CHAPTER VIII.

UNMASKING!

A few mornings after the party, both Wallace and Francis had a long and

confidential interview with Mr. Hazleton, which resulted in the penning

of a letter by the former to Mrs. Churchill, not, however, without the

consent of the blushing Alice. Mr. Hazleton then went in search of his

wife, whom he found absorbed in reflections which, could he have read

her heart’s frivolous page, he would have found not at all flattering to

himself.

“Ah, my dear Anna, I have news for you! Who would have thought young

Wallace so much in love!”

“Ha! why what is it, Mr. Hazleton?” demanded his lady, eagerly.

“Why that he has this morning proposed.”

“Indeed! and to _you_—I should have thought—but no matter, I am truly

rejoiced at the dear girl’s good fortune—however, I think it would have

been more proper if Wallace had spoken to me first.”

“I don’t think so, my dear,” said Mr. Hazleton.

“No, I dare say not,” replied the lady, evidently piqued; “it is to be

sure a mark of respect to your—your years.”

“On the contrary, I think it a mark of respect to Mrs. Churchill.”

“_Mrs. Churchill!_” exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton, “what has Mrs. Churchill to

do with Herman Wallace’s proposals for my daughter?”

“Nothing at all—but a great deal to do with his proposals for her own.”

“What! _Alice Churchill!_ You don’t mean to say that Herman Wallace has

made proposals of marriage to _her_!”

“Certainly I do—and I have given my consent with all my heart, and I

doubt not, from my representations, her mother will also give hers.”

“He is a villain!” exclaimed Mrs. Hazleton. “Have all his devoted

attentions come to this? My poor Julia! has he been trifling with her

affections merely for his own amusement—and has he now the audacity to

offer his hand to another!”

“I thought you were aware, my dear,” said Mr. Hazleton, mildly, “that

the affections of Julia were already given to a very deserving nephew of

yours.”

“Ridiculous, Mr. Hazleton! I should like to see Julia disposing of her

affections without my consent. Pray, where did you hear this nonsense?”

“From Julia herself,” answered Mr. Hazleton. “She would have made a

confidante of you, Anna, but you would not listen to her. She has

acknowledged to me, therefore, her long attachment for Frank Reeve, and

has requested me to intercede with you to sanction their engagement.”

“That I will never do,” cried Mrs. Hazleton, in a towering passion.

“What!—consent to her marrying a poor midshipman? No, never!”

“But he will rise—he will be promoted.”

“No matter if he is—he shall never marry Julia Ketchim!”

“She loves him, my dear, sincerely,” interposed Mr. Hazleton. “It has

been an attachment since childhood—would you break her heart?”

“Yes, I would—before I would consent to her becoming his wife.”

“But, my dear, will you not see your nephew, and let him plead his own

cause? Do, my dear, reflect upon the consequences of what you are now

doing.”

“No, Mr. Hazleton—I tell you I will not see him, and I have already

forbidden Julia. If it had not been for him, and for the artful

machinations of your niece, I might have seen Julia properly

allied—rank with rank.”

Mr. Hazleton could swallow a great deal, and he therefore swallowed

this, though with something of a take-physic face. He then resumed:

“Since such, then, is your firm decision, I feel more free to inform you

that the friend of Mr. Wallace, Mr.——”

“Francis.”

“The same—has also requested permission to pay his addresses to Julia.”

“Ah, indeed!” and now Mrs. Hazleton began to look pleased again.

“He is an old friend of Wallace,” continued Mr. Hazleton—“is of a good

family—has great expectations, I am told—and, for my own part, I see

no reasonable objection against encouraging his addresses—that is, if

Julia herself can be persuaded.”

“I shall take care of that, Mr. Hazleton. Thank Heaven! the Ninnybrains

are no such obstinate people as some other people I _could_ name. None

of _my_ family ever married against the wishes of their friends, as some

other people’s friends have done! Julia will receive Mr. Francis—I

shall command her to do so.”

And as Julia had made up her mind to be henceforth very dutiful to

ma’ma, she promised, like a good girl, to transfer all her affections

from Cousin Frank to Mr. Francis, and most submissively and demurely

consented to receive his visits.

The wooing sped rapidly, and the happy day was already appointed for

their nuptials, when Julia took an unaccountable freak in her head that

she could not be married unless Cousin Frank was present at the

ceremony! Mrs. Hazleton ridiculed—Julia insisted—and finally Mrs.

Hazleton concluded to do the amiable, and wrote:

“DEAR NEPHEW—

“I hear you have been in town some weeks. Am surprised you have

not paid your respects to your aunt and cousin. Julia will be

married to-morrow morning at half-past eleven. Shall be happy to

see you.

“Your affectionate aunt,

“ANNA HAZLETON.”

“TO MR. FRANCIS REEVE.”

How brightly dawned the morning—how lovely looked the fair young

bride—how happy the bridegroom, dear reader mine, determine in your own

mind. Every one seemed particularly happy, but no one more so than Mr.

Hazleton—although several times, with a very grave face, he demanded of

the blushing bride if _Cousin Frank had not come yet_?

Alice, whose return home had only been postponed that she might be

present at her friend’s wedding, stood by the side of Julia, while

Wallace performed the same pleasing office for his friend.

And now the priest has blessed them. Mrs. Hazleton has gracefully folded

her daughter to her bosom, and turned her cheek modestly to the salute

of her son-in-law. The carriage whirls to the door—tender adieus are

interchanged, and with a “blush on her cheek and a tear in her eye,”

Julia is borne off by the exulting bridegroom!

As the carriage rolled from the door, Mrs. Hazleton sank down on the

sofa, and folded her hands, and threw up her beautiful eyes

complacently, exclaiming—

“Thank Heaven! my duty to Julia is done—she is off my hands! She has

certainly made a most eligible match—as Lady Lackwit, who married into

the Ninnybrain family in the reign of George the Second,

observed——how, a letter for me?—where did you get it, John?”

“The postman just brought it, ma’am.”

