Nearly two weeks had passed since I left the Macedonian. I and my companion were living upon the sums I had saved from the presents I received for my civilities to her numerous visitors. One day, as I was sauntering round the wharves, with my protégé, I met a number of men-of-war’s men. Stepping up to them, I perceived some of the old Macedonians. Of course, I hailed them. They were glad to see me. They had shipped on board the John Adams, guard ship, to which they were returning, having been enjoying a few days’ liberty. Nothing would satisfy them, but for us to accompany them, and ship too. The midshipman who was with them, joined his entreaties to theirs, and we at last consented.
To avoid being detected by the British, it was usual for our men to assume new names, and to hail from some American port, on shipping in an American vessel. My shipmates advised me to do the same. To this I had some objections, because I knew that changing my name would not make me a Yankee, while it might bring me into as awkward a position as it did an Irishman, who was found by an English cruiser on board an American vessel. After he had declared himself an American, the officer asked him, “What part of America did you come from?”
“I used to belong to Philamadelph, but now I belong to Philama York,” replied Paddy, concealing his brogue as much as possible. “Well,” continued the officer, “can you say pease?”
“Pase, sir,” said Pat in true Irish style. The officer laughed and replied, “Mr. Pase, you will please to get into the boat.” The poor Irishman was unsuccessful in playing the Yankee.
Mentioning these fears, the midshipman said, “Call yourself William Harper, and hail from Philadelphia;” then turning to my companion, he added, “and call yourself James Wilson.”
“But,” said I, “suppose the officer should ask any questions about Philadelphia, what should I do?”
“O say you belong to Pine street.”
“But what if he asks me in what part of the city Pine street is situated, and what streets join it?” I answered, determined not to take a step in the dark if I could avoid it.
The midshipman assured me that no such questions would be put; and, partly confiding and partly doubting, I resolved to make the experiment. Going on board, we were paraded before the officers. Addressing me, one of them said, “Well, my boy, what is your name?”
Mustering all the confidence I could command, I boldly answered, “William Harper, sir.”
“What part of America do you belong to, my boy?”
“Philadelphia, sir.”
Here one of the officers smiled and remarked, “Ah, a townsman.” I trembled at hearing this, inwardly hoping that they would ask me no more questions. To my increased alarm, however, he continued by asking, “What street in Philadelphia?”
“Pine street, sir,” said I, with the air of a man who feels himself drawn toward a crisis he cannot escape.
“What street joins Pine street, my lad?” asked my tormentor, with a knowing laugh.
This was a poser; for further than this my instructions had not proceeded. However, I rallied the little confidence which remained, and said, “I don’t remember, sir.”
The officer who had claimed me as a townsman, mentioned the next street, and my examiner went on by asking me what street joined the one mentioned by the officer.
My colors, which had fallen to half-mast before, were now fairly struck. I had to surrender at discretion; but thinking to get off with the honors of war, I answered, “Gentlemen, it is so long since I was in Philadelphia, I have forgotten all about it.”
This point blank shot might have saved me, when, as if Providence had determined to make my attempt at lying a total failure, one of them detected a glittering anchor button, which had contrived to get rid of the covering placed over it by the fingers of the widow. Pointing it out to the others, he said, “Where did you get that English button? Did you pick it up in Philadelphia?”
This was a shot which raked me fore and aft. I hauled down my colors and stood silent. The officers laughed heartily as one of them said, “Go below, my lad; you will make a pretty good Yankee.”
Through all this procedure the reader will perceive how perfect was the disregard of truth among all parties, from my humble self to the officers, who were evidently rather pleased than otherwise at my attempt to pass for an American. Such an absence of moral rectitude is deplorable; it exhibits the unfitness of the parties for a mansion in His kingdom who is a God of truth: it lays the foundation for a mutual distrust and suspicion among men, and it leaves the offender to meet a fearful weight of responsibility in the day that shall try every man’s work. I am thankful that the influences of Christianity have fallen upon me since that time, in such abundance as to renew the spirit of my mind, and to fill me with abhorrence towards a violation of truth.
