Jack Tier; Or, The Florida Reef

by James Fenimore Cooper

  Produced by Charles Aldarondo

  JACK TIER;

  OR

  THE FLORIDA REEF

  By James Fenimore Cooper

  By The Author Of “The Pilot,” “Red Rover,” “Two Admirals,” “Wing AndWing,” “Miles Wallingford,” Etc.

  PREFACE.

  This work has already appeared in Graham’s Magazine, under the titleof “Rose Budd.” The change of name is solely the act of the author, andarises from a conviction that the appellation given in this publicationis more appropriate than the one laid aside. The necessity of writing toa name, instead of getting it from the incidents of the book itself, hasbeen the cause of this departure from the ordinary rules.

  When this book was commenced, it was generally supposed that the Mexicanwar would end, after a few months of hostilities. Such was never theopinion of the writer. He has ever looked forward to a protractedstruggle; and, now that Congress has begun to interfere, sees as littleprobability of its termination, as on the day it commenced. Whencehonourable gentlemen have derived their notions of the constitution,when they advance the doctrine that Congress is an American Auliccouncil, empowered to encumber the movements of armies, and, as oldBlucher expressed it in reference to the diplomacy of Europe, “to spoilwith the pen the work achieved by the sword,” it is difficult to saymore than this, that they do not get them from the constitution itself.It has generally been supposed that the present executive was created inorder to avoid the very evils of a distracted and divided council,which this new construction has a direct tendency to revive. But apresidential election has ever proved, and probably will ever prove,stronger than any written fundamental law.

  We have had occasion to refer often to Mexico in these pages. It hasbeen our aim to do so in a kind spirit; for, while we have never doubtedthat the factions which have possessed themselves of the government inthat country have done us great wrong, wrong that would have justifieda much earlier appeal to arms, we have always regarded the classof Mexicans who alone can properly be termed the ‘people,’ as mild,amiable, and disposed to be on friendly terms with us. Providence,however, directs all to the completion of its own wise ends. If thecrust which has so long encircled that nation, enclosing it in bigotryand ignorance, shall now be irretrievably broken, letting in light,even Mexico herself may have cause hereafter to rejoice in her presentdisasters. It was in this way that Italy has been, in a manner,regenerated; the conquests of the French carrying in their train themeans and agencies which have, at length, aroused that glorious portionof the earth to some of its ancient spirit. Mexico, in certain senses,is the Italy of this continent; and war, however ruthless and much tobe deplored, may yet confer on her the inestimable blessings of realliberty, and a religion released from “feux d’artifice,” as well as allother artifices.

  A word on the facts of our legend. The attentive observer of men andthings has many occasions to note the manner in which ordinary lookerson deceive themselves, as well as others. The species of treasonportrayed in these pages is no uncommon occurrence; and it will oftenbe found that the traitor is the loudest in his protestations ofpatriotism. It is a pretty safe rule to suspect the man of hypocrisywho makes a parade of his religion, and the partisan of corruption andselfishness, who is clamorous about the rights of the people. CaptainSpike was altogether above the first vice; though fairly on level, asrespects the second, with divers patriots who live by their deity.

  VOLUME I.

  CHAPTER I.

  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 here there, Mr. Mulford?” called out Capt. Stephen Spike, of thehalf-rigged, brigantine Swash, or Molly Swash, as was her registeredname, 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 oneshould go outside and look for it.”

  This call was uttered from a wharf of the renowned city of Manhattan, toone who was in the trunk-cabin of a clipper-looking craft, of the namementioned, and on the deck of which not a soul was visible. Nor was thewharf, though one of those wooden piers that line the arm of the seathat is called the East River, such a spot as ordinarily presents itselfto the mind of the reader, or listener, when an allusion is made toa wharf of that town which it is the fashion of the times to callthe Commercial Emporium of America--as if there might very well be anemporium of any other character. The wharf in question had not a singlevessel of any sort lying at, or indeed very near it, with the exceptionof the Molly Swash. As it actually stood on the eastern side of thetown, it is scarcely necessary to say that such a wharf could only befound high up, and at a considerable distance from the usual haunts ofcommerce. 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 AlmsHouse--far above the ship-yards, in fact. It was a solitary place fora vessel, in the midst of a crowd. The grum top-chain voice of CaptainSpike 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 fullof 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 Hatterasthat can make himself heard further in gale of wind than a certaingentleman 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 thankfulam 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 gothrough the Gate on the next young flood, and I hope you’ll have allthe hands aboard in time. I see two or three of them up at that Dutchbeer-house, this moment, and can tell’em; in plain language, if theycome here with their beer aboard them, they’ll have to go ashore again.”