Mrs. Hazleton broke the seal and read:

“DEAR AUNT—

“Your invitation to Julia’s wedding was received—was accepted.

And you did not know me, dear aunt—nay, you would not know me!

You could trust your daughter’s happiness to a stranger, but not

to one whom she has known and loved from childhood! The fond

hopes of years you could recklessly destroy, uncaring for the

anguish you might inflict—or of your daughter’s peace of

mind—wrecked perhaps forever! All this you could do. But to

assure you that your child’s happiness will be safe in the hands

of your _chosen_ son-in-law, I gratefully acknowledge myself

that happy person!

“Your affectionate _nephew_ and _son_,

“FRANCIS REEVE.”

“P. S.—Julia sends her dutiful love.”

* * * * *

GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. III.

[Illustration]

COMMON DUCK OR MALLARD.

The common wild duck is the one which is usually meant when the word

duck is used without any other qualification, and it is the species

which is most frequently seen in the markets. They breed in all parts of

the country, from Pennsylvania north as far as the inland woody

districts of the fur countries, and it is met with everywhere in Europe,

up to Spitzbergen. As a bird of passage it is seen in every part of the

United States, always showing more activity in the night than in the

day; its conduct even in a domesticated state presenting evidences of

noisy watchfulness in the evening and at dawn. Its food is small fish,

fry snails, aquatic insects and plants, and all kinds of seeds and

grain. In England, ducks are very highly esteemed, and many expedients

are resorted to by the fowlers who supply the London markets with this

kind of food. Some account of their operations may prove interesting as

well as instructive. The chief method employed in capturing them is the

decoy, and instances have been known of eight hundred pounds being

cleared in one year by a single decoy on the Essex coast. These decoys

consist, in the first place, of an expanse of water which is called the

pond, and which is placed in the shelter of reeds, and generally

speaking also of bushes. The banks of the pond are left clear for some

little way, so that the birds may rest upon land, and, in short, this

portion of the contrivance is made as tempting as possible, as much of

the success depends upon this requisite. But though the ducks resort to

the pond in vast numbers, and pass the day in an inactive state, yet

still great skill, or at all events practice, is required in examining

the pond, because they are exceedingly watchful, take wing on the least

alarm, and do not readily settle. The sense of smelling is remarkably

acute in these birds, as one might naturally suppose from the margins of

their bills being so copiously supplied with nerves. In consequence of

this, when it becomes necessary to approach them on the windward, it is

usual to carry a bit of burning turf, the acid smoke of which

counteracts the smell of the carrier, which would be sufficient to alarm

the birds except for this precaution. The inland extremity of the pond

is formed into pipes or funnel-shaped channels which narrow gradually,

and have at the end a permanent net placed upon hoops. This net forms

the trap in which the birds are taken, often in vast numbers at one

time. In order that the decoy may be worked in all weathers, it is

necessary that there should be one to suit each of the prevailing winds.

We need not go farther into the details of this mode of bird catching.

The ducks are enticed by tame ones, which are trained to the purpose.

These birds begin to be taken in October, and the taking continues, by

law, only until the following February. Beside these decoys, there are,

in the places where ducks are numerous, many of the country people who

shoot them, and these are called _Punt Shooters_ or _Punt Gunners_—in

the creeks and openings of the streams, in the lower part of the Thames

estuary, and, as they ply night and day, according as the tide answers,

their labor is very severe and hazardous. This occupation once led a

fowler into singular distress. It happened in the day-time. Mounted on

his mud pattens (flat, square pieces of board, tied to the foot, to

avoid sinking in the ooze) he was traversing one of these oozy plains in

search of ducks, and being intent only on his game, suddenly found the

water, which had been accelerated by some peculiar circumstance

affecting the tide, had made an alarming progress around him, and he

found himself completely encircled. In this desperate situation, an idea

struck him as the only hope of safety. He retired to that part which

seemed the highest from its being yet uncovered by water, and striking

the barrel of his long gun deep in the ooze, he resolved to hold fast by

it, as well as for a support as a security against the waves, and to

wait the ebbing of the tide. He had reason to believe a common tide

would not have flowed above his waist; but, in the midst of his

reasoning on the subject, the water reached him. It rippled over his

feet, it gained his knees, his waist, button after button was swallowed

up, until at length it advanced over his shoulders. Fortunately for

himself, he preserved his courage and hope—he held fast by his anchor,

and with his eye looked anxiously about in search of some boat which

might accidentally be passing. None appeared. A head upon the surface of

the water, and that sometimes covered by a wave, was no object to be

descried from the land at the distance of half a league; nor could he

make any sounds of distress that could be heard so far. He finally

concluded that his destruction was inevitable. Just now a new object

attracted his attention. He thought he saw the topmost button of his

coat begin to appear. No mariner, floating on a wreck, could behold

succor approach with greater transport than he felt at this transient

view of the button; but the fluctuation of the water was such, and the

turn of the tide so slow, that it was yet some time before he dared

venture to assure himself that the button was yet fairly above the level

of the flood. At length, a second button appearing at intervals, his

sensations may rather be imagined than described, and his joy gave him

spirits and resolution to hold on four or five hours longer, until the

waters had fully retired.

