CHAPTER IV.

ENGLISH SLAVES.

LIMEHOUSE HOLE in the last century was a place of some importance, for from this port wherries for Tilbury, Gravesend, and other places started with goods and passengers, to meet the larger vessels bound for distant shores.

A few weeks after the death of Eric's master, a party of weary, woe-begone travellers arrived at Limehouse Hole, under the charge of several gaolers, for they were all prisoners under sentence of transportation to His Majesty's plantations of America. Here they would be sold as slaves to the settlers—Englishmen, like themselves, who had gone out earlier from the mother country and settled there as farmers or traders, each growing richer and more independent every year.

But in this colony, where all were masters, there was one great and ever-growing want among them—servants, or slaves to do the harder and more menial work.

The native Indians were too wild and independent to be coaxed or driven into serving the conquerors of their land, and so the mother country found it cheap and convenient to send out every spring a few shiploads of thieves and beggars to be sold as slaves to the colonists; and this was a contingent from country gaols of those doomed to be sent out to America.

There were no very desperate characters among them, but a weary-looking, patient crowd of men and women, boys and girls, and among them our friend Eric, who had been condemned by the bench of justices to transportation as a beggar, that Summerleigh might not be troubled by him again.

His clothes were a little more ragged and dirty than when he was stable boy at The Magpie, but otherwise he was not much altered by his stay in prison, and he neither looked stupid nor vicious, as many of his companions did.

As they slowly passed along the landing stage on to the deck of the wherry, Eric noticed that a middle-aged woman stood near and looked hard at each as they passed. Something in her appearance and manner reminded him strangely of his mother, and he looked straight into the clear grey eyes as he passed; and then he hoped that she was going with them on their voyage, though why he should wish for this, he could not understand, for she did not look at all the kind of woman who would be likely to go either as prisoner or warder. But still, when he and his companions were driven to the other end of the vessel, he contrived to keep his eye upon her, and when at last the boat pushed oft, and he saw she had not returned to the shore, he felt as glad as though some good fortune had come to him.

Poor fellow! He had prayed and hoped to escape from this terrible doom. And that his prayers had not been answered in the way he had expected had made him question whether God did see and know all that happened to His children in this world, or whether the argument he heard in prison, that every man was left to fight for himself and do the best he could for himself, was not true after all.

He had reached this point, but could not quite give up all hope in God and His loving care; and now the sight of this woman's face and the tender look in her eyes made him lay hold of his old faith and hope with a tighter grip once more.

There was not much accommodation for the crowd of convicts on board the wherry, barely standing room for them, in fact, at the end where they were crowded together; but Eric, with hope revived once more, could look out how to help some of his fellow convicts worse off than himself. He had got a place on the outermost edge of the crowd, but there were two poor women close by who could scarcely stand from weakness and fatigue, and so he offered to give up his place to somebody that wanted it, if they would stand close, so as to make room for the women to sit down.

"One of 'em is your mother, I 'spose," said the man; but though he said this in a sneering tone, he contrived to make some of the others move so as to leave space for the women to sit down, and, as the rest could see over their heads if they sat at the side of the boat, this was also accorded them.

Eric did not know that his action had been noticed by any one, and was greatly surprised when one of the warders touched him on the shoulder and told him he was wanted. He was near the middle of the crowd then, and not sorry to get away from his close quarters, though what he could be wanted for he did not know, and rather dreaded to discover.

But, to his relief, he saw the woman he had noticed when he came on board watching for him as he struggled through the crowd, and the warder said, "You can try him if you like, but I must keep my eye upon him till I give him up to the captain of the vessel presently."

"Will you give me your word not to try to escape?" asked the woman, looking earnestly at Eric. "I think I may trust you," she added.

"I promise," said Eric, though he felt it somewhat hard to give it, for all along he had indulged the hope of being able to get away from this unjust imprisonment, and he supposed there would be some facility for this presently, and it was hard that he should thus be required to give up the last shred of hope, so far as this world was concerned. But having given his word he would never make the attempt now.

"I want you to help me with these poor people," she said, as they moved a little way from the edge of the crowd. "I saw you give up your place to those poor women, and I noticed you as you came on board. How old are you?"

"Fifteen next month, ma'am."

"Call me Sister Martin, for that is what I want to be to each one of you," said the woman, with a smile at the boy's look of wonder.

"You made me think of my mother," said Eric, the tears slowly filling his eyes as he spoke.