  “You have an uncommonly sober crew, Capt. Spike,” answered the youngman, 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 thebargain. Drunkenness I abominate, Mr. Mulford, and I can tell you, shortmetre, that I will not stand it.”

  “May I inquire if you ever saw me, the least in the world, under theinfluence 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 isthe worse for bowsing out his jib when off duty, though a drunkard’s athing I despise. Well, well--remember, sir, that the Molly Swash castsoff 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 trytheir luck in that brig. Lady Washington herself, if she was alive anddisposed 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 tooccupy it. Old Mrs. Budd is a sensible woman, and takes time by theforelock. Rose is ailin’--pulmonary they call it, I bel
ieve, and heraunt 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 gotall sorts of diseases now-a-days, and all sorts of cures for’em. Onesort 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 atthe bottom of it, and they do say it’s a good remedy. Now Rose’s auntthinks if cold water is what is wanted, there is no place where it canbe so plenty as out on the ocean. Sea-air is good, too, and by taking av’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. Buddhas 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 triedon her account--but the aunt, the cunning thing, knows all about it.”

  Mulford almost nauseated the expression of his commander’s countenancewhile Spike uttered the last words. At no time was that countenance veryinviting, the features being coarse and vulgar, while the color of theentire face was of an ambiguous red, in which liquor and the seasonswould seem to be blended in very equal quantities. Such a countenance,lighted up by a gleam of successful management, not to say withhopes and wishes that it will hardly do to dwell on, could not but berevolting to a youth of Harry Mulford’s generous feelings, and most ofall to one who entertained the sentiments which he was quite consciousof entertaining for Rose Budd. The young man made no reply, but turnedhis face toward the water, in order to conceal the expression of disgustthat he was sensible must be strongly depicted on it.

  The river, as the well-known arm of the sea in which the Swash was lyingis 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 theend of Blackwell’s Island and Corlaer’s Hook, a distance of about aleague. This stagnation in the movement of the port, at that particularpoint, was owing to the state of wind and tide. Of the first, there waslittle more than a southerly air, while the last was about two-thirdsebb. Nearly everything that was expected on that tide, coast-wise,and by the way of the Sound, had already arrived, and nothing could goeastward, with that light breeze and under canvas, until the flood made.Of course it was different with the steamers, who were paddling aboutlike so many ducks, steering in all directions, though mostly crossingand re-crossing at the ferries. Just as Mulford turned away from hiscommander, however, a large vessel of that class shoved her bows intothe view, doubling the Hook, and going eastward. The first glance atthis vessel sufficed to drive even Rose Budd momentarily out of theminds of both master and mate, and to give a new current to theirthoughts. Spike had been on the point of walking up the wharf, but henow so far changed his purpose as actually to jump on board of the brigand spring up alongside of his mate, on the taffrail, in order to geta better look at the steamer. Mulford, who loathed so much in hiscommander, was actually glad of this, Spike’s rare merit as a seamanforming a sort of attraction that held him, as it might be against hisown will, bound to his service.

  “What will they do next, Harry?” exclaimed the master, his manner andvoice actually humanized, in air and sound at least, by this unexpectedview 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 shewere a propeller,” returned the young man.

  “She’s an out-of-the-way sort of a hussy! She’s a man-of-war, too--oneof Uncle Sam’s new efforts.”

  “That can hardly be, sir. Uncle Sam has but three steamers, of any sizeor force, now the Missouri is burned; and yonder is one of them, lyingat 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 shebelong to Uncle Sam.”

