The more I pondered these problems, the more distressed I grew. How would I manage? Oh, how I wished my sister, Charity, was about! She would have known what to do.
I plodded back to our house, thinking on Mrs. Grady’s words; if I were deemed an orphan, I would be taken up by the town magistrates and put into the children’s poorhouse. Already regretting I had told her of my situation, fearful of what might happen if she did tell anyone else, I was reluctant to share my circumstances with others. I also considered going to the Free School and asking Mr. Buffin to write a testimony as to my true age, but before I could make up my mind to do so I arrived home.
What I found was that although the seawater had drained away, a few shallow puddles remained on the first floor. There was mud everywhere as were shards of glass and pottery. Furniture was overturned and a briny, musty smell of the sea filled the air, a stench of decay and emptiness.
Oh, for my sister’s neatness!
I checked the food locker—it was in the first-floor parlor—where bread and cheese were normally stored. The bread was like an old, wet sponge, the cheese equally unappetizing. I found a withered apple, took a bite, only to spit it out. It tasted like seaweed. Moreover, since nothing makes one hungrier than a failed attempt at eating, I was now ravenous.
I set up one of the chairs, picked up some broken glass, and then wandered aimlessly into my father’s office yet again, as if somehow he might have returned. Of course, he had not.
As I stood there, I remembered something of great importance: Father kept a small money-box under his bed. Made of wood, leather-bound, it was always closed by means of a large padlock. Opening it was, of course, strictly against house laws, forbidden upon pain of severe punishment.
Surely, my father would not want me to starve. I had to eat something, and that meant purchasing something, which in turn required money.
Hesitating—to go against my father’s rules was not easy—I dropped to my knees, reached under the bed, and drew forth the box.
The first thing I observed was that the padlock was unfastened. Had my father left it open for me? Even then I paused to acknowledge that to turn back the lid might be the wrong thing to do.
Should I or should I not open the box?
Uncomfortable, but telling myself I must have some money to buy food so I could remain in the house, I threw back the lid and looked inside.
CHAPTER SEVEN
My Father’s Money-Box and What It Led To.
The box was empty.
One moment I was disappointed that there was nothing to take. The next I felt relieved that I could not take what was forbidden. Unfortunately, that did nothing to lessen my anxiety or hunger.
Unsoothed, I went back outside and picked up two chimney bricks and set them down neatly. As I gazed upon a forecourt full of debris, I was quickly overwhelmed by what I would have to do to put things right.
Suddenly wishing to get away from the house, I walked the two streets that brought me to the Weymouth Bay shore. It was a wide, sweeping curve of sandy beach, a place where my friends and I often played. Unfortunately none were there. No doubt they were attending to their injured homes.
As I stood there, foaming waves made a soft whooshing as the water flowed high only to retreat. Above, squawking seagulls flew by, while one or two walked along the beach edge, pecking at the sand. This sand was most often soft underfoot. That morning the storm’s pelting rain had made it hard and crusty.
Overhead, the sky was dull gray and a cold, damp breeze was coming in. The gray-blue sea stretched far, roiled with heaving, foam-crested waves. In the distance, the topmost sails of a ship moved slowly east, to London, perhaps. Where my father and sister were. To the south was the hooked Weymouth peninsula that protected the harbor. No one was there.
I felt abandoned and unaided.
At that moment I was sure there was nothing for me to do but wait for my father’s return—whenever that might be. Which is to say I could not leave Melcombe. I didn’t even consider it. Besides, I had no way to do so.
But as I gazed about I realized there was a trail of footsteps in the sand, leading eastward and westward. I even saw wagon-wheel ruts. The imprints were softened, suggesting they had been made when the storm was still in progress, or perhaps when it was weakening.
Not wanting to return to an empty house, having nothing better to do, and glad to have some purpose, though idle, I set off along the beach and followed the foot marks. I walked like an old man, eyes cast down, stepping slowly. As I went, my thoughts returned to what Mrs. Grady suggested: I would be sent to the poorhouse. The notion upset me greatly, enough to put my mind on how to avoid that.
It was only after I had walked along the beach for about a mile, thoroughly lost in my tangle of grievesome thoughts, that I looked up. To my surprise, something huge lay right before me.
At first, I was so taken aback I could not make out what I was seeing. Then I realized it was a ship lying on the beach. But oddly, which explains my lack of perception, she was careened over to one side. This is to say her deck was perpendicular to the beach, her keel completely exposed. I did see two masts, or rather, what remained of them, two splintered stumps. She was a brig.
A moment’s thought made it perfectly clear what had happened: the storm had snapped her masts and then flung the brig ashore. As for the many footprints that led directly to and from her, they meant one of two things: The crew had fled to town for safety. Or people from town had gone to the ship and looted her.
This was not unusual. Famously, when ships were wrecked near Melcombe Regis or Weymouth—or anywhere along the Dorset coast—they were ransacked by locals for anything of value. My father was often engaged in attempts to recover what had been stolen. Just as often, he was employed to protect those who had been falsely charged with looting. In such matters was the origin of his frequent clashes with the port’s customs master, Mr. Bartholomew.
