“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.”
“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 ifCousin 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 yourchosenson-in-law, I gratefully acknowledge myself that happy person!“Your affectionatenephewandson,“Francis Reeve.”“P. S.—Julia sends her dutiful love.”
“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 yourchosenson-in-law, I gratefully acknowledge myself that happy person!
“Your affectionatenephewandson,
“Francis Reeve.”
“P. S.—Julia sends her dutiful love.”
GAME-BIRDS OF AMERICA.—NO. III.
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 calledPunt ShootersorPunt 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 happenedin 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 foolI; when I was at home I was in a better place; butTravelers must be content.As You Like It.
Ay, now I am in Arden; the more foolI; when I was at home I was in a better place; butTravelers must be content.As You Like It.
Ay, now I am in Arden; the more foolI; when I was at home I was in a better place; butTravelers must be content.As You Like It.
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.]
[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.]
“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 theCommercialEmporium of America—as if there might very well be anemporiumof 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 aboardthem, 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?”demandedthe 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 itshould 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 theydosay 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 herauntis 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—“Whatwillthey 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 ofthem, 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 inventionto 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 Idohate, it is that flag, with its unnat’ral stripes, up and down, instead of running in the true old way. Ihaveheard 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 smilescanbe 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 manifestdistaste 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, ifyousailed 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 foretawsail, as Spike called it—was loose, the fasts were singled, and a spring had been carried to a post in the wharf that was well forward of the starboard bow, and the brig’s head turned to the southwest, or down 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 andfactotumof 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,viâthe 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 manhadcome 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 wasvery 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 thisarrangement, 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 ownher. 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 thevis inertiæof 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.”