CHAPTER I
“Sullen waves, incessant rolling,
Rudely dash’d against her sides.”
Song
A single glance at the map will
make the reader acquainted with the position of the eastern coast
of the Island of Great Britain, as connected with the shores of the
opposite continent. Together they form the boundaries of the small
sea that has for ages been known to the world as the scene of
maritime exploits, and as the great avenue through which commerce
and war have conducted the fleets of the northern nations of
Europe. Over this sea the islanders long asserted a jurisdiction,
exceeding that which reason concedes to any power on the highway of
nations, and which frequently led to conflicts that caused an
expenditure of blood and treasure, utterly disproportioned to the
advantages that can ever arise from the maintenance of a useless
and abstract right. It is across the waters of this disputed ocean
that we shall attempt to conduct our readers, selecting a period
for our incidents that has a peculiar interest for every American,
not only because it was the birthday of his nation, but because it
was also the era when reason and common sense began to take the
place of custom and feudal practices in the management of the
affairs of nations.
Soon after the events of the
revolution had involved the kingdoms of France and Spain, and the
republics of Holland, in our quarrel, a group of laborers was
collected in a field that lay exposed to the winds of the ocean, on
the north-eastern coast of England. These men were lightening their
toil, and cheering the gloom of a day in December, by uttering
their crude opinions on the political aspects of the times. The
fact that England was engaged in a war with some of her
dependencies on the other side of the Atlantic had long been known
to them, after the manner that faint rumors of distant and
uninteresting events gain on the ear; but now that nations, with
whom she had been used to battle, were armed against her in the
quarrel, the din of war had disturbed the quiet even of these
secluded and illiterate rustics. The principal speakers, on the
occasion, were a Scotch drover, who was waiting the leisure of the
occupant of the fields, and an Irish laborer, who had found his way
across the Channel, and thus far over the island, in quest of
employment.
“The Nagurs wouldn’t have been a
job at all for ould England, letting alone Ireland,” said the
latter, “if these French and Spanishers hadn’t been troubling
themselves in the matter. I’m sure its but little reason I have for
thanking them, if a man is to kape as sober as a praist at mass,
for fear he should find himself a souldier, and he knowing nothing
about the same.”
“Hoot! mon! ye ken but little of
raising an airmy in Ireland, if ye mak’ a drum o’ a whiskey keg,”
said the drover, winking to the listeners. “Noo, in the north, they
ca’ a gathering of the folk, and follow the pipes as graciously as
ye wad journey kirkward o’ a Sabbath morn. I’ve seen a’ the names
o’ a Heeland raj’ment on a sma’ bit paper, that ye might cover wi’
a leddy’s hand. They war’ a’ Camerons and M’Donalds, though they
paraded sax hundred men! But what ha’ ye gotten here! That chield
has an ow’r liking to
the land for a seafaring body;
an’ if the bottom o’ the sea be onything like the top o’t, he’s in
gr’at danger o’ a shipwreck!”
This unexpected change in the
discourse drew all eyes on the object toward which the staff of the
observant drover was pointed. To the utter amazement of every
individual present, a small vessel was seen moving slowly round a
point of land that formed one of the sides of the little bay, to
which the field the laborers were in composed the other. There was
something very peculiar in the externals of this unusual visitor,
which added in no small degree to the surprise created by her
appearance in that retired place. None but the smallest vessels,
and those rarely, or, at long intervals, a desperate smuggler, were
ever known to venture so close to the land, amid the sand-bars and
sunken rocks with which that immediate coast abounded. The
adventurous mariners who now attempted this dangerous navigation in
so wanton, and, apparently, so heedless a manner, were in a low
black schooner, whose hull seemed utterly disproportioned to the
raking masts it upheld, which, in their turn, supported a lighter
set of spars, that tapered away until their upper extremities
appeared no larger than the lazy pennant, that in vain endeavored
to display its length in the light breeze.
The short day of that high
northern latitude was already drawing to a close, and the sun was
throwing his parting rays obliquely across the waters, touching the
gloomy waves here and there with streaks of pale light. The stormy
winds of the German Ocean were apparently lulled to rest; and,
though the incessant rolling of the surge on the shore heightened
the gloomy character of the hour and the view, the light ripple
that ruffled the sleeping billows was produced by a gentle air,
that blew directly from the land. Notwithstanding this favorable
circumstance, there was something threatening in the aspect of the
ocean, which was speaking in hollow but deep murmurs, like a
volcano on the eve of an eruption, that greatly heightened the
feelings of amazement and dread with which the peasants beheld this
extraordinary interruption to the quiet of their little bay. With
no other sails spread to the action of the air than her heavy
mainsail, and one of those light jibs that projected far beyond her
bows, the vessel glided over the water with a grace and facility
that seemed magical to the beholders, who turned their wondering
looks from the schooner to each other in silent amazement. At
length the drover spoke in a low solemn voice:
“He’s a bold chield that steers
her! and if that bit craft has wood in her bottom, like the
brigantines that ply between Lon’on and the Frith at Leith, he’s in
mair danger than a prudent mon could wish. Ay! he’s by the big rock
that shows his head when the tide runs low, but it’s no mortal man
who can steer long in the road he’s journeying and not speedily
find land wi’ water a-top o’t.”
The little schooner, however,
still held her way among the rocks and sand-pits, making such
slight deviations in her course as proved her to be under the
direction of one who knew his danger, until she entered as far into
the bay as prudence could at all justify, when her canvas was
gathered into folds, seemingly without the agency of hands, and the
vessel, after rolling for a few minutes on the long billows that
hove in from the ocean, swung round in the currents of the tide,
and was held by her anchor.
The peasants now began to make
their conjectures more freely concerning the character and object
of their visitor; some intimating that she was engaged in
contraband trade, and
others that her views were
hostile, and her business war. A few dark hints were hazarded on
the materiality of her construction, for nothing of artificial
formation, it was urged, would be ventured by men in such a
dangerous place, at a time when even the most inexperienced
landsman was enabled to foretell the certain gale. The Scotchman,
who, to all the sagacity of his countrymen, added no small portion
of their superstition, leaned greatly to the latter conclusion, and
had begun to express this sentiment warily with reverence, when the
child of Erin, who appeared not to possess any very definite ideas
on the subject interrupted him, by exclaiming:
“Faith! there’s two of them! a
big and a little! sure the bogles of the saa likes good company the
same as any other Christians!”
“Twa!” echoed the drover; “twa!
ill luck bides o’ some o’ ye. Twa craft a sailing without hand to
guide them, in sic a place as this, whar’ eyesight is na guid
enough to show the dangers, bodes evil to a’ that luik thereon.
