Pros.
Why, that’s my spirit!
But was not this nigh shore?
Ariel.
Close by, my master. Pros.
But are they, Ariel, safe?
Ariel.
Not a hair perished:
Tempest.
“D’ye here there, Mr. Mulford?”
called out Capt. Stephen Spike, of the half-rigged, brigantine
Swash, or Molly Swash, as was her registered name, to his mate—“we
shall be dropping out as soon as the tide makes, and I intend to
get through the Gate, at least, on the next flood. Waiting for a
wind in port is lubberly seamanship, for he that wants one should
go outside and look for it.”
This call was uttered from a
wharf of the renowned city of Manhattan, to one who was in the
trunk-cabin of a clipper-looking craft, of the name mentioned, and
on the deck of which not a soul was visible. Nor was the wharf,
though one of those wooden piers that line the arm of the sea that
is called the East River, such a spot as ordinarily presents itself
to the mind of the reader, or listener, when an allusion is made to
a wharf of that town which it is the fashion of the times to call
the Commercial Emporium of America—as if there might very well be
an emporium of any other character. The wharf in question had not a
single vessel of any sort lying at, or indeed very near it, with
the exception of the Molly Swash. As it actually stood on the
eastern side of the town, it is scarcely necessary to say that such
a wharf could only be found high up, and at a considerable distance
from the usual haunts of commerce. The brig lay more than a mile
above the Hook (Corlaer’s, of course, is meant—not Sandy Hook) and
quite near to the old Alms House—far above the ship-yards, in fact.
It was a solitary place for a vessel, in the midst of a crowd. The
grum top-chain voice of Captain Spike had nothing there to mingle
with, or interrupt its harsh tones, and it instantly brought on
deck Harry Mulford, the mate in question, apparently eager to
receive his orders.
“Did you hail, Captain Spike?”
called out the mate, a tight, well-grown, straight-built, handsome
sailor-lad of two or three-and-twenty—one full of health, strength
and manliness.
“Hail! If you call straining a
man’s throat until he’s hoarse, hailing, I believe I did. I flatter
myself, there is not a man north of Hatteras that can make himself
heard further in gale of wind than a certain gentleman who is to be
found within a foot of the spot where I stand. Yet, sir, I’ve been
hailing the Swash these five minutes, and thankful am I to find
some one at last who is on board to answer me.”
“What are your orders, Capt.
Spike?”
“To see all clear for a start as
soon as the flood makes. I shall go through the Gate on the next
young flood, and I hope you’ll have all the hands aboard in time. I
see two or three of them up at that Dutch beer-house, this moment,
and can tell’em; in plain language, if they come here with their
beer aboard them, they’ll have to go ashore again.”
“You have an uncommonly sober
crew, Capt. Spike,” answered the young man, with great calmness.
“During the whole time I have been with them, I have not seen a man
among them the least in the wind.”
“Well, I hope it will turn out
that I’ve an uncommonly sober mate in the bargain. Drunkenness I
abominate, Mr. Mulford, and I can tell you, short metre, that I
will not stand it.”
“May I inquire if you ever saw
me, the least in the world, under the influence of liquor, Capt.
Spike?” demanded the mate, rather than asked, with a very fixed
meaning in his manner.
“I keep no log-book of trifles,
Mr. Mulford, and cannot say. No man is the worse for bowsing out
his jib when off duty, though a drunkard’s a thing I despise. Well,
well— remember, sir, that the Molly Swash casts off on the young
flood, and that Rose Budd and the good lady, her aunt, take passage
in her, this v’y’ge.”
“Is it possible that you have
persuaded them into that, at last!” exclaimed the handsome
mate.
“Persuaded! It takes no great
persuasion, sir, to get the ladies to try their luck in that brig.
Lady Washington herself, if she was alive and disposed to a
sea-v’y’ge, might be glad of the chance. We’ve a ladies’ cabin, you
know, and it’s suitable that it should have some one to occupy it.
Old Mrs. Budd is a sensible woman, and takes time by the forelock.
Rose is ailin’—pulmonary they call it, I believe, and her aunt
wishes to try the sea for her constitution—”
“Rose Budd has no more of a
pulmonary constitution than I have myself,” interrupted the
mate.
“Well, that’s as people fancy.
You must know, Mr. Mulford, they’ve got all sorts of diseases
now-a-days, and all sorts of cures for’em. One sort of a cure for
consumption is what they tarm the Hyder-Ally—”
“I think you must mean
hydropathy, sir—”
“Well it’s something of the sort,
no matter what—but cold water is at the bottom of it, and they do
say it’s a good remedy. Now Rose’s aunt thinks if cold water is
what is wanted, there is no place where it can be so plenty as out
on the ocean. Sea-air is good, too, and by taking a v’y’ge her
niece will get both requisites together, and cheap.”
“Does Rose Budd think herself
consumptive, Capt. Spike?” asked Mulford, with interest.
“Not she—you know it will never
do to alarm a pulmonary, so Mrs. Budd has held her tongue carefully
on the subject before the young woman. Rose fancies that her aunt
is out
of sorts, and that the v’y’ge is
tried on her account—but the aunt, the cunning thing, knows all
about it.”
Mulford almost nauseated the
expression of his commander’s countenance while Spike uttered the
last words. At no time was that countenance very inviting, the
features being coarse and vulgar, while the color of the entire
face was of an ambiguous red, in which liquor and the seasons would
seem to be blended in very equal quantities. Such a countenance,
lighted up by a gleam of successful management, not to say with
hopes and wishes that it will hardly do to dwell on, could not but
be revolting to a youth of Harry Mulford’s generous feelings, and
most of all to one who entertained the sentiments which he was
quite conscious of entertaining for Rose Budd. The young man made
no reply, but turned his face toward the water, in order to conceal
the expression of disgust that he was sensible must be strongly
depicted on it.
The river, as the well-known arm
of the sea in which the Swash was lying is erroneously termed, was
just at that moment unusually clear of craft, and not a sail,
larger than that of a boat, was to be seen between the end of
Blackwell’s Island and Corlaer’s Hook, a distance of about a
league. This stagnation in the movement of the port, at that
particular point, was owing to the state of wind and tide. Of the
first, there was little more than a southerly air, while the last
was about two-thirds ebb. Nearly everything that was expected on
that tide, coast-wise, and by the way of the Sound, had already
arrived, and nothing could go eastward, with that light breeze and
under canvas, until the flood made. Of course it was different with
the steamers, who were paddling about like so many ducks, steering
in all directions, though mostly crossing and re-crossing at the
ferries. Just as Mulford turned away from his commander, however, a
large vessel of that class shoved her bows into the view, doubling
the Hook, and going eastward. The first glance at this vessel
sufficed to drive even Rose Budd momentarily out of the minds of
both master and mate, and to give a new current to their thoughts.
