Alonzo. “Good boatswain, have care.”
_Tempest._
The instant the stranger had separated from the credulous tailor, he
lost his assumed air in one far more natural and sedate. Still it would
seem that thought was an unwonted, or an unwelcome tenant of his mind;
for, switching his boot with his little riding whip, he entered the
principal street of the place with a light step and a wandering eye.
Though his look was unsettled, few of the individuals, whom he passed,
escaped his quick glances; and it was quite apparent, from the hurried
manner in which he began to regard objects, that his mind was not less
active than his body. A stranger thus accoutred, and one bearing about
his person so many evidences of his recent acquaintance with the road,
did not fail to attract the attention of the provident publicans we
have had occasion to mention in our opening chapter. Declining the
civilities of the most favoured of the inn-keepers, he suffered his
steps to be, oddly enough, arrested by the one whose house was the
usual haunt of the hangers-on of the port.
On entering the bar-room of this tavern, as it was called, but which in
the mother country would probably have aspired to be termed no more
than a pot-house he found the hospitable apartment thronged with its
customary revellers. A slight interruption was produced by the
appearance of a guest who was altogether superior, in mien and attire,
to the ordinary customers of the house, but it ceased the moment the
stranger had thrown himself on a bench, and intimated to the host the
nature of his wants. As the latter furnished the required draught, he
made a sort of apology, which was intended for the ears of all his
customers nigh the stranger, for the manner in which an individual, in
the further end of the long narrow room, not only monopolized the
discourse, but appeared to extort the attention of all within hearing
to some portentous legend he was recounting.
“It is the boatswain of the slaver in the outer harbour, squire,” the
worthy disciple of Bacchus concluded; “a man who has followed the water
many a day, and who has seen sights and prodigies enough to fill a
smart volume. Old Bor’us the people call him, though his lawful name is
Jack Nightingale. Is the toddy to the squire’s relish?”
The stranger assented to the latter query, by smacking his lips, and
bowing, as he put down the nearly untouched draught. He then turned his
head, to examine the individual who might, by the manner in which he
declaimed, have been termed, in the language of the country, the second
“orator of the day.”
A stature which greatly exceeded six feet; enormous whiskers, that
quite concealed a moiety of his grim countenance; a scar, which was the
memorial of a badly healed gash, that had once threatened to divide
that moiety in quarters; limbs in proportion; the whole rendered
striking by the dress of a sea man; a long, tarnished silver chain, and
a little whistle of the same metal, served to render the individual in
question sufficiently remarkable. Without appearing to be in the
smallest decree aware of the entrance of one altogether so superior to
the class of his usual auditors, this son of the Ocean continued his
narrative as follows, and in a voice that seemed given to him by nature
as if in very mockery of his musical name; indeed, so very near did his
tones approach to the low murmurings of a bull, that some little
practice was necessary to accustom the ear to the strangely uttered
words.
“Well!” he continued, thrusting his brawny arm forth, with the fist
clenched, indicating the necessary point of the compass by the thumb;
“the coast of Guinea might have lain hereaway, and the wind you see,
was dead off shore, blowing in squalls, as a cat spits, all the same as
if the old fellow, who keeps it bagged for the use of us seamen,
sometimes let the stopper slip through his fingers, and was sometimes
fetching it up again with a double turn round the end of his sack.—You
know what a sack is, brother?”
This abrupt question was put to the gaping bumpkin, already known to
the reader, who, with the nether garment just received from the tailor
under his arm, had lingered, to add the incidents of the present legend
to the stock of lore that he had already obtained for the ears of his
kinsfolk in the country. A general laugh, at the expense of the
admiring Pardon succeeded. Nightingale bestowed a knowing wink on one
or two of his familiars, and, profiting by the occasion, “to freshen
his nip,” as he quaintly styled swallowing a pint of rum and water, he
continued his narrative by saying, in a sort of admonitory tone,—
“And the time may come when you will know what a round-turn is, too, if
you let go your hold of honesty. A man’s neck was made, brother, to
keep his head above water, and not to be stretched out of shape like a
pair of badly fitted dead-eyes. Therefore have your reckoning worked up
in season, and the lead of conscience going, when you find yourself
drifting on the shoals of temptation.” Then, rolling his tobacco in his
mouth, he looked boldly about him, like one who had acquitted himself
of a moral obligation, and continued: “Well, there lay the land, and,
as I was saying, the wind was here, at east-and-by-south or mayhap at
east-and-by-south-half-south, sometimes blowing like a fin-back in a
hurry, and sometimes leaving all the canvas chafing ag’in the rigging
and spars, as if a bolt of duck cost no more nor a rich man’s blessing.