Hoot! she’s na yearling the tither! Luik, mon! luik! she’s a
gallant boat, and a gr’at:” he paused, raised his pack from the
ground, and first giving one searching look at the objects of his
suspicions, he nodded with great sagacity to the listeners, and
continued, as he moved slowly towards the interior of the country,
“I should na wonder if she carried King George’s commission aboot
her: weel, weel, I wull journey upward to the town, and ha’ a crack
wi’ the good mon; for they craft have a suspeecious aspect, and the
sma’ bit thing wu’ld nab a mon quite easy, and the big ane wu’ld
hold us a’ and no feel we war’ in her.”
This sagacious warning caused a
general movement in the party, for the intelligence of a hot press
was among the rumors of the times. The husbandmen collected their
implements of labor, and retired homewards; though many a curious
eye was bent on the movements of the vessels from the distant
hills, but very few of those not immediately interested in the
mysterious visitors ventured to approach the little rocky cliffs
that lined the bay.
The vessel that occasioned these
cautious movements was a gallant ship, whose huge hull, lofty
masts, and square yards loomed in the evening’s haze, above the
sea, like a distant mountain rising from the deep. She carried but
little sail, and though she warily avoided the near approach to the
land that the schooner had attempted, the similarity of their
movements was sufficiently apparent to warrant the conjecture that
they were employed on the same duty. The frigate, for the ship
belonged to this class of vessels, floated across the entrance of
the little bay, majestically in the tide, with barely enough motion
through the water to govern her movements, until she arrived
opposite to the place where her consort lay, when she hove up
heavily into the wind, squared the enormous yards on her mainmast,
and attempted, in counteracting the power of her sails by each
other, to remain stationary; but the light air that had at no time
swelled her heavy canvas to the utmost began to fail, and the long
waves that rolled in from the ocean ceased to be ruffled with the
breeze from the land. The currents and the billows were fast
sweeping the frigate towards one of the points of the estuary,
where the black heads of the rocks could be seen running far into
the sea, and in their turn the mariners of the ship dropped an
anchor to the bottom, and drew her sails in festoons to the yards.
As the vessel swung round to the tide, a heavy ensign was raised to
her peak, and a current of air opening for a moment its folds, the
white field and red cross, that distinguish the flag of England,
were displayed to view. So much even the wary drover had loitered
at a distance to behold; but
when a boat was launched from
either vessel, he quickened his steps, observing to his wondering
and amused companions, that “they craft were a’thegither mair bonny
to luik on than to abide wi’.”
A numerous crew manned the barge
that was lowered from the frigate, which, after receiving an
officer, with an attendant youth, left the ship, and moved with a
measured stroke of its oars directly towards the head of the bay.
As it passed at a short distance from the schooner a light
whale-boat, pulled by four athletic men, shot from her side, and
rather dancing over than cutting through the waves, crossed her
course with a wonderful velocity. As the boats approached each
other, the men, in obedience to signals from their officers,
suspended their efforts, and for a few minutes they floated at
rest, during which time there was the following dialogue:
“Is the old man mad!” exclaimed
the young officer in the whale-boat, when his men had ceased
rowing; “does he think that the bottom of the Ariel is made of
iron, and that a rock can’t knock a hole in it! or does he think
she is manned with alligators, who can’t be drowned!”
A languid smile played for a
moment round the handsome features of the young man, who was rather
reclining than sitting in the stern-sheets of the barge, as he
replied:
“He knows your prudence too well,
Captain Barnstable, to fear either the wreck of your vessel or the
drowning of her crew. How near the bottom does your keel
lie?”
“I am afraid to sound,” returned
Barnstable. “I have never the heart to touch a lead-line when I see
the rocks coming up to breathe like so many porpoises.”
“You are afloat!” exclaimed the
other, with a vehemence that denoted an abundance of latent
fire.
“Afloat!” echoed his friend; “ay,
the little Ariel would float in air!” As he spoke, he rose in the
boat, and lifting his leathern sea-cap from his head, stroked back
the thick clusters of black locks which shadowed his sun-burnt
countenance, while he viewed his little vessel with the complacency
of a seaman who was proud of her qualities. “But it’s close work,
Mr. Griffith, when a man rides to a single anchor in a place like
this, and at such a nightfall. What are the orders?”
“I shall pull into the surf and
let go a grapnel; you will take Mr. Merry into your whale- boat,
and try to drive her through the breakers on the beach.”
“Beach!” retorted Barnstable; “do
you call a perpendicular rock of a hundred feet in height a
beach!”
“We shall not dispute about
terms,” said Griffith, smiling, “but you must manage to get on the
shore; we have seen the signal from the land, and know that the
pilot, whom we have so long expected, is ready to come off.”
Barnstable shook his head with a
grave air, as he muttered to himself, “This is droll navigation;
first we run into an unfrequented bay that is full of rocks, and
sandpits, and shoals, and then we get off our pilot. But how am I
to know him?”
“Merry will give you the
password, and tell you where to look for him. I would land myself,
but my orders forbid it. If you meet with difficulties, show three
oar-blades in a
row, and I will pull in to your
assistance. Three oars on end and a pistol will bring the fire of
my muskets, and the signal repeated from the barge will draw a shot
from the ship.”
“I thank you, I thank you,” said
Barnstable, carelessly; “I believe I can fight my own battles
against all the enemies we are likely to fall in with on this
coast. But the old man is surely mad, I would——”
“You would obey his orders if he
were here, and you will now please to obey mine,” said Griffith, in
a tone that the friendly expression of his eye contradicted. “Pull
in, and keep a lookout for a small man in a drab pea-jacket; Merry
will give you the word; if he answer it, bring him off to the
barge.”
The young men now nodded
familiarly and kindly to each other, and the boy who was called Mr.
Merry having changed his place from the barge to the whale-boat,
Barnstable threw himself into his seat, and making a signal with
his hand, his men again bent to their oars. The light vessel shot
away from her companion, and dashed in boldly towards the rocks;
after skirting the shore for some distance in quest of a favorable
place, she was suddenly turned, and dashing over the broken waves,
was run upon a spot where a landing could be effected in
safety.
In the mean time the barge
followed these movements, at some distance, with a more measured
progress, and when the whale-boat was observed to be drawn up
alongside of a rock, the promised grapnel was cast into the water,
and her crew deliberately proceeded to get their firearms in a
state for immediate service. Everything appeared to be done in
obedience to strict orders that must have been previously
communicated; for the young man, who has been introduced to the
reader by the name of Griffith, seldom spoke, and then only in the
pithy expressions that are apt to fall from those who are sure of
obedience. When the boat had brought up to her grapnel, he sunk
back at his length on the cushioned seats of the barge, and drawing
his hat over his eyes in a listless manner, he continued for many
minutes apparently absorbed in thoughts altogether foreign to his
present situation. Occasionally he rose, and would first bend his
looks in quest of his companions on the shore, and then, turning
his expressive eyes toward the ocean, the abstracted and vacant
air, that so often usurped the place of animation and intelligence
in his countenance, would give place to the anxious and intelligent
look of a seaman gifted with an experience beyond his years. His
weather beaten and hardy crew, having made their dispositions for
offence, sat in profound silence, with their hands thrust into the
bosoms of their jackets, but with their eyes earnestly regarding
every cloud that was gathering in the threatening atmosphere, and
exchanging looks of deep care, whenever the boat rose higher than
usual on one of those long heavy groundswells, that were heaving in
from the ocean with increasing rapidity and magnitude.