  “New! She’s as new as a Governor, and they tell me they’ve got so nowthat they choose five or six of them, up at Albany, every fall. Thatcraft is sea-going, Mr. Mulford, as any one can tell at a glance. She’snone of your passenger-hoys.”

  “That’s plain enough, sir--and she’s armed. Perhaps she’s English, andthey’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, andwe shall see to whom she belongs.”

  A long, low, expressive whistle from Spike succeeded this remark, thecolours of the steamer going up to the end of a gaff on the sternmostof her schooner-rigged masts, just as Mulford ceased speaking. There wasjust air enough, aided by the steamer’s motion, to open the bunting, andlet the spectators see the design. There were the stars and stripes,as usual, but the last ran perpendicularly, instead of in a horizontaldirection.

  “Revenue, by George!” exclaimed the master, as soon as his breath wasexhausted in the whistle. “Who would have believed they could screwthemselves up to doing such a thing in that bloody service?”

  “I now remember to have heard that Uncle Sam was building some largesteamers for the revenue service, and, if I mistake not, with some newinvention to get along with, that is neither wheel nor propeller. Thismust be one of these new craft, brought out here, into open water, justto try her, sir.”

  “You’re right, sir, you’re right. As to the natur’ of the beast, you seeher buntin’, and no honest man can want more. If there’s anything I dohate, it is that flag, with its unnat’ral stripes, up and down, insteadof running in the true old way. I have heard a lawyer say, that therevenue flag of this country is onconstitutional, and that a vesselcarrying it on the high seas might be sent in for piracy.”

  Although Harry Mulford was neither Puffendorf, nor Grotius, he had toomuch common sense, and too little prejudice in favour of even his ownvocation, to swallow such a theory, had fifty Cherry Street lawyerssworn to its justice. A smile crossed his fine, firm-looking mouth,and something very like a reflection of that smile, if smiles can bereflected in one’s own countenance, gleamed in his fine, large, darkeye.

  “It would be somewhat singular, Capt, Spike,” he said, “if a vesselbelonging to any nation should be seized as a pirate. The fact that sheis national in character would clear her.”

  “Then let her carry a national flag, and be d--d to her,” answered Spikefiercely. “I can show you law for what I say, Mr. Mulford. The Americanflag has its stripes fore and aft by law, and this chap carries hisstripes parpendic’lar. If I commanded a cruiser, and fell in with oneof these up and down gentry, blast me if I wouldn’t just send him intoport, and try the question in the old Alms-House.”

  Mulford probably did not think it worth while to argue the point anyfurther, understanding the dogmatism and stolidity of his commander toowell to deem it necessary. He preferred to turn to the consideration ofthe qualities of the steamer in sight, a subject on which, as seamen,they might better sympathize.

  “That’s a droll-looking revenue cutter, after all, Capt. Spike,” hesaid--“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 shekeeps all snug under water; but, unless she can travel faster than shedoes just now, the Molly Swash would soon lend her the Mother Carey’sChickens of her own wake to amuse her.”

  “She has the tide against her, just here, sir; no doubt she would dobetter 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 tohis mate about Rose Budd, her aunt, the “ladies’ cabin,” the “youngflood,” and “casting off,” as soon as the last made. Mulford listenedrespectfully, though with a manifest distaste for the instructions hew
as receiving. He knew his man, and a feeling of dark distrust came overhim, as he listened to his orders concerning the famous accommodationshe 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 woulddo Rose,” and how “comfortable they both would be on board the MollySwash.”

  “I honour and respect, Mrs. Budd, as my captain’s lady, you see, Mr.Mulford, and intend to treat her accordin’ly. She knows it--and Roseknows it--and they both declare they’d rather sail with me, since sailthey 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 mytwentieth 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 cameas well as another’s.”

  “Capt. Budd must have been a good deal older than his wife, sir, if yousailed with him when a boy,” Mulford observed a little drily.