One of the most tender and delicately flavored of the ducks which find

their way into our markets is the Shoveller, (_Anas Clypeata_). The

Shoveller is a very handsome bird, though its bill is disproportionally

large, and very peculiar in shape—it is about three inches in length,

of a black color, widened toward the extremity; and the fibres along the

margin are so much produced that the bill has the appearance of being

surrounded all along the gape with a fringe of hairs. The form of the

bill is well adapted to the habit of the animal, which is that of

picking up very small animal matters in the shallows and runs of the

rivers, and as these fibrous appendages are very sensitive, they enable

it to detect with great nicety all substances that are edible. The

Shoveller is an inland bird, and somewhat discursive. It is found, we

believe with very little difference of appearance, as well in the

Eastern continent as in our own; but, so far as is known, it is a bird

of the northern hemisphere, and is not met with in any part of the

south. On the continent of Europe it is pretty abundant, and it breeds

in the marshes of the middle latitudes; but in Britain it is not common,

even in the fens, and, in our own country, it is much more migratory

than in the eastern continent. This, however, does not establish a

difference in the birds themselves, but may readily be accounted for in

the difference of the two countries. The American summer is more dry

than the European, and the American marshes in the middle latitudes

partake of this drought; or, if they do not, they are covered with

pumpers and other evergreens, so that they do not answer well for the

summer resort of dabbling birds. The northern latitudes of America,

again, are remarkably well adapted on account of their flatness, the

abundance of water, the high temperature, and the corresponding great

production of small animals. Yet, in respect of latitude, the climate to

which the shoveller moves northward during the American summer is not

more northerly than those in which it breeds in central Europe,

although, from the different character of the seasons, it ranges more in

the one country than in the other. In all countries where it is known,

this bird forms its nest in the tallest and thickest tufts of rushes and

other aquatic herbage, and generally also in places which are not

accessible by man, or indeed by any of the land mammalia. The nest is

rudely formed of withered grass, collected in considerable quantity, and

the female is a close sitter. The young Shovellers have to find their

food in the water, and therefore they have the feet and the bill in a

tolerably complete state when they come out of the shell, whereas the

organs of flight are then in a rudimental state; and they continue so

much longer than they do in birds which are obliged to make use of the

wing at an early stage of their existence. This slow production of the

organs of flying is general among birds which seek their food upon the

ground, whether in the shallow waters, the marshes, the fields, or the

uplands; but all of them are better provided for the use of their bills

and feet than birds of more early flight. Thus we see how well these

creatures are adapted to the places in which they reside, and to which

they are of course drawn by this very adaptation. The Shoveller is thus

accurately described by Nuttall. The head, adjoining half of the neck,

medial stripe to the interscapulars; the whole back, interior scapulars

and primaries, umber brown; sides of the head, the neck and crest,

glossed with duck green; the rump and tail coverts, above and below,

with blackish green; lower half of the neck, the breast, shoulders,

shorter scapulars, ends of the greater wing coverts and sides of the

rump, white; longer scapulars, striped with pale blue, white and

blackish brown; lesser coverts, pale blue; speculum or wing-spot,

brilliant grass green, broadly bordered above and narrowly edged below

with white, bounded interiorly with greenish black; belly and flanks,

deep orange brown, the latter waved posteriorly with black; bill, black;

legs, orange.

* * * * *

THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;

OR, ROSE BUDD.

Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool

I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but

Travelers must be content. AS YOU LIKE IT.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,”

“MILES WALLINGFORD,” ETC.

[Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1846, by

J. Fenimore Cooper, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court

of the United States, for the Northern District of New York.]

_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 hear 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 a 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 every thing 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 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

colors 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 have

screwed 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 any thing 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 favor 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 sympathise.

“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 honor 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-favored 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 any thing 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 stowed 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., every thing was ready for getting the

brigantine under way. Her foretopsail—or fore_taw_sail, 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 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 dis 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 color, which formed so bright a charm in Rose’s sweet face,

deepened, in a way to prove that that color 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,

_viâ_ the bulwarks, on deck, ordering the plank to be hauled aboard. A

solitary laborer was paid a quarter to throw off the fasts from the

ring-bolts and posts, and every thing 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 clew-lines, 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 fore-topsail 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 don’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 don’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 don’t like them

chaps, and what I don’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 out-hauler, 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 inertiæ_ 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.”

[Illustration: Josh educating a Pig

Philadelphia 1847]

“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 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

gib; while aft, her masts was the raking, tall, naked pole of an

American schooner. There was a taut top-mast, 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 athwart 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

velocity, 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 every thing 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 Capt. 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 the 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 begins right, miss. As for de pig, I teach dem

wid scaldin’ water. Whenever 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

that fashion I soon gets 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 any thing 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 every thing 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 every thing, 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 every thing that came under his

care, and that included every thing 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 mizzen 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 mizzen 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 mizzen

top-gallant-masts make nine—and the fore, main and mizzen royals make

just twelve. Oh, I’m never wrong in any thing 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 didn’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 didn’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 endeavor to make himself agreeable to

Rose, by an occasional remark, when a favorable 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 honors. 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

later 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 neighborhood, 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 any where 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 Whirlagig-Gate next. I

don’t think that my old commander, Capt. Budd called the passage any

thing 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.

Don’t let me catch _you_ straining at any thing, 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 any thing

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 every thing

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 favor 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,

leveling 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 scrutinising 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.

PART 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 clamor, 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 color.

Nor was there any thing 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 any thing 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 re-appeared.

“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.”

The mate remained perched up on the pump, in order to comply, while

Spike and his people, who now breathed more freely again, improved the

leisure to brace up and haul aft, to the new course.

“Biddy,” said Mrs. Budd, considerately, during this pause in the

incidents, “you needn’t scream any longer. The danger seems to be past,

and you may get up off the deck now. See, I have let go of the mast. The

pumps have been sounded, and are found tight.”

Biddy, like an obedient and respectful servant, did as directed, quite

satisfied if the pumps were tight. It was some little time, to be sure,

before she was perfectly certain whether she were alive or not—but,

once certain of this circumstance, her alarm very sensibly abated, and

she became reasonable. As for Mulford, he dropped the sounding rod

again, and had the same cheering report to make.

“The brig is tight as a bottle, sir.”

“So much the better,” answered Spike. “I never had such a whirl in her

before in my life, and I thought she was going to stop and pass the

night there. That’s the very spot on which ‘The Hussar’ frigate was

wrecked.”

“So I have heard, sir. But she drew so much water that she hit slap

against the rock, and started a butt. We merely touched on its top, with

our fore-foot, and slid off.”