I didn’t like the looks of the weather, seeing that there was
altogether too much unsartainty for a quiet watch, so I walked aft, in
order to put myself in the way of giving an opinion if-so-be such a
thing should be asked. You must know, brothers, that, according to my
notions of religion and behaviour, a man is not good for much, unless
he has a full share of manners; therefore I am never known to put my
spoon into the captain’s mess, unless I am invited, for the plain
reason, that my berth is for’ard, and his’n aft. I do not say in which
end of a ship the better man is to be found; that is a matter
concerning which men have different opinions, though most judges in the
business are agreed. But aft I walked, to put myself in the way of
giving an opinion, if one should be asked; nor was it long before the
thing came to pass just as I had foreseen. ‘Mister Nightingale,’ says
he; for our Captain is a gentleman, and never forgets his behaviour on
deck, or when any of the ship’s company are at hand, ‘_Mister_
Nightingale,’ says he, ‘what do you think of that rag of a cloud,
hereaway at the north-west?’ says he. ‘Why, sir,’ says I, boldly, for
I’m never backward in speaking, when properly spoken to, so, ‘why,
sir,’ says I, ‘saving your Honour’s better judgment,’—which was all a
flam, for he was but a chicken to me in years and experience, but then
I never throw hot ashes to windward, or any thing else that is warm—so,
‘sir,’ says I, ‘it is my advice to hand the three topsails and to stow
the jib. We are in no hurry; for the plain reason, that Guinea will be
to-morrow just where Guinea is to-night. As for keeping the ship steady
in these matters of squalls, we have the mainsail on her—’”
“You should have furl’d your mainsail too,” exclaimed a voice from
behind, that was quite as dogmatical, though a little less grum, than
that of the loquacious boatswain.
“What know-nothing says that?” demanded Nightingale fiercely, as if all
his latent ire was excited by so rude and daring an interruption.
“A man who has run Africa down, from Bon to Good-Hope, more than once,
and who knows a white squall from a rainbow,” returned Dick Fid, edging
his short person stoutly towards his furious adversary, making his way
through the crowd by which the important personage of the boatswain was
environed by dint of his massive shoulders; “ay, brother, and a man,
know-much or know-nothing, who would never advise his officer to keep
so much after-sail on a ship, when there was the likelihood of the wind
taking her aback.”
To this bold vindication of an opinion which all present deemed to be
so audacious, there succeeded a general and loud murmur. Encouraged by
this evidence of his superior popularity, Nightingale was not slow, nor
very meek, with his retort; and then followed a clamorous concert, in
which the voices of the company in general served for the higher and
shriller notes, through which the bold and vigorous assertions,
contradictions, and opinions of the two principal disputants were heard
running a thorough-bass.
For some time, no part of the discussion was very distinct, so great
was the confusion of tongues; and there were certain symptoms of an
intention, on the part of Fid and the boatswain, to settle their
controversy by the last appeal. During this moment of suspense, the
former had squared his firm-built frame in front of his gigantic
opponent, and there were very vehement passings and counter-passings,
in the way of gestures from four athletic arms, each of which was
knobbed, like a fashionable rattan, with a lump of bones, knuckles, and
sinews, that threatened annihilation to any thing that should oppose
them. As the general clamour, however, gradually abated, the chief
reasoners began to be heard; and, as if content to rely on their
respective powers of eloquence, each gradually relinquished his hostile
attitude, and appeared disposed to maintain his ground by a member
scarcely less terrible than his brawny arm.
“You are a bold seaman, brother,” said Nightingale resuming his seat,
“and, if saying was doing, no doubt you would make a ship talk. But I,
who have seen fleets of two and three deckers—and that of all nations,
except your Mohawks, mayhap, whose cruisers I will confess never to
have fallen in with—lying as snug as so many white gulls, under reefed
mainsails, know how to take the strain off a ship, and to keep my
bulkheads in their places.”