  “Yes; I own to forty-eight, though no one would think me more than fiveor six-and-thirty, to look at me. There was a great difference betweenold Dick Budd and his wife, as you say, he being about fifty, when hemarried, and she less than twenty. Fifty is a good age for matrimony, ina man, Mulford; as is twenty in a young woman.”

  “Rose Budd is not yet nineteen, I have heard her say,” returned themate, with emphasis.

  “Youngish, I will own, but that’s a fault a liberal-minded man canoverlook. Every day, too, will lessen it. Well, look to the cabins, andsee all clear for a start. Josh will be down presently with a cart-loadof stores, and you’ll take ‘em aboard without delay.”

  As Spike uttered this order, his foot was on the plank-sheer of thebulwarks, in the act of passing to the wharf again. On reaching theshore, he turned and looked intently at the revenue steamer, and hislips moved, as if he were secretly uttering maledictions on her. We saymaledictions, as the expression of his fierce ill-favoured countenancetoo plainly showed that they could not be blessings. As for Mulford,there was still something on his mind, and he followed to the gangwayladder and ascended it, waiting for a moment when the mind of hiscommander might be less occupied to speak. The opportunity soonoccurred, Spike having satisfied himself with the second look at thesteamer.

  “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 theway, and the captain has to keep just as much of a watch with one aswithout one.”

  “That will depend on his quality. You and I have both been Dickies inour 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 toget spoiled. I would have no man aboard the Swash who made more than twov’y’ges as second officer. As I want no spies aboard my craft, I’ll tryit once more without a Dicky.”

  Saying this in a sufficiently positive manner, Capt. Stephen Spikerolled up the wharf, much as a ship goes off before the wind, nowinclining to the right, and then again to the left. The gait of the manwould have proclaimed him a sea-dog, to any one acquainted with thatanimal, as far as he could be seen. The short squab figure, the armsbent nearly at right angles at the elbow, and working like two fins witheach roll of the body, the stumpy, solid legs, with the feet looking inthe line of his course and kept wide apart, would all have contributedto the making up of such an opinion. Accustomed as he was to thisbeautiful sight, Harry Mulford kept his eyes riveted on the retiringperson of his commander, until it disappeared behind a pile of lumber,waddling always in the direction of the more thickly peopled parts ofthe 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 theGate. That steamer was certainly a noble-looking craft, but our youngman fancied she struggled along through the water heavily. She might bequick at need, but she did not promise as much by her present rate ofmoving. Still, she was a noble-looking craft, and, as Mulford descendedto the deck again, he almost regretted he did not belong to her; or, atleast, to anything but the Molly Swash.

  Two hours produced a sensible change in and around that brigantine. Herpeople had all come back to duty, and what was very remarkable amongseafaring folk, sober to a man. But, as has been said, Spike was atemperance man, as respects all under his orders at least, if notstrictly so in practice himself. The crew of the Swash was large for ahalf-rigged brig of only two hundred tons, but, as her spars were verysquare, and all her gear as well as her mould seemed constructed forspeed, it was probable more hands than common were necessary to work herwith facility and expedition. After all, there were not many personsto be enumerated among the “people of the Molly Swash,” as they calledthemselves; not more than a dozen, including those aft, as well as thoseforward. A peculiar feature of this crew, however, was the circumstancethat they were all middle-aged men, with the exception of the mate, andall 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 crewwanted a little in the elasticity of youth, it possessed the steadinessand experience of their time of life, every man appearing to knowexactly what to do, and when to do it. This, indeed, composed theirgreat merit; an advantage that Spike well knew how to appreciate.

