RECONNOITRING.
IT was an overcast night; there was no moon; the stars were bright
overhead, but around the edge of the horizon they were obscured by thin
clouds, through which a star occasionally shone.
The brigantine, with all sail set, was running in for the land, the
dark outline of which could be dimly seen in the distance. The French
had put out the light on Planier Island, and removed all the buoys from
the shoals and reefs, that they might not be of advantage to the enemy;
but the lights of the English frigate could be seen far ahead, as she
also stood in for the land, her commander not dreaming he was followed
by the vessel, so nearly his prize, and which he supposed effectually
frightened from that locality.
“It would have been a very valuable prize to us, could we have taken
her,” said the captain of the frigate to his lieutenant; (”and at one
time I thought she was ours,) not merely as far as the value of her
cargo was concerned; but we could have put a few guns aboard of her,
and a crew, and she is so fast she would have taken everything on the
coast; our prize-money would soon have amounted to something very
handsome.”
“Where did the Yankees learn to build such vessels? Before the war they
couldn’t make their own mouse-traps.”
“It was the war taught them; they wanted privateers to prey on our
merchantmen and supply ships. They wanted sharp vessels to run into
neutral ports, and escape our frigates, and they built them. Since they
set up for themselves, they make rigging and duck, roll iron, and forge
anchors, and there’s no telling where they will stop.”
“We may catch her yet, if we could get her before the wind, where she
could not run into shoal water, or have the good fortune to come across
her in a calm.”
“He’ll not come here again; he’s run too great a risk. He will be more
likely to try Toulon; perhaps go round into the Bay of Biscay, to some
of the ports on the other side.”
The wind, which had blown very fresh all through the afternoon and
first part of the night, had moderated to a good working breeze.
As the watch on board the brigantine that brought twelve o’clock came
on deck, a large rock was discovered right ahead; the topsail was hove
to the mast, and the vessel became stationary. The captain, calling the
whole crew aft, said to them, “Boys, I want to put a man on that rock,
to watch this frigate and the sixty-four, see which way they stand in
the morning, and where they go; also to look into the roadstead, and
see what vessels are there, and how they lie; in short, to keep himself
concealed, and get all the information he can. To-morrow night I’ll run
in, and take him off. Who’ll volunteer?”
Before the words were fairly out of his mouth, or any other could
reply, Walter Griffin exclaimed, “I will go, sir.”
Peterson had from Walter’s childhood cherished a great affection for
him, and Walter loved the black with all his heart. It was at first
a childhood liking (as children care very little about color), which
increased as he grew older; and Peterson, by reforming his habits,
became deserving of respect.
Peterson was not merely a finished sailor and first-rate calker, but
was also exceedingly ingenious in making kites, windmills, boats,
sleds, carts, squirts, popguns, sawyers, and all those things that
children and boys want; and no one but Uncle Isaac could equal him in
the manufacture of bows and arrows.
Peterson lived not far from Walter’s father. Every leisure day Walter
was there; everything he wanted Peterson made, and, as he outgrew
kites and bows, instructed him in wrestling, making sailor knots, and
built him a skiff; when, therefore, he came to be shipmate with him,
he felt that the boy was in a manner committed to him, and under his
protection, and instantly interfered.
“Massa cap’n, dat boy no fit to go; he too young; s’pose come gale
ob wind; vessel driben to sea; no get him off long time; boy be
frightened, die, p’rhaps starve. Hab to show hisself; den English
man-o’-war take him; nebber see his farder or mudder no more. Boy no
‘sperience to know what to look for; me go, meself.”
Walter, however, insisted upon going; he had a right to go; the captain
called for volunteers, and he had volunteered, and was going.
“But you too young, chile, for such ting.”
“_Young_,” replied Walter, in high dudgeon; “I shipped before the mast,
and have a man’s wages, and can steer my trick, and do my duty.”
“I can’t do without _you_, pilot,” said the captain.
Several others had also intended to volunteer, and now came forward;
but Walter had been too quick for them, and claimed his right.