CHAPTER II
——“A horseman’s coat shall
hide
thy taper shape and comeliness of
side:
And with a bolder stride and
looser air, Mingled with men, a man thou must appear.”
Prior.
When the whale-boat obtained the
position we have described, the young lieutenant, who, in
consequence of commanding a schooner, was usually addressed by the
title of captain, stepped on the rocks, followed by the youthful
midshipman, who had quitted the barge to aid in the hazardous duty
of their expedition.
“This is, at best, but a Jacob’s
ladder we have to climb,” said Barnstable, casting his eyes upward
at the difficult ascent, “and it’s by no means certain that we
shall be well received, when we get up, even though we should reach
the top.”
“We are under the guns of the
frigate,” returned the boy; “and you remember, sir, three
oar-blades and a pistol, repeated from the barge, will draw her
fire.”
“Yes, on our own heads. Boy,
never be so foolish as to trust a long shot. It makes a great smoke
and some noise, but it’s a terrible uncertain manner of throwing
old iron about. In such a business as this, I would sooner trust
Tom Coffin and his harpoon to back me, than the best broadside that
ever rattled out of the three decks of a ninety-gun ship. Come,
gather your limbs together, and try if you can walk on terra firma,
Master Coffin.”
The seaman who was addressed by
this dire appellation arose slowly from the place where he was
stationed as cockswain of the boat, and seemed to ascend high in
air by the gradual evolution of numberless folds in his body. When
erect, he stood nearly six feet and as many inches in his shoes,
though, when elevated in his perpendicular attitude, there was a
forward inclination about his head and shoulders that appeared to
be the consequence of habitual confinement in limited lodgings. His
whole frame was destitute of the rounded outlines of a well-formed
man, though his enormous hands furnished a display of bones and
sinews which gave indication of gigantic strength. On his head he
wore a little, low, brown hat of wool, with an arched top, that
threw an expression of peculiar solemnity and hardness over his
hard visage, the sharp prominent features of which were completely
encircled by a set of black whiskers that began to be grizzled a
little with age. One of his hands grasped, with a sort of instinct,
the staff of a bright harpoon, the lower end of which he placed
firmly on the rock, as, in obedience to the order of his commander,
he left the place where, considering his vast dimensions, he had
been established in an incredibly small space.
As soon as Captain Barnstable
received this addition to his strength, he gave a few precautionary
orders to the men in the boat, and proceeded to the difficult task
of ascending the rocks. Notwithstanding the great daring and
personal agility of Barnstable, he would have been completely
baffled in this attempt, but for the assistance he occasionally
received from his cockswain, whose prodigious strength and great
length of limbs enabled him to make exertions which it would have
been useless for most men to
attempt. When within a few feet
of the summit, they availed themselves of a projecting rock to
pause for consultation and breath, both of which seemed necessary
for their further movements.
“This will be but a bad place for
a retreat, if we should happen to fall in with enemies,” said
Barnstable. “Where are we to look for this pilot, Mr. Merry, or how
are we to know him; and what certainty have you that he will not
betray us?”
“The question you are to put to
him is written on this bit of paper,” returned the boy, as he
handed the other the word of recognition; “we made the signal on
the point of the rock at yon headland, but, as he must have seen
our boat, he will follow us to this place. As to his betraying us,
he seems to have the confidence of Captain Munson, who has kept a
bright lookout for him ever since we made the land.”
“Ay,” muttered the lieutenant,
“and I shall have a bright lookout kept on him now we are on the
land. I like not this business of hugging the shore so closely, nor
have I much faith in any traitor. What think you of it, Master
Coffin?”
The hardy old seaman, thus
addressed, turned his grave visage on his commander, and replied
with a becoming gravity:
“Give me a plenty of sea-room,
and good canvas, where there is no occasion for pilots at all, sir.
For my part, I was born on board a chebacco-man, and never could
see the use of more land than now and then a small island to raise
a few vegetables, and to dry your fish—I’m sure the sight of it
always makes me feel uncomfortable, unless we have the wind dead
off shore.”
“Ah! Tom, you are a sensible
fellow,” said Barnstable, with an air half comic, half serious.
“But we must be moving; the sun is just touching those clouds to
seaward, and God keep us from riding out this night at anchor in
such a place as this.”
Laying his hand on a projection
of the rock above him, Barnstable swung himself forward, and
following this movement with a desperate leap or two, he stood at
once on the brow of the cliff. His cockswain very deliberately
raised the midshipman after his officer, and proceeding with more
caution but less exertion, he soon placed himself by his
side.
When they reached the level land
that lay above the cliffs and began to inquire, with curious and
wary eyes, into the surrounding scenery, the adventurers discovered
a cultivated country, divided in the usual manner, by hedges and
walls. Only one habitation for man, however, and that a small
dilapidated cottage, stood within a mile of them, most of the
dwellings being placed as far as convenience would permit from the
fogs and damps of the ocean.
“Here seems to be neither
anything to apprehend, nor the object of our search,” said
Barnstable, when he had taken the whole view in his survey: “I fear
we have landed to no purpose, Mr. Merry. What say you, long Tom;
see you what we want?”
“I see no pilot, sir,” returned
the cockswain; “but it’s an ill wind that blows luck to nobody;
there is a mouthful of fresh meat stowed away under that row of
bushes, that would make a double ration to all hands in the
Ariel.”
The midshipman laughed, as he
pointed out to Barnstable the object of the cockswain’s solicitude,
which proved to be a fat ox, quietly ruminating under a hedge near
them.
“There’s many a hungry fellow
aboard of us,” said the boy, merrily, “who would be glad to second
long Tom’s motion, if the time and business would permit us to slay
the animal.”
“It is but a lubber’s blow, Mr.
Merry,” returned the cockswain, without a muscle of his hard face
yielding, as he struck the end of his harpoon violently against the
earth, and then made a motion toward poising the weapon; “let
Captain Barnstable but say the word, and I’ll drive the iron
through him to the quick; I’ve sent it to the seizing in many a
whale, that hadn’t a jacket of such blubber as that fellow
wears.”
“Pshaw! you are not on a
whaling-voyage, where everything that offers is game,” said
Barnstable, turning himself pettishly away from the beast, as if he
distrusted his own forbearance; “but stand fast! I see some one
approaching behind the hedge. Look to your arms, Mr. Merry,—the
first thing we hear may be a shot.”