  The stores had been brought alongside of the brig in a cart, and werealready showed in their places. Josh had brushed and swept, until theladies’ cabin could be made no neater. This ladies’ cabin was a smallapartment beneath a trunk, which was, ingeniously enough, separatedfrom the main cabin by pantries and double doors. The arrangement wasunusual, and Spike had several times hinted that there was a historyconnected with that cabin; though what the history was Mulford nevercould induce him to relate. The latter knew that the brig had been usedfor a forced trade on the Spanish Main, and had heard something ofher deeds in bringing off specie, and proscribed persons, at differentepochs in the revolutions of that part of the world, and he had alwaysunderstood that her present commander and owner had sailed in her, asmate, for many years before he had risen to his present station.Now, all was regular in the way of records, bills of sale, and otherdocuments; Stephen Spike appearing in both the capacities just named.The register proved that the brig had been built as far back as the lastEnglish war, as a private cruiser, but recent and extensive repairshad made her “better than new,” as her owner insisted, and there was noquestion as to her sea-worthiness. It is true the insurance offices blewupon her, and would have nothing to do with a craft that had seen hertwo score years and ten; but this gave none who belonged to her anyconcern, inasmuch as they could scarcely have been underwritten in theirtrade, let the age of the vessel be what it might. It was enough forthem that the brig was safe and exceedingly fast, insurances neversaving the lives of the people, whatever else might be their advantages.With Mulford it was an additional recommendation, that the Swash wasusually thought to be of uncommonly just proportions.

  By half-past two, P. M., everything was ready for getting the brigantineunder way. Her fore-topsail--or foretawsail as Spike called it--wasloose, the fasts were singled, and a spring had been carried to a postin the wharf, that was well forward of the starboard bow, and the brig’shead turned to the southwest, or down the stream, and consequentlyfacing the young flood. Nothing seemed to connect the vessel withthe land but a broad gangway plank, to which Mulford had attachedlife-lines, with more care than it is usual to meet with on board ofvessels employed in short voyages. The men stood about the decks withtheir arms thrust into the bosoms of their shirts, and the whole picturewas one of silent, and possibly of somewhat uneasy expectation. Nothingwas said, however; Mulford walking the quarter-deck alone, occasionallylooking up the still little tenanted streets of that quarter of thesuburbs, 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 hadtaken in a stern-port, where he could see over the low bulwarks of thevessel. “Yes, dat’s dem, sir. I know dat old gray horse dat carries hishead so low and sorrowful like, as a horse has a right to do dat has todrag a cab about this 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 wassoon on the wharf, and in its door soon appeared the short, sturdyfigure of Capt. Spike, backing out, much as a bear descends a tree. Ontop of the vehicle were several light articles of female appliances, inthe shape of bandboxes, bags, &c., the trunks having previously arrivedin 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, allof weight, and of dimensions in proportion, with the exception of thepretty and youthful Rose Budd. Even she was plump, and of a well-roundedperson; though still light and slender. But her aunt was a fair pictureof a ship-master’s widow; solid, comfortable and buxom. Neither wasshe old, nor ugly. On the contrary, her years did not exceed forty, andbeing well preserved, in consequence of never having been a mother,she might even have passed for thirty-five. The great objection to herappearance was the somewhat indefinite character of her shape, whichseemed to blend too many of its charms into one. The fourth person, inthe 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 hermistress’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 wasequally spirited and gentle, if one can use such contradictory terms,seemed alive with interest and curiosity, running over the brig, thewharf, the arm of the sea, the two islands, and all near her, includingthe Alms-House, with such a devouring rapidity as might be expected ina 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; forRose Budd had been both born and educated in Manhattan, though we arefar from wishing to be understood that she was either very well-born,or highly educated. Her station in life may be inferred from that ofher 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 thevarious objects near her, as she alighted from the cab, and it naturallytook in the form of Harry Mulford, as he stood in the gangway, offeringhis arm to aid her aunt and herself in passing the brig’s side. A smileof recognition was exchanged between the young people, as their eyesmet, and the colour, which formed so bright a charm in Rose’s sweetface, deepened, in a way to prove that that colour spoke with a tongueand eloquence of its own. Nor was Mulford’s cheek mute on the occasion,though he helped the hesitating, half-doubting, half-bold girl alongthe plank with a steady hand and rigid muscles. As for the aunt, asa captain’s widow, she had not felt it necessary to betray anyextraordinary emotions in ascending the plank, unless, indeed, it mightbe those of delight on finding her foot once more on the deck of avessel!