“I deny the judgment of heaving-to a boat under her after
square-sails,” retorted Dick. “Give her the stay-sails, if you will,
and no harm done; but a true seaman will never get a bagful of wind
between his mainmast and his lee-swifter, if-so-be he knows his
business. But words are like thunder, which rumbles aloft, without
coming down a spar, as I have yet seen; let us therefore put the
question to some one who has been on the water, and knows a little of
life and of ships.”
“If the oldest admiral in his Majesty’s fleet was here, he wouldn’t be
backward in saying who is right and who is wrong. I say, brothers, if
there is a man among you all who has had the advantage of a sea
education, let him speak, in order that the truth of this matter may
not be hid, like a marling-spike jammed between a brace-block and a
blackened yard.”
“Here, then, is the man,” returned Fid; and, stretching out his arm, he
seized Scipio by the collar, and drew him, without ceremony, into the
centre of the circle, that had opened around the two disputants “There
is a man for you, who has made one more voyage between this and Africa
than myself, for the reason that he was born there. Now, answer as if
you were hallooing from a lee-earing, S’ip, under what sail would you
heave-to a ship, on the coast of your native country, with the danger
of a white squall at hand?”
“I no heave-’em-to,” said the black, “I make ’em scud.”
“Ay, boy; but, to be in readiness for the puff, would you jam her up
under a mainsail, or let her lie a little off under a fore course?”
“Any fool know dat,” returned Scipio, grumly and evidently tired
already of being thus catechised.
“If you want ’em fall off, how you’m expect, in reason, he do it under
a main course? You answer me dat, misser Dick.”
“Gentlemen,” said Nightingale, looking about him with an air of great
gravity, “I put it to your Honours, is it genteel behaviour to bring a
nigger, in this out-of-the-way fashion, to give an opinion in the teeth
of a white man?”
This appeal to the wounded dignity of the company was answered by a
common murmur. Scipio, who was prepared to maintain, and would have
maintained, his professional opinion, after his positive and peculiar
manner, against any disputant, had not the heart to resist so general
an evidence of the impropriety of his presence. Without uttering a word
in vindication or apology, he folded his arms, and walked out of the
house, with the submission and meekness of one who had been too long
trained in humility to rebel. This desertion on the part of his
companion was not, however, so quietly acquiesced in by Fid, who found
himself thus unexpectedly deprived of the testimony of the black. He
loudly remonstrated against his retreat; but, finding it in vain, he
crammed the end of several inches of tobacco into his mouth, swearing,
as he followed the African, and keeping his eye, at the same time,
firmly fastened on his adversary, that, in his opinion, “the lad, if he
was fairly skinned, would be found to be the whiter man of the two.”
The triumph of the boatswain was now complete; nor was he at all
sparing of his exultation.
“Gentlemen,” he said, addressing himself, with an air of increased
confidence, to the motley audience who surrounded him, “you see that
reason is like a ship bearing down with studding-sails on both sides,
leaving a straight wake and no favours. Now, I scorn boasting, nor do I
know who the fellow is who has just sheered off, in time to save his
character, but this I will say, that the man is not to be found,
between Boston and the West Indies, who knows better than myself how to
make a ship walk, or how to make her stand still, provided I”—
The deep voice of Nightingale became suddenly hushed, and his eye was
riveted, by a sort of enchantment on the keen glance of the stranger in
green, whose countenance was now seen blended among the more vulgar
faces of the crowd.
“Mayhap,” continued the boatswain, swallowing his words, in the
surprise of seeing himself so unexpectedly confronted by so imposing an
eye, “mayhap this gentleman has some knowledge of the sea, and can
decide the matter in dispute.”
“We do not study naval tactics at the universities,” returned the other
briskly, “though I will confess, from the little I have heard, I am
altogether in favour of _scudding._”
He pronounced the latter word with an emphasis which rendered it
questionable if he did not mean to pun; the more especially as he threw
down his reckoning and instantly left the field to the quiet possession
of Nightingale. The latter, after a short pause, resumed his narrative,
though, either from weariness or some other cause, it was observed that
his voice was far less positive than before, and that his tale was cut
prematurely short. After completing his narrative and his grog, he
staggered to the beach, whither a boat was shortly after despatched to
convey him on board the ship, which, during all this time, had not
ceased to be the constant subject of the suspicious examination of the
good-man Homespun.
