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Some years ago, half a dozen friends and myself visited
Greenwich Hospital. Our conductor was a weather-beaten middle-aged tar,
whose larboard glim had been douced since boyhood with the small-pox, and
his starboard fin was carried away by a chain shot. By the gold lace which
he sported on his chapeau, the sleeves of his coat, &c., he appeared to
hold the rank of boatswain in the college. He was a communicative old boy;
and we felt indebted to his civilities. He, however, spurned the idea of
being rewarded with money. "No, blow it!" he exclaimed, "not a tissey, not
a single brown—but a drop of grog, gemmen, if you please." So saying, he
led the way to a neighbouring tavern, and entrenched himself in a corner
of the parlour, with which he seemed intimately familiar. I placed myself
at his elbow with the intention of drawing from him some favourite yarn.
During the first glass he spoke only of the hospital; during the second,
he advanced to actions and bombardments; but, as he finished the third, as
if to induce us to call for a fourth, he said, "But it’s of no use talking
about battles and them sort of things; gemmen, by your leave, I’ll tell
you a bit of a story—it’s a story that has made many a brave fellow waste
his salt water; and, by the way, I may say it’s about a countryman of your
own, too—for Tom Beaumont was born in Newcastle, and he was a boy, man,
and mate, and master of a Shields collier, many a long day.
During our last scuffle with the Yankees, I was
master-gunner of as handsome a gun-brig as ever did credit to a dock-yard,
or deeped a keel in the water. Love ye, it would have done your eyes good
to have seen her skimming before the wind, and breasting the billows as
gently as a boy’s first kiss, which only touches the cheek, and that’s
all. Then we carried fourteen as pretty guns as ever drove a bullet
through a Frenchman’s timbers. Old Tom Beaumont—(God bless him!)—was our
commander, and a better soul never cracked a biscuit. He was a hardy
seaman to the backbone, an up-right and down-straight fear-nothing; but
the kindest-hearted fellow in the
world, for all that.
Well, gemmen, as I’m
saving—Tom (we always called him Tom, because we loved him) married young,
and, for two years he was the happiest dog alive. He had a wife as pretty
as an angel, and as good as himself; and a little rogue their son— the
very picture of his own face in a button—who was beginning to climb upon
his knee and pull his whiskers. Man alive couldn’t desire more—the very
scene might make a Dutchman dance, or a Russian happy. After two years
fair wind and weather, however, in all mortal reckoning it was reasonable
to except squalls. Beaumont had not then joined the navy in a regular way;
and at that period he found it necessary to proceed to America, where he
had entered into extensive mercantile speculations. Finding that he should
be compelled to remain there much longer than he dreamed of, he sent for
his wife and child. They sailed—but it proved a last voyage to a new
world. However, gemmen, it’s a voyage we must all take, from the admiral
down to the cabin boy—that’s one comfort; and may we, by the aid of a good
chart, steer clear of the enemy’s leashore and brimstone shoals! Poor
Tom’s inquiries were fruitless; no one ever heard of the vessel, and no
one ever doubted that all hands were as low as Davy Jones. It was like a
shot between wind and water to Beaumont; but he bore up after a way,
though it had shivered his mainsheet.
Well,. As I was
saying, it was during our last scuffle with the Yankees, more than twenty
years after Tom had lost his wife and child—we were returning with the
little brig from the West Indies, when I was roused in my hammock by a
bustle upon deck, and the cry of ‘A Yankee!’ I sprang up at the glorious
news, and through the clear moonlight perceived an impudent-looking lubber
bearing upon us full sail, and displaying American colours. ‘Haul to, my
lads!’ cried old Beaumont; let them smell powder for breakfast.’ Small
time was lost in obeying the order; for we were always in readiness for
welcome company. Twice they attempted to board us, but were driven back
for their kindness with some score of broken heads, and the loss of some
hundred American fingers. After two hours’ hard peppering, Beaumont,
seizing a lucky moment, ordered us to throw in a broadside. Every shot
told: the Yankee began to stagger, and in a few minutes gave evidence that
her swimming days were ended. ‘‘Vast firing!’ cried Beaumont; let us save
a brave enemy.’ He repeated the word enemy; and I heard him mutter ‘flesh
of our own flesh.’
The vessel was
riddled like the lid of a pepper-box, and sank so rapidly that we were
able to save only thirty of her crew. Their captain was among the number,
and a gallant looking youth he was; but in their last attempt to board us,
Beaumont had wounded him on the shoulder with his cutlass. The blood ran
down his arm, and poured from his fingers; yet the brave soul never
whispered it, nor made a wry face upon the matter, but stood and saw his
countrymen attended to. Nature, however, gave way, and he fell upon the
deck. Beaumont eagerly raised him in his arms, and conveyed him to his own
bed. On examining his wound, the surgeon took the portrait of a beautiful
lady from his breast, and handed it to the commander. Poor old Tom
gazed upon it for a moment—he started—he uttered a sudden scream—I thought
he had gone mad. ‘Do you remember that face?’ he exclaimed. How could I
forget it!—to have seen it once was to remember it a hundred years—it was
his wife’s! I won’t tire you with a long story," continued the narrator,
"for it’s all true, and no yarn.
For several days the
gallant young American lay delirious, as the doctor called it. But—I can’t
describe it to you, gemmen—had you seen poor old Tom, during all this
time! No, hang me, I can’t describe it! The youth also wore upon his
finger a diamond ring, upon which were inscribed the names of Beaumont and
his long-lost Eleanor. Flesh and blood could not stand the sight—there was
the old man keeping watch by the bedside, night and day, weeping like a
child, pacing the cabin floor, beating his breast—and sometimes snatching
the hand of the poor sufferer to his lips, and calling him his murdered
son, and himself the murderer. Then, he would doubt again, and doubt made
him worse. At length the doctor declared the invalid out of danger, and
said the commander might put to him any question he pleased. I wish I
could tell you this scene; but I can’t. However, there sat the full,
bursting hearted old boy, the big tears pouring down his cheeks, with the
hand of the young American in his; and, sobbing like a child, he inquired,
‘Were you born an American?’ The youth trembled—his heart filled, and he
wept, just like old Tom. ‘Alas!’ said he, ‘I know not; I have been
educated an American. I only know that I was saved by the good old man who
adoped me as his son, and who found me almost lifeless, in the arms of a
dying woman, on the raft of a deserted wreck, which the winds had driven
on shore. My unfortunate mother could only recommend me to his care, and
died.’
The very heart and
soul of the old tar wept. ‘And this portrait, and this ring?’ he
exclaimed, breathless, and shaking like a yacht in a hurricane. ‘The
portrait,’ replied the youth, ‘was a part of what my mother had saved from
the wreck, and, as I was told by my foster-father, is a likeness of
herself. The ring was taken from her finger, and from the engraving upon
it, I have borne the name of Beaumont.’ ‘My son!—my own Tom!’’ child of my
Eleanor!’ cried the happy old father, hugging him to his breast. Gemmen,
you can imagine the rest," said our one-armed companion; and, raising the
fourth glass to his lips, he added, "and by your permission here’s a
health to old Tom Beaumont, and his son, Heaven bless them!"
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