“Captain,” said Fred Williams, as he took leave of Arthur Brown,
“you’ll find one of our young men aboard, Walter Griffin (he’s not
much more than a boy, but he’s a choice one); I know him through and
through. He never should have left me if I could have helped it; but he
seems one of those made to go to sea. Put him anywhere, trust him with
any matter, and he will give a good account of himself. You will find
him better, on an emergency, than many older persons; for he belongs to
an iron-sided race, and what he lacks in experience he will make up in
mother wit.”
All that the captain had seen of Walter went to corroborate Fred’s
statement, and he determined to try him.
Little Ned now besought the captain to permit him to share the
adventure with Walter, but he refused, telling him he had promised his
mother not to expose him unnecessarily; that one was enough, and two
would be more likely to attract attention.
Ned turned away, with a tear in his eye, and walked forward. Flinging
his arms round his friend’s neck, he said, “He won’t let me go, Walter.
It’s too bad; we might have such a good time!”
The boat was manned, and beef, bread, water, and raw pork put into her.
The raw pork was in addition, as that could, on occasion, be eaten raw;
and if the vessel should be blown off the coast, he might be left there
a good while, and no fire could be made to cook, without attracting
notice.
The captain, after giving him his instructions, put into his hands
a spy-glass. “There,” said he, “is a glass with which you can read
letters three inches long a mile away.” He then shook hands with him at
the side, bidding him take care of himself, and keep a bright lookout,
while the tender-hearted black fairly shed tears.
“Look out for de man-o’-war, sonnie. S’pose he ketch you, Peterson
chase you all ober de world but he git you.”
“Good by, dear Walter,” cried Ned, throwing his arms around his
friend’s neck, as he stood up in the stern sheets to step on the rock.
“Good by, Ned,” said Walter, returning the embrace.
The provision and water were landed, and the boat pulled rapidly away.
Walter sat down upon the rock, listening to the sound of the oars in
the rowlocks, and watching the phosphorescence of the water as it
flashed on their blades. All these tokens of departure, of little
moment on ordinary occasions, now possessed not a little interest. He
marked the ring of the iron, as the hook of the davit-fall went into
the ring-bolt, and heard the man say, “Hoist away,” the creak of the
blocks, and the slat of the canvas, as the sails filled, then the
low, rushing sound of the vessel’s bow as it parted the water. It was
a lonely moment to the brave boy, when the last low sound betokening
companionship was lost in the dash of midnight waves, the gleam of her
white canvas faded from his view, and he was left on the wild rock
alone. He had never been taught to breathe a petition for protection,
or to depend upon aught but himself. His conversation with Charlie by
the brook constituted the only appeal of a religious nature ever made
to his heart.
He knew not the nature or extent of the rock on which he had been so
unceremoniously deposited, and, clambering up to where he was above
the flow of the tide, placed his provisions beside him, and determined
to keep watch till the day broke, that he might have time to examine
the place before he could be observed from any passing boat or vessel.
Fearing, if he went to sleep, he might sleep too long, and finding a
flat place on the rock, he paced back and forth, to keep himself awake.
Little Ned, feeling very lonely in the absence of his watch-mate,
attached himself to Peterson, between whom and Walter there was such
a good understanding, in order that he might talk about Walter,
Pleasant Cove, the Griffins, and all the people and boys he had become
acquainted with there.
The rock on which Walter was placed might have been, at low water,
half an acre in extent, and irregular in its form, the eastern end
rising in a high bluff, with deep water around and close to it; but
the western end sloped into long, ragged ridges, honeycombed by the
everlasting dash of surf, and terminating in long reefs, upon which the
sea broke with a continuous roar. Between these ridges were openings
or coves, quite wide at the extremities of the reefs, shoaling and
narrowing as they ran up into the main portion of the rock, in such a
manner that it was easy to enter them in a boat between the breaking
points, and land, in good weather, with perfect safety.
The heads of these coves were filled with those materials the sea
usually flings up—sea-weeds, shells, barrel staves, chips, planks, and
broken pieces of vessels.
On the eastern end of the rock was a patch of turf extending from the
edge of the bold cliffs along the heads of the coves, covered with
bushes and scrub trees, dwarfed by the sea winds, and thickly matted
together.
The sun had risen clear, bringing with it a moderate easterly breeze.