"Where is your mother?" asked Sister Martin. And she was going to add, "Why have you been sent here?" But the boy's answer arrested her attention too closely.

"My mother went home to our Father in heaven about a year ago," he replied.

"Can you say 'Our Father,' then?" asked she eagerly, laying her hand upon his shoulder, and drawing further from the crowd.

Eric hesitated for a moment. "I am not sure whether I can. I have thought He had forgotten me, or that there was no God. I could not tell which it was, and I have been very miserable."

"My poor boy, has life been so very hard for you, then? Had you no friends who could help you?"

"My only friend was thrown out of his gig and killed, and I believe some thought I had done it; for they called my mother a witch and a Methodist."

"But if she was a Methodist, surely the people called Methodists would have helped you?"

"But I would not have had their help," replied Eric, almost fiercely; "my mother was no Methodist, but a good woman who loved and served God, and taught me to believe that He was my Father, who would care for me and love me."

"And so He does, my boy. The sun does not fall out of the heavens or leave off shining when the clouds hide much of his brilliance. He shines through them and gives us light still, though we may not see his face, or be able to rejoice in the sunshine. So God our Father may be hidden from us for a time by the trouble and sorrow that we meet with by the way, but He does not cease to be our Father because we cannot hold to Him as firmly as before; and He does not cease to lead and guide us because the way is rough, and not the path we would like to take. So I think you may still say that God is your Father and Friend, my lad."

"Thank you. Did you know my mother?" asked Eric, happy tears shining in his eyes; for he had given up all hope of ever hearing such words again as those he had just been listening to.

"Why should you think I knew your mother?" asked Sister Martin in some surprise.

"Because my mother used to talk to me as you do, and I have never heard any one speak like that since she died."

"Perhaps not; but God's truth lies in many hearts, but it is mostly hidden from the world, too much hidden sometimes, and that is why some of us who are called Methodists have determined to speak out and tell other poor sinners the wonderful things God has done for us. It may be that some of the people you have met had this truth lying secure in their hearts, but it was no comfort or help to you, nor were they rejoiced to know that you too were a child of God, because you could not speak out the truth that was in you."

"I was afraid, after my master told me that if I spoke about God, people would say I was a Methodist; for you see they had said my mother was a witch, and that was just about the same thing."

"Oh no, it was not," said his friend, with a smile. "You will learn to know what Methodists are like before long. Now I want you to help me with these people. Some of them are hungry, I expect. When did you have your last meal?" she asked.

"Before we left the gaol, at five o'clock this morning."

"And now it is past twelve. You must be very hungry as well as the rest."

"Yes, but I can wait now; that talk has helped me more than anything else could." And indeed the boy's whole manner had changed during the few minutes that they had stood talking together.

"I have some bread here that I want you to help me give out to these poor people, and then some milk. But serve the women first," she added, as she filled his hands with huge slices of brown bread, and followed him with a basket filled with similar pieces.

"No scrambling, now," she said in a commanding tone, as a dozen hands were held out, and as many voices cried, "Give me a bit."

As she had surmised, Eric could slip in and out among the crowd quicker and better than she could, so that all were soon served with something like a meal; and when the last piece of bread was given out, she led the way to where a couple of cans, holding several gallons of milk, stood covered with a sack.

It required more care to serve out the tin pannikins of milk to each, but upon the whole, they were an orderly crowd, not more greedy than hungry men and women generally are; and when all had been served, she took Eric away and gave him a meal by himself, and as he ate, he told her something of his life in Summerleigh, and the cruel, narrow prejudice that had driven him away from the place.

"Where did you live before you went to this village?" asked the Methodist sister. "Had your mother no friends who could help you when she died?"

"I think we lived in London, but mother was ill there, and so we moved into the country, that she might get better. She did for a little while, and we were very happy, oh, so happy, until she told me one day that she would have to go away and leave me; but I must wait there until God sent somebody—some messenger to help me. I thought at first an angel would come and bring me what I wanted, or perhaps some of the birds out of the forest might bring me food, like the ravens took it to Elijah, but after a long time the landlord of The Magpie came and asked me to go and be stable boy at the inn, and I lived there nearly a year."

"And he was kind to you?" asked the woman.

"Oh yes, very kind; he would not care what people said about mother being a witch or a Methodist; he always took care that I had enough to eat, and plenty of clean hay to sleep in, and I could manage the rest for myself; only I was often puzzled to know whether I had done right—whether he was the messenger of God. Mother had not thought of him, I am sure, when she spoke to me about it."

"Perhaps not, but doubtless she had prayed to God to send help to you by one of His servants, but she left the choice of this servant to God Himself, knowing that He would choose more wisely than she could."

"Then you think the master of The Magpie was God's servant?" said Eric, with something like relief in his tone.

"Yes, he was undoubtedly called to do this service for you; and in doing this, he was doing God's service, though he might not know it or intend it; and in this way all the world can be made to do the will of God, though this is very different from consciously serving Him, as we have learned to do. Now I want to go and speak to the women, but you can sit at this end of the boat, and take charge of the things that are about here."

"Can I wash these?" he asked, pointing to the half-dozen pannikins that had been used in serving the milk; for he had learned while in The Magpie stables to wash every vessel after it had once been used.

"I see you are willing to be useful. Yes; one of the men will dip the water for you, and then you can wash the cans as well. They will go back in the wherry, but the pannikins we shall take with us on our voyage."

"Are you going all the way with us?" asked Eric, with a glad light in his eyes.

"Yes, my lad, I hope to be God's messenger to some of these poor people here. It is not the first time I have been out to the king's plantations of America, and if my life is spared, I hope it will not be the last. If we have a good voyage, I hope to make two journeys this year, for there is a great demand for slaves among the colonists, and the people are better off there than in our gaols."

"Then you do not think it is very dreadful to be a slave?" said Eric in some surprise.

"We will talk about that another time; I must go now," said his friend; and so he was left to wash his cans and pannikins, and afterwards to watch the green banks of the river as they slowly glided down with the tide, for there was little wind to fill their sail, or help them along; so that they could scarcely hope to reach Gravesend, where the vessel lay that was to take them across the Atlantic, until evening.

But Eric did not mind this. He could believe that this Sister Martin was God's messenger indeed, and his heart was at rest once more. He could believe that God cared for him, and was guiding him, though it might be by the rough way of slavery; still, if his Father saw that it would be best for him to travel by this road, then he would be content.

It was not until early in the evening that the large vessel was reached, and by that time everybody was hungry again, and there were no provisions on board the wherry for them; so that it was a cross, impatient crowd of convicts that were put on board the ship waiting to receive them; and Sister Martin knew that to get these fed and safely housed for the night must be her first care.

The government made no provision for the prisoners' comfort beyond finding them what was actually needful in the way of food and lodging, and the men and women themselves often preyed upon each other, for the want of some supervision—some care exercised for the protection of the weak against the tyranny of the strong.

To give this was not the chief object of these Methodist missionaries among these people, but they took the duty upon them very often, thus acting as stewardesses in the way of looking after the voyagers.

In this duty, Eric was of great service to Sister Martin, and after the first few days out, when the people began to get used to her, they were more willing than at first to listen to what she said. That she could tell them something of the country to which they were being sent; had seen it, and knew the condition of the slaves there, made them all the more willing to listen when she spoke of that other country to which all were journeying, and of the love of the Father and Friend who was willing to be their Guide thither.

To awaken something like hope in the hearts of these poor creatures was the task she set herself—hope in the Heavenly Father's love and care even for them; and that this transportation might not mean all the terrors they had dreamed of was the next step.

That they would be sold as slaves to the highest bidder without their own choice in the matter they knew very well, but beyond this they knew nothing of the probable conditions of life to which they would soon be bound.

But Sister Martin could give them some reassuring information about this. For the industrious, and those who were willing to work, life might not be so hard as in the old country. The colonists were Englishmen, and for their own sakes, if from no higher motive, were bound to provide their servants with such food, lodging and comforts as would keep them in health and ability to do their work.

The lazy and improvident were bound to find the life a hard one, for there was no room for beggars in a community where every one on entering was registered as belonging to a certain township, and carried a passport attesting the same. This was the settlers' protection against their slaves running away from them. Within the limit of the township to which he belonged, every man was free, but as soon as he got beyond the boundary, he must produce his passport, stating who he was, and where he belonged to, or he was taken off to the nearest gaol, where, if not claimed by his former master, he could be sold again; so that in getting away from one place the man would but be changing masters.

It was an outlook altogether better and more hopeful for those who did not mind working for their daily bread, and to Eric was a positive relief, especially when he heard that there were horses there as well as in England, and as he was used to them, he would probably be bought by somebody who wanted him to take care of them.