“Not from that cruiser,” cried
the thoughtless lad; “he is a younker, like myself, and would
hardly dare run down upon such a formidable force as we
muster.”
“You say true, boy,” returned
Barnstable, relinquishing the grasp he held on his pistol. “He
comes on with caution, as if afraid. He is small, and is in drab,
though I should hardly call it a pea-jacket—and yet he may be our
man. Stand you both here, while I go and hail him.”
As Barnstable walked rapidly
towards the hedge, that in part concealed the stranger, the latter
stopped suddenly, and seemed to be in doubt whether to advance or
to retreat. Before he had decided on either, the active sailor was
within a few feet of him.
“Pray, sir,” said Barnstable,
“what water have we in this bay?”
The slight form of the stranger
started, with an extraordinary emotion, at this question, and he
shrunk aside involuntarily, as if to conceal his features, before
he answered, in a voice that was barely audible:
“I should think it would be the
water of the German Ocean.”
“Indeed! you must have passed no
small part of your short life in the study of geography, to be so
well informed,” returned the lieutenant; “perhaps, sir, your
cunning is also equal to telling me how long we shall sojourn
together, if I make you a prisoner, in order to enjoy the benefit
of your wit?”
To this alarming intimation, the
youth who was addressed made no reply; but as he averted his face,
and concealed it with both his hands, the offended seaman,
believing that a salutary impression had been made upon the fears
of his auditor, was about to proceed with his interrogatories. The
singular agitation of the stranger’s frame, however, caused the
lieutenant to continue silent a few moments longer, when, to his
utter amazement, he discovered that what he had mistaken for alarm
was produced by an endeavor, on the part of the youth, to suppress
a violent fit of laughter.
“Now, by all the whales in the
sea,” cried Barnstable, “but you are merry out of season, young
gentleman. It’s quite bad enough to be ordered to anchor in such a
bay as this with a
storm brewing before my eyes,
without landing to be laughed at by a stripling who has not
strength to carry a beard if he had one, when I ought to be getting
an offing for the safety of both body and soul. But I’ll know more
of you and your jokes, if I take you into my own mess, and am
giggled out of my sleep for the rest of the cruise.”
As the commander of the schooner
concluded, he approached the stranger, with an air of offering some
violence, but the other shrank back from his extended arm, and
exclaimed, with a voice in which real terror had gotten the better
of mirth:
“Barnstable! dear Barnstable!
would you harm me?”
The sailor recoiled several feet,
at this unexpected appeal, and rubbing his eyes, he threw the cap
from his head, before he cried:
“What do I hear! and what do I
see! There lies the Ariel—and yonder is the frigate. Can this be
Katherine Plowden!”
His doubts, if any doubts
remained, were soon removed, for the stranger sank on the bank at
her side, in an attitude in which female bashfulness was
beautifully contrasted with her attire, and gave vent to her mirth
in an uncontrollable burst of merriment.
From that moment, all thoughts of
his duty, and the pilot, or even of the Ariel, appeared to be
banished from the mind of the seaman, who sprang to her side, and
joined in her mirth, though he hardly knew why or wherefore.
When the diverted girl had in
some degree recovered her composure, she turned to her companion,
who had sat good-naturedly by her side, content to be laughed at,
and said:
“But this is not only silly, but
cruel to others. I owe you an explanation of my unexpected
appearance, and perhaps, also, of my extraordinary attire.”
“I can anticipate everything,”
cried Barnstable; “you heard that we were on the coast, and have
flown to redeem the promises you made me in America. But I ask no
more; the chaplain of the frigate—”
“May preach as usual, and to as
little purpose,” interrupted the disguised female; “but no nuptial
benediction shall be pronounced over me, until I have effected the
object of this hazardous experiment. You are not usually selfish,
Barnstable; would you have me forgetful of the happiness of
others?”
“Of whom do you speak?”
“My poor, my devoted cousin. I
heard that two vessels answering the description of the frigate and
the Ariel were seen hovering on the coast, and I determined at once
to have a communication with you. I have followed your movements
for a week, in this dress, but have been unsuccessful till now.
To-day I observed you to approach nearer to the shore than usual,
and happily, by being adventurous, I have been successful.”
“Ay, God knows we are near enough
to the land! But does Captain Munson know of your wish to get on
board his ship?”
“Certainly not—none know of it
but yourself. I thought that if Griffith and you could learn our
situation, you might be tempted to hazard a little to redeem us
from our thraldom. In this paper I have prepared such an account as
will, I trust, excite all your
chivalry, and by which you may
govern your movements.”
“Our movements!” interrupted
Barnstable. “You will pilot us in person.” “Then there’s two of
them!” said a hoarse voice near them.
The alarmed female shrieked as
she recovered her feet, but she still adhered, with instinctive
dependence, to the side of her lover. Barnstable, who recognized
the tones of his cockswain, bent an angry brow on the sober visage
that was peering at them above the hedge, and demanded the meaning
of the interruption.
“Seeing you were hull down, sir,
and not knowing but the chase might lead you ashore, Mr. Merry
thought it best to have a lookout kept. I told him that you were
overhauling the mail-bags of the messenger for the news, but as he
was an officer, sir, and I nothing but a common hand, I did as he
ordered.”
“Return, sir, where I commanded
you to remain,” said Barnstable, “and desire Mr.
Merry to wait my pleasure.”
The cockswain gave the usual
reply of an obedient seaman; but before he left the hedge, he
stretched out one of his brawny arms towards the ocean, and said,
in tones of solemnity suited to his apprehensions and
character:
“I showed you how to knot a
reef-point, and pass a gasket, Captain Barnstable, nor do I believe
you could even take two half-hitches when you first came aboard of
the Spalmacitty. These be things that a man is soon expart in, but
it takes the time of his nat’ral life to larn to know the weather.
There be streaked wind-galls in the offing, that speak as plainly
to all that see them, and know God’s language in the clouds, as
ever you spoke through a trumpet, to shorten sail; besides, sir,
don’t you hear the sea moaning as if it knew the hour was at hand
when it was to wake up from its sleep!”
“Ay, Tom,” returned his officer,
walking to the edge of the cliffs, and throwing a seaman’s glance
at the gloomy ocean, “‘tis a threatening night indeed; but this
pilot must be had—and—”
“Is that the man?” interrupted
the cockswain, pointing toward a man who was standing not far from
them, an attentive observer of their proceedings, the same time
that he was narrowly watched himself by the young midshipman. “God
send that he knows his trade well, for the bottom of a ship will
need eyes to find its road out of this wild anchorage.”
“That must indeed be the man!”
exclaimed Barnstable, at once recalled to his duty. He then held a
short dialogue with his female companion, whom he left concealed by
the hedge, and proceeded to address the stranger. When near enough
to be heard, the commander of the schooner demanded:
“What water have you in this
bay?”
