A son of "Old Ironsides"; the story of a boy on the United States frigate Constitution during the war of 1812, when she was "a whole navy"

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CHAPTER I “ Well, whereVe ye been? ”

“ After the cows, sir.”

“ An’ ain’t got ’em? ”

“ No, sir.”

“ Well, you march right back, an’ don’t you come back without ’em.”

The speaker was a farmer, in Byfield, who also was keeper of the town Poor Farm, and his words were addressed to John Heath, a boy of about twelve years, who seemed small for his age, be¬ cause of his ragged clothes and timid appearance. He had gone to drive the cows up from the pasture, which was quite a distance from the farm barn. Usually they were waiting at the bars, and were prompt to follow the lane to the barnyard, but this evening the cattle were not at the usual place when the boy went for them. They had found a gap in the fence, and were enjoying the forbidden pleas¬ ures of the rich grass of the hayfield; and as they were out of sight, the little fellow had returned to the farmhouse to tell of his fruitless search, and ask for assistance; but before he could make known his errand, the master of the Farm had ordered him to return to his task.

“ Now go.”

“ I sha’n’t,” said the boy, “ The cows are lost, and I don’t know where to look for them.”

“ Lost, be they? Well, you find ’em, an’ find ’em quick, an’ if you ain’t back with all of ’em before sunset I’ll whale ye within an inch of your worth¬ less life. Now go.”

The boy knew what that threat meant. He had been punished before, because of his wrongdoings, or what the master of the Farm considered wrong¬ doing, so he knew there was nothing for him to say or to do, but obey the order.

The boy had not known what it was to have a friend since his mother died some months before, during the winter. His mother had been obliged to seek help from the town because of his father’s death, and the loss of their home by fire. What was left of the property was taken for debts. The shame of the condition broke down the mother’s health; she struggled against her poverty until she was car¬ ried out of the world by a winter’s cold and fever. Then the orphan boy, placed in the Poor Farm by the neighbors, had found his life doubly hard, missing his parents, and being obliged to work as he never worked before. Formerly he could pour out his sorrows on his mother’s knee, but now none of the other inmates of the Farm took any interest in him, and they were more ready to tell tales of his doings than to show any friendliness. So, chok¬ ing back his tears, he turned and retraced his steps down the lane, in search of the straying cattle.

“ It’s strange how that boy never says more than he does,” remarked the hired man who acted as foreman for the farm. “ I’ve noticed that he spits out once, an’ then never says ‘ Aye, yes, or no ’, but just obeys orders.”

“ He knows well enough what he’ll ketch,” said the master, “ He is a good boy to work, but he’s ter¬ rible set, and when he gets his ugly up, he won’t say a word, even if I lick him. He’s just like his father.”

It was an early July evening in the year 1812. The sun was about half an hour high and the still¬ ness was beginning to be noticeable. The air was sweet with the breath of woods and fields, so a walk in the pasture in itself was not a hardship; but the burden of grief, loneliness, and vexation bore heavily on the lad, and the tears in his eyes hid from his sight the beauties of nature. He walked along the cow-path, thinking how his life had changed, and as he went deeper among the bushes in the pasture he turned and shook his fist in the direction of the farmhouse and the master.

“ I hate you, and I won’t find your old cows. I’ll i 4 A SON OF “OLD IRONSIDES”

never come back. I’ll run away, and you can find your cows yourself.”

The words came to his lips suddenly. He had thought of running away before the present mo¬ ment. Now he had said he would, and he would keep his promise to himself. He would run away, though he had never considered what it meant to run away from home, even such a poor home as the Town Farm. He had not thought of where he might go, or what he would do when he got there, so for the moment the thought appalled him with its tremendous possibilities. He was familiar with the immediate neighborhood, for he had heard the names of the adjoining towns frequently, and once he had been with his father to Newburyport, so he said, “ I’ll go to Newburyport, and earn my living.”

Then he thought that perhaps Newburyport would be one of the first places where the Farm master would look for him. That would not do, he must go farther away than that. “ I’ll go to Salem,” he said, “ and go to sea,” and immediately he started on his first journey into life.

John’s path down the pasture lane was leading him almost directly away from the turnpike, which led north toward Newburyport, and southward to Georgetown. He knew which way he wanted to go, for he remembered looking many times at the map of Massachusetts which hung in the farm¬ house, and he had seen that Salem was southward from Byfield. When he had been in school he had been taught to stand with his face to the north, and that brought his right hand toward the east and the rising sun, and his left hand toward the west and the setting sun; so his back would be toward the south.

