The Two Sailor-Boys, A True Tale
by
NED BURTON LOSES HIS MOTHER, AND IS LEFT PENNILESS–WALKS TO PORTSMOUTH, AND IS DISHEARTENED–IS CHEERED, DIRECTED, AND HELPED BY OLD MOLL–GETS ON BOARD THE TRAINING SHIP–AND MAKES A FRIEND–BUT IS REJECTED FOR NOT BEING ABLE TO READ–COMFORTED BY BILL HUDSON–BILL’S SHIPMATES HELP NED TO FIELD LANE–BILL TAKES HIM THERE–HE IS KINDLY RECEIVED–IS MADE A SAILOR OF AT LAST.
On a miserable pallet bedstead, in a small attic of one of the meanest houses in the lowest portion of a provincial town in the south of England, a woman lay dying. The curtainless window and window–panes, stuffed with straw, the scanty patchwork covering to the bed, the single rickety chair, the unswept floor, the damp, mildewed walls, the door falling from its hinges, told of pinching poverty. On the opposite corner to the bedstead there was a heap of straw, to serve as another bed, and against the wall a much-battered sea-chest and an open basket, containing even now a few rotting oranges, some damaged tapes, and such articles as are vended by small hawkers. Standing by the bed-side was a lad with an intelligent, not ill-favoured, countenance, though sickly, and expressive of deep grief, as he gazed on the face of one who had ever been a kind mother to him, and from whom he now knew full well that he was to be parted for ever.
“Ned, my boy, I have done my best to keep myself and thee from the workhouse,” said the woman, trying to lift herself up on her arm, that she might the better see the lad. “It has been a hard struggle, but I have done it for thy father’s sake. He was a sailor, and would never have thought to see me come to this pass. Thou must be one, too, Ned. It’s a rough life, but better far than starving on shore. I’ve done little for thee, lad, but feed thee, and try to teach thee to be honest, as thy father was. Be honest, Ned, whatever ye do, for thy poor mother’s sake. But for thee, lad, I’d have left the weary world many a long year ago.”
“Oh, mother, mother, stay now–oh, do!” cried the lad. “Won’t the doctor help you–won’t the parson?”
“No, lad; no doctor, no parson, can keep me here. But I’d like to see the parson. Maybe he’d tell me about the place I’m going to; for it’s far off, I wot, and little I know of the road.”
“Oh, mother, I’ll run and fetch him.”
Just as Ned was going, the dying woman sunk down, exhausted with talking. “Don’t leave me, boy,” she faintly murmured; “it’s too late now. May God hear a widow’s prayer, and be merciful to you, and forgive me.”
Her voice sank–the last words were gasped out. Her son bent his head to hear her: he stood gazing at her face, expecting to hear her speak again. Gradually he became aware that he was alone in the world. His grief was too deep for tears. For hours he stood there, watching the face of the only being who had cared for him in the world; and then Ned Burton went out and did as she had before bade him, and, with the money she had hoarded up for the purpose, and that produced by the sale of the last few articles in the house, save his father’s sea-chest, obtained for her an humble funeral, truly, but not that of a pauper. Then, leaving the chest with a neighbour till he should return and claim it, he went forth penniless into the world to seek his fortune.
Ned Burton’s ambition was to be a sailor–not that he knew anything of the sea, except that his father had spent his life on it. His mother could not read or write, and, unable to instruct him or to pay for his instruction, being, indeed, too poor to do without the pittance his labours brought, she had allowed him to grow up in extreme ignorance– though, according to the faint light that was in her, she had taught him, to the best of her power, to do right. Still, poor Ned knew nothing of religion. He had never been taught even to pray. Thus, helpless and forlorn, he went forth to battle with the world. A neighbour had told him that big ships sailed from Portsmouth, so towards Portsmouth he bent his steps, inquiring his way as he went. A few of those who knew him, and had bought his mother’s oranges and bobbins, gave him a few pence, and filled his wallet with crusts of bread, and scraps of cheese and bacon, so that he had not to beg for food.