The stranger, who seemed to
expect this question, answered without the least hesitation:
“Enough to take all out in safety, who have entered with
confidence.”
“You are the man I seek,” cried
Barnstable; “are you ready to go off?”
“Both ready and willing,”
returned the pilot, “and there is need of haste. I would give the
best hundred guineas that ever were coined for two hours more use
of that sun which
has left us, or for even the time
of this fading twilight.”
“Think you our situation so bad?”
said the lieutenant. “Follow this gentleman to the boat then; I
will join you by the time you can descend the cliffs. I believe I
can prevail on another hand to go off with us.”
“Time is more precious now than
any number of hands,” said the pilot, throwing a glance of
impatience from under his lowering brows, “and the consequences of
delay must be visited on those who occasion it.”
“And, sir, I will meet the
consequences with those who have a right to inquire into my
conduct,” said Barnstable, haughtily.
With this warning and retort they
separated; the young officer retracing his steps impatiently toward
his mistress, muttering his indignation in suppressed execrations,
and the pilot, drawing the leathern belt of his pea-jacket
mechanically around his body, as he followed the midshipman and
cockswain to their boat, in moody silence.
Barnstable found the disguised
female who had announced herself as Katherine Plowden, awaiting his
return, with intense anxiety depicted on every feature of her
intelligent countenance. As he felt all the responsibility of his
situation, notwithstanding his cool reply to the pilot, the young
man hastily drew an arm of the apparent boy, forgetful of her
disguise, through his own, and led her forward.
“Come, Katherine,” he said, “the
time urges to be prompt.”
“What pressing necessity is there
for immediate departure?” she inquired, checking his movements by
withdrawing herself from his side.
“You heard the ominous prognostic
of my cockswain on the weather, and I am forced to add my own
testimony to his opinion. ‘Tis a crazy night that threatens us,
though I cannot repent of coming into the bay, since it has led to
this interview.”
“God forbid that we should either
of us have cause to repent of it,” said Katherine, the paleness of
anxiety chasing away the rich bloom that had mantled the animated
face of the brunette. “But you have the paper—follow its
directions, and come to our rescue; you will find us willing
captives, if Griffith and yourself are our conquerors.”
“What mean you, Katherine!”
exclaimed her lover; “you at least are now in safety
—‘twould be madness to tempt your
fate again. My vessel can and shall protect you, until your cousin
is redeemed; and then, remember, I have a claim on you for
life.”
“And how would you dispose of me
in the interval?” said the young maiden, retreating slowly from his
advances.
“In the Ariel—by heaven, you
shall be her commander; I will bear that rank only in name.”
“I thank you, thank you,
Barnstable, but distrust my abilities to fill such a station,” she
said, laughing, though the color that again crossed her youthful
features was like the glow of a summer’s sunset, and even her
mirthful eyes seemed to reflect their tints. “Do not mistake me,
saucy one. If I have done more than my sex will warrant, remember
it was through a holy motive, and if I have more than a woman’s
enterprise, it must be——”
“To lift you above the weakness
of your sex,” he cried, “and to enable you to show your noble
confidence in me.”
“To fit me for, and to keep me
worthy of being one day your wife.” As she uttered these words she
turned and disappeared, with a rapidity that eluded his attempts to
detain her, behind an angle of the hedge, that was near them. For a
moment, Barnstable remained motionless, through surprise, and when
he sprang forward in pursuit, he was able only to catch a glimpse
of her light form, in the gloom of the evening, as she again
vanished in a little thicket at some distance.
Barnstable was about to pursue,
when the air lighted with a sudden flash, and the bellowing report
of a cannon rolled along the cliffs, and was echoed among the hills
far inland.
“Ay, grumble away, old dotard!”
the disappointed young sailor muttered to himself, while he
reluctantly obeyed the signal; “you are in as great a hurry to get
out of your danger as you were to run into it.”
The quick reports of three
muskets from the barge beneath where he stood urged him to quicken
his pace, and as he threw himself carelessly down the rugged and
dangerous passes of the cliffs, his experienced eye beheld the
well-known lights displayed from the frigate, which commanded “the
recall of all her boats.”
CHAPTER III.
In such a time as this it is not
meet
That every nice offence should
bear its comment.
Shakespeare
The cliffs threw their dark
shadows wide on the waters, and the gloom of the evening had so far
advanced as to conceal the discontent that brooded over the
ordinarily open brow of Barnstable as he sprang from the rocks into
the boat, and took his seat by the side of the silent pilot. “Shove
off,” cried the lieutenant, in tones that his men knew must be
obeyed. “A seaman’s curse light on the folly that exposes planks
and lives to such navigation; and all to burn some old timberman,
or catch a Norway trader asleep! give way, men, give way!”
Notwithstanding the heavy and
dangerous surf that was beginning to tumble in upon the rocks in an
alarming manner, the startled seamen succeeded in urging their
light boat over the waves, and in a few seconds were without the
point where danger was most to be apprehended. Barnstable had
seemingly disregarded the breakers as they passed, but sat sternly
eyeing the foam that rolled by them in successive surges, until the
boat rose regularly on the long seas, when he turned his looks
around the bay in quest of the barge.
“Ay, Griffith has tired of
rocking in his pillowed cradle,” he muttered, “and will give us a
pull to the frigate, when we ought to be getting the schooner out
of this hard-featured landscape. This is just such a place as one
of your sighing lovers would doat on; a little land, a little
water, and a good deal of rock. Damme, long Tom, but I am more than
half of your mind, that an island now and then is all the terra
firma that a seaman needs.”
“It’s reason and philosophy,
sir,” returned the sedate cockswain; “and what land there is,
should always be a soft mud, or a sandy ooze, in order that an
anchor might hold, and to make soundings sartin. I have lost many a
deep-sea, besides hand leads by the dozen, on rocky bottoms; but
give me the roadstead where a lead comes up light and an anchor
heavy. There’s a boat pulling athwart our forefoot, Captain
Barnstable; shall I run her aboard or give her a berth, sir?”
“‘Tis the barge!” cried the
officer; “Ned has not deserted me, after all!”
A loud hail from the approaching
boat confirmed this opinion, and in a few seconds the barge and
whale-boat were again rolling by each other’s side. Griffith was no
longer reclining on the cushions of his seats, but spoke earnestly,
and with a slight tone of reproach in his manner.
“Why have you wasted so many
precious moments, when every minute threatens us with new dangers?
I was obeying the signal, but I heard your oars, and pulled back to
take out the pilot. Have you been successful?”
“There he is; and if he finds his
way out, through the shoals, he will earn a right to his name. This
bids fair to be a night when a man will need a spy-glass to find
the moon. But when you hear what I have seen on those rascally
cliffs, you will be more ready to excuse my delay, Mr.
Griffith.”
“You have seen the true man, I
trust, or we incur this hazard to an evil purpose.”