He stopped, looked at the sun, which was then just over the low hills, and turned until his left hand was held out toward it, and he saw it over his shoulder. “ That’s the way I want to go,” said he, and he turned and began to work his way through the bushes in the direction which he thought would bring him to the turnpike.

Very soon he came to an open field, and there he saw the cows straying and feeding.

“ He’ll think I’m after ’em if he should see me,” he said to himself, and then he began to wade boldly into the tall grass as if to get beyond the cattle. The sun was now almost out of sight, and he could hear the conch-shell which was used to call the workers from the field to their meals.

“ I sha’n’t get much supper to-night; and I don’t know just when I shall, but I can eat checkerberry leaves; so I sha’n’t starve,” and he kept on toward the farther side of the field. In a few minutes he reached the fence, over which he climbed and then continued on his way toward the turnpike. He was not out of hearing of the farm, for again he heard the sound of the conch-shell.

“ I’ll bet he’s thinking I hear him. Well, I do, but I sha’n’t tell him so, for he won’t ask me,” and chuckling to himself, John kept bravely on through the woods, which were becoming gloomy in the twilight.

The turnpike was not far beyond, and in a few minutes John reached it, and began to walk as fast as he could in the direction he had chosen. It was a good road, and he wore shoes, although they were coarse and ungainly, for in those times shoes were homemade, or made by travelling cobblers, and they were strong and comfortable.

The Poor Farm was the last house for some dis¬ tance on this road, so John felt that he was safe for a while, and that they would look for him in the pasture and woods before looking elsewhere.

By walking and resting occasionally, he managed to keep awake and going. After a while he saw a guide-board at a fork in the road. He went to it, and the moonlight was sufficient for him to read: “ Salem 2 Miles.’’ Encouraged by this informa¬ tion he kept on his way, though he was feeling very tired. The moon was beginning to sink in the west, and there was a brightness in the eastern sky; the wind was coming from that direction, and he could feel the freshness of the sea in the air. So John decided to go on a little farther, until he found some place where he could hide away and sleep, and take chances on his safety.

A little way beyond, just over the wall near the road was a little shed-like building used as a hopkiln, where the farmer in the autumn cured his hops for the market. John turned aside, and climbing over the wall went in. The odor of the hops still lingered in the shed, though it was almost a year since they had been housed there. The shed was tight and cozy, and he was too tired to be par¬ ticular, so he lay down on the rough floor, with his arm for a pillow, and, made more drowsy by the odor of hops, he was soon asleep.

Meanwhile John’s absence was noted at Byfield. The cows had found themselves, and had come up to the bars at the end of the lane, where they stood bellowing to be let out. At last the hired man went over and, dropping the bars, drove the cows to the barn. There was no boy in sight or hearing, and when he reached the barn the master asked where John was. “ I can’t tell ye,” said the hired man. “ He wa’n’t with the cattle, so I drove ’em up. I didn’t hear him anywhere. Maybe he’s lost or hidin’.”

“ ‘ Hidin’,’ I guess,” said the master. “ He knows what he’ll get when he comes home, so he’s puttin’ if off as long as he can. I’ll give him a ‘ hidin’ ’ when I lay my hands on him! ” Then they went about the evening chores, and to supper.

Nine o’clock came, and no boy. The master closed the doors of the house, after going out and looking and listening. There was no sound of a calling child from anywhere in the gloom. The loss of a pauper was nothing to him, and he did not purpose to lose a night’s rest over this one gone. So saying, “ We’ll set the dog on him to-morrow,” he went in and went to bed.

John slept well in his rough quarters. He was used to being up with the birds, and in spite of his tired body and the long walk he had made during the night, he was wide awake by four o’clock, or just as the sun was beginning to show over the woods. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. “ I must travel if I’m going to get to Salem ahead of ’em,” said he, and though he was hungry, and now was in need of breakfast as well as a supper, he jumped up, shook himself, and started on the road again.

In less than an hour he could see the houses in Salem. In a little while he was in the streets. People were about their houses. He could smell breakfasts being prepared, and it made him more hungry. “ I guess I don’t get no breakfast this mornin’,” said he, though if he ever wanted one, it was now.

John walked along the streets in the direction where he thought the wharves might be. His mind was set on going to sea, and the sooner he reached the harbor, the better for his chances. He found that he was headed in the right direction, and in a few minutes he saw the masts of vessels, and heard the sound of the creak of the sheaves of the blocks in the tackle, as sailors were raising sails.