This was the simple explanation of the Swash’s escape, and every body

being now well assured that no harm had been done, things fell into

their old and regular train again. As for Spike, his gallantry,

notwithstanding, was upset for some hours, and glad enough was he when

he saw all three of his passengers quit the deck to go below. Mrs.

Budd’s spirits had been so much agitated that she told Rose she would go

down into the cabin and rest a few minutes on its sofa. We say sofa, for

that article of furniture, now-a-days, is far more common in vessels

than it was thirty years ago in the dwellings of the country.

“There, Mulford,” growled Spike, pointing ahead of the brig, to an

object on the water that was about half a mile ahead of them, “there’s

that bloody boat—d’ye see? I should like of all things to give it the

slip. There’s a chap in that boat I don’t like.”

“I don’t see how that can be very well done, sir, unless we anchor,

repass the gate at the turn of the tide, and go to sea by the way of

Sandy Hook.”

“That will never do. I’ve no wish to be parading the brig before the

town. You see, Mulford, nothing can be more innocent and proper than the

Molly Swash, as you know from having sailed in her these twelvemonths.

You’ll give her that character, I’ll be sworn?”

“I know no harm of her, Capt. Spike, and hope I never shall.”

“No, sir—you know no harm of her, nor does any one else. A nursing

infant is not more innocent than the Molly Swash, or could have a

clearer character, if nothing but truth was said of her. But the world

is so much given to lying, that one of the old saints, of whom we read

in the good book, such as Calvin and John Rogers, would be vilified if

he lived in these times. Then, it must be owned, Mr. Mulford, whatever

may be the raal innocence of the brig, she has a most desperate wicked

look.”

“Why, yes, sir—it must be owned she is what we sailors call a

wicked-looking craft. But some of Uncle Sam’s cruisers have that

appearance also.”

“I know it—I know it, sir, and think nothing of looks myself. Men are

often deceived in me, by _my_ looks, which have none of your long-shore

softness about ’em, perhaps; but my mother used to say I was one of the

most tender-hearted boys she had ever heard spoken of—like one of the

babes in the woods, as it might be. But mankind go so much by

appearances, that I do not like to trust the brig too much afore their

eyes. Now, should we be seen in the lower bay, waiting for a wind, or

for the ebb tide to make, to carry us over the bar, ten to one but some

philotropic or other would be off with a complaint to the District

Attorney, that we looked like a slaver, and have us all fetched up to be

tried for our lives as pirates. No, no—I like to keep the brig in

out-of-the-way places, where she can give no offence to your ’tropics,

whether they be philos, or of any other sort.”

“Well, sir, we are to the eastward of the Gate, and all’s safe. That

boat cannot bring us up.”

“You forget, Mr. Mulford, the revenue craft that steamed up, on the ebb.

That vessel must be off Sands’ Point by this time, and _she_ may hear

something to our disparagement from the feller in the boat, and take it

into her smoky head to walk us back to town. I wish we were well to the

eastward of that steamer! But there’s no use in lamentations. If there

is really any danger, it’s some distance ahead yet, thank Heaven!”

“You have no fears of the man who calls himself Jack Tier, Capt. Spike?”

“None in the world. That feller, as I remember him, was a little

bustlin’ chap that I kept in the cabin, as a sort of steward’s mate.

There was neither good nor harm in him, to the best of my recollection.

But Josh can tell us all about him—just give Josh a call.”

The best thing in the known history of Spike was the fact that his

steward had sailed with him for more than twenty years. Where he had

picked up Josh no one could say, but Josh and himself, and neither chose

to be very communicative on the subject. But Josh had certainly been

with him as long as he had sailed the Swash, and that was from a time

actually anterior to the birth of Mulford. The mate soon had the negro

in the council.

“I say, Josh,” asked Spike, “do you happen to remember such a hand

aboard here as one Jack Tier?”

“Lor’ bless you, yes, sir—’members he as well as I do the pea-soup that

was burnt, and which you t’rowed all over him to scald him for

punishment.”

“I’ve had to do that so often, to one careless fellow or other, that the

circumstance doesn’t recall the man. I remember him, but not as clear as

I could wish. How long did he sail with us?”

“Sebberal v’y’ge, sir, and got left ashore down on the Main, one night,

when ’e boat war obliged to shove off in a hurry. Yes, ’members little

Jack, right well I does.”

“Did you see the man that spoke us from the wharf, and hailed for this

very Jack Tier?”

“I see’d a man, sir, dat was won’erful Jack Tier built like, sir; but I

didn’t hear the conwersation, habbin’ the ladies to ’tend to. But Jack

was oncommon short in his floor timbers, sir, and had no length of keel

at all. His beam was won’erful for his length, altogedder—what you call

jolly-boat or bum-boat build, and was only good afore ’e wind, Capt.

Spike.”

“Was he good for any thing aboard ship, Josh? Worth heaving-to for,

should he try to get aboard of us again?”

“Why, sir, can’t say much for him in dat fashion. Jack _was_ handy in

the cabin, and capital feller to carry soup from the galley, aft. You

see, sir, he was so low-rigged that the brig’s lurchin’ and pitchin’

couldn’t get him off his pins, and he stood up like a church in the

heaviest wea’der. Yes, sir, Jack was right good for _dat_.”

Spike mused a moment—then he rolled the tobacco over in his mouth, and

added, in the way a man speaks when his mind is made up—

“Ay, ay!—I see into the fellow. He’ll make a handy lady’s maid, and we

want such a chap, just now. It’s better to have an old friend aboard,

than to be pickin’ up strangers, ’long shore. So, should this Jack Tier

come off to us, from any of the islands or points ahead, Mr. Mulford,

you’ll round to and take him aboard. As for the steamer, if she will

only pass out into the Sound, where there’s room, it shall go hard with

us but I get to the eastward of her, without speaking. On the other

hand, should she anchor this side of the Fort, I’ll not attempt to pass

her. There is deep water inside of most of the islands, I know, and

we’ll try and dodge her in that way, if no better offer. I’ve no more

reason than another craft, to fear a government vessel; but the sight of

one of them makes me oncomfortable—that’s all.”