“Ay, I have seen him that is a
true man, and him that is not,” replied Barnstable, bitterly; “you
have the boy with you, Griffith—ask him what his young eyes have
seen.”
“Shall I!” cried the young
midshipman, laughing; “then I have seen a little clipper, in
disguise, out sail an old man-of-war’s man in a hard chase, and I
have seen a straggling rover in long-togs as much like my
cousin——”
“Peace, gabbler!” exclaimed
Barnstable in a voice of thunder; “would you detain the boats with
your silly nonsense at a time like this? Away into the barge, sir,
and if you find him willing to hear, tell Mr. Griffith what your
foolish conjectures amount to, at your leisure.”
The boy stepped lightly from the
whale-boat to the barge, whither the pilot had already preceded
him, and, as he sunk, with a mortified air, by the side of
Griffith, he said, in a low voice:
“And that won’t be long, I know,
if Mr. Griffith thinks and feels on the coast of England as he
thought and felt at home.”
A silent pressure of his hand was
the only reply that the young lieutenant made, before he paid the
parting compliments to Barnstable, and directed his men to pull for
their ship.
The boats were separating, and
the plash of the oars was already heard, when the voice of the
pilot was for the first time raised in earnest.
“Hold!” he cried; “hold water, I
bid ye!”
The men ceased their efforts at
the commanding tones of his voice, and turning toward the
whale-boat, he continued:
“You will get your schooner under
way immediately, Captain Barnstable, and sweep into the offing with
as little delay as possible. Keep the ship well open from the
northern headland, and as you pass us, come within hail.”
“This is a clean chart and plain
sailing, Mr. Pilot,” returned Barnstable; “but who is to justify my
moving without orders, to Captain Munson? I have it in black and
white, to run the Ariel into this feather-bed sort of a place, and
I must at least have it by signal or word of mouth from my betters,
before my cutwater curls another wave. The road may be as hard to
find going out as it was coming in—and then I had daylight as well
as your written directions to steer by.”
“Would you lie there to perish on
such a night?” said the pilot, sternly. “Two hours hence, this
heavy swell will break where your vessel now rides so
quietly.”
“There we think exactly alike;
but if I get drowned now, I am drowned according to orders;
whereas, if I knock a plank out of the schooner’s bottom, by
following your directions, ‘twill be a hole to let in mutiny, as
well as sea-water. How do I know but the old man wants another
pilot or two.”
“That’s philosophy,” muttered the
cockswain of the whale-boat, in a voice that was audible: “but it’s
a hard strain on a man’s conscience to hold on in such an
anchorage!”
“Then keep your anchor down, and
follow it to the bottom,” said the pilot to himself;
“it’s worse to contend with a
fool than a gale of wind; but if——”
“No, no, sir—no fool neither,”
interrupted Griffith. “Barnstable does not deserve that epithet,
though he certainly carries the point of duty to the extreme. Heave
up at once, Mr. Barnstable, and get out of this bay as fast as
possible.”
“Ah! you don’t give the order
with half the pleasure with which I shall execute it; pull away,
boys—the Ariel shall never lay her bones in such a hard bed, if I
can help it.”
As the commander of the schooner
uttered these words with a cheering voice, his men spontaneously
shouted, and the whale-boat darted away from her companion, and was
soon lost in the gloomy shadows cast from the cliffs.
In the mean time, the oarsmen of
the barge were not idle, but by strenuous efforts they forced the
heavy boat rapidly through the water, and in a few minutes she ran
alongside of the frigate. During this period the pilot, in a voice
which had lost all the startling fierceness and authority it had
manifested in his short dialogue with Barnstable, requested
Griffith to repeat to him, slowly, the names of the officers that
belonged to his ship. When the young lieutenant had complied with
this request, he observed to his companion:
“All good men and true, Mr.
Pilot; and though this business in which you are just now engaged
may be hazardous to an Englishman, there are none with us who will
betray you. We need your services, and as we expect good faith from
you, so shall we offer it to you in exchange.”
“And how know you that I need its
exercise?” asked the pilot, in a manner that denoted a cold
indifference to the subject.
“Why, though you talk pretty good
English, for a native,” returned Griffith, “yet you have a small
bur-r-r in your mouth that would prick the tongue of a man who was
born on the other side of the Atlantic.”
“It is but of little moment where
a man is born, or how he speaks,” returned the pilot, coldly, “so
that he does his duty bravely and in good faith.”
It was perhaps fortunate for the
harmony of this dialogue, that the gloom, which had now increased
to positive darkness, completely concealed the look of scornful
irony that crossed the handsome features of the young sailor, as he
replied: “True, true, so that he does his duty, as you say, in good
faith. But, as Barnstable observed, you must know your road well to
travel among these shoals on such a night as this. Know you what
water we draw?”
“‘Tis a frigate’s draught, and I
shall endeavor to keep you in four fathoms; less than that would be
dangerous.”
“She’s a sweet boat!” said
Griffith, “and minds her helm as a marine watches the eye of his
sergeant at a drill; but you must give her room in stays, for she
fore-reaches, as if she would put out the wind’s eye.”
The pilot attended, with a
practised ear, to this description of the qualities of the ship
that he was about to attempt extricating from an extremely
dangerous situation. Not a syllable was lost on him; and when
Griffith had ended, he remarked, with the singular coldness that
pervaded his manner:
“That is both a good and a bad
quality in a narrow channel. I fear it will be the latter to-
night, when we shall require to have the ship in
leading-strings.”
“I suppose we must feel our way
with the lead?” said Griffith.
“We shall need both eyes and
leads,” returned the pilot, recurring insensibly to his
soliloquizing tone of voice. “I have been both in and out in darker
nights than this, though never with a heavier draught than a
half-two.”
“Then, by heaven, you are not fit
to handle that ship among these rocks and breakers!” exclaimed
Griffith; “your men of a light draught never know their water; ‘tis
the deep keel only that finds a channel;—pilot! pilot! beware how
you trifle with us ignorantly; for ‘tis a dangerous experiment to
play at hazards with an enemy.”
“Young man, you know not what you
threaten, nor whom,” said the pilot sternly, though his quiet
manner still remained undisturbed; “you forget that you have a
superior here, and that I have none.”
“That shall be as you discharge
your duty,” said Griffith; “for if——” “Peace!” interrupted the
pilot; “we approach the ship, let us enter in harmony.”
He threw himself back on the
cushions when he had said this; and Griffith, though filled with
the apprehensions of suffering, either by great ignorance or
treachery on the part of his companion, smothered his feelings so
far as to be silent, and they ascended the side of the vessel in
apparent cordiality.
The frigate was already riding on
lengthened seas, that rolled in from the ocean at each successive
moment with increasing violence, though her topsails still hung
supinely from her yards; the air, which continued to breathe
occasionally from the land, being unable to shake the heavy canvas
of which they were composed.
