True Blue | Page 4

She was the wife of one of the boatswain's mates. Her companion,
Nancy Bolton, who was the wife of the sergeant of marines, was much
the same sort of person; indeed, it would not have done for the style of
life they had to lead, to have had too refined characters on board.
"Bless you, Freeborn--take care of the baby, of course we will!" added
Nancy, looking up from some occupation about which she had been
engaged. "We'll both be mothers to him, and all the ship's company will

act the part of a father to him. Never you fear that. As long as the old
ship holds together, he'll not want friends; nor after it, if there's one of
us alive. Set your mind at rest now."
"Yes, that we will, old ship," exclaimed Paul Pringle, taking Freeborn's
hand and wringing it warmly. "That's to say, if the little chap wants
more looking after than you can manage. But come along now. There's
no use staying here. Bet and Nancy will look after the child better than
we can, and you must turn in. Your hammock is the best place for you
now."
The gale at length ceased; the ship was put on her proper course for the
West Indies, whither she was bound; the sea went down, the clouds
cleared away, and the glorious sun came out and shone brightly over
the blue ocean. All the officers and men assembled on the upper deck,
and then near one of the middle ports was placed a coffin, covered with
the Union-Jack. There ought to have been a chaplain, but there was
none; and so the Captain came forward with a Prayer-book, and in an
impressive, feeling way, though not without difficulty, read the
beautiful burial service to be used at sea for a departed sister; and the
two women stood near the coffin, one holding a small infant; and there
stood William Freeborn, supported by Paul Pringle, for by himself he
could scarcely stand; and then slowly and carefully the coffin was
lowered into the waves, and as they closed over it, in the impulse of the
moment, the bereaved widower would have thrown himself after it, not
knowing what he was about, had not Paul Pringle held him back. Down
sank the coffin rapidly, and was hid to sight by the blue ocean--the
grave of many a brave sailor, and of thousands of the young, and fair,
and brave, and joyous, and of the proud and rich also, but never of a
more kind-hearted honest woman than was Molly Freeborn. So all on
board the Terrible declared, and assuredly they spoke the truth.
CHAPTER TWO.
Onward across the Atlantic, as fast as her broad spread of white canvas
filled by the wind could force her, glided the staunch old
"seventy-four," which bore our hero and his fortunes, though at that

time they did not look very prosperous; nor was he himself, it must be
acknowledged, held in much consideration except by his own father
and his two worthy nurses. His fare, too, was not of the most luxurious,
nor suited to his delicate appetite. Milk there was none; and the purser,
not expecting so juvenile an addition to the ship's company, had not
provided any in a preserved state,--indeed, in those days, it may be
doubted whether such an invention had been thought of,--while a
round-shot had carried off the head of the cow in the last action in
which the Terrible had been engaged. As she furnished fresh beef to the
ship's company, they would not have objected to a similar accident
happening again.
Poor Molly's child had, therefore, to be fed on flour and water, and
such slops as the doctor and the nurses could think of. They could not
have been unsuitable, for it throve wonderfully, and was pronounced by
all the ship's company as fine a child as ever was seen.
"Have you been and had a look at Molly Freeborn's baby?" asked Dick
Tarbrush of his messmate, Tom Buntline. "Do now, then. Such a pretty
young squeaker. Bless you, it'll do your heart good. He's quite a
hangel."
Similar remarks were made, one to the other, by the men; and one by
one, or sometimes a dozen of them together, would come into the
women's cabin to have a look at the baby, and then they would stand in
a circle round him, with their hands on their hips or behind them, afraid
to touch it, their pigtails stuck out as they bent down, their huge beards,
and whiskers, and pendent lovelocks forming a strong contrast to the
diminutive, delicate features of the infant, who might, notwithstanding,
one day be expected to grow up similar in all respects to one of them.
After the gale,