Mulford shrugged his shoulders, and remained silent, perceiving that his

commander was not disposed to pursue the subject any further. In the

mean time, the brig had passed beyond the influence of the bluff, and

was beginning to feel a stronger breeze, that was coming down the wide

opening of Flushing Bay. As the tide still continued strong in her

favor, and her motion through the water was getting to be four or five

knots, there was every prospect of her soon reaching Whitestone, the

point where the tides meet, and where it would become necessary to

anchor; unless, indeed, the wind, which was now getting to the southward

and eastward, should come round more to the south. All this Spike and

his mate discussed together, while the people were clearing the decks,

and making the preparations that are customary on board a vessel before

she gets into rough water.

By this time, it was ascertained that the brig had received no damage by

her salute of the Pot Rock, and every trace of uneasiness on that

account was removed. But Spike kept harping on the boat, and “the

pilot-looking chap who was in her.” As they passed Riker’s Island, all

hands expected a boat would put off with a pilot, or to demand pilotage;

but none came, and the Swash now seemed released from all her present

dangers, unless some might still be connected with the revenue steamer.

To retard her advance, however, the wind came out a smart working breeze

from the southward and eastward, compelling her to make “long legs and

short ones” on her way towards Whitestone.

“This is beating the wind, Rosy dear,” said Mrs. Budd, complacently, she

and her niece having returned to the deck a few minutes after this

change had taken place. “Your respected uncle did a great deal of this

in his time, and was very successful in it. I have heard him say, that

in one of his voyages between Liverpool and New York, he beat the wind

by a whole fortnight, every body talking of it in the insurance offices

as if it was a miracle.”

“Ay, ay, Madam Budd,” put in Spike, “I’ll answer for that. They’re

desperate talkers in and about them there insurance offices in Wall

street. Great gossips be they, and they think they know every thing.

Now, just because this brig is a little old or so, and was built for a

privateer in the last war, they’d refuse to rate her as even B, No. 2,

and my blessing on ’em.”

“Yes, B, No. 2, that’s just what your dear uncle used to call me,

Rosy—his charming B, No. 2, or Betsy, No. 2; particularly when he was

in a loving mood. Captain Spike, did you ever beat the wind in a long

voyage?”

“I can’t say I ever did, Mrs. Budd,” answered Spike, looking grimly

around, to ascertain if any one dared to smile at his passenger’s

mistake; “especially for so long a pull as from New York to Liverpool.”

“Then your uncle used to boast of the Rose In Bloom’s wearing and

attacking. She would attack any thing that came in her way, no matter

who, and, as for wearing, I think he once told me she _would_ wear just

what she had a mind to, like any human being.”

Rose was a little mystified, but she looked vexed at the same time, as

if she distrusted all was not right.

“I remember all my sea education,” continued the unsuspecting widow, “as

if it had been learnt yesterday. Beating the wind and attacking ship, my

poor Mr. Budd used to say, were nice manœuvres, and required most of his

tactics, especially in heavy weather. Did you know, Rosy dear, that

sailors weigh the weather, and know when it is heavy and when it is

light?”

“I did not, aunt; nor do I understand now how it can very well be done.”

“Oh! child, before you have been at sea a week, you will learn so many

things that are new, and get so many ideas of which you never had any

notion before, that you’ll not be the same person. My captain had an

instrument he called a thermometer, and with that he used to weigh the

weather, and then he would write down in the log-book ‘to-day, heavy

weather, or to-morrow, light weather,’ just as it happened, and that

helped him mightily along in his voyages.”

“Mrs. Budd has merely mistaken the name of the instrument—the

‘barometer’ is what she wished to say,” put in Mulford, opportunely.

Rose looked grateful, as well as relieved. Though profoundly ignorant on

these subjects herself she had always suspected her aunt’s knowledge. It

was, consequently, grateful to her to ascertain that, in this instance,

the old lady’s mistake had been so trifling.

“Well, it may have been the barometer, for I know he had them both,”

resumed the aunt. “Barometer, or thermometer, it don’t make any great

difference; or quadrant, or sextant. They are all instruments, and

sometimes he used one, and sometimes another. Sailors take on board the

sun, too, and have an instrument for that, as well as one to weigh the

weather with. Sometimes they take on board the stars, and the moon, and

‘fill their ships with the heavenly bodies,’ as I’ve heard my dear

husband say, again and again! But the most curious thing at sea, as all

sailors tell me, is crossing the line, and I do hope we shall cross the

line, Rosy, that you and I may see it.”

“What is the line, aunty, and how do vessels cross it?”

“The line, my dear, is a place in the ocean where the earth is divided

into two parts, one part being called the North Pole, and the other part

the South Pole. Neptune lives near this line, and he allows no vessel to

go out of one pole into the other, without paying it a visit. Never!

never!—he would as soon think of living on dry land, as think of

letting even a canoe pass, without visiting it.”

“Do you suppose there is such a being, really, as Neptune, aunty?”

“To be sure I do; he is king of the sea. Why shouldn’t there be? The sea

must have a king, as well as the land.”

“The sea may be a republic, aunty, like this country; then, no king is

necessary. I have always supposed Neptune to be an imaginary being.”

“Oh! that’s impossible—the sea is no republic; there are but two

republics, America and Texas. I’ve heard that the sea is a highway, it

is true—the ‘highway of nations,’ I believe it is called, and that must

mean something particular. But my poor Mr. Budd always told me that

Neptune was king of the seas, and _he_ was always so accurate, you might

depend on every thing he said. Why, he called his last Newfoundland dog

Neptune, and do you think, Rosy, that your dear uncle would call his dog

after an imaginary being?—and he a man to beat the wind, and attack

ship, and take the sun, moon and stars aboard! No, no, child; fanciful

folk may see imaginary beings, but solid folk see solid beings.”