In the mean while, the stranger in green had pursued his walk along the
main street of the town. Fid had given chase to the disconcerted
Scipio, grumbling as he went, and uttering no very delicate remarks on
the knowledge and seamanship of the boatswain. They soon joined company
again, the former changing his attack to the negro, whom he liberally
abused, for abandoning a point which he maintained was as simple, and
as true, as “that yonder bit of a schooner would make more way, going
wing-and-wing, than jammed up on a wind.”
Probably diverted with the touches of peculiar character he had
detected in this singular pair of confederates, or possibly led by his
own wayward humour, the stranger followed their footsteps. After
turning from the water, they mounted a hill, the latter a little in the
rear of his pilots, until he lost sight of them in a bend of the
street, or rather road; for by this time, they were past even the
little suburbs of the town. Quickening his steps, the barrister, as he
had announced himself to be, was glad to catch a glimpse of the two
worthies, seated under a fence several minutes after he had believed
them lost. They were making a frugal meal, off the contents of a little
bag which the white had borne under his arm and from which he now
dispensed liberally to his companion, who had taken his post
sufficiently nigh to proclaim that perfect amity was restored, though
still a little in the back ground, in deference to the superior
condition which the other enjoyed through favour of his colour.
Approaching the spot, the stranger observed,—
“If you make so free with the bag, my lads, your third man may have to
go supperless to bed.”
“Who hails?” said Dick, looking up from his bone, with an expression
much like that of a mastiff when engaged at a similar employment.
“I merely wished to remind you that you had another messmate,”
cavalierly returned the other.
“Will you take a cut, brother?” said the seaman, offering the bag, with
the liberality of a sailor, the moment he fancied there was an indirect
demand made on its contents.
“You still mistake my meaning; on the wharf you had another companion.”
“Ay, ay; he is in the offing there, overhauling that bit of a
light-house, which is badly enough moored unless they mean it to shew
the channel to your ox-teams and inland traders; hereaway, gentlemen,
where you see that pile of stones which seems likely to be coming down
shortly by-the-run.”
The stranger looked in the direction indicated by the other, and saw
the young mariner, to whom he had alluded, standing at the foot of a
ruined tower, which was crumbling under the slow operations of time, at
no great distance from the place where he stood. Throwing a handful of
small change to the seamen, he wished them a better meal, and crossed
the fence, with an apparent intention of examining the ruin also.
“The lad is free with his coppers,” said Dick, suspending the movements
of his teeth, to give the stranger another and a better look; “but, as
they will not grow where he has planted them, S’ip, you may turn them
over to my pocket. An off-handed and a free-handed chap that, Africa;
but then these law-dealers get all their pence of the devil, and they
are sure of more, when the shot begins to run low in the locker.”
Leaving the negro to collect the money, and to transfer it, as in duty
bound, to the hands of him who, if not his master, was at all times
ready and willing to exercise the authority of one, we shall follow the
stranger in his walk toward, the tottering edifice. There was little
about the ruin itself to attract the attention of one who, from his
assertions, had probably often enjoyed the opportunities of examining
far more imposing remains of former ages, on the other side of the
Atlantic. It was a small circular tower, which stood on rude pillars,
connected by arches, and might have been constructed, in the infancy of
the country, as a place of defence, though it is far more probable that
it was a work of a less warlike nature. More than half a century after
the period of which we are writing, this little edifice, peculiar in
its form, its ruinous condition, and its materials, has suddenly become
the study and the theme of that very learned sort of individual the
American antiquarian. It is not surprising that a ruin thus honoured
should have become the object of many a hot and erudite discussion.
While the chivalrous in the arts and in the antiquities of the country
have been gallantly breaking their lances around the mouldering walls,
the less instructed and the less zealous have regarded the combatants
with the same species of wonder as they would have manifested had they
been present when the renowned knight of La Mancha tilted against those
other wind-mills so ingeniously described by the immortal Cervantes.
On reaching the place, the stranger in green gave his boot a smart blow
with the riding whip, as if to attract the attention of the abstracted
young sailor, and freely remarked,—
“A very pretty object this would be, if covered with ivy, to be seen
peeping through an opening in a wood. But I beg pardon; gentlemen of
your _profession_ have little to do with woods and crumbling stones.
Yonder is the tower,” pointing to the tail masts of the ship in the
outer harbour, “you love to look on; and your only ruin is a wreck!”
“You seem familiar with our tastes, sir,” coldly returned the other.