It was because of my father’s work that I knew if there were survivors of a wreck, they had all rights to the ship and cargo, and no one should touch her. But if the ship had no survivors, what was called a “dead wreck,” people believed they could take what they fancied. That said, going upon a wrecked ship—even out of mere curiosity—was absolutely against the law.
Moving slowly, looking for signs of life, I drew closer to the vessel. Once alongside, she seemed large, old, and exceedingly weathered. When I circled about I saw a name across her stern, The Rose in June. She was then an English brig. More important, I saw no signs of life.
How long, I wondered, had the ship been on the beach? What happened to the crew? Had they drowned? Did any survive? Had they wandered off when the ship was washed ashore? Would anyone be back soon?
I saw a gaping hole on her hull, which apparently had been smashed in. This might have happened when tossed ashore. Or, it could have been made by looters, the easier to remove the cargo. That, I knew, was a hanging offence.
I circled back around. The brig was careened so far over that even while standing on the beach, I could see the entire deck.
“Hallo!” I shouted. There was no response.
The more I gazed at the deck, the more I realized that there was not one metal fitting remaining. Block and tackle, gone. At the helm of the ship, higher than the main deck, I could see the place where the steering wheel should have been attached. It, too, was gone.
It was easy to see what happened: the ship had been stripped bare of everything of value. The looters must have come early. Knowing the Crown official—Mr. Bartholomew—would not come to the ship until after the tempest, the looters probably came during the storm. Such gross theft also explained the wagon ruts: a cart would have been required to haul everything away.
Unable to restrain my curiosity, I reached up, and with ease, crawled over the gunnel and set myself on the deck planking. The brig was so lopsided I was able to stand upright upon the inner bulwark.
Amidships, which was over my head, I spied an open ha
tch. It would lead, I knew, to the hold, the cargo, and the crew’s quarters. Perhaps someone was down there in need of help. Let it also be admitted that it occurred to me that something of value may have been left.
As for what happened next, let me lead you through the sensibleness of my thought: If I had some money, or something of value, then I would not be considered poor. Not being poor, I would not be sent to the poorhouse. That would mean I could wait for my father to return. Finally, it was perfectly clear to me that other people had already taken things from the ship. Very well then: Why should I not do as much and thereby save myself?
Such was my logic.
I looked back toward town. No one was on the beach.
But what if—I did ask myself—the crew or other would-be looters came back? Surely, at some point Mr. Bartholomew would come out to claim the wreck. That was how the law did its work.
Should I go on her or not?
CHAPTER EIGHT
A Short Chapter with Long Consequences.
What harm, I told myself, could there be in merely inspecting The Rose in June? To be sure, not strictly legal—but I would do nothing beyond that. That much I swore to myself.
To get to that hatch I had to climb over the bulwarks, then pull myself upward. Happily, the caulking—the oakum stuffed between planks to make ships watertight—had sprung away, leaving gaps between the warped planking into which my fingers could take purchase.
When I reached the hatch, I drew myself yet higher until I could peer down inside. There was some light below, perhaps because of the hole in the hull. The light enabled me to see steps leading down. Because the ship lay so awkwardly, these steps extended directly out and away from me.
Let it be admitted: The more I peered, the more I desired to go below. Still, I vacillated. It was not merely dangerous; my legal apprenticeship had taught me something: to go any farther on an abandoned ship was prohibited. What if someone came along and I was discovered?
Against that possibility I admitted that if I found food, or money, it would be the saving of me, surely a good thing. The next moment I told myself that everything of value was probably taken.
Despite these contradictions, I hoisted myself higher even as I glanced back nervously along the beach, east and west. No one was visible. Convinced I was not observed, I swung my legs over the open hatch and inched forward, until my feet dangled. Then I moved up even farther, until I was sitting on the lip of the hatch, using one hand to hold on to the edge, so as to keep from descending too fast.
With a sudden snap, the wood I was clinging to broke away. Frantic, I tried to grasp something. It was too late. The weight of my body carried me down, so that I plummeted straight into the shadowy hold of The Rose in June.
CHAPTER NINE
In the Hold of The Rose in June, and What Happened There.
Down I tumbled, head over heels, topsy-turvy, until I landed on the outer bulwarks of the lower deck. I struck with such a jarring thump the air went from my body, the sight from my eyes. For some moments I lay still, my back hurting, my head muddled, and the stench of rotting fish so strong it made me want to retch.
To make matters worse, the ship lay so oddly it took time to orient myself. It did not help that the light was darkful. Such feeble illumination as there was came from the open hatch, as well as from the hole on the far side of the ship’s hull, above where I lay.
I was sprawled in such a way that I was facing the floor of the lower deck. Empty and broken wooden boxes, as well as staved-in barrels, had been tossed about. Nearby, two benches lay at odd angles. Before me was a table, but it must have been attached to the floor, because I was looking at its top surface. Of course, nothing was on it.
Off to my right, toward the ship’s stern, was a wall in which a door had been set. The door was attached to the frame by only one hinge, which left the door hanging skewed. This entryway appeared to lead to a cabin. Being at the helm, I supposed it must belong to the ship’s captain.