The only sounds that were
audible, when Griffith and the pilot had ascended to the gangway of
the frigate, were produced by the sullen dashing of the sea against
the massive bows of the ship, and the shrill whistle of the
boatswain’s mate as he recalled the side- boys, who were placed on
either side of the gangway to do honor to the entrance of the first
lieutenant and his companion.
But though such a profound
silence reigned among the hundreds who inhabited the huge fabric,
the light produced by a dozen battle-lanterns, that were arranged
in different parts of the decks, served not only to exhibit faintly
the persons of the crew, but the mingled feeling of curiosity and
care that dwelt on most of their countenances.
Large groups of men were
collected in the gangways, around the mainmast, and on the booms of
the vessel, whose faces were distinctly visible, while numerous
figures, lying along the lower yards or bending out of the tops,
might be dimly traced in the background, all of whom expressed by
their attitudes the interest they took in the arrival of the
boat.
Though such crowds were collected
in other parts of the vessel, the quarter-deck was occupied only by
the officers, who were disposed according to their several ranks,
and were equally silent and attentive as the remainder of the crew.
In front stood a small collection of young men, who, by their
similarity of dress, were the equals and companions of Griffith,
though his juniors in rank. On the opposite side of the vessel
was
a larger assemblage of youths,
who claimed Mr. Merry as their fellow. Around the capstan three or
four figures were standing, one of whom wore a coat of blue, with
the scarlet facings of a soldier, and another the black vestments
of the ship’s chaplain. Behind these, and nearer the passage to the
cabin from which he had just ascended, stood the tall, erect form
of the commander of the vessel.
After a brief salutation between
Griffith and the junior officers, the former advanced, followed
slowly by the pilot, to the place where he was expected by his
veteran commander. The young man removed his hat entirely, as he
bowed with a little more than his usual ceremony, and said:
“We have succeeded, sir, though
not without more difficulty and delay than were anticipated.”
“But you have not brought off the
pilot,” said the captain, “and without him, all our risk and
trouble have been in vain.”
“He is here,” said Griffith,
stepping aside, and extending his arm towards the man that stood
behind him, wrapped to the chin in his coarse pea-jacket, and his
face shadowed by the falling rims of a large hat, that had seen
much and hard service.
“This!” exclaimed the captain;
“then there is a sad mistake—this is not the man I would have,
seen, nor can another supply his place.”
“I know not whom you expected,
Captain Munson,” said the stranger, in a low, quiet voice; “but if
you have not forgotten the day when a very different flag from that
emblem of tyranny that now hangs over yon taffrail was first spread
to the wind, you may remember the hand that raised it.”
“Bring here the light!” exclaimed
the commander, hastily.
When the lantern was extended
towards the pilot, and the glare fell strong on his features,
Captain Munson started, as he beheld the calm blue eye that met his
gaze, and the composed but pallid countenance of the other.
Involuntarily raising his hat, and baring his silver locks, the
veteran cried:
“It is he! though so
changed——”
“That his enemies did not know
him,” interrupted the pilot, quickly; then touching the other by
the arm as he led him aside, he continued, in a lower tone,
“neither must his friends, until the proper hour shall
arrive.”
Griffith had fallen back to
answer the eager questions of his messmates, and no part of this
short dialogue was overheard by the officers, though it was soon
perceived that their commander had discovered his error, and was
satisfied that the proper man had been brought on board his vessel.
For many minutes the two continued to pace a part of the
quarter-deck, by themselves, engaged in deep and earnest
discourse.
As Griffith had but little to
communicate, the curiosity of his listeners was soon appeased, and
all eyes were directed toward that mysterious guide, who was to
conduct them from a situation already surrounded by perils, which
each moment not only magnified in appearance, but increased in
reality.
CHAPTER IV.
——“Behold the threaden
sails,
Borne with the invisible and
creeping winds, Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea,
Breasting the lofty surge.”
Shakespeare.
It has been already explained to
the reader, that there were threatening symptoms in the appearance
of the weather to create serious forebodings of evil in the breast
of a seaman. When removed from the shadows of the cliffs, the night
was not so dark but objects could be discerned at some little
distance, and in the eastern horizon there was a streak of fearful
light impending over the gloomy waters, in which the swelling
outline formed by the rising waves was becoming each moment more
distinct, and, consequently, more alarming. Several dark clouds
overhung the vessel, whose towering masts apparently propped the
black vapor, while a few stars were seen twinkling, with a sickly
flame, in the streak of clear sky that skirted the ocean. Still,
light currents of air occasionally swept across the bay, bringing
with them the fresh odor from the shore, but their flitting
irregularity too surely foretold them to be the expiring breath of
the land breeze. The roaring of the surf, as it rolled on the
margin of the bay, produced a dull, monotonous sound, that was only
Interrupted at times by a hollow bellowing, as a larger wave than
usual broke violently against some cavity in the rock. Everything,
in short, united to render the scene gloomy and portentous, without
creating instant terror, for the ship rose easily on the long
billows, without even straightening the heavy cable that held her
to her anchor.
The higher officers were
collected around the capstan, engaged in earnest discourse about
their situation and prospects, while some of the oldest and most
favored seamen would extend their short walk to the hallowed
precincts of the quarter-deck, to catch, with greedy ears, the
opinions that fell from their superiors. Numberless were the uneasy
glances that were thrown from both officers and men at their
commander and the pilot, who still continued their secret communion
in a distant part of the vessel. Once, an ungovernable curiosity,
or the heedlessness of his years, led one of the youthful
midshipmen near them; but a stern rebuke from his captain sent the
boy, abashed and cowering, to hide his mortification among his
fellows. This reprimand was received by the elder officers as an
intimation that the consultation which they beheld was to be
strictly inviolate; and, though it by no means suppressed the
repeated expressions of their impatience, it effectually prevented
an interruption to the communications, which all, however, thought
were unreasonably protracted for the occasion.
“This is no time to be talking
over bearings and distances,” observed the officer next in rank to
Griffith; “but we should call the hands up, and try to kedge her
off while the sea will suffer a boat to live.”
“‘Twould be a tedious and
bootless job to attempt warping a ship for miles against a
head-beating sea,” returned the first lieutenant; “but the
land-breeze yet flutters aloft, and if our light sails would draw,
with the aid of this ebb tide we might be able to shove her
from the shore.”
“Hail the tops, Griffith,” said
the other, “and ask if they feel the air above; ‘twill be a hint at
least to set the old man and that lubberly pilot in motion.”
Griffith laughed as he complied
with the request, and when he received the customary reply to his
call, he demanded in a loud voice:
“Which way have you the wind,
aloft?”
“We feel a light catspaw, now and
then, from the land, sir,” returned the sturdy captain of the top;
“but our topsail hangs in the clewlines, sir, without
winking.”