Spike had been on the point of walking up the wharf, but he now so
far changed his purpose as actually to jump on board of the brig
and spring up alongside of his mate, on the taffrail, in order to
get a better look at the steamer. Mulford, who loathed so much in
his commander, was actually glad of this, Spike’s rare merit as a
seaman forming a sort of attraction that held him, as it might be
against his own will, bound to his service.
“What will they do next, Harry?”
exclaimed the master, his manner and voice actually humanized, in
air and sound at least, by this unexpected view of something new in
his calling—“What will they do next?”
“I see no wheels, sir, nor any
movement in the water astern, as if she were a propeller,” returned
the young man.
“She’s an out-of-the-way sort of
a hussy! She’s a man-of-war, too—one of Uncle Sam’s new
efforts.”
“That can hardly be, sir. Uncle
Sam has but three steamers, of any size or force, now the Missouri
is burned; and yonder is one of them, lying at the Navy Yard, while
another is, or was lately, laid up at Boston. The third is in the
Gulf. This must be an entirely new vessel, if she belong to Uncle
Sam.”
“New! She’s as new as a Governor,
and they tell me they’ve got so now that they
choose five or six of them, up at
Albany, every fall. That craft is sea-going, Mr. Mulford, as any
one can tell at a glance. She’s none of your passenger-hoys.”
“That’s plain enough, sir—and
she’s armed. Perhaps she’s English, and they’ve brought her here
into this open spot to try some new machinery. Ay, ay! she’s about
to set her ensign to the navy men at the yard, and we shall see to
whom she belongs.”
A long, low, expressive whistle
from Spike succeeded this remark, the colours of the steamer going
up to the end of a gaff on the sternmost of her schooner-rigged
masts, just as Mulford ceased speaking. There was just air enough,
aided by the steamer’s motion, to open the bunting, and let the
spectators see the design. There were the stars and stripes, as
usual, but the last ran perpendicularly, instead of in a horizontal
direction.
“Revenue, by George!” exclaimed
the master, as soon as his breath was exhausted in the whistle.
“Who would have believed they could screw themselves up to doing
such a thing in that bloody service?”
“I now remember to have heard
that Uncle Sam was building some large steamers for the revenue
service, and, if I mistake not, with some new invention to get
along with, that is neither wheel nor propeller. This must be one
of these new craft, brought out here, into open water, just to try
her, sir.”
“You’re right, sir, you’re right.
As to the natur’ of the beast, you see her buntin’, and no honest
man can want more. If there’s anything I do hate, it is that flag,
with its unnat’ral stripes, up and down, instead of running in the
true old way. I have heard a lawyer say, that the revenue flag of
this country is onconstitutional, and that a vessel carrying it on
the high seas might be sent in for piracy.”
Although Harry Mulford was
neither Puffendorf, nor Grotius, he had too much common sense, and
too little prejudice in favour of even his own vocation, to swallow
such a theory, had fifty Cherry Street lawyers sworn to its
justice. A smile crossed his fine, firm- looking mouth, and
something very like a reflection of that smile, if smiles can be
reflected in one’s own countenance, gleamed in his fine, large,
dark eye.
“It would be somewhat singular,
Capt, Spike,” he said, “if a vessel belonging to any nation should
be seized as a pirate. The fact that she is national in character
would clear her.”
“Then let her carry a national
flag, and be d—d to her,” answered Spike fiercely. “I can show you
law for what I say, Mr. Mulford. The American flag has its stripes
fore and aft by law, and this chap carries his stripes
parpendic’lar. If I commanded a cruiser, and fell in with one of
these up and down gentry, blast me if I wouldn’t just send him into
port, and try the question in the old Alms-House.”
Mulford probably did not think it
worth while to argue the point any further, understanding the
dogmatism and stolidity of his commander too well to deem it
necessary. He preferred to turn to the consideration of the
qualities of the steamer in sight, a subject on which, as seamen,
they might better sympathize.
“That’s a droll-looking revenue
cutter, after all, Capt. Spike,” he said—“a craft better fitted to
go in a fleet, as a look-out vessel, than to chase a smuggler
in-shore.”
“And no goer in the bargain! I do
not see how she gets along, for she keeps all snug under water;
but, unless she can travel faster than she does just now, the Molly
Swash would soon lend her the Mother Carey’s Chickens of her own
wake to amuse her.”
“She has the tide against her,
just here, sir; no doubt she would do better in still water.”
Spike muttered something between
his teeth, and jumped down on deck, seemingly dismissing the
subject of the revenue entirely from his mind. His old, coarse,
authoritative manner returned, and he again spoke to his mate about
Rose Budd, her aunt, the “ladies’ cabin,” the “young flood,” and
“casting off,” as soon as the last made. Mulford listened
respectfully, though with a manifest distaste for the instructions
he was receiving. He knew his man, and a feeling of dark distrust
came over him, as he listened to his orders concerning the famous
accommodations he intended to give to Rose Budd and that “capital
old lady, her aunt;” his opinion of “the immense deal of good
sea-air and a v’y’ge would do Rose,” and how “comfortable they both
would be on board the Molly Swash.”
“I honour and respect, Mrs. Budd,
as my captain’s lady, you see, Mr. Mulford, and intend to treat her
accordin’ly. She knows it—and Rose knows it—and they both declare
they’d rather sail with me, since sail they must, than with any
other ship-master out of America.”
“You sailed once with Capt. Budd
yourself, I think I have heard you say, sir?”
“The old fellow brought me up. I
was with him from my tenth to my twentieth year, and then broke
adrift to see fashions. We all do that, you know, Mr. Mulford, when
we are young and ambitious, and my turn came as well as
another’s.”
“Capt. Budd must have been a good
deal older than his wife, sir, if you sailed with him when a boy,”
Mulford observed a little drily.
“Yes; I own to forty-eight,
though no one would think me more than five or six-and- thirty, to
look at me. There was a great difference between old Dick Budd and
his wife, as you say, he being about fifty, when he married, and
she less than twenty. Fifty is a good age for matrimony, in a man,
Mulford; as is twenty in a young woman.”
“Rose Budd is not yet nineteen, I
have heard her say,” returned the mate, with emphasis.
“Youngish, I will own, but that’s
a fault a liberal-minded man can overlook. Every day, too, will
lessen it. Well, look to the cabins, and see all clear for a start.
Josh will be down presently with a cart-load of stores, and you’ll
take ‘em aboard without delay.”
As Spike uttered this order, his
foot was on the plank-sheer of the bulwarks, in the act of passing
to the wharf again. On reaching the shore, he turned and looked
intently at the revenue steamer, and his lips moved, as if he were
secretly uttering maledictions on her. We say maledictions, as the
expression of his fierce ill-favoured countenance too plainly
showed that they could not be blessings. As for Mulford, there was
still something on his mind, and he followed to the gangway ladder
and ascended it, waiting for a moment when the mind of his
commander might be less occupied to speak. The opportunity soon
occurred, Spike having satisfied himself with the second look at
the steamer.