“It is by instinct, then; for it is certain I have had but little
opportunity of acquiring my knowledge by actual communion with any of
the—cloth; nor do I perceive that I am likely to be more fortunate at
present. Let us be frank, my friend, and talk in amity: What do you see
about this pile of stones, that can keep you so long from your study of
yonder noble and gallant ship?”
“Did it then surprise you that a seaman out of employment should
examine a vessel that he finds to his mind, perhaps with an intention
to ask for service?”
“Her commander must be a dull fellow, if he refuse it to so proper a
lad! But you seem to be too well instructed for any of the meaner
births.”
“Births!” repeated the other, again fastening his eyes, with a singular
expression, on the stranger in green.
“Births! It is your nautical word for ‘situation, or; station;’ is it
not? We know but little of the marine vocabulary, we barristers; but I
think I may venture on that as the true Doric. Am I justified by your
authority?”
“The word is certainly not yet obsolete; and, by a figure, it is as
certainly correct in the sense you used it.”
“Obsolete!” repeated the stranger in green, returning the meaning look
he had just received: “Is that the name of any part of a ship? Perhaps,
by _figure_, you mean figure-head; and, by _obsolete_, the long-boat!”
The young seaman laughed; and, as if this sally had broken through the
barrier of his reserve, his manner lost much of its cold restraint
during the remainder of their conference.
“It is just as plain,” he said, “that you have been at sea, as it is
that I have been at school. Since we have both been so fortunate, we
may afford to be generous and cease speaking in parables. For instance,
what think you has been the object and use of this ruin, when it was in
good condition?”
“In order to judge of that,” returned the stranger in green, “it may be
necessary to examine it more closely. Let us ascend.”
As he spoke, the barrister mounted, by a crazy ladder, to the floor
which lay just above the crown of the arches, through which he passed
by an open trapdoor His companion hesitated to follow; but, observing
that the other expected him at the summit of the ladder, and that he
very kindly pointed out a defective round, he sprang forward, and went
up the ascent with the agility and steadiness peculiar to his calling.
“Here we are!” exclaimed the stranger in green, looking about at the
naked walls, which were formed of such small and irregular stones as to
give the building the appearance of dangerous frailty, “with good oaken
plank for our deck, as you would say, and the sky for our roof, as we
call the upper part of a house at the universities. Now let us speak of
things on the lower world. A—a—; I forget what you said was your usual
appellation—”
“That might depend on circumstances. I have been known by different
names in different situations However, if you call me Wilder, I shall
not fail to answer.”
“Wilder!” a good name; though, I dare say, it would have been as true
were it Wildone. You young ship-boys have the character of being a
little erratic in your humours at times. How many tender hearts have
you left to sigh for your errors, amid shady bowers, while you have
been ploughing—that is the word, I believe—ploughing the salt-sea
ocean?”
“Few sigh for me,” returned Wilder, thoughtfully, though he evidently
began to chafe a little under this free sort of catechism. “Let us now
return to our study of the tower. What think you has been its object?”
“Its present use is plain, and its former use can be no great mystery.
It holds at this moment two light hearts; and, if I am not mistaken, as
many light heads, not overstocked with the stores of wisdom. Formerly
it had its granaries of corn, at least, and, I doubt not, certain
little quadrupeds, who were quite as light of fingers as we are of head
and heart. In plain English, it has been a mill”
“There are those who think it had been a fortress.”
“Hum! The place might do, at need,” returned he in green, casting a
rapid and peculiar glance around him. “But mill it has been,
notwithstanding one might wish it a nobler origin. The windy situation
the pillars to keep off the invading vermin, the shape, the air, the
very complexion, prove it. Whir-r-r, whir-r-r; there has been clatter
enough here in time past, I warrant you. Hist! It is not done yet!”
Stepping lightly to one of the little perforations which had once
served as windows to the tower, he cautiously thrust his head through
the opening; and, after gazing there half a minute, he withdrew it
again, making a gesture to the attentive Wilder to be silent. The
latter complied; nor was it long before the nature of the interruption
was sufficiently explained.
The silvery voice of woman was first heard at a little distance; and
then, as the speakers drew nigher the sounds arose directly from
beneath, within the very shadow of the tower. By a sort of tacit
consent, Wilder and the barrister chose spots favourable to the
execution of such a purpose; and each continued, during the time the
visiters remained near the ruin, examining their persons, unseen
themselves, and we are sorry we must do so much violence to the
breeding of two such important characters in our legend, amused and
attentive listeners also to their conversation.