The English frigate before referred to is passing within musket shot of
the eastern extremity of the rock. A close observer might have noticed
the branches of a pine bush move in a direction opposite to the wind,
and in a few moments the head of a man is cautiously thrust through the
branches. It is Walter Griffin. He watches with keen eyes the course of
the man-o’-war, and, as she increases the distance between them, crawls
to the shelter of a ledge, and, resting his glass over it, watches her
till she disappears from view. From his position he can command a view
of the roadstead, the men-of-war lying at anchor in it, the forts, and
the entrance to the port.
At the head of one of the coves, in which there was a little beach
of white sand, a portion of the stern frame of a vessel had, by the
conjunction of a high tide and a gale of wind, been flung high on the
rocks, extending from one side to the other, leaving a space of several
feet between it and the beach. Here Walter had bestowed his water and
food.
Having made all the observation possible, he retired to this place,
and, with some dry sea-weed for a bed, lay down for a nap, as he had
been up the entire night.
When he awoke, he espied a French fisherman, fishing among the kelp for
rock-fish. Looking cautiously around, to be sure that no vessel was in
sight, he, after a while, succeeded in attracting his attention, and
prevailing upon him to row into one of the passages between the rocks,
where he met him.
“Who are you?” asked the fisherman, resting upon his oars, and
surprised to be addressed in his own language by one who, he perceived,
was of another nation.
“An American.”
“Have you run away from the man-o’-war?” asked the Frenchman, taking
him for some impressed American seaman, who had swum off from a British
vessel.
“No; I was put ashore here last night from an American vessel, that is
trying to run the blockade, to watch the fleet; she will stand in for
the land again to-night.”
“The vessel they were chasing yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“We thought you were gone.”
“We thought so ourselves, till the wind came.”
“Men sometimes swim ashore from the fleet. I thought you had swam to
the rock. I’ve got an Englishman in my house now who ran away a week
ago.”
“Why don’t they take you prisoner?”
“They don’t trouble the fishermen, and when they want fish, they pay
for them; but our vessels and the Spaniards take ‘em without thanks or
money.”
“What time in the day is it?”
“By the tide, about eleven o’clock.”
“Could you take me ashore in your boat, so that I could have a good
look at the fleet and harbor, and see the Englishman you spoke of, and
bring me back after dark?”
“I can take you ashore well enough, but bringing you back is another
matter; the English have boats rowing around the roadstead in the
night; if they saw me going out after dark, they would suspect
something, and stop me.”
“I would give a good deal to get inside the roadstead, and to see that
deserter.”
“I’ll do all I can to help you. I’ll take you along shore to one of the
creeks where there is no watch kept, and set you off from there.”
The Frenchman made Walter lie down in the bottom of the boat, covered
him with sea-weed, and flung fish over him; he then put up his sail,
and steered boldly into the roadstead. As he passed one of the English
ships, he was hailed and asked for a mess of fish; he went alongside,
and flung the fish on the grating of the side ladder, and receiving his
money, kept on.
“If they had known who was under these fish,” said the fisherman to
Walter, pulling the sea-weed off from him, as they came under the guns
of the French castle, “it would have put an end to my fishing.”
He now conducted Walter to the observatory, situated on very high
ground, in which was a powerful telescope, and from which he could
track the frigate and sloop of war as they ran along the coast, and
see perfectly the position of the ships in the roadstead. He found the
flag-ship lay the farthest in, just out of range of the forts, and so
moored as to completely command the channel. Having taken careful note
of all these things, and made a rough draft on paper, he went to the
fisherman’s house, where he found the English sailor, who informed him
of many particulars that were important, and among other things, that a
supply ship was daily expected on the coast and was eagerly looked for,
as provisions were growing short in the fleet.
“What is her name?” asked Walter.
“The Severn.”
“Where has that frigate probably gone?”
“To Toulon.”
“And the sixty-four?”
“Round the other side, to carry despatches.”
“How big is the flag-ship?”
“A hundred guns.”
“Do they keep a keen lookout?”
“Yes; it is no use to try to run by her at night; she wouldn’t leave
you a stick to do it with.”