“I hope you don’t mean to sail
again without a second mate, Capt. Spike?” he said.
“I do though, I can tell you. I
hate Dickies—they are always in the way, and the captain
has to keep just as much of a
watch with one as without one.”
“That will depend on his quality.
You and I have both been Dickies in our time, sir; and my time was
not long ago.”
“Ay—ay—I know all about it—but
you didn’t stick to it long enough to get spoiled. I would have no
man aboard the Swash who made more than two v’y’ges as second
officer. As I want no spies aboard my craft, I’ll try it once more
without a Dicky.”
Saying this in a sufficiently
positive manner, Capt. Stephen Spike rolled up the wharf, much as a
ship goes off before the wind, now inclining to the right, and then
again to the left. The gait of the man would have proclaimed him a
sea-dog, to any one acquainted with that animal, as far as he could
be seen. The short squab figure, the arms bent nearly at right
angles at the elbow, and working like two fins with each roll of
the body, the stumpy, solid legs, with the feet looking in the line
of his course and kept wide apart, would all have contributed to
the making up of such an opinion. Accustomed as he was to this
beautiful sight, Harry Mulford kept his eyes riveted on the
retiring person of his commander, until it disappeared behind a
pile of lumber, waddling always in the direction of the more
thickly peopled parts of the town. Then he turned and gazed at the
steamer, which, by this time, had fairly passed the brig, and
seemed to be actually bound through the Gate. That steamer was
certainly a noble-looking craft, but our young man fancied she
struggled along through the water heavily. She might be quick at
need, but she did not promise as much by her present rate of
moving. Still, she was a noble-looking craft, and, as Mulford
descended to the deck again, he almost regretted he did not belong
to her; or, at least, to anything but the Molly Swash.
Two hours produced a sensible
change in and around that brigantine. Her people had all come back
to duty, and what was very remarkable among seafaring folk, sober
to a man. But, as has been said, Spike was a temperance man, as
respects all under his orders at least, if not strictly so in
practice himself. The crew of the Swash was large for a half-
rigged brig of only two hundred tons, but, as her spars were very
square, and all her gear as well as her mould seemed constructed
for speed, it was probable more hands than common were necessary to
work her with facility and expedition. After all, there were not
many persons to be enumerated among the “people of the Molly
Swash,” as they called themselves; not more than a dozen, including
those aft, as well as those forward. A peculiar feature of this
crew, however, was the circumstance that they were all middle- aged
men, with the exception of the mate, and all thorough-bred
sea-dogs. Even Josh, the cabin-boy, as he was called, was an old,
wrinkled, gray-headed negro, of near sixty. If the crew wanted a
little in the elasticity of youth, it possessed the steadiness and
experience of their time of life, every man appearing to know
exactly what to do, and when to do it. This, indeed, composed their
great merit; an advantage that Spike well knew how to
appreciate.
The stores had been brought
alongside of the brig in a cart, and were already showed in their
places. Josh had brushed and swept, until the ladies’ cabin could
be made no neater. This ladies’ cabin was a small apartment beneath
a trunk, which was, ingeniously enough, separated from the main
cabin by pantries and double doors. The arrangement was unusual,
and Spike had several times hinted that there was a history
connected with that cabin; though what the history was Mulford
never could induce him to relate. The latter
knew that the brig had been used
for a forced trade on the Spanish Main, and had heard something of
her deeds in bringing off specie, and proscribed persons, at
different epochs in the revolutions of that part of the world, and
he had always understood that her present commander and owner had
sailed in her, as mate, for many years before he had risen to his
present station. Now, all was regular in the way of records, bills
of sale, and other documents; Stephen Spike appearing in both the
capacities just named. The register proved that the brig had been
built as far back as the last English war, as a private cruiser,
but recent and extensive repairs had made her “better than new,” as
her owner insisted, and there was no question as to her
sea-worthiness. It is true the insurance offices blew upon her, and
would have nothing to do with a craft that had seen her two score
years and ten; but this gave none who belonged to her any concern,
inasmuch as they could scarcely have been underwritten in their
trade, let the age of the vessel be what it might. It was enough
for them that the brig was safe and exceedingly fast, insurances
never saving the lives of the people, whatever else might be their
advantages. With Mulford it was an additional recommendation, that
the Swash was usually thought to be of uncommonly just
proportions.
By half-past two, P. M.,
everything was ready for getting the brigantine under way. Her
fore-topsail—or foretawsail as Spike called it—was loose, the fasts
were singled, and a spring had been carried to a post in the wharf,
that was well forward of the starboard bow, and the brig’s head
turned to the southwest, or down the stream, and consequently
facing the young flood. Nothing seemed to connect the vessel with
the land but a broad gangway plank, to which Mulford had attached
life-lines, with more care than it is usual to meet with on board
of vessels employed in short voyages. The men stood about the decks
with their arms thrust into the bosoms of their shirts, and the
whole picture was one of silent, and possibly of somewhat uneasy
expectation. Nothing was said, however; Mulford walking the
quarter-deck alone, occasionally looking up the still little
tenanted streets of that quarter of the suburbs, as if to search
for a carriage. As for the revenue-steamer, she had long before
gone through the southern passage of Blackwell’s, steering for the
Gate.
“Dat’s dem, Mr. Mulford,” Josh at
length cried, from the look-out he had taken in a stern-port, where
he could see over the low bulwarks of the vessel. “Yes, dat’s dem,
sir. I know dat old gray horse dat carries his head so low and
sorrowful like, as a horse has a right to do dat has to drag a cab
about this big town. My eye! what a horse it is, sir!”
Josh was right, not only as to
the gray horse that carried his head “sorrowful like,” but as to
the cab and its contents. The vehicle was soon on the wharf, and in
its door soon appeared the short, sturdy figure of Capt. Spike,
backing out, much as a bear descends a tree. On top of the vehicle
were several light articles of female appliances, in the shape of
bandboxes, bags, &c., the trunks having previously arrived in a
cart. Well might that over- driven gray horse appear sorrowful, and
travel with a lowered head. The cab, when it gave up its contents,
discovered a load of no less than four persons besides the driver,
all of weight, and of dimensions in proportion, with the exception
of the pretty and youthful Rose Budd. Even she was plump, and of a
well-rounded person; though still light and slender. But her aunt
was a fair picture of a ship-master’s widow; solid, comfortable and
buxom. Neither was she old, nor ugly. On the contrary, her years
did not exceed forty, and being well preserved, in consequence of
never having been a mother, she might even have passed for
thirty-five. The great objection to her appearance was the somewhat
indefinite
character of her shape, which
seemed to blend too many of its charms into one. The fourth person,
in the fare, was Biddy Noon, the Irish servant and factotum of Mrs.