John sauntered down on the first wharf he came to. There were a number of small sailing vessels tied to the wharf; a fishing sloop, and two or three small schooners. One of them was loaded with bundles of shingles, which were piled so high on the deck that the crew walked on them as they went about their duties. They were overhauling the rigging and getting ready to cast off in order to begin their voyage.

On the end of the wharf was a pile of articles in¬ tended for the schooner. There was a big bag con¬ taining what seemed to be potatoes. This bag was divided into two parts by being tied in the middle. A bushel basket containing a quantity of provisions of different kinds, and a jug of molasses standing guard, promised good food; to which were added a pail of salt meat and a wooden firkin with a cover. The skipper of the schooner was standing down near the tiller, and was directing his crew of three men in their work of getting ready.

“ Here, boy,” he said to John, “ bear a hand and help get that stuff on board,” pointing to the bundles of food; and as he spoke a sailor on the deck-load of shingles swung a block with a hook on it so that John could catch it.

John started quickly and ran to catch the block as it swung over the wharf, and put the hook around the middle of the bag. The man on the schooner hauled in on the rope, and the bag rose up, swung off and aboard the vessel, when it was lowered to the shingle pile. The sailor then sent the block back to John, who hooked on the firkin, and so on until all was aboard.

“ Where’s Aunt Polly’s roll of cloth? ” asked the skipper of any one who might answer.

“ I do’no’,” said the man with the tackle.

“ You lubber; didn’t you bring it down? ”

“ No, I ain’t seen it. I ain’t been off the vessel this mornin’.”

“ By thunder!” exclaimed the skipper. “This won’t do. Here, Bill Whitcomb; do you know where Aunt Polly’s roll of cloth is? She’ll have forty fits if I don’t take it to Boston, this time, as I agreed. I missed it before, and she give me a tongue-lashin’ like I don’t want to ketch again. Where is it? ” cried the skipper to a man who put his head out of the little companionway in the fore¬ castle where a stove-funnel showed above the deck, and an odor of frying pork was noticeable.

“ What’s the matter; can’t ye hear? ”

“ Hey, what yer say, Captain Brock? ”

“ I want to know what’s become of Aunt Polly Smithwick’s roll of cloth I was goin’ to take to Boston.”

“ Oh, yes; sure enough. I left it up at the head * of the wharf so that I could lug the victuals down,” said Bill Whitcomb, who was doing duty as cook as well as sailor.

“ Well, boy, you seem fit in handy like; you run up to the head of the wharf, and see if you can find a roll of cloth, and bring it down here,” said the skipper.

John turned and hurried up the wharf. He did not quite know why he should be so ready to mind the orders of a man whom he had never seen before. He was his own master now, and no one was to give him orders. But the old habit of minding when he was told to do anything caused him to start at once.

Just then the thought came into John’s mind:

“ I’ll ask him to let me go to Boston with him,” and in the hope that this new-born desire would have a favorable answer, John ran to the head of the wharf, where, leaning against a pile of shingles, was a roll wrapped in a white cloth, carefully sewed. He took hold of it, and, though it was a good load for him, managed to get it on his shoulder and stag¬ ger down the wharf to the schooner.

The wharf seemed long, and the roll of cloth seemed to grow heavier at every step, but John struggled manfully with his load, and just as he was about to drop it to take breath and a new hold, he stopped at the end of the wharf and up-ended it off his shoulder.

“ Pretty good for a little feller. ’Twas a heavy load wa’n’t it? ” asked the skipper pleasantly. “ If I’d ’a’ known it was so heavy, I’d ’a’ sent Bill for it.” As he said this he grinned at the boy.

John was pleased and encouraged by the kindly way the skipper spoke, so he said as he wiped his face on his arm, “ I did it, all right. Want it on the ship? ”

“ Yes, we’ll take it on the 1 ship ’, I reckon,” said the skipper, and he laughed at John’s word for the schooner. The sailor who was handling the tackle put a small rope on the hook, and swung the block to John to send it aboard.

John never had been used to loading vessels with a tackle, and knew nothing of the bends and hitches used by sailors to fasten ropes, but he managed to get the rope around the middle of the roll, and slipped it on the hook as the weight drew it tight.

It rode safely, and was on the schooner in a moment.

“ You seem to be a handy boy; want to go to Bos¬ ton with us?” asked the skipper, and John was so surprised at the unexpected, but longed-for invita¬ tion, that he was hardly able to stammer, “ Y-y-yes, sir. I guess I do!”

“ Well, if your folks are willin’, an’ can get along > without you; run and tell ’em, and come right back. Say, you’re goin’ with Cap’n Brock.”