Even Spike was dumfounded at this, and there is no knowing what he might

have said, had not an old sea-dog, who had just come out of the

fore-topmast cross-trees, come aft, and, hitching up his trowsers with

one hand while he touched his hat with the other, said, with immovable

gravity,

“The revenue-steamer has brought up just under the Fort, Capt. Spike.”

“How do you know that, Bill?” demanded the captain, with a rapidity that

showed how completely Mrs. Budd and all her absurdities were momentarily

forgotten.

“I was up on the fore-topgallant yard, sir, a bit ago, just to look to

the strap of the jewel-block, which wants some sarvice on it, and I

see’d her over the land, blowin’ off steam and takin’ in her kites.

Afore I got out of the cross-trees, she was head to wind under bare

poles, and if she hadn’t anchored, she was about to do so. I’m sartain

’twas she, sir, and that she was about to bring up.”

Spike gave a long, low whistle, after his fashion, and he walked away

from the females, with the air of a man who wanted room to think in.

Half a minute later, he called out—

“Stand by to shorten sail, boys. Man fore-clew-garnets, flying jib

down-haul, topgallant sheets, and gaff-topsail gear. In with ’em all, my

lads—in with every thing, with a will.”

An order to deal with the canvas in any way, on board ship, immediately

commands the whole attention of all whose duty it is to attend to such

matters, and there was an end of all discourse while the Swash was

shortening sail. Every body understood, too, that it was to gain time,

and prevent the brig from reaching Throg’s Neck sooner than was

desirable.

“Keep the brig off,” called out Spike, “and let her ware—we’re too busy

to tack just now.”

The man at the wheel knew very well what was wanted, and he put his helm

up, instead of putting it down, as he might have done without this

injunction. As this change brought the brig before the wind, and Spike

was in no hurry to luff up on the other tack, the Swash soon ran over a

mile of the distance she had already made, putting her back that much on

her way to the Neck. It is out of our power to say what the people of

the different craft in sight thought of all this, but an opportunity

soon offered of putting them on a wrong scent. A large coasting

schooner, carrying every thing that would draw on a wind, came sweeping

under the stern of the Swash, and hailed.

“Has any thing happened, on board that brig?” demanded her master.

“Man overboard,” answered Spike—“you havn’t seen his hat, have you?”

“No—no,” came back, just as the schooner, in her onward course, swept

beyond the reach of the voice. Her people collected together, and one or

two ran up the rigging a short distance, stretching their necks, on the

lookout for the “poor fellow,” but they were soon called down to “’bout

ship.” In less than five minutes, another vessel, a rakish coasting

sloop, came within hail.

“Didn’t that brig strike the Pot Rock, in passing the Gate?” demanded

her captain.

“Ay, ay!—and a devil of a rap she got, too.”

This satisfied _him_; there being nothing remarkable in a vessel’s

acting strangely that had hit the Pot Rock, in passing Hell-Gate.

“I think we may get in our mainsail on the strength of this, Mr.

Mulford,” said Spike. “There can be nothing oncommon in a craft’s

shortening sail, that has a man overboard, and which has hit the Pot

Rock. I wonder I never thought of all this before.”

“Here is a skiff trying to get alongside of us, Capt. Spike,” called out

the boatswain.

“Skiff be d——d! I want no skiff here.”

“The man that called himself Jack Tier is in her, sir.”

“The d——l he is!” cried Spike, springing over to the opposite side of

the deck to take a look for himself. To his infinite satisfaction he

perceived that Tier was alone in the skiff, with the exception of a

negro, who pulled its sculls, and that this was a very different boat

from that which had glanced through Hell-Gate, like an arrow darting

from its bow.

“Luff, and shake your topsail,” called out Spike. “Get a rope there to

throw to this skiff.”

The orders were obeyed, and Jack Tier, with his clothes-bag, was soon on

the deck of the Swash. As for the skiff and the negro, they were cast

adrift the instant the latter had received his quarter. The meeting

between Spike and his quondam steward’s mate was a little remarkable.

Each stood looking intently at the other, as if to note the changes

which time had made. We cannot say that Spike’s hard, red, selfish

countenance betrayed any great feeling, though such was not the case

with Jack Tier’s. The last, a lymphatic, puffy sort of a person at the

best, seemed really a little touched, and he either actually brushed a

tear from his eye, or he affected so to do.

“So, you are my old shipmate, Jack Tier, are ye?” exclaimed Spike, in a

half-patronizing, half-hesitating way—“and you want to try the old

craft ag’in. Give us a leaf of your log, and let me know where you have

been this many a day, and what you have been about. Keep the brig off,

Mr. Mulford. We are in no particular hurry to reach Throg’s, you’ll

remember, sir.”

Tier gave an account of his proceedings, which could have no interest

with the reader. His narrative was any thing but very clear, and it was

delivered in a cracked, octave sort of a voice, such as little dapper

people not unfrequently enjoy—tones between those of a man and a boy.

The substance of the whole story was this. Tier had been left ashore, as

sometimes happens to sailors, and, by necessary connection, was left to

shift for himself. After making some vain endeavors to rejoin his brig,

he had shipped in one vessel after another, until he accidentally found

himself in the port of New York, at the same time as the Swash. He

know’d he never should be truly happy ag’in until he could once more get

aboard the old hussy, and had hurried up to the wharf, where he

understood the brig was lying. As he came in sight, he saw she was about

to cast off, and, dropping his clothes-bag, he had made the best of his

way to the wharf, where the conversation passed that has been related.

“The gentleman on the wharf was about to take boat, to go through the

Gate,” concluded Tier, “and so I begs a passage of him. He was

good-natured enough to wait until I could find my bag, and as soon

a’terwards as the men could get their grog we shoved off. The Molly was

just getting in behind Blackwell’s as we left the wharf, and, having

four good oars, and the shortest road, we come out into the Gate just

ahead on you. My eye! what a place that is to go through in a boat, and

on a strong flood! The gentleman, who watched the brig as a cat watches

a mouse, says you struck on the Pot, as he called it, but I says, ‘no,’

for the Molly Swash was never know’d to hit rock or shoal in my time

aboard her.”

