62. CHAPTER LXII.
THE LAST THAT WAS EVER HEARD OF HARRY BOLTON.
That same afternoon, I took my comrade down to the
Battery; and we sat on one of the benches, under the summer
shade of the trees.
It was a quiet, beautiful scene; full of promenading ladies
and gentlemen; and through the foliage, so fresh and bright,
we looked out over the bay, varied with glancing ships; and
then, we looked down to our boots; and thought what a
fine world it would be, if we only had a little money to
enjoy it. But that's the everlasting rub—oh, who can cure
an empty pocket?
“I have no doubt, Goodwell will take care of you, Harry,”
said I, “he's a fine, good-hearted fellow; and will do his
best for you, I know.”
“No doubt of it,” said Harry, looking hopeless.
“And I need not tell you, Harry, how sorry I am to
leave you so soon.”
“And I am sorry enough myself,” said Harry, looking
very sincere.
“But I will be soon back again, I doubt not,” said I.
“Perhaps so,” said Harry, shaking his head. “How far
is it off?”
“Only a hundred and eighty miles,” said I.
“A hundred and eighty miles!” said Harry, drawing the
words out like an endless ribbon. “Why, I couldn't walk
that in a month.”
“Now, my dear friend,” said I, “Take my advice, and
while I am gone, keep up a stout heart; never despair, and
all will be well.”
But notwithstanding all I could say to encourage him,
Harry felt so bad, that nothing would do, but a rush to a
neighboring bar, where we both gulped down a glass of
ginger-pop; after which we felt better.
He accompanied me to the steamboat, that was to carry
me homeward; he stuck close to my side, till she was about
to put off; then, standing on the wharf, he shook me by the
hand, till we almost counteracted the play of the paddles;
and at last, with a mutual jerk at the arm-pits, we parted.
I never saw Harry again.
I pass over the reception I met with at home; how I
plunged into embraces, long and loving:—I pass over this;
and will conclude my first voyage by relating all I know of
what overtook Harry Bolton.
Circumstances beyond my control, detained me at home
for several weeks; during which, I wrote to my friend,
without receiving an answer.
I then wrote to young Goodwell, who returned me the
following letter, now spread before me.
“Dear Redburn:—Your poor friend, Harry, I can
not find any where. After you left, he called upon me
several times, and we walked out together; and my interest
in him increased every day. But you don't know how
dull are the times here, and what multitudes of young men,
well qualified, are seeking employment in counting-houses.
I did my best; but could not get Harry a place. However,
I cheered him. But he grew more and more melancholy,
and at last told me, that he had sold all his clothes
but those on his back to pay his board. I offered to loan
him a few dollars, but he would not receive them. I called
upon him two or three times after this, but he was not in;
at last, his landlady told me that he had permanently left
her house the very day before. Upon my questioning her
closely, as to where he had gone, she answered, that she
did not know, but from certain hints that had dropped
from our poor friend, she feared he had gone on a whaling
voyage. I at once went to the offices in South-street,
where men are shipped for the Nantucket whalers, and
made inquiries among them; but without success. And
this, I am heartily grieved to say, is all I know of our
friend. I can not believe that his melancholy could bring
him to the insanity of throwing himself away in a whaler;
and I still think, that he must be somewhere in the city.
You must come down yourself, and help me seek him out.”
This letter gave me a dreadful shock. Remembering
our adventure in London, and his conduct there; remembering
how liable he was to yield to the most sudden, crazy,
and contrary impulses; and that, as a friendless, penniless
foreigner in New York, he must have had the most terrible
incitements to committing violence upon himself; I shuddered
to think, that even now, while I thought of him, he
might no more be living. So strong was this impression at
the time, that I quickly glanced over the papers to see if
there were any accounts of suicides, or drowned persons
floating in the harbor of New York.
I now made all the haste I could to the seaport, but
though I sought him all over, no tidings whatever could be
heard.
To relieve my anxiety, Goodwell endeavored to assure
me, that Harry must indeed have departed on a whaling
voyage. But remembering his bitter experience on board
of the Highlander, and more than all, his nervousness about
going aloft, it seemed next to impossible.
At last I was forced to give him up.
Years after this, I found myself a sailor in the Pacific,
on board of a whaler. One day at sea, we spoke another
whaler, and the boat's crew that boarded our vessel, came
forward among us to have a little sea-chat, as is always
customary upon such occasions.
Among the strangers was an Englishman, who had
shipped in his vessel at Callao, for the cruise. In the
course of conversation, he made allusion to the fact, that
he had now been in the Pacific several years, and that the
good craft Huntress of Nantucket had had the honor of
originally bringing him round upon that side of the globe.
I asked him why he had abandoned her; he answered that
she was the most unlucky of ships.
“We had hardly been out three months,” said he, “when
on the Brazil banks we lost a boat's crew, chasing a whale
after sundown; and next day lost a poor little fellow, a
countryman of mine, who had never entered the boats; he
fell over the side, and was jammed between the ship, and a
whale, while we were cutting the fish in. Poor fellow, he
had a hard time of it, from the beginning; he was a gentleman's
son, and when you could coax him to it, he sang like
a bird.”
“What was his name?” said I, trembling with expectation;
“what kind of eyes did he have? what was the color
of his hair?”
“Harry Bolton was not your brother?” cried the stranger,
starting.
Harry Bolton! it was even he!
But yet, I, Wellingborough Redburn, chance to survive,
after having passed through far more perilous scenes than
any narrated in this, My First Voyage—which here I end.
THE END.