John hesitated. He hardly knew what to do or say. He knew he ought to tell the truth, but he was afraid if he did, the captain might not want a runaway boy.

“ Come, come, my boy! We can’t wait; we’re losin’ the tide. How long will it take ye to run home and ask yer folks? ”

“ Captain Brock, I-I ain’t got no folks,” stam¬ mered John, deciding to tell the truth.

“‘Ain’t got no folks’!” exclaimed Captain Brock. “ Who be ye, then, and where ye from? ” “ What ye doin’, all alone, ’round here? ”

“ I ran away from the Poor Farm. My father and mother are dead, and I ain’t got no one who cares about me. They didn’t treat me kind at the Poor Farm, so I ran away, and I ain’t goin’ back again. Please, Captain Brock, take me somewhere, so long as it’s away from here,” and John almost began to cry.

“ So ye be an orphan, and ran away from the Poor Farm. What Poor Farm? ” asked Captain Brock.

“ The Byfield one. I walked all night, and didn’t have anything to eat, and Pm hungry,” said John trying to speak without sobbing.

“ Well, well, boy,” said the Captain kindly, “ you’ve had a hard time, I guess. Here, cook! ” calling to the man in the cook’s little cuddy. “ Give this boy something to eat. He’s worked well for us, and he deserves a breakfast. There, boy; you go get something in your stomach, an’ when you feel better, we’ll talk about it. Run along.”

John needed no second invitation. He ran over the deck-load to the cook, who gave him a bucket to sit on, and filled a plate with some hash which smelt savory with onions; a piece of fish, and a great piece of corn bread. John sat down and took the food, eating it greedily.

“ Here, boy! ” cried the cook, “ Don’t eat so fast. That ain’t all the food there is. We’ve got some more. Eat slower, and it’ll do ye more good. Where’d ye come from? ”

John saw that he had another friend in the cook, so he told him.

“ Do you think I can go with you? I want to go to sea and be a sailor,” said the earnest boy.

“ Well, my boy,” replied the cook, as he gave John another piece of corn bread, “ that’s for Cap’n Brock to say. He’s a good man, and just, and if thar’s a chance, he’ll give it to ye. After you’ve eat, go and see him.”

When John went below, Captain Brock turned to the other man on deck, and said, “ I wonder if that boy’s tellin’ the truth. He appears truthful, and he knows how to work; took hold well. He ain’t the stuff to make into a pauper, and I don’t know but what I could get him a place on a ship for foreign parts, under a good captain who would treat him right. Think we better take him to Boston? ”

“Why not, Cap’n? The Poor Farm don’t need him, an’ we do. You ain’t robbin’ the cradle of any home hereabouts, an’ if you’re satisfied he tells the truth, nobody’ll be out anything but some food, an’ we’ve got enough of that.”

“ Here he comes. I’ll talk with him some more, and see if his story hangs together,” said Captain Brock.

“ Feel better, boy? ” asked the captain, kindly.

“Yes, sir, and I thank you for my breakfast.

Now, what can I do to pay for it? I ain’t got a penny.”

“ Oh, you paid for it by helpin’ us load. What’s your name? ”

“ John Heath, sir.”

“Well, Johnnie, are you sure you told me the truth about running away? ”

“ Yes, sir. I told you just as it was. They didn’t treat me right and when I had a chance to run away, I cut it. Please, Captain Brock, don’t let ’em come and ketch me. I shall die if I have to go back there again,” pleaded John.

“ Well, Johnnie,” said the captain. “ You seem to be a good worker, and as we’re short one hand, I’ll ship ye as a ‘ boy ’ for the v’yage to Boston. Then, if ye do well, and get on all right, I’ll see what can be done for ye to go to sea from Boston. How’s that? ”

“ Captain Brock, I thank you very much. Now what shall I do? ”

“You go ashore, Johnnie, and untie that rope. You can pull it out by the end, an’ throw it to me. Then, go an’ untie that other one,” said the captain, pointing to the hawsers that held the schooner to the wharf.

“ Yes, sir, but how’ll I get back on the ship? ”

“ Oh, we’ll hold the ‘ ship ’ long enough for you to jump aboard,” replied the captain, again smiling at John’s calling the schooner a “ ship.”

John acted promptly, and found it was easy to cast off the ropes. He ran to the other post and freed that rope, which was quickly drawn aboard. One of the men was holding the schooner by a boat hook on the cap-rail of the wharf, and as John jumped aboard, he released the hook and pushed against the wharf. As soon as the schooner began to move, he ran to help the other man haul up the sails, as the captain was at the tiller in the stern. As soon as the sails were up, the schooner felt the wind and gained headway. The skipper steered her carefully among other vessels, and in a few minutes she was moving out of the harbor.