Budd, who was a pock-marked, red-faced, and red-armed single woman,
about her mistress’s own age and weight, though less stout to the
eye.
Of Rose we shall not stop to say
much here. Her deep-blue eye, which was equally spirited and
gentle, if one can use such contradictory terms, seemed alive with
interest and curiosity, running over the brig, the wharf, the arm
of the sea, the two islands, and all near her, including the
Alms-House, with such a devouring rapidity as might be expected in
a town-bred girl, who was setting out on her travels for the first
time. Let us be understood; we say town-bred, because such was the
fact; for Rose Budd had been both born and educated in Manhattan,
though we are far from wishing to be understood that she was either
very well-born, or highly educated. Her station in life may be
inferred from that of her aunt, and her education from her station.
Of the two, the last was, perhaps, a trifle the highest.
We have said that the fine blue
eye of Rose passed swiftly over the various objects near her, as
she alighted from the cab, and it naturally took in the form of
Harry Mulford, as he stood in the gangway, offering his arm to aid
her aunt and herself in passing the brig’s side. A smile of
recognition was exchanged between the young people, as their eyes
met, and the colour, which formed so bright a charm in Rose’s sweet
face, deepened, in a way to prove that that colour spoke with a
tongue and eloquence of its own. Nor was Mulford’s cheek mute on
the occasion, though he helped the hesitating, half-doubting,
half-bold girl along the plank with a steady hand and rigid
muscles. As for the aunt, as a captain’s widow, she had not felt it
necessary to betray any extraordinary emotions in ascending the
plank, unless, indeed, it might be those of delight on finding her
foot once more on the deck of a vessel!
Something of the same feeling
governed Biddy, too, for, as Mulford civilly extended his hand to
her also, she exclaimed—“No fear of me, Mr. Mate—I came from
Ireland by wather, and knows all about ships and brigs, I do. If
you could have seen the times we had, and the saas we crossed,
you’d not think it nadeful to say much to the likes iv me.”
Spike had tact enough to
understand he would be out of his element in assisting females
along that plank, and he was busy in sending what he called “the
old lady’s dunnage” on board, and in discharging the cabman. As
soon as this was done, he sprang into the main- channels, and
thence vid the bulwarks, on deck, ordering the plank to be hauled
aboard. A solitary labourer was paid a quarter to throw off the
fasts from the ring-bolts and posts, and everything was instantly
in motion to cast the brig loose. Work went on as if the vessel
were in haste, and it consequently went on with activity. Spike
bestirred himself, giving his orders in a way to denote he had been
long accustomed to exercise authority on the deck of a vessel, and
knew his calling to its minutiæ. The only ostensible difference
between his deportment to-day and on any ordinary occasion,
perhaps, was in the circumstance that he now seemed anxious to get
clear of the wharf, and that in a way which might have attracted
notice in any suspicious and attentive observer. It is possible
that such a one was not very distant, and that Spike was aware of
his presence, for a respectable-looking, well-dressed, middle-aged
man had come down one of the adjacent streets, to a spot within a
hundred yards of the wharf, and stood silently watching the
movements of the brig, as he
leaned against a fence. The want of houses in that quarter enabled
any person to see this stranger from the deck of the Swash, but no
one on board her seemed to regard him at all, unless it might be
the master.
“Come, bear a hand, my hearty,
and toss that bow-fast clear,” cried the captain, whose impatience
to be off seemed to increase as the time to do so approached nearer
and nearer. “Off with it, at once, and let her go.”
The man on the wharf threw the
turns of the hawser clear of the post, and the Swash was released
forward. A smaller line, for a spring, had been run some distance
along the wharves, ahead of the vessel, and brought in aft. Her
people clapped on this, and gave way to their craft, which, being
comparatively light, was easily moved, and was very manageable. As
this was done, the distant spectator who had been leaning on the
fence moved toward the wharf with a step a little quicker than
common. Almost at the same instant, a short, stout, sailor-like
looking little person, waddled down the nearest street, seeming to
be in somewhat of a hurry, and presently he joined the other
stranger, and appeared to enter into conversation with him;
pointing toward the Swash as he did so. All this time, both
continued to advance toward the wharf.
In the meanwhile, Spike and his
people were not idle. The tide did not run very strong near the
wharves and in the sort of a bight in which the vessel had lain;
but, such as it was, it soon took the brig on her inner bow, and
began to cast her head off shore. The people at the spring pulled
away with all their force, and got sufficient motion on their
vessel to overcome the tide, and to give the rudder an influence.
The latter was put hard a-starboard, and helped to cast the brig’s
head to the southward.
Down to this moment, the only
sail that was loose on board the Swash was the fore- topsail, as
mentioned. This still hung in the gear, but a hand had been sent
aloft to overhaul the buntlines and clewlines, and men were also at
the sheets. In a minute the sail was ready for hoisting. The Swash
carried a wapper of a fore-and-aft mainsail, and, what is more, it
was fitted with a standing gaff, for appearance in port. At sea,
Spike knew better than to trust to this arrangement; but in fine
weather, and close in with the land, he found it convenient to have
this sail haul out and brail like a ship’s spanker. As the gaff was
now aloft, it was only necessary to let go the brails to loosen
this broad sheet of canvas, and to clap on the out-hauler, to set
it. This was probably the reason why the brig was so
unceremoniously cast into the stream, without showing more of her
cloth. The jib and flying-jibs, however, did at that moment drop
beneath their booms, ready for hoisting.
Such was the state of things as
the two strangers came first upon the wharf. Spike was on the
taffrail, overhauling the main-sheet, and Mulford was near him,
casting the foretopsail braces from the pins, preparatory to
clapping on the halyards.
“I say, Mr. Mulford,” asked the
captain, “did you ever see either of them chaps afore?
These jokers on the wharf, I
mean.”
“Not to my recollection, sir,”
answered the mate, looking over the taffrail to examine the
parties. “The little one is a burster! The funniest-looking little
fat old fellow I’ve seen in many a day.”
“Ay, ay, them fat little
bursters, as you call ‘em, are sometimes full of the devil. I do
n’t like either of the chaps, and am right glad we are well cast,
before they got here.”
“I do not think either would be
likely to do us much harm, Capt. Spike.”
“There’s no knowing sir. The
biggest fellow looks as if he might lug out a silver oar at any
moment.”
“I believe the silver oar is no
longer used, in this country at least,” answered Mulford, smiling.
“And if it were, what have we to fear from it? I fancy the brig has
paid her reckoning.”
“She do n’t owe a cent, nor ever
shall for twenty-four hours after the bill is made out, while I own
her. They call me ready-money Stephen, round among the
ship-chandlers and caulkers. But I do n’t like them chaps, and what
I do n’t relish I never swallow, you know.”
“They ‘ll hardly try to get
aboard us, sir; you see we are quite clear of the wharf, and the
mainsail will take now, if we set it.”