The next morning I and my companion, who had escaped the ordeal that had proved too much for me, were summoned to go ashore to the rendezvous, that we might sign the ship’s articles; or, in sailor phrase, get shipped. The officer of the watch shouted, “Boatswain’s mate!”
“Sir,” answered a deep, gruff voice.
“Pipe away the cutter,” said the officer.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Pass the word for James Wilson and William Harper.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Then followed a loud, shrill whistle, accompanied with the cry of, “Away, there, cutters, away!” We were also summoned to appear, and told to take our seats in the cutter, which by this time lay alongside, manned by her crew of six men, who sat each with his oar elevated in the air, waiting the word of command. We were soon seated, the lieutenant passed the words, “Let fall, and give way;” the oars fell into the water with admirable precision, and away we flew towards the shore.
On our way to the rendezvous, I told my companion I should not ship in the John Adams, because so many of the Macedonians were already there, and it was impossible for us to pass for Americans. After some debate, we agreed together not to sign the articles. On entering the house where the stars and stripes were flying over the door, in token of its being the naval rendezvous, being anxious to have my friend Wilson pass the ordeal first, I affected to stumble, and then continued apparently engaged in fixing my shoe-string. “Well, my boy, what is your name? Just sign it here, will you?” said the officer.
I took no notice, but remained very busy with my shoes. My shipmate replied in a low, bashful voice, “I don’t like to ship, sir.”
“Very well, then go below,” said the officer. At this juncture, feeling encouraged by his remark, I looked up; when, to my discomfiture, the officer, fixing his eyes on my retreating companion, observed, “That fellow will certainly be hung;” meaning that he would get caught by the English. Then, addressing me, he said, “Now, my lad, just sign your name.”
“Sir,” said I, “I had better not ship alone. The other boy is only frightened; let me talk to him a little, and I can persuade him to ship with me.”
The shipping officer was too old a bird to be snared with such chaff as this. So, speaking rather sharply, he said, “Let him go, sir, and ship yourself; then he’ll come back and join you; and”—he smiled as he spoke—“I will let you come ashore to persuade him, in a day or two.”
Still I pretended not to be convinced, and, after considerable debate, he let me off. Once more clear, I joined my young shipmate, and we proceeded together to our boarding-house, congratulating ourselves on our fortunate escape, as it appeared to us.
Two weeks of idleness had nearly exhausted the little stock of funds I had picked up on board my old ship, and it was becoming necessary for me to find some means or other of supporting myself; for although the prim widow, with whom I boarded, was quite obliging while her bills were paid, it was altogether probable that she would become a little crusty if they should be neglected. At this crisis I fortunately met with an Englishman, who had visited our frigate at Hurl-gate. His name was Smith; he was a deserter from the British army; but was now settled in New York, as a boot-maker, in the employment of the firm of Benton & Co., Broadway. He offered to take me and initiate me into the art, science and secrets of boot-making. Seeing no better opportunity before me, I accepted his kind offer, and at once entered on my novitiate.
Behold me then, kind reader, transformed from the character of a runaway British sailor, into that of a quiet scholar, at the feet of St. Crispin, where in the matter of awls, wax-ends, lapstones and pegs, I soon became quite proficient.
It is altogether probable that the rest of my life would have glided away in this still and quiet manner, but for a report that reached me, one Sabbath, as I was wasting its precious hours in wandering about among the shipping. This was, that there was a tall, stout seaman on board the United States, named George Turner. From the name and description, I had no doubt that this was my cousin, who (the reader has not forgotten I presume) presented himself so unceremoniously to my aunt at Wanstead.
This intelligence determined me to pay that frigate a visit. Going on board, I found her crew living in a complete Elysium of sensual enjoyment. They had recently received their prize money. Salt beef and pork were now rejected with disdain: Jack’s messkids smoked with more savory viands, such as soft tack (bread) and butter, fried eggs, sausages, &c.; the whole well soaked with copious streams of rum and brandy.
Those of the crew who had been in the Macedonian, hailed me with a hearty welcome; those for whom I had bought the turkey and apples at Christmas repaid me fourfol............