John was in a new world. For the first time he was somewhere else than on solid ground. He never had stepped on a boat of any kind until this morning; and now he was on a big one, which was taking him away from the land, away from where he had lived, and for the moment he felt a home¬ sick sensation, and almost wished he had not left Byfield. Then he swallowed hard, and walked to where the captain was moving the tiller from side to side as he worked the schooner out toward the ocean.

“How do ye like it, Johnnie?” asked the Captain.

“ Captain Brock, I’m glad you let me come! ”

Chapter II The Voyage Of The Happy Day

It was an uneventful passage for the Happy Day from Salem to Boston, but for John it was the event of his life. The whole experience was most novel. He went about over the deck-load and saw every¬ thing that could be seen. Fortunately, the sea was quite smooth, the wind being light, but enough to keep the schooner moving ahead on a steady tack. The motion was so slight and regular that John had no sensations of seasickness, and when the cook pounded on a pan for dinner, John was as ready as any one.

“ Well, my boy,” said the skipper as the little crew sat down together in the little cuddy, “ how’s she headin’? ”

This was a new form of salutation to John, so he could only say, “ I don’t know what you mean, Captain.”

“ My boy; that was only a way sailor folk say, ‘ How are you gettin’ along ’. So I’ll ask ye that,” replied the skipper good-naturedly.

“ I guess I’m getting along all right, and I’ve been headin’ everywhere; all over the ship. I wish you’d tell me, Captain, what ‘ starboard ’ and ‘ larboard ’ mean, that I have heard the man at that wheel say so many times. I wondered if he was saying some kind of a sailor’s prayers,” said John in a most honest manner, not understanding, then, why the men at the table laughed at him.

“ Well, I’ll tell ye, boy,” said the skipper, “ that ain’t just such a prayer as the parson says in meetin’ on Sunday, but it means almost as much to a sailor, for those words mean how he should go. ‘ Star¬ board ’ means the right side of a vessel; and ‘ lar¬ board ’ means the left side. So if a man at the wheel is goin’ to steer the vessel in its course, he must watch the compass needle, and see that it does not point too much to starboard or larboard. So, when I tell him to put his helm to starboard, I mean for him to turn the wheel to the right, and that turns the rudder so that the vessel goes to the left, or the other way from what he turned the wheel. Do you understand? ”

“ Yes, sir, I think I can remember that.”

The Happy Day kept slipping along, and was making good headway; but the day was waning, and it was well into the afternoon before the little schooner sighted the islands at the entrance to Boston Harbor. By the time the harbor was reached it was toward sunset, but the skipper kept the schooner going on, for he wanted to get inside before he had to anchor for the night.

Before the sun had dropped in a great round red

VOYAGE OF THE u HAPPY DAY”

disk behind the blue hills in the west, the little schooner was well inside, and found a place to anchor in the lower harbor. The men shoved the anchor overboard, and John watched the cable run out until it stopped, as the anchor found a holding-place at the harbor bottom. Then they all went to supper, and by the time they had finished, it was dark enough to think of bed.

Captain Brock believed in “ early to bed, and early to rise,” so he said, “ Well, boys, I guess we better turn in, if we expect to make the wharf in good season to unload and get out by to-morrow night. Come, boy, I guess I can rig a place for you.” It was not long before the whole crew, with the exception of one man who was standing watch, were fast asleep.

John wondered what they were doing without him at Byfield, but it did not worry him. He knew that he was well away from that place, and was safe, so he was soon sleeping soundly; so soundly that he was slow in answering the skipper’s calls to him that it was morning, and time to get up.

The cook was getting breakfast, and the others were getting ready to make sail. John stumbled on deck, and the cook showed him a bucket of sparkling clean sea water for him to wash in. The salt water seemed to put life into John, and in a few minutes he was ready for whatever might come.

As soon as breakfast was out of the way, the sails were raised, the anchor pulled up by the windlass, and the little schooner began to gather way in the summer morning breeze.

As the Happy Day was making her way up Boston Harbor, John sat on the shingles forward, with the skipper, who was telling the man at the tiller how to steer. In the lower harbor, not a great way from where they had anchored for the night, but unseen until the morning light revealed her, was a warship, with two rows of dark cannon showing through her sides; one row from black ports in a broad white stripe which ran along her side; the other row above, among the rigging of the side. She was a frigate, and her masts were very high to John who never had seen a larger vessel than those in Salem harbor.