stories know very well that Charlie Bell was by no means slow as respected boat-building, and was a complete epitome of progress.

Just after they began to repair the Perseverance, his old father said to him one day, as they sat before the fire,--

"Charlie, they have a new fashion of building boats in France."

"How is that, father?"

"Why, instead of doing as you do, and getting natural crooks for timbers, they saw them out of a white-oak plank, or whatever kind of wood they make them of, put them into a steam-box, and bend them. They generally get natural crooks for stem, stern-post, and floor-timbers; but often they saw them out of plank, because timber is not so plenty there as here, and necessity has driven them to it."

"I see, father," said Charlie, "you could build two boats in that way while you were building one in our fashion."

Charlie instantly set to work, at odd jobs, to build a boat for the Perseverance that should take the fly off of everything. It was a labor of love, because he meant to make a present of it to Lion Ben, and felt all the enthusiasm naturally connected with new ideas.

He made the stem, stern-post, sharp-risers, and floor-timbers of apple tree, which takes a very good polish, and the other timbers from plank sawed out of small, second-growth white-oak butts, tough enough for ox-goads, and as blue as a whet-stone. The excellent quality of the wood enabled him to secure sufficient strength, and yet make them quite small and neat. She was planked with the best of cedar.

He then made a fancy rudder, fancy oars, mast, and boom, and painted her white to correspond. As she was small, Lion Ben made a shoulder-of-mutton sail for her, which shape brought the body of the sail low in the boat, enabling her to carry it much longer. She was just the prettiest, lightest thing imaginable; and she would streak it with a good breeze. After work at night, the boys did enjoy sailing in her. Pleasantly and swiftly did these days pass away. They hardly ate two meals in the same house; for they were universal favorites, and all wanted to have the boys at their houses, and it was only on Sabbath days that Walter spent the day at home.

Again he sat beside Charlie Bell in the old church, and had many a pleasant talk with him; but Walter was obliged to tell Charlie, that, although he had often thought of that moonlight talk by the brook, and how vividly, among the crumbling ruins of the old castle, the power of association recalled that conversation, he had complied with his request no farther than to repeat the Lord's Prayer with Ned then, and ever after when he retired to rest.

The Perseverance was now ready for sea; as Dick Cameron said, everything about her was ship-shape and Bristol fashion. Never did more good wishes and fervent prayers follow a craft than followed her, as, with a wholesale breeze, she weighed anchor, and went down the bay like a race-horse. Reluctantly the crowd of spectators left the heights from which they had watched her as she faded from view, and slowly sought their different places of abode.