“And where did you quit that gentleman, and what has become of him?”

asked Spike.

“He put me ashore on that point above us, where I see’d a nigger with

his skiff, who I thought would be willin’ to ’arn his quarter by giving

me a cast along side. So here I am, and a long pull I’ve had to get

here.”

As this was said, Jack removed his hat and wiped his brow with a

handkerchief, which, if it had never seen better days, had doubtless

been cleaner. After this, he looked about him, with an air not entirely

free from exultation.

This conversation had taken place in the gangway, a somewhat public

place, and Spike beckoned to his recruit to walk aft, where he might be

questioned without being overheard.

“What became of the gentleman in the boat, as you call him?” demanded

Spike.

“He pulled ahead, seeming to be in a hurry.”

“Do you know who he was?”

“Not a bit of it. I never saw the man before, and he didn’t tell me his

business, sir.”

“Had he any thing like a silver oar about him?”

“I saw nothing of the sort, Capt. Spike, and knows nothing consarning

him.”

“What sort of a boat was he in, and where did he get it?”

“Well, as to the boat, sir, I _can_ say a word, seein’ it was so much to

my mind, and pulled so wonderful smart. It was a light ship’s yawl, with

four oars, and came round the Hook just a’ter you had got the brig’s

head round to the eastward. You must have seen it, I should think,

though it kept close in with the wharves, as if it wished to be snug.”

“Then the gentleman, as you call him, expected _that_ very boat to come

and take him off?”

“I suppose so, sir, because it _did_ come and take him off. That’s all I

knows about it.”

“Had you no jaw with the gentleman? You wasn’t mum the whole time you

was in the boat with him?”

“Not a bit of it, sir. Silence and I doesn’t agree together long, so we

talked most of the time.”

“And what did the stranger say of the brig?”

“Lord, sir, he catechised me like as if I had been a child at

Sunday-school. He asked me how long I had sailed in her; what ports we’d

visited, and what trade we’d been in. You can’t think the sight of

questions he put, and how cur’ous he was for the answers.”

“And what did you tell him in your answers? You said nothin’ about our

call down on the Spanish Main, the time you were left ashore, I hope,

Jack?”

“Not I, sir. I played him off surprisin’ly. He got nothin’ to count upon

out of me. Though I _do_ owe the Molly Swash a grudge, I’m not goin’ to

betray her.”

“You owe the Molly Swash a grudge! Have I taken an enemy on board her,

then?”

Jack started, and seemed sorry he had said so much; while Spike eyed him

keenly. But the answer set all right. It was not given, however, without

a moment for recollection.

“Oh, you knows what I mean, sir. I owe the old hussy a grudge for having

desarted me like; but it’s only a love quarrel atween us. The old Molly

will never come to harm by my means.”

“I hope not, Jack. The man that wrongs the craft he sails in can never

be a true-hearted sailor. Stick by your ship in all weathers is my rule,

and a good rule it is to go by. But what did you tell the stranger?”

“Oh! I told him I’d been six v’y’ges in the brig. The first was to

Madagascar—”

“The d—l you did! Was he soft enough to believe that?”

“That’s more than I know, sir. I can only tell you what I _said_; I

don’t pretend to know how much he _believed_.”

“Heave ahead—what next?”

“Then I told him we went to Kamschatka for gold-dust and ivory.”

“Whe-e-e-w! What did the man say to that?”

“Why, he smiled a bit, and a’ter that he seemed more curious than ever

to hear all about it. I told him my third v’y’ge was to Canton, with a

cargo of broom-corn, where we took in salmon and dun-fish for home.

A’ter that we went to Norway with ice, and brought back silks and money.

Our next run was to the Havana, with salt and ’nips—”

“’Nips! what the devil be they?”

“Turnips, you knows, sir. We always calls ’em ’nips in cargo. At the

Havana I told him we took in leather and jerked beef, and came home. Oh!

he got nothin’ from me, Capt. Spike, that’ll ever do the brig a morsel

of harm!”

“I am glad of that, Jack. You must know enough of the seas to understand

that a close mouth is sometimes better for a vessel than a clean bill of

health. Was there nothing said about the revenue-steamer?”

“Now you name her, sir, I believe there was—ay, ay, sir, the gentleman

_did_ say, if the steamer fetched up to the westward of the Fort, that

he should overhaul her without difficulty, on this flood.”

“That’ll do, Jack; that’ll do, my honest fellow. Go below, and tell Josh

to take you into the cabin again, as steward’s mate. You’re rather too

Dutch built, in your old age, to do much aloft.”

One can hardly say whether Jack received this remark as complimentary,

or not. He looked a little glum, for a man may be as round as a barrel,

and wish to be thought genteel and slender; but he went below, in quest

of Josh, without making any reply.

The succeeding movements of Spike appeared to be much influenced by what

he had just heard. He kept the brig under short canvas for near two

hours, sheering about in the same place, taking care to tell every thing

which spoke him that he had lost a man overboard. In this way, not only

the tide, but the day itself, was nearly spent. About the time the

former began to lose its strength, however, the fore-course and the

main-sail were got on the brigantine, with the intention of working her

up toward Whitestone, where the tides meet, and near which the

revenue-steamer was known to be anchored. We say near, though it was, in

fact, a mile or two more to the eastward, and close to the extremity of

the Point.

Notwithstanding these demonstrations of a wish to work to windward,

Spike was really in no hurry. He had made up his mind to pass the

steamer in the dark, if possible, and the night promised to favor him;

but, in order to do this, it might be necessary not to come in sight of

her at all; or, at least, not until the obscurity should in some measure

conceal his rig and character. In consequence of this plan, the Swash

made no great progress, even after she had got sail on her, on her old

course. The wind lessened, too, after the sun went down, though it still

hung to the eastward, or nearly ahead. As the tide gradually lost its

force, moreover, the set to windward became less and less, until it

finally disappeared altogether.

