"He cast his bundle on his back, and went,
He knew not whither, nor for what intent;
So stole our vagrant from his warm retreat,
To rove a prowler, and be deemed a cheat."
INTRODUCTION
A truthful narrative, not a tale of fiction, is presented in the following chapters to our readers. All that the imagination has contributed to it has been the names of the actors,—true names having been withheld, lest, perhaps, friends might be grieved,—the filling up of the dialogues, in which, while thoughts and sentiments have been remembered, the verbiage that clothed them has been forgotten, and, in a few instances, the grouping together of incidents that actually occurred at wider intervals than here represented, for the sake of the unity of the story.
CHAPTER I
RODNEY UNHAPPY IN A GOOD HOME
IT was a lovely Sabbath morning in May, 1828, when two lads, the elder of whom was about sixteen years old, and the younger about fourteen, were wandering along the banks of a beautiful brook, called the Buttermilk Creek, in the immediate vicinity of the city of Albany, N. Y. Though there is no poetry in the name of this little stream, there is sweet music made by its rippling waters, as they rush rapidly along the shallow channel, fretting at the rocks that obstruct its course, and racing toward a precipice, down which it plunges, some thirty or forty feet, forming a light, feathery cascade; and then, as if exhausted by the leap, creeping sluggishly its little distance toward the broad Hudson. The white spray, churned out by the friction against the air, and flung perpetually upwards, suggested to our sires a name for this miniature Niagara; and, without any regard for romance or euphony, they called it Buttermilk Falls. It was a charming spot, notwithstanding its homely name, before the speculative spirit of progress—stern foe of Nature's beauties—had pushed the borders of the city close upon the tiny cataract, hewed down the pines upon its banks, and opened quarries among its rocks.
It was before this change had passed over the original wilderness, that the lads whom we have mentioned were strolling, in holy time, upon the banks of the little stream, above the falls.
"Rodney," said the elder of the boys, "suppose your mother finds out that you have run away from Sunday-school, this morning; what will she say to you?"
"Why, she will be very likely to punish me," said Rodney; "but you know I am used to it; and, though decidedly unpleasant, it does not grate on my nerves as it did a year or two ago. Van Dyke, my teacher, says I am hardened. But I would rather have a stroll here, and a flogging after it, than be shut up in school and church all day to escape it. I wish, Will, that mother was like your grandfather, and would let me do as I please on Sunday."
"Now that I am an apprentice," replied Will Manton, "and shut up in the shop all the week, it would be rather hard to prevent my having a little sport on Sunday. I think it is necessary to swallow a little fresh air on Sunday, to blow the sawdust out of my throat; and to have a game of ball occasionally, to keep my joints limber, for they get stiff leaning over the work-bench, shoving the jack-plane, and chiseling out mortices all the week."
"Well, Will, I, too, get very sick of work," replied the younger boy. "I do not think I ever shall like it. When I am roused up early in the morning, and go into the shop, and look at the tools, and think that, all day long, I must stand and pull leather strands, while other boys can go free, and take their sport, and swim, or fish, or hunt, or play, just as they please, it makes me feel like running away. Now, here am I, a little more than fourteen years old; and must I spend seven years in a dirty shop, with the prospect of hard work all my life? It makes my heart sick to think of it."
The boys threw themselves upon the ground, under the shade of a large pine, and, reclining against its trunk, remained some minutes without uttering a word. At length, William Manton, whose thoughts had evidently been running in the channel opened by the last remarks of Rodney, said,
"I have often thought of it."
"Thought of what, Will?"
"Of running away."
"Where could you go? What could you do? How could you live?" were the quick, eager inquiries of Rodney.
"Three questions at once is worse than the catechism," was the laughing response; "but, though I never learned the answers out of a book, yet I have them by heart. I will tell you what I have thought about the matter. You know Captain Ryan?—he was in our shop last week, and was telling how he came to be a sailor. He said that his uncle, with whom he lived when he was a boy, promised him a beating, one day, for some mischief he had done; and, as he had often felt before that his lashes were not light, he ran off, went on board a ship as a cabin-boy, learned to handle sails and ropes, and, after five or six voyages, was made mate of a ship; and now he is a captain. I have been thinking about it ever since. Now, if I could get a place in a ship, I would go in a minute. I am sure travelling over the world must be pleasanter than spending a life in one place; and pulling a rope is easier work than pushing a plane."
Rodney sprang up from his reclining posture, looked straight in his companion's face for a moment, and exclaimed, "That would be glorious! How I should like to go to London, to Canton, to Holland, where the old folks came from,—to travel all over the world! But,"—and he leaned back against the tree again as he spoke,—"but it is of no use to think about it; mother would not consent, and nobody would help me; no ship would take me. I suppose I must pull away at the leather all my life." He spoke bitterly, and leaned his face upon his hands; and, between his fingers, the tears were seen slowly trickling. In truth, he had no taste or inclination for the trade to which he was forced. If the bias of his own mind had been consulted, he might have been contented in some employment adapted to his nature.
"Bah, Rodney, don't be a baby!" was the jeering expostulation of Will Manton, when he saw the tears; "crying never got a fellow out of a scrape. I believe it is easy enough done. If we could only get off to New York, they say that boys are so much wanted on ships, that the captains take them without asking many questions."
"Do you think so?"
"Don't you think it is worth a trial?"
"But I should have to leave my mother, and grandmother, and sister, and all."
"Of course; you would not want to take them with you, would you?"
"But I could not tell them I was going. I should have to steal away without their knowledge."
"You could write to them when you started."
"I might never see them again."
"You are as likely to live and come back as Captain Ryan was."
"But they would feel so much hurt, if I should run away."
Will Manton curled his lip into a sneer, and said, scornfully, "Why, Rodney, I didn't think you was so much of a baby. You are a more faint-hearted chicken than I thought you."
"Well, Will, the thought of it frightens me. I have a good mother and a good grandmother; and, though they make me learn a trade I hate, yet I do not think I should dare to run away."
"Well, you poor mouse-heart, stay at home, then, and tie yourself to your mamma's apron-strings!" was the reply. "Do as you please; but, I tell you,—and I trust the secret to you, and hope you won't blow it,—I have made up my mind to go to sea."
"Will you run away?"
"Indeed I will."
"When?"
"Why should I tell you, if you will not go with me?"
"Well, I want to be off with you, but how can I?"
"Easy enough. But I will see you to-morrow night, and we will talk it over. It is time to go home."
"I must see Dick Vanderpool, and find out where the text was, so that I can tell the old folks."
CHAPTER II
REVOLVING AND RESOLVING
CONVERSATIONS similar to those recorded in the last chapter, were frequently