Peter Trawl | Page 8

pulled aboard the Dartmouth, forty-two gun frigate, just
come in from the Mediterranean. Several of the men had been
shipmates with father, and all those belonging to Portsmouth knew
mother. They were very glad to see her, and she had to answer
questions of all sorts about their friends on shore. It is the business of a
bumboat-woman to know everything going forward, what ships are
likely to be commissioned, the characters of the captains and officers,
when they are to sail, and where they are going to. Among so many
friends mother drove a brisker trade than usual, and when the men
heard that I was Jack Trawl's son they gave me many a bright shilling

and sixpence, and kind pats on the head with their broad palms. "He's a
chip of the old block, no doubt about that, missus," cried one. "He'll
make a smart young topman one of these days," said another. Several
gave her commissions to execute, and many sent messages to friends
on shore. Altogether, when she left the frigate she was in better spirits
than she had been for a long time.
Scarcely had we shoved off, however, when down came the rain in
torrents, well-nigh wetting us through.
"It's blowing plaguey hard, missus," observed old Tom, as he tugged
away at the oars, I helping him while mother steered. "I hope as how
we shall find your good man safe ashore when we gets in."
On reaching the Hard the wherry was not to be seen. After old Tom had
made fast the boat, wet as she was mother waited and waited in the
hopes that father would come in. Old Tom remained also. He seemed
more than usually anxious. We all stood with our hands shielding our
eyes as we looked down the harbour to try and make out the wherry,
but the driving rain greatly limited our view.
"Hast seen anything of Jack Trawl's wherry?" asked old Tom over and
over again of the men in the different boats, as they came in under their
mizens and foresails. The same answer was returned by all.
"Maybe he got a fare at Spithead for Gosport and will be coming across
soon, or he's gone ashore at the Point with some one's luggage,"
observed old Tom, trying to keep up mother's spirits; but that was a
hard matter to do, for the wind blew stronger and stronger. A few
vessels could be seen, under close-reefed canvas, running up the
harbour for shelter, but we could nowhere perceive a single boat under
sail. Still old Tom continued to suggest all sorts of reasons why father
had not come back. Perhaps he had been detained on board the ship at
Spithead to which he took the gentleman, and seeing the heavy weather
coming on would remain till it moderated. Mother clung to this notion
when hour after hour went by and she had given up all expectation of
seeing father that evening. Still she could not tear herself from the Hard.
Suddenly she remembered me.

"You must be getting wet, Peter," she said. "Run home, my child, and
tell Nancy to give you your tea and then to get supper ready. Father and
I will be coming soon, I hope."
I lingered, unwilling to leave her.
"Won't you come yourself, mother?" I asked.
"I'll wait a bit longer," she answered. "Go, Peter, go; do as I bid you."
"You'd better go home with Peter, missus," said old Tom. "You'll be
getting the rheumatics, I'm afraid. I'll stay and look out for your good
man."
I had never seen mother look as she did then, when she turned her face
for a moment to reply to the old man. She was as pale as death; her
voice sounded hoarse and hollow.
"I can't go just yet, Tom," she said.
I did not hear more, as, according to her bidding, I set off to run home.
I found Mary and Nancy wondering what had kept mother so long.
"Can anything have happened to father?" exclaimed Mary, when I told
her that mother was waiting for him.
"He has been a long time coming back from Spithead, and it's blowing
fearfully hard," I answered.
I saw Nancy clasp her hands and look upwards with an expression of
alarm on her countenance which frightened me. Her father and brother
had been lost some years before, crossing in a wherry from Ryde, and
her widowed mother had found it a hard matter to keep herself and her
children out of the workhouse. She said nothing, however, to Mary and
me, but I heard her sighing and whispering to herself, "What will poor
missus do? What will poor missus do?" She gave Mary and me our
suppers, and then persuaded us to go