There is necessarily a short reach in this passage, where it is always

slack water, so far as current is concerned. This is precisely where the

tides meet, or, as has been intimated, at Whitestone, which is somewhat

more than a mile to the westward of Throgmorton’s Neck, near the point

of which stands Fort Schuyler, one of the works recently erected for the

defence of New York. Off the pitch of the point, nearly mid-channel, had

the steamer anchored, a fact of which Spike had made certain, by going

aloft himself, and reconnoitering her over the land, before it had got

to be too dark to do so. He entertained no manner of doubt that this

vessel was in waiting for him, and he well knew there was good reason

for it; but he would not return and attempt the passage to sea by way of

Sandy Hook. His manner of regarding the whole matter was cool and

judicious. The distance to the Hook was too great to be made in such

short nights ere the return of day, and he had no manner of doubt he was

watched for in that direction, as well as in this. Then he was

particularly unwilling to show his craft at all in front of the town,

even in the night. Moreover, he had ways of his own for effecting his

purposes, and this was the very spot and time to put them in execution.

While these things were floating in his mind, Mrs. Budd and her handsome

niece were making preparations for passing the night, aided by Biddy

Noon. The old lady was factotum, or factota, as it might be most

classical to call her, though we are entirely without authorities on the

subject, and was just as self-complacent and ambitious of seawomanship

below decks, as she had been above board. The effect, however, gave

Spike great satisfaction, since it kept her out of sight, and left him

more at liberty to carry out his own plans. About nine, however, the

good woman came on deck, intending to take a look at the weather, like a

skilful marineress as she was, before she turned in. Not a little was

she astonished at what she then and there beheld, as she whispered to

Rose and Biddy, both of whom stuck close to her side, feeling the want

of good pilotage, no doubt, in strange waters.

The Molly Swash was still under her canvas, though very little sufficed

for her present purposes. She was directly off Whitestone, and was

making easy stretches across the passage, or river, as it is called,

having nothing set but her huge fore-and-aft mainsail and the jib. Under

this sail she worked like a top, and Spike sometimes fancied she

traveled too fast for his purposes, the night air having thickened the

canvas as usual, until it “held the wind as a bottle holds water.” There

was nothing in this, however, to attract the particular attention of the

ship-master’s widow, a sail, more or less, being connected with

observation much too critical for her schooling, nice as the last had

been. She was surprised to find the men stripping the brig forward, and

converting her into a schooner. Nor was this done in a loose and

slovenly manner, under favor of the obscurity. On the contrary, it was

so well executed that it might have deceived even a seaman under a

noon-day sun, provided the vessel were a mile or two distant. The manner

in which the metamorphosis was made was as follows. The studding-sail

booms had been taken off the topsail yard, in order to shorten it to the

eye, and the yard itself was swayed up about half mast, to give it the

appearance of a schooner’s fore-yard. The brig’s real lower yard was

lowered on the bulwarks, while her royal yard was sent down altogether,

and the topgallant-mast was lowered until the heel rested on the topsail

yard, all of which, in the night, gave the gear forward very much the

appearance of that of a fore-topsail schooner, instead of that of a half

rigged brig, as the craft really was. As the vessel carried a try-sail

on her foremast, it answered very well, in the dark, to represent a

schooner’s foresail. Several other little dispositions of this nature

were made, about which it might weary the uninitiated to read, but which

will readily suggest themselves to the mind of a sailor.

These alterations were far advanced when the females re-appeared on

deck. They at once attracted their attention, and the captain’s widow

felt the imperative necessity, as connected with her professional

character, of proving the same. She soon found Spike, who was bustling

around the deck, now looking around to see that his brig was kept in the

channel, now and then issuing an order to complete her disguise.

“Captain Spike, what _can_ be the meaning of all these changes? The

tamper of your vessel is so much altered that I declare I should not

have known her!”

“Is it, by George! Then, she is just in the state I want her to be in.”

“But why have you done it—and what does it all mean?”

“Oh, Molly’s going to bed for the night, and she’s only undressing

herself—that’s all.”

“Yes, Rosy dear, Captain Spike is right. I remember that my poor Mr.

Budd used to talk about the Rose In Bloom having her clothes on, and her

clothes off, just as if she was a born woman! But don’t you mean to

navigate at all in the night, Captain Spike? Or will the brig navigate

without sails?”

“That’s it—she’s just as good in the dark, under one sort of canvas, as

under another. So, Mr. Mulford, we’ll take a reef in that mainsail; it

will bring it nearer to the size of our new foresail, and seem more

ship-shape and Brister fashion—then I think she’ll do, as the night is

getting to be rather darkish.”

“Captain Spike,” said the boatswain, who had been sent to look-out for

that particular change—“the brig begins to feel the new tide, and sets

to windward.”

“Let her go, then—now is as good a time as another. We’ve got to run

the gantlet, and the sooner it is done the better.”

As the moment seemed propitious, not only Mulford, but all the people,

heard this order with satisfaction. The night was star-light, though not

very clear at that. Objects on the water, however, were more visible

than those on the land, while those on the last could be seen well

enough, even from the brig, though in confused and somewhat shapeless

piles. When the Swash was brought close by the wind, she had just got

into the last reach of the “river,” or that which runs parallel with The

Neck for near a mile, doubling where the Sound expands itself,

gradually, to a breadth of many leagues. Still the navigation at the

entrance of this end of the Sound was intricate and somewhat dangerous,

rendering it indispensable for a vessel of any size to make a crooked

course. The wind stood at south-east, and was very scant to lay through

the reach with, while the tide was so slack as barely to possess a

visible current at that place. The steamer lay directly off the Point,

mid-channel, as mentioned, showing lights, to mark her position to any

thing which might be passing in or out. The great thing was to get by

her without exciting her suspicion. As all on board, the females

excepted, knew what their captain was at, the attempt was made amid an

anxious and profound silence; or, if any one spoke at all, it was only

to give an order in a low tone, or its answer in a simple monosyllable.