  Something of the same feeling governed Biddy, too, for, as Mulfordcivilly 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 andbrigs, I do. If you could have seen the times we had, and the saas wecrossed, 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 inassisting females along that plank, and he was busy in sending what hecalled “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 thencevid the bulwarks, on deck, ordering the plank to be hauled aboard. Asolitary labourer was paid a quarter to throw off the fasts from thering-bolts and posts, and everything was instantly in motion to castthe brig loose. Work went on as if the vessel were in haste, and itconsequently went on with activity. Spike bestirred himself, givinghis orders in a way to denote he had been long accustomed to exerciseauthority on the deck of a vessel, and knew his calling to its minutiæ.The only ostensible difference between his deportment to-day and on anyordinary occasion, perhaps, was in the circumstance that he now seemedanxious to get clear of the wharf, and that in a way which mighthave attracted notice in any suspicious and attentive observer. It ispossible that such a one was not very distant, and that Spike was awareof his presence, for a respectable-looking, well-dressed, middle-agedman had come down one of the adjacent streets, to a spot within ahundred yards of the wharf, and stood silently watching the movementsof the brig, as he leaned against a fence. The want of houses in thatquarter enabled any person to see this stranger from the deck of theSwash, but no one on board her seemed to regard him at all, unless itmight be the master.

  “Come, bear a hand, my hearty, and toss that bow-fast clear,” cried thecaptain, whose impatience to be off seemed to increase as the time to doso 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, hadbeen run some distance along the wharves, ahead of the vessel, andbrought in aft. Her people clapped on this, and gave way to theircraft, which, being comparatively light, was easily moved, and was verymanageable. As this was done, the distant spectator who had been leaningon the fence moved toward the wharf with a step a little quicker thancommon. Almost at the same instant, a short, stout, sailor-like lookinglittle person, waddled down the nearest street, seeming to be insomewhat of a hurry, and presently he joined the other stranger, andappeared to enter into conversation with him; pointing toward the Swashas 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 notrun very strong near the wharves and in the sort of a bight in which thevessel had lain; but, such as it was, it soon took the brig on her innerbow, and began to cast her head off shore. The people at the springpulled away with all their force, and got sufficient motion on theirvessel to overcome the tide, and to give the rudder an influence. Thelatter was put hard a-starboard, and helped to cast the brig’s head tothe southward.

  Down to this moment, the only sail that was loose on board the Swash wasthe fore-topsail, as mentioned. This still hung in the gear, but a handhad been sent aloft to overhaul the buntlines and clewlines, and menwere 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 ismore, it was fitted with a standing gaff, for appearance in port. Atsea, Spike knew better than to trust to this arrangement; but in fineweather, and close in with the land, he found it convenient to havethis sail haul out and brail like a ship’s spanker. As the gaff was nowaloft, it was only necessary to let go the brails to loosen this broadsheet of canvas, and to clap on the out-hauler, to set it. This wasprobably the reason why the brig was so unceremoniously cast into thestream, without showing more of her cloth. The jib and flying-jibs,however, did at that moment drop beneath their booms, ready forhoisting.

  Such was the state of things as the two strangers came first uponthe wharf. Spike was on the taffrail, overhauling the main-sheet, andMulford was near him, casting the foretopsail braces from the pins,preparatory to clapping on the halyards.

  “I say, Mr. Mulford,” asked the captain, “did you ever see either ofthem chaps afore? These jokers on the wharf, I mean.”

  “Not to my recollection, sir,” answered the mate, looking over thetaffrail to examine the parties. “The little one is a burster! Thefunniest-looking little fat old fellow I’ve seen in many a day.”

  “Ay, ay, them fat little bursters, as you call ‘em, are sometimes fullof the devil. I do n’t like either of the chaps, and am right glad weare well cast, before they got here.”

  “I do not think eit
her would be likely to do us much harm, Capt. Spike.”

  “There’s no knowing sir. The biggest fellow looks as if he might lug outa 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 fromit? I fancy the brig has paid her reckoning.”

  “She do n’t owe a cent, nor ever shall for twenty-four hours after thebill is made out, while I own her. They call me ready-money Stephen,round among the ship-chandlers and caulkers. But I do n’t like themchaps, and what I do n’t relish I never swallow, you know.”

