The Advance

"The Red Jacket."

"Joseph Bolton, thou art noted," said James Scott, one afternoon, to a lad of thirteen years, whom he detected in inking the nose of a sleeping schoolmate.

Scott was the teacher, many years ago, in New York, of the monthly meeting school in Pearl street, opposite Hague, and adjoining the ancient Quaker meeting-house. Before the two buildings ran a high brick wall broad enough for two boys to stand abreast on the top. But the side of the wall stood tall poplar trees, and grass grew up between the broad old flag-stones in the yard. By the school-house yard ran farther back than the meeting-house, and was paved with brick. The boys went up canopied steps to the second story, but the girls' school was on the first floor.

Joseph Bolton, though admonished by the teacher, was soon afterward guilty of blowing paper wadding, through a quill, point-blank at the head of school-monitor, and it did not so happen at this time that Providence favored those who sported the heaviest artillery. On the contrary, Friend Scott pounced upon the young cannoneer, dragged him from his seat, and ordered two of the larger boys to make an extempore ladder from the floor to the ventilator, which was done by placing on end one of the forms upon which the boys sat: the seats being separate answered the purpose of rounds to a ladder.

Joseph was soon separated from his brethren, and placed in durance vile, and I must say that that was no great punishment. He was put up into a clean cockloft where there were sundry old pamphlets, letters, and manuscripts; he was completely sheltered from the eyes of the master, and could amuse himself in any way he thought proper.

He opened the scuttle without difficulty, and let in the pleasant beams of a summer afternoon, while the aperture was so low that when he stood upright his head and shoulders were above the roof.

Joseph amused himself by rolling little paper balls down the slated roof for a while, and then he paused to examine the various objects which came within range of his vision.

The school-house stood on the brow of the hill, and the view from the open scuttle was extensive. The topmasts of vessels lying about the wharves about Roosevelt and James slip—for there were no steam ferries then—were distinctly visible.

Sailors could be seen at work on the rigging, on the yards, or engaged in scraping down the topmasts and top-gallantmasts.

The masts of a large brig, which seemed very near, engaged his attention; but he had not looked at them long before he was summoned to descend from his lofty quarters, as Scott was about to dismiss the school.

When he came down into the school-room, he was observed to be very pale, and he trembled excessively. I can well remember how he looked—the pallor of his cheeks, and the wildness of his eyes.

Some of the boys said he was scared, and one or two called him a coward. It was observed that James Scott never put him up in the cockloft again, but punished him with the ferule.

When Joseph arrived near man's estate, he took a fancy to go to sea. He made a voyage to India in a ship belonging to a firm much celebrated in those days. She lay at Roosevelt street wharf.

Our hero appears to have been followed by his usual bad fortune—that of giving offense to his superiors. They had not yet reached the Cape of Good Hope, when Joseph was condemned to be flogged before all hands. He had given mortal offense to the first mate of the ship, who insisted that it would be impossible for him to preserve discipline among the crew, if young Bolton was not punished.

Bolton was rather a favorite of the captain, but he could not resist the impetuous vengeance of the mate, and he gave orders accordingly that the youth should be seized up in the rigging.

The crew were assembled to witness the punishment, the young portion looking on with curiosity, and the old sailors hanging back and scowling at the preparations.

Everything being prepared, the mate drew near, flourishing the scourge in his hand, when the youth begged leave to whisper something in his private ear.

"It's no use," returned the officer; "it's too late to beg now; you've got to take it."

He drew back, and was about to give the first blow, when Bolton said, aloud:

"If you won't hear me privately, I shall speak before all these people."

The mate paused, and said:

"What if you do?—what then?"

"You wore a red jacket once," cried the youth.

The mate approached Bolton, and the latter whispered a few words in his ear.

The mate became deadly pale.

"What does he say?" demanded the captain, who had appeared to be singularly interested by the turn which affairs had taken.

"It's only some of his nonsense," returned the mate; "but I suppose I must let him off this time, as he has made an explanation."

"Well, well—what explanation?" demanded the captain.

"He says that when he sauced me, in the morning watch, he mistook me for Ben Lovell; and now I recollect that he did call me 'Ben,' though I was so mad that it had slipped my memory."

The old tars did not accept the explanation, and when Joseph met them at supper they asked him if the mate had reported his words correctly.

The youth colored, thrust out his lower lip, and ended by lifting his tin pot to his countenance.

No other reply could be got out of him. From that time forward it was observed that the first mate treated young Bolton with much kindness. He seemed to have forgotten entirely that the youth had formerly offended him, and that they owed each other a grudge.

How long this would have continued it is impossible to say, had not Bolton been lost overboard in a storm off the Cape.

There seemed to be something singular about the manner of Bolton's death.

The mate came to the forecastle and summoned all hands at midnight, or just before twelve o'clock.

"The watch is called," said Bolton, springing from his hammock and hastening on deck.

His watchmates followed more leisurely.

The ship was plunging badly, being sharp on a wind, and as they came up the spray flew all over them.

"Lay hold the jib-downhaul, here!" shouted the mate. "Where's Bolton? I just told him to
go to the helm."

"It's his helm," interrupted an old sailor.

"The watch isn't out," replied the mate.

In the meantime the sail was flapping, and two men ran out to stow it.

When a large portion of the sail had been taken off the ship, eight bells struck, and the larboard watch prepared to go below.

"Bolton isn't at the helm," said the mate to one of the sailors; "you will have to take it."

"But," objected the other, "it is his helm, and he ought to go there."

The mate gave a perceptible start, seemed, for a moment, confused, and said:

"Why, yes, of course—where can that fellow be?"

The second mate came up and took charge of the starboard watch, while the mate went below.

On hearing that Bolton was missing, the second mate ordered a strict search to be made for him.

"He's gone overboard, of course," said an old sailor.

"Why do you think so?"

"Because he was the first man on deck when Mr. B. called the watch."

"What! did Mr. B. call the watch?" demanded the second mate.

"Yes, sir."

"And Bolton came up first? I should think that Mr. B. must have seen him go overboard."

"Or heard him yell," added the tar.

No more was said at the time, but it was afterward a saying among the sailors that if Bolton had not been so great a favorite of the first mate they should have believed that the latter had thrown him overboard.

But what is the life of a friendless, unknown sailor? He was soon forgotten.

Forgotten! No—never to be forgotten by one man on board that ship, who, dying in a hospital some years afterward, acknowledged that he had thrown the unhappy youth into the sea.

"Why did you do so?" demanded the horrified nurse to whom he had confessed his crime.

"Because," was the answer, "he knew a great secret of mine. When a small schoolboy, he had seen me, from an open scuttle, on the topgallant yard of a brig in company with a seaman. He had seen us quarreling, and he had seen me knock poor Charley—for that was his name—off the yard. Charley's brains were dashed out when he struck the deck, and I swore before the coroner's jury that his fall was accidental.

"The knowledge of this secret saved Bolton from a flogging; but it was too dangerous a secret for me; it placed me in the power of this Bolton as long as he lived. I resolved to put him out of the way on the first opportunity, and, the better to conceal my purpose, I pretended to be very much his friend. After I threw him overboard I could hear his cries mingling with the shriek of the tempest, and I was much surprised that others did not hear them. Oh, I hear them now!" added he, falling back upon his pillow.

The wretched murderer immediately expired.

But for the red jacket which the mate wore, at the time of murdering "Charley," it is probable that Bolton would not have been sure of his man.—Wm. Comstock.