Opposite, toward the bow of the ship, was another wall, with yet another opening, but no door. That entry, I assumed, led to the fo’c’sle, the crew’s quarters.
As I gazed about, I saw a few dead, dull-eyed fish. The bareness of everything else proved what I already supposed: looters had been there and had completely stripped The Rose in June.
Even so, I did not move, but continued to remain where I had fallen. Mrs. Grady’s words, “You’ll be grateful for the poorhouse, which will take care of you with kindness,” flowed back into my head like a rising tide.
Perhaps, I thought, something of value had been left by the looters. Did I not advise you, in this book’s subtitle, that I would tell you of my follies? Well then, as I lay there, my fear of the poorhouse was greater than my fear of any punishment the law might inflict on me for looting.
I told myself this: I shall be quick and if I take anything, it shall be only of the smallest worth, just enough to keep me out of the poorhouse. What’s more, I made a solemn vow—hand on heart, eyes to Heaven—that when my father returned, I would return the worth of anything I took.
I beg you: put yourself in my circumstance. English law, as I often had heard my father say, was only about the protection of property. I was thinking about protecting myself. I had yet to experience the old saying: He who has suffered little, suffers most when little things happen.
I pushed myself into an upright position, so that I stood with my back against the inside bulwark of the ship. The possibility of finding anything valuable in the crew’s cabin was slight. So I moved step-by-step in the direction of what I assumed was the captain’s cabin, where I would most likely find something of substance. Since the entryway to the captain’s cabin was above my head, I had to grasp the door’s frame and haul myself up. Once my chin was over the frame I peered inside.
What I saw was a small table attached to the floor and a bed set into the wall, but nothing else. Cupboards, doors open, were bare. Closets had been stripped. Even bedclothes were gone.
Once again, I felt relieved, just as I had felt when opening my father’s money-box. With nothing to steal, I could not be a thief. Not being a thief, I considered myself full of virtue.
My thoughts now turned to getting away from the ship as fast as possible. Reversing myself, I started back to where I had first fallen and then tried to determine how I was going to climb back to the top deck.
No sooner had I decided that I would have to go out by way of the hole in the hull—no matter how awkwardly placed; it was above my head—when I heard voices. I had no idea what they were saying; enough to know that people were close to the ship, and therefore me.
Not wanting to be discovered, I glanced about, altogether agitated. I had been to the captain’s cabin and knew there was no place for me to hide there. My eyes turned forward, the crew’s quarters.
As fast as I could, I inched along the bulwark, until I came to the fo’c’sle’s opening. As before, I hauled myself up and peered into the crew’s cabin. All the while, I was hearing those voices drawing ever nearer.
Within the crew’s cabin, I saw a series of what appeared to be shelves, six of them, three on either bulwark, stacked one atop the other, with about three feet between them. I realized they were the berths, where the crew slept. When I saw that these berths were close together—rather like a bookcase—and that it was hard to see deep within them, I decided I’d found the perfect place to hide.
Those voices urged me on.
I hoisted myself up and crawled through the door. Once on the far side I let myself down. Trying desperately to go fast without noise, I reached the lowest berth, rolled into it, and fairly dropped down where it was most murky. There I lay, trying not to move while keeping the sounds of my breathing to a minimum.
The voices grew louder. Then came footsteps. Whoever the people were, they had come upon the ship. Were they the crew? Were they looters? For all I knew they might have been boys like me, even friends. But what if they were officials? Some
magistrate like Mr. Bartholomew, the Crown’s customs master?
In the end, I did not care who they were. Determined to outlast them, I remained still.
Gradually, my eyes grew accustomed to such light as there was. That’s when I realized there was something affixed to the wood directly above me. If the ship had been properly pitched, it would have been under whoever had been sleeping in the berth, perhaps beneath a thin mattress. It took me some time to determine what I was seeing: a folded packet of dark cloth.
Though it drew my intense interest, I dared not make motions to touch it, much less take it into hand, fearful I would attract attention by some sound, however slight.
After I am not sure how long, the footsteps and voices finally diminished until I was convinced that whoever had been on the ship had gone off. Only then did I allow myself to turn my thoughts back to the cloth packet.
Easy enough to reach up and touch it. Not so easy to pull free. It was tacked to the wood, meant to remain there. Nonetheless, I kept poking about, trying to gain a hold. As I worked, I told myself that the sailor whose packet this was most likely had drowned, and therefore had no need for whatever was there. Finally, I gained a grip, yanked, so the packet came free only to have it split apart and shower me with shillings.
First I was startled. Then I was elated: I would be able to take care of myself. I could stay in our house and await Father’s return. I could avoid the poorhouse.
No sooner did those happy ideas come into my head than the cautionary story my father so often told us also came—to wit, that nine-year-old boy who had stolen two pennies’ worth of paint and was hanged for his wrongdoing.
I counted the shillings. Some thirty shillings! A fortune!
Then I checked myself. I was about to take many shillings. Since each shilling was worth twelve pennies, by taking them I put myself in grave danger.