Spike ordered the mate to clap on
the outhauler, and spread that broad sheet of canvas at once to the
little breeze there was. This was almost immediately done, when the
sail filled, and began to be felt on the movement of the vessel.
Still, that movement was very slow, the wind being so light, and
the vis inertioe of so large a body remaining to be overcome. The
brig receded from the wharf, almost in a line at right angles to
its face, inch by inch, as it might be, dropping slowly up with the
tide at the same time. Mulford now passed forward to set the jibs,
and to get the topsail on the craft, leaving Spike on the taffrail,
keenly eyeing the strangers, who, by this time, had got down nearly
to the end of the wharf, at the berth so lately occupied by the
Swash. That the captain was uneasy was evident enough, that feeling
being exhibited in his countenance, blended with a malignant
ferocity.
“Has that brig any pilot?” asked
the larger and better-looking of the two strangers. “What’s that to
you, friend?” demanded Spike, in return. “Have you a
Hell-Gate
branch?”
“I may have one, or I may not. It
is not usual for so large a craft to run the Gate without a
pilot.”
“Oh! my gentleman’s below,
brushing up his logarithms. We shall have him on deck to take his
departure before long, when I’ll let him know your kind inquiries
after his health.”
The man on the wharf seemed to be
familiar with this sort of sea-wit, and he made no answer, but
continued that close scrutiny of the brig, by turning his eyes in
all directions, now looking below, and now aloft, which had in
truth occasioned Spike’s principal cause for uneasiness.
“Is not that Capt. Stephen Spike,
of the brigantine Molly Swash?” called out the little,
dumpling-looking person, in a cracked, dwarfish sort of a voice,
that was admirably adapted to his appearance. Our captain fairly
started; turned full toward the speaker; regarded him intently for
a moment; and gulped the words he was about to utter, like one
confounded. As he gazed, however, at little dumpy, examining his
bow-legs, red broad cheeks, and coarse snub nose, he seemed to
regain his self-command, as if satisfied the dead had not really
returned to life.
“Are you acquainted with the
gentleman you have named?” he asked, by way of answer. “You speak
of him like one who ought to know him.”
“A body is apt to know a
shipmate. Stephen Spike and I sailed together twenty years since,
and I hope to live to sail with him again.”
“You sail with Stephen Spike?
when and where, may I ask, and in what v’y’ge, pray?” “The last
time was twenty years since. Have you forgotten little Jack Tier,
Capt.
Spike?”
Spike looked astonished, and well
he might, for he had supposed Jack to be dead fully fifteen years.
Time and hard service had greatly altered him, but the general
resemblance in figure, stature, and waddle, certainly remained.
Notwithstanding, the Jack Tier that Spike remembered was quite a
different person from this Jack Tier. That Jack had worn his
intensely black hair clubbed and curled, whereas this Jack had cut
his locks into short bristles, which time had turned into an
intense gray. That Jack was short and thick, but he was flat and
square; whereas this Jack was just as short, a good deal thicker,
and as round as a dumpling. In one thing, however, the likeness
still remained perfect. Both Jacks chewed tobacco, to a degree that
became a distinct feature in their appearance.
Spike had many reasons for
wishing Jack Tier were not resuscitated in this extraordinary
manner, and some for being glad to see him. The fellow had once
been largely in his confidence, and knew more than was quite safe
for any one to remember but himself, while he might be of great use
to him in his future, operations. It is always convenient to have
one at your elbow who thoroughly understands you, and Spike would
have lowered a boat and sent it to the wharf to bring Jack off,
were it not for the gentleman who was so inquisitive about pilots.
Under the circumstances, he determined to forego the advantages of
Jack’s presence, reserving the right to hunt him up on his
return.
The reader will readily enough
comprehend, that the Molly Swash was not absolutely standing still
while the dialogue related was going on, and the thoughts we have
recorded were passing through her master’s mind. On the contrary,
she was not only in motion, but that motion was gradually
increasing, and by the time all was said that has been related, it
had become necessary for those who spoke to raise their voices to
an inconvenient pitch in order to be heard. This circumstance alone
would soon have put an end to the conversation, had not Spike’s
pausing to reflect brought about the same result, as
mentioned.
In the mean time, Mulford had got
the canvas spread. Forward, the Swash showed all the cloth of a
full-rigged brig, even to royals and flying jib; while aft, her
mast was the raking, tall, naked pole of an American schooner.
There was a taunt topmast, too, to which a gaff-topsail was set,
and the gear proved that she could also show, at need, a staysail
in this part of her, if necessary. As the Gate was before them,
however, the people had set none but the plain, manageable
canvas.
The Molly Swash kept close on a
wind, luffing athwar the broad reach she was in, until far enough
to weather Blackwell’s, when she edged off to her course, and went
through the southern passage. Although the wind remained light, and
a little baffling, the brig was so easily impelled, and was so very
handy, that there was no difficulty in keeping her perfectly in
command. The tide, too, was fast increasing in strength and
volocity, and the
movement from this cause alone
was getting to be sufficiently rapid.
As for the passengers, of whom we
have lost sight in order to get the brig under way, they were now
on deck again. At first, they had all gone below, under the care of
Josh, a somewhat rough groom of the chambers, to take possession of
their apartment, a sufficiently neat, and exceedingly comfortable
cabin, supplied with everything that could be wanted at sea, and,
what was more, lined on two of its sides with state-rooms. It is
true, all these apartments were small, and the state-rooms were
very low, but no fault could be found with their neatness and
general arrangements, when it was recollected that one was on board
a vessel.
“Here ebbery t’ing heart can
wish,” said Josh, exultingly, who, being an old-school black, did
not disdain to use some of the old-school dialect of his caste.
“Yes, ladies, ebbery t’ing. Let Cap’n Spike alone for dat! He
won’erful at accommodation! Not a bed- bug aft—know better dan come
here; jest like de people, in dat respects, and keep deir place
forrard. You nebber see a pig come on de quarter-deck,
nudder.”
“You must maintain excellent
discipline, Josh,” cried Rose, in one of the sweetest voices in the
world, which was easily attuned to merriment—“and we are delighted
to learn what you tell us. How do you manage to keep up these
distinctions, and make such creatures know their places so
well?”
“Nuttin easier, if you begin
right, miss. As for de pig, I teach dem wid scaldin’ water.
Wheneber I sees a pig come aft, I gets a little water from de
copper, and just scald him wid it. You can’t t’ink, miss, how dat
mend his manners, and make him squeel fuss, and t’ink arter. In dat
fashion I soon get de ole ones in good trainin’, and den I has no
more trouble with dem as comes fresh aboard; for de ole hog tell de
young one, and ‘em won’erful cunnin’, and know how to take care of
‘emself.”
Rose Budd’s sweet eyes were full
of fun and expectation, and she could no more repress her laugh
than youth and spirits can always be discreet.
