Peter the Whaler   By: William Henry Giles Kingston (1814-1880)

Peter's father is a country vicar in Ireland, and Peter is a naughty teenager, who has got in with friends who encourage poaching, at that time a most serious offence. His father confiscates the gun, but one night Peter recovers the gun and has another coaching expedition, during which he is caught by the gamekeepers. The magistrate releases him to his father, who travels with him to Liverpool. For fifteen pounds Captain Swales of the BLACK SWAN agrees to take him and to teach him the rudiments of seamanship on a return voyage to Canada. It turned out she was an ill managed emigrant ship, and the emigrants were very badly treated. Captain Swales and his officers are as nasty as they come. There is a fire on board, and the people are rescued by the MARY, Captain Dean, who is a very different kind of man than the despicable Captain Swales. At Quebec Peter joins the FOAM, Captain Hawk. There then follows a series of events, some good, and some bad, but all well written.

It must be remembered that Peter the Whaler was probably the first seafaring book by Kingston, although he had written several books during the previous twenty years or so, The book was very well received by the public, and Kingston took up writing adventure novels for teenagers as a permanent occupation, until his death about thirty years later.

PETER THE WHALER, BY W.H.G. KINGSTON.

CHAPTER ONE.

"Peter," said my father, with a stern look, though the tone of his voice had more of sorrow in it than anger, "this conduct, if you persist in it, will bring ruin on you, and grief and shame on my head and to your mother's heart. Look there, boy, and answer me: Are not those presumptive evidences of your guilt? Where did they come from?" He pointed, as he spoke, to several head of game, pheasants, partridges, and hares, which lay on the ground, while I stood before him leaning on my gun, my eyes not daring to meet his, which I knew were fixed on me. My two dogs crouched at my feet, looking as if they also were culprits and fully comprehended the tenor of his words.

My father was a clergyman, the vicar of a large parish in the south of Ireland, where the events I am now narrating took place. He was a tall man, with silvery locks and well formed features. I think his hair was prematurely grey. The expression of his countenance was grave, and betokened firmness and decision, though his general character was mild in the extreme. He was a kind parent, in some respects too kind; and he was very indulgent towards the faults and errors of those not immediately connected with him. He was on good terms with the Roman Catholics of the neighbourhood, of which faith were the large majority of the population, and even with the priests; so that our family had few enemies, and were never in any way molested by the peasantry.

That, however, we had some foes, I shall have occasion presently to show. But I must return to the scene I was describing. I may be pardoned for first giving a slight sketch of myself. I hope that I may escape being accused of vanity, as I shall not dwell on my personal appearance. I believe that I inherited some of my parents' good looks; but the hardships I have endured have eradicated all traces of them. I was well grown for my age (I was barely fifteen), but, dressed in my loose shooting costume, my countenance ruddy with fresh air and exercise, I looked much older.