Captain Munson and his companion
suspended their discourse while this question and answer were
exchanged, and then resumed their dialogue as earnestly as if it
had received no interruption.
“If it did wink, the hint would
be lost on our betters,” said the officer of the marines, whose
ignorance of seamanship added greatly to his perception of the
danger, but who, from pure idleness, made more jokes than any other
man in the ship. “That pilot would not receive a delicate
intimation through his ears, Mr. Griffith; suppose you try him by
the nose.”
“Faith, there was a flash of
gunpowder between us in the barge,” returned the first lieutenant,
“and he does not seem a man to stomach such hints as you advise.
Although he looks so meek and quiet, I doubt whether he has paid
much attention to the book of Job.”
“Why should he?” exclaimed the
chaplain, whose apprehensions at least equaled those of the marine,
and with a much more disheartening effect; “I am sure it would have
been a great waste of time: there are so many charts of the coast,
and books on the navigation of these seas, for him to study, that I
sincerely hope he has been much better employed.”
A loud laugh was created at this
speech among the listeners, and it apparently produced the effect
that was so long anxiously desired, by putting an end to the
mysterious conference between their captain and the pilot. As the
former came forward towards his expecting crew, he said, is the
composed, steady manner that formed the principal trait in his
character:
“Get the anchor, Mr. Griffith,
and make sail on the ship; the hour has arrived when we must be
moving.”
The cheerful “Ay! ay! sir!” of
the young lieutenant was hardly uttered, before the cries of half a
dozen midshipmen were heard summoning the boatswain and his mates
to their duty.
There was a general movement in
the living masses that clustered around the mainmast, on the booms,
and in the gangways, though their habits of discipline held the
crew a moment longer in suspense. The silence was first broken by
the sound of the boatswain’s whistle, followed by the hoarse cry of
“All hands, up anchor, ahoy!”—the former rising on the night air,
from its first low mellow notes to a piercing shrillness that
gradually died away on the waters; and the latter bellowing through
every cranny of the ship, like the hollow murmurs of distant
thunder.
The change produced by the
customary summons was magical. Human beings sprang out from between
the guns, rushed up the hatches, threw themselves with careless
activity from the booms, and gathered from every quarter so
rapidly, that in an instant the deck of the frigate was alive with
men. The profound silence, that had hitherto been only interrupted
by the low dialogue of the officers, was now changed for the stern
orders of the lieutenants, mingled with the shriller cries of the
midshipmen, and the hoarse bawling of the boatswain’s crew, rising
above the tumult of preparation and general bustle.
The captain and the pilot alone
remained passive, in this scene of general exertion; for
apprehension had even stimulated that class of officers which is
called “idlers” to unusual activity, though frequently reminded by
their more experienced messmates that, instead of aiding, they
retarded the duty of the vessel. The bustle, however, gradually
ceased, and in a few minutes the same silence pervaded the ship as
before.
“We are brought-to, sir,” said
Griffith, who stood overlooking the scene, holding in one hand a
short speaking, trumpet, and grasping with the other one of the
shrouds of the ship, to steady himself in the position he had taken
on a gun.
“Heave round, sir,” was the calm
reply. “Heave round!” repeated Griffith, aloud.
“Heave round!” echoed a dozen
eager voices at once, and the lively strains of a fife struck up a
brisk air, to enliven the labor. The capstan was instantly set in
motion, and the measured tread of the seamen was heard, as they
stamped the deck in the circle of their march. For a few minutes no
other sounds were heard, if we except the voice of an officer,
occasionally cheering the sailors, when it was announced that they
“were short;” or, in other words, that the ship was nearly over her
anchor.
“Heave and pull,” cried Griffith;
when the quivering notes of the whistle were again succeeded by a
general stillness in the vessel.
“What is to be done now, sir?”
continued the lieutenant; “shall we trip the anchor? There seems
not a breath of air; and as the tide runs slack, I doubt whether
the sea do not heave the ship ashore.”
There was so much obvious truth
in this conjecture, that all eyes turned from the light and
animation afforded by the decks of the frigate, to look abroad on
the waters, in a vain desire to pierce the darkness, as if to read
the fate of their apparently devoted ship from the aspect of
nature.
“I leave all to the pilot,” said
the captain, after he had stood a short time by the side of
Griffith, anxiously studying the heavens and the ocean. “What say
you, Mr. Gray?”
The man who was thus first
addressed by name was leaning over the bulwarks, with his eyes bent
in the same direction as the others; but as he answered he turned
his face towards the speaker, and the light from the deck fell full
upon his quiet features, which exhibited a calmness bordering on
the supernatural, considering his station and responsibility.
“There is much to fear from this
heavy ground-swell,” he said, in the same unmoved tones as before;
“but there is certain destruction to us, if the gale that is
brewing in the east
finds us waiting its fury in this
wild anchorage. All the hemp that ever was spun into cordage would
not hold a ship an hour, chafing on these rocks, with a northeaster
pouring its fury on her. If the powers of man can compass it,
gentlemen, we must get an offing, and that speedily.”
“You say no more, sir, than the
youngest boy in the ship can see for himself,” said Griffith—“ha!
here comes the schooner!”
The dashing of the long sweeps in
the water was now plainly audible, and the little Ariel was seen
through the gloom, moving heavily under their feeble impulse. As
she passed slowly under the stern of the frigate, the cheerful
voice of Barnstable was first heard, opening the communications
between them.
“Here’s a night for spectacles,
Captain Munson!” he cried; “but I thought I heard your fife, sir. I
trust in God, you do not mean to ride it out here till
morning?”
“I like the berth as little as
yourself, Mr. Barnstable,” returned the veteran seaman, in his calm
manner, in which anxiety was, however, beginning to grow evident.
“We are short; but are afraid to let go our hold of the bottom,
lest the sea cast us ashore. How make you out the wind?”
“Wind!” echoed the other; “there
is not enough to blow a lady’s curl aside. If you wait, sir, till
the land-breeze fills your sails, you will wait another moon. I
believe I’ve got my eggshell out of that nest of gray-caps; but how
it has been done in the dark, a better man than myself must
explain.”
“Take your directions from the
pilot, Mr. Barnstable,” returned his commanding officer, “and
follow them strictly and to the letter.”
A deathlike silence, in both
vessels, succeeded this order; for all seemed to listen eagerly to
catch the words that fell from the man on whom, even the boys now
felt, depended their only hopes for safety. A short time was
suffered to elapse, before his voice was heard, in the same low but
distinct tones as before:
“Your sweeps will soon be of no
service to you,” he said, “against the sea that begins to heave in;
but your light sails will help them to get you out. So long as you
can head east- and-by-north, you are doing well, and you can stand
on till you open the light from that northern headland, when you
can heave to and fire a gun; but if, as I dread, you are struck
aback before you open the light, you may trust to your lead on the
larboard tack; but beware, with your head to the southward, for no
lead will serve you there.”