  “They ‘ll hardly try to get aboard us, sir; you see we are quite clearof the wharf, and the mainsail will take now, if we set it.”

  Spike ordered the mate to clap on the outhauler, and spread that broadsheet of canvas at once to the little breeze there was. This was almostimmediately done, when the sail filled, and began to be felt on themovement of the vessel. Still, that movement was very slow, the windbeing so light, and the vis inertioe of so large a body remaining tobe overcome. The brig receded from the wharf, almost in a line at rightangles to its face, inch by inch, as it might be, dropping slowly upwith the tide at the same time. Mulford now passed forward to setthe jibs, and to get the topsail on the craft, leaving Spike on thetaffrail, keenly eyeing the strangers, who, by this time, had got downnearly to the end of the wharf, at the berth so lately occupied by theSwash. That the captain was uneasy was evident enough, that feelingbeing exhibited in his countenance, blended with a malignant ferocity.

  “Has that brig any pilot?” asked the larger and better-looking of thetwo strangers.

  “What’s that to you, friend?” demanded Spike, in return. “Have you aHell-Gate branch?”

  “I may have one, or I may not. It is not usual for so large a craft torun the Gate without a pilot.”

  “Oh! my gentleman’s below, brushing up his logarithms. We shall have himon deck to take his departure before long, when I’ll let him know yourkind 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?” calledout the little, dumpling-looking person, in a cracked, dwarfish sortof a voice, that was admirably adapted to his appearance. Our captainfairly started; turned full toward the speaker; regarded him intentlyfor a moment; and gulped the words he was about to utter, like oneconfounded. As he gazed, however, at little dumpy, examining hisbow-legs, red broad cheeks, and coarse snub nose, he seemed to regainhis self-command, as if satisfied the dead had not really returned tolife.

  “Are you acquainted with the gentleman you have named?” he asked, by wayof answer. “You speak of him like one who ought to know him.”

  “A body is apt to know a shipmate. Stephen Spike and I sailed togethertwenty 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 whatv’y’ge, pray?”

  “The last time was twenty years since. Have you forgotten little JackTier, Capt. Spike?”

  Spike looked astonished, and well he might, for he had supposed Jack tobe dead fully fifteen years. Time and hard service had greatly alteredhim, but the general resemblance in figure, stature, and waddle,certainly remained. Notwithstanding, the Jack Tier that Spike rememberedwas quite a different person from this Jack Tier. That Jack had worn hisintensely black hair clubbed and curled, whereas this Jack had cut hislocks into short bristles, which time had turned into an intense gray.That Jack was short and thick, but he was flat and square; whereas thisJack was just as short, a good deal thicker, and as round as a dumpling.In one thing, however, the likeness still remained perfect. Both Jackschewed tobacco, to a degree that became a distinct feature in theirappearance.

  Spike had many reasons for wishing Jack Tier were not resuscitatedin this extraordinary manner, and some for being glad to see him. Thefellow had once been largely in his confidence, and knew more than wasquite safe for any one to remember but himself, while he might be ofgreat use to him in his future, operations. It is always convenient tohave one at your elbow who thoroughly understands you, and Spike wouldhave lowered a boat and sent it to the wharf to bring Jack off, wereit not for the gentleman who was so inquisitive about pilots. Underthe circumstances, he determined to forego the advantages of Jack’spresence, reserving the right to hunt him up on his return.

  The reader will readily enough comprehend, that the Molly Swash was notabsolutely standing still while the dialogue related was going on, andthe thoughts we have recorded were passing through her master’s mind. Onthe contrary, she was not only in motion, but that motion was graduallyincreasing, and by the time all was said that has been related, ithad become necessary for those who spoke to raise their voices to aninconvenient pitch in order to be heard. This circumstance alone wouldsoon have put an end to the conversation, had not Spike’s pausing toreflect brought about the same result, as mentioned.