“Yes, with the pigs,” she cried,
“that might do very well; but how is it with those—other
creatures?”
“Rosy, dear,” interrupted the
aunt, “I wish you would say no more about such shocking things.
It’s enough for us that Capt. Spike has ordered them all to stay
forward among the men, which is always done on board well
disciplined vessels. I’ve heard your uncle say, a hundred times,
that the quarter-deck was sacred, and that might be enough to keep
such animals off it.”
It was barely necessary to look
at Mrs. Budd in the face to get a very accurate general notion of
her character. She was one of those inane, uncultivated beings who
seem to be protected by a benevolent Providence in their pilgrimage
on earth, for they do not seem to possess the power to protect
themselves. Her very countenance expressed imbecility and mental
dependence, credulity and a love of gossip. Notwithstanding these
radical weaknesses, the good woman had some of the better instincts
of her sex, and was never guilty of anything that could properly
convey reproach.
She was no monitress for Rose,
however, the niece much oftener influencing the aunt, than the aunt
influencing the niece. The latter had been fortunate in having had
an
excellent instructress, who,
though incapable of teaching her much in the way of
accomplishments, had imparted a great deal that was respectable and
useful. Rose had character, and strong character, too, as the
course of our narrative will show; but her worthy aunt was a pure
picture of as much mental imbecility as at all comported with the
privileges of self-government.
The conversation about “those
other creatures” was effectually checked by Mrs. Budd’s horror of
the “animals,” and Josh was called on deck so shortly after as to
prevent its being renewed. The females staid below a few minutes,
to take possession, and then they re-appeared on deck, to gaze at
the horrors of the Hell Gate passage. Rose was all eyes, wonder and
admiration of everything she saw. This was actually the first time
she had ever been on the water, in any sort of craft, though born
and brought up in sight of one of the most thronged havens in the
world. But there must be a beginning to everything, and this was
Rose Budd’s beginning on the water. It is true the brigantine was a
very beautiful, as well as an exceedingly swift vessel; but all
this was lost on Rose, who would have admired a horse-jockey bound
to the West Indies, in this the incipient state of her nautical
knowledge. Perhaps the exquisite neatness that Mulford maintained
about everything that came under his care, and that included
everything on deck, or above-board, and about which neatness Spike
occasionally muttered an oath, as so much senseless trouble,
contributed somewhat to Rose’s pleasure; but her admiration would
scarcely have been less with anything that had sails, and seemed to
move through the water with a power approaching that of
volition.
It was very different with Mrs.
Budd, She, good woman, had actually made one voyage with her late
husband, and she fancied that she knew all about a vessel. It was
her delight to talk on nautical subjects, and never did she really
feel her great superiority over her niece, so very unequivocally,
as when the subject of the ocean was introduced, about which she
did know something, and touching which Rose was profoundly
ignorant, or as ignorant as a girl of lively imagination could
remain with the information gleaned from others.
“I am not surprised you are
astonished at the sight of the vessel, Rosy,” observed the
self-complacent aunt at one of her niece’s exclamations of
admiration. “A vessel is a very wonderful thing, and we are told
what extr’orny beings they are that ‘go down to the sea in ships.’
But you are to know this is not a ship at all, but only a
half-jigger rigged, which is altogether a different thing.”
“Was my uncle’s vessel, The Rose
In Bloom, then, very different from the Swash?” “Very different
indeed, child! Why, The Rose In Bloom was a full-jiggered ship,
and
had twelve masts—and this is only
a half-jiggered brig, and has but two masts. See, you may count
them—one—two!”
Harry Mulford was coiling away a
top-gallant-brace, directly in front of Mrs. Budd and Rose, and, at
hearing this account of the wonderful equipment of The Rose In
Bloom, he suddenly looked up, with a lurking expression about his
eye that the niece very well comprehended, while he exclaimed,
without much reflection, under the impulse of surprise—“Twelve
masts! Did I understand you to say, ma’am, that Capt. Budd’s ship
had twelve masts?”
“Yes, sir, twelve! and I can tell
you all their names, for I learnt them by heart—it appearing to me
proper that a ship-master’s wife should know the names of all the
masts in her husband’s vessel. Do you wish to hear their names, Mr.
Mulford?”
Harry Mulford would have enjoyed
this conversation to the top of his bent, had it not been for Rose.
She well knew her aunt’s general weakness of intellect, and
especially its weakness on this particular subject, but she would
suffer no one to manifest contempt for either, if in her power to
prevent it. It is seldom one so young, so mirthful, so ingenuous
and innocent in the expression of her countenance, assumed so
significant and rebuking a frown as did pretty Rose Budd when she
heard the mate’s involuntary exclamation about the “twelve masts.”
Harry, who was not easily checked by his equals, or any of his own
sex, submitted to that rebuking frown with the meekness of a child,
and stammered out, in answer to the well-meaning, but weak-minded
widow’s question—“If you please, Mrs. Budd—just as you please,
ma’am—only twelve is a good many masts—” Rose frowned again—“that
is—more than I’m used to seeing—that’s all.”
“I dare say, Mr. Mulford—for you
sail in only a half-jigger; but Capt. Budd always sailed in a
full-jigger—and his full-jiggered ship had just twelve masts, and,
to prove it to you, I’ll give you the names—first then, there were
the fore, main, and mizen masts—”
“Yes—yes—ma’am,” stammered Harry,
who wished the twelve masts and The Rose In Bloom at the bottom of
the ocean, since her owner’s niece still continued to look coldly
displeased—“that’s right, I can swear!”
“Very true, sir, and you’ll find
I am right as to all the rest. Then, there were the fore, main, and
mizen top-masts—they make six, if I can count, Mr. Mulford?”
“Ah!” exclaimed the mate,
laughing, in spite of Rose’s frowns, as the manner in which the old
sea-dog had quizzed his wife became apparent to him. “I see how it
is—you are quite right, ma’am—I dare say The Rose In Bloom had all
these masts, and some to spare.”
“Yes, sir—I knew you would be
satisfied. The fore, main and mizen top-gallant-masts make nine—and
the fore, main and mizen royals make just twelve. Oh, I’m never
wrong in anything about a vessel, especially if she is a
full-jiggered ship.”
Mulford had some difficulty in
restraining his smiles each time the full-jigger was mentioned, but
Rose’s expression of countenance kept him in excellent order—and
she, innocent creature, saw nothing ridiculous in the term, though
the twelve masts had given her a little alarm. Delighted that the
old lady had got through her enumeration of the spars with so much
success, Rose cried, in the exuberance of her spirits—“Well, aunty,
for my part, I find a half-jigger vessel, so very, very beautiful,
that I do not know how I should behave were I to go on board a
full-jigger.”
Mulford turned abruptly away, the
circumstance of Rose’s making herself ridiculous giving him sudden
pain, though he could have laughed at her aunt by the hour.
“Ah, my dear, that is on account
of your youth and inexperience—but you will learn better in time. I
was just so, myself, when I was of your age, and thought the
fore-rafters were as handsome as the squared-jiggers, but soon
after I married Capt. Budd I felt the necessity of knowing more
than I did about ships, and I got him to teach me. He did n’t
like the business, at first, and
pretended I would never learn; but, at last, it came all at once
like, and then he used to be delighted to hear me ‘talk ship,’ as
he called it. I’ve known him laugh, with his cronies, as if ready
to die, at my expertness in sea-terms, for half an hour
together—and then he would swear—that was the worst fault your
uncle had, Rosy
—he would swear, sometimes, in a
way that frightened me, I do declare!” “But he never swore at you,
aunty?”
“I can’t say that he did exactly
do that, but he would swear all round me, even if he did n’t
actually touch me, when things went wrong—but it would have done
your heart good to hear him laugh! he had a most excellent heart,
just like your own, Rosy dear; but, for that matter, all the Budds
have excellent hearts, and one of the commonest ways your uncle had
of showing it was to laugh, particularly when we were together and
talking. Oh, he used to delight in hearing me converse, especially
about vessels, and never failed to get me at it when he had
company. I see his good-natured, excellent-hearted countenance at
this moment, with the tears running down his fat, manly cheeks, as
he shook his very sides with laughter. I may live a hundred years,
Rosy, before I meet again with your uncle’s equal.”
This was a subject that
invariably silenced Rose. She remembered her uncle, herself, and
remembered his affectionate manner of laughing at her aunt, and she
always wished the latter to get through her eulogiums on her
married happiness, as soon as possible, whenever the subject was
introduced.
All this time the Molly Swash
kept in motion. Spike never took a pilot when he could avoid it,
and his mind was too much occupied with his duty, in that critical
navigation, to share at all in the conversation of his passengers,
though he did endeavour to make himself agreeable to Rose, by an
occasional remark, when a favourable opportunity offered.
As soon as he had worked his brig
over into the south or weather passage of Blackwell’s, however,
there remained little for him to do, until she had drifted through
it, a distance of a mile or more; and this gave him leisure to do
the honours. He pointed out the castellated edifice on Blackwell’s
as the new penitentiary, and the hamlet of villas, on the other
shore, as Ravenswood, though there is neither wood nor ravens to
authorize the name. But the “Sunswick,” which satisfied the
Delafields and Gibbses of the olden, time, and which distinguished
their lofty halls and broad lawns, was not elegant enough for the
cockney tastes of these latter days, so “wood” must be made to
usurp the place of cherries and apples, and “ravens” that of gulls,
in order to satisfy its cravings. But all this was lost on Spike.
He remembered the shore as it had been twenty years before, and he
saw what it was now, but little did he care for the change. On the
whole, he rather preferred the Grecian Temples, over which the
ravens would have been compelled to fly, had there been any ravens
in that neighbourhood, to the old-fashioned and highly respectable
residence that once alone occupied the spot. The point he did
understand, however, and on the merits of which he had something to
say, was a little farther ahead. That, too, had been re-
christened—the Hallet’s Cove of the mariner being converted into
Astoria—not that bloody-minded place at the mouth of the Oregon,
which has come so near bringing us to blows with our “ancestors in
England,” as the worthy denizens of that quarter choose to consider
themselves still, if one can judge by their language. This Astoria
was a very
different place, and is one of
the many suburban villages that are shooting up, like mushrooms in
a night, around the great Commercial Emporium. This spot Spike
understood perfectly, and it was not likely that he should pass it
without communicating a portion of his knowledge to Rose.
“There, Miss Rose,” he said, with
a didactic sort of air, pointing with his short, thick finger at
the little bay which was just opening to their view; “there’s as
neat a cove as a craft need bring up in. That used to be a capital
place to lie in, to wait for a wind to pass the Gate; but it has
got to be most too public for my taste. I’m rural, I tell Mulford,
and love to get in out-of-the-way berths with my brig, where she
can see salt-meadows, and smell the clover. You never catch me down
in any of the crowded slips, around the markets, or anywhere in
that part of the town, for I do love country air. That’s Hallet’s
Cove, Miss Rose, and a pretty anchorage it would be for us, if the
wind and tide didn’t sarve to take us through the Gate.”
“Are we near the Gate, Capt.
Spike?” asked Rose, the fine bloom on her cheek lessening a little,
under the apprehension that formidable name is apt to awaken in the
breasts of the inexperienced.
“Half a mile, or so. It begins
just at the other end of this island on our larboard hand, and will
be all over in about another half mile, or so. It’s no such bad
place, a’ter all, is Hell-Gate, to them that’s used to it. I call
myself a pilot in Hell-Gate, though I have no branch.”
“I wish, Capt. Spike, I could
teach you to give that place its proper and polite name. We call it
Whirl-Gate altogether now,” said the relict.
“Well, that’s new to me,” cried
Spike. “I have heard some chicken-mouthed folk say Hurl-Gate, but
this is the first time I ever heard it called Whirl-Gate—they’ll
get it to Whirligig-Gate next. I do n’t think that my old
commander, Capt. Budd, called the passage anything but honest up
and down Hell-Gate.”
“That he did—that he did—and all
my arguments and reading could not teach him any better. I proved
to him that it was Whirl-Gate, as any one can see that it ought to
be. It is full of whirlpools, they say, and that shows what Nature
meant the name to be.”
“But, aunty,” put in Rose, half
reluctantly, half anxious to speak, “what has gate to do with
whirlpools? You will remember it is called a gate—the gate to that
wicked place I suppose is meant.”
“Rose, you amaze me! How can you,
a young woman of only nineteen, stand up for so vulgar a name as
Hell-Gate!”
“Do you think it as vulgar as
Hurl-Gate, aunty?” To me it always seems the most vulgar to be
straining at gnats.”
“Yes,” said Spike sentimentally,
“I’m quite of Miss Rose’s way of thinking—straining at gnats is
very ill-manners, especially at table. I once knew a man who
strained in this way, until I thought he would have choked, though
it was with a fly to be sure; but gnats are nothing but small
flies, you know, Miss Rose. Yes, I’m quite of your way of thinking,
Miss Rose; it is very vulgar to be straining at gnats and flies,
more particularly at table. But you’ll find no flies or gnats
aboard here, to be straining at, or brushing away, or to
annoy you. Stand by there, my
hearties, and see all clear to run through Hell-Gate. Do n’t let me
catch you straining at anything, though it should be the fin of a
whale!”
The people forward looked at each
other, as they listened to this novel admonition, though they
called out the customary “ay, ay, sir,” as they went to the sheets,
braces and bowlines. To them the passage of no Hell-Gate conveyed
the idea of any particular terror, and with the one they were about
to enter, they were much too familiar to care anything about
it.
The brig was now floating fast,
with the tide, up abreast of the east end of Blackwell’s, and in
two or three more minutes she would be fairly in the Gate. Spike
was aft, where he could command a view of everything forward, and
Mulford stood on the quarter-deck, to look after the head-braces.
An old and trustworthy seaman, who acted as a sort of boatswain,
had the charge on the forecastle, and was to tend the sheets and
tack. His name was Rove.
“See all clear,” called out
Spike. “D’ye hear there, for’ard! I shall make a half-board in the
Gate, if the wind favour us, and the tide prove strong enough to
hawse us to wind’ard sufficiently to clear the Pot—so mind
your—”
The captain breaking off in the
middle of this harangue, Mulford turned his head, in order to see
what might be the matter. There was Spike, levelling a spy-glass at
a boat that was pulling swiftly out of the north channel, and
shooting like an arrow directly athwart the brig’s bows into the
main passage of the Gate. He stepped to the captain’s elbow.
“Just take a look at them chaps,
Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, handing his mate the glass. “They seem in
a hurry,” answered Harry, as he adjusted the glass to his eye, “and
will
go through the Gate in less time
than it will take to mention the circumstance.” “What do you make
of them, sir?”
“The little man who called
himself Jack Tier is in the stern-sheets of the boat, for one,”
answered Mulford.
“And the other, Harry—what do you
make of the other?”
“It seems to be the chap who
hailed to know if we had a pilot. He means to board us at Riker’s
Island, and make us pay pilotage, whether we want his services or
not.”
“Blast him and his pilotage too!
Give me the glass”—taking another long look at the boat, which by
this time was glancing, rather than pulling, nearly at right angles
across his bows. “I want no such pilot aboard here, Mr. Mulford.
Take another look at him—here, you can see him, away on our weather
bow, already.”
Mulford did take another look at
him, and this time his examination was longer and more scrutinizing
than before.
“It is not easy to cover him with
the glass,” observed the young man—“the boat seems fairly to
fly.”
“We’re forereaching too near the
Hog’s Back, Capt. Spike,” roared the boatswain, from forward.
“Ready about—hard a lee,” shouted
Spike. “Let all fly, for’ard—help her round, boys,
all you can, and wait for no
orders! Bestir yourselves—bestir yourselves.”
It was time the crew should be in
earnest. While Spike’s attention had been thus diverted by the
boat, the brig had got into the strongest of the current, which, by
setting her fast to windward, had trebled the power of the air, and
this was shooting her over toward one of the greatest dangers of
the passage on a flood tide. As everybody bestirred themselves,
however, she was got round and filled on the opposite tack, just in
time to clear the rocks. Spike breathed again, but his head was
still full of the boat. The danger he had just escaped as Scylla
met him as Charybdis. The boatswain again roared to go about. The
order was given as the vessel began to pitch in a heavy swell. At
the next instant she rolled until the water came on deck, whirled
with her stern down the tide, and her bows rose as if she were
about to leap out of water. The Swash had hit the Pot Rock.
CHAPTER II.
“Watch. If we know him to be a
thief, shall we not lay hands on him?
Dogb. Truly, by your office, you
may; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled; the most
peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show
himself what he is, and steal out of your company.”
Much Ado About Nothing.
We left the brigantine of Capt.
Spike in a very critical situation, and the master himself in great
confusion of mind.
A thorough seaman, this accident
would never have happened, but for the sudden appearance of the
boat and its passengers; one of whom appeared to be a source of
great uneasiness to him. As might be expected, the circumstance of
striking a place as dangerous as the Pot Rock in Hell-Gate,
produced a great sensation on board the vessel. This sensation
betrayed itself in various ways, and according to the characters,
habits, and native firmness of the parties. As for the
ship-master’s relict, she seized hold of the main- mast, and
screamed so loud and perseveringly, as to cause the sensation to
extend itself into the adjacent and thriving village of Astoria,
where it was distinctly heard by divers of those who dwelt near the
water. Biddy Noon had her share in this clamour, lying down on the
deck in order to prevent rolling over, and possibly to scream more
at her leisure, while Rose had sufficient self-command to be
silent, though her cheeks lost their colour.
Nor was there anything
extraordinary in females betraying this alarm, when one remembers
the somewhat astounding signs of danger by which these persons were
surrounded. There is always something imposing in the swift
movement of a considerable body of water. When this movement is
aided by whirlpools and the other similar accessories of an
interrupted current, it frequently becomes startling, more
especially to those who happen to be on the element itself. This is
peculiarly the case with the Pot Rock, where, not only does the
water roll and roar as if agitated by a mighty wind, but where it
even breaks, the foam seeming to glance up stream, in the rapid
succession of wave to wave. Had the Swash remained in her terrific
berth more than a second or two, she would have proved what is
termed a “total loss;” but she did not. Happily, the Pot Rock lies
so low that it is not apt to fetch up anything of a light draught
of water, and the brigantine’s fore-foot had just settled on its
summit, long enough to cause the vessel to whirl round and make her
obeisance to the place, when a succeeding swell lifted her clear,
and away she went down stream, rolling as if scudding in a gale,
and, for a moment, under no command whatever. There lay another
danger ahead, or it would be better to say astern, for the brig was
drifting stern foremost; and that was in an eddy under a bluff,
which bluff lies at an angle in the reach, where it is no uncommon
thing for craft to be cast ashore, after they have passed all the
more imposing and more visible dangers above. It was in escaping
this danger, and in recovering the command of his vessel, that
Spike now manifested the sort of stuff of which he was really made,
in emergencies of this sort. The yards were all sharp up when the
accident occurred, and springing to the lee braces, just as a man
winks when his eye is menaced, he seized the weather fore-brace
with his own hands, and began to round in the yard, shouting out to
the man at the wheel to “port his
helm” at the same time. Some of
the people flew to his assistance, and the yards were not only
squared, but braced a little up on the other tack, in much less
time than we have taken to relate the evolution. Mulford attended
to the main-sheet, and succeeded in getting the boom out in the
right direction. Although the wind was in truth very light, the
velocity of the drift filled the canvas, and taking the arrow-like
current on her lee bow, the Swash, like a frantic steed that is
alarmed with the wreck made by his own madness, came under command,
and sheered out into the stream again, where she could drift clear
of the apprehended danger astern.
“Sound the pumps!” called out
Spike to Mulford, the instant he saw he had regained his seat in
the saddle. Harry sprang amidships to obey, and the eye of every
mariner in that vessel was on the young man, as, in the midst of a
death-like silence, he performed this all-important duty. It was
like the physician’s feeling the pulse of his patient before he
pronounces on the degree of his danger.
“Well, sir?” cried out Spike,
impatiently, as the rod reappeared.
“All right, sir,” answered Harry,
cheerfully—“the well is nearly empty.”
“Hold on a moment longer, and
give the water time to find its way amidships, if there be
any.”