  In the mean time, Mulford had got the canvas spread. Forward, the Swashshowed all the cloth of a full-rigged brig, even to royals and flyingjib; while aft, her mast was the raking, tall, naked pole of an Americanschooner. There was a taunt topmast, too, to which a gaff-topsail wasset, and the gear proved that she could also show, at need, a staysailin 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 athwar the broad reach shewas in, until far enough to weather Blackwell’s, when she edged off toher course, and went through the southern passage. Although the windremained light, and a little baffling, the brig was so easily impelled,and was so very handy, that there was no difficulty in keeping herperfectly in command. The tide, too, was fast increasing in strengthand volocity, and the movement from this cause alone was getting to besufficiently rapid.

  As for the passengers, of whom we have lost sight in order to get thebrig under way, they were now on deck again. At first, they had all gonebelow, under the care of Josh, a somewhat rough groom of the chambers,to take possession of their apartment, a sufficiently neat, andexceedingly comfortable cabin, supplied with everything that couldbe wanted at sea, and, what was more, lined on two of its sides withstate-rooms. It is true, all these apartments were small, and thestate-rooms were very low, but no fault could be found with theirneatness and general arrangements, when it was recollected that one wason board a vessel.

  “Here ebbery t’ing heart can wish,” said Josh, exultingly, who, being anold-school black, did not disdain to use some of the old-school dialectof his caste. “Yes, ladies, ebbery t’ing. Let Cap’n Spike alone for dat!He won’erful at accommodation! Not a bed-bug aft--know better dan comehere; jest like de people, in dat respects, and keep deir place forrard.You nebber see a pig come on de quarter-deck, nudder.”

  “You must maintain excellent discipline, Josh,” cried Rose, in oneof the sweetest voices in the world, which was easily attuned tomerriment--“and we are delighted to learn what you tell us. How do youmanage to keep up these distinctions, and make such creatures know theirplaces so well?”

  “Nuttin easier, if you begin right, miss. As for de pig, I teach dem widscaldin’ water. Wheneber I sees a pig come aft, I gets a little waterfrom de copper, and just scald him wid it. You can’t t’ink, miss, howdat mend his manners, and make him squeel fuss, and t’ink arter. In datfashion I soon get de ole ones in good trainin’, and den I has no moretrouble with dem as comes fresh aboard; for de ole hog tell de youngone, 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 couldno 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 itwith those--other creatures?”

  “Rosy, dear,” interrupted the aunt, “I wish you would say no more aboutsuch shocking things. It’s enough for us that Capt. Spike has orderedthem all to stay forward among the men, which is always done on boardwell disciplined vessels. I’ve heard your uncle say, a hundred times,that the quarter-deck was sacred, and that might be enough to keep suchanimals off it.”

  It was barely necessary to look at Mrs. Budd in the face to get a veryaccurate general notion of her character. She was one of those inane,uncultivated beings who seem to be protected by a benevolent Providencein their pilgrimage on earth, for they do not seem to possess the powerto protect themselves. Her very countenance expressed imbecility andmental dependence, credulity and a love of gossip. Notwithstanding theseradical weaknesses, the good woman had some of the better instincts ofher sex, and was never guilty of anything that could properly conveyreproach.

  She was no monitress for Rose, however, the niece much oftenerinfluencing the aunt, than the aunt influencing the niece. The latterhad been fortunate in having had an excellent instructress, who, thoughincapable of teaching her much in the way of accomplishments, hadimparted a great deal that was respectable and useful. Rose hadcharacter, and strong character, too, as the course of our narrativewill show; but her worthy aunt was a pure picture of as much mentalimbecility as at all comported with the privileges of self-government.

  The conversation about “those other creatures” was effectually checkedby Mrs. Budd’s horror of the “animals,” and Josh was called on deck soshortly after as to prevent its being renewed. The females staid belowa few minutes, to take possession, and then they re-appeared on deck, togaze at the horrors of the Hell Gate passage. Rose was all eyes, wonderand admiration of everything she saw. This was actually the first timeshe had ever been on the water, in any sort of craft, though born andbrought up in sight of one of the most thronged havens in the world.But there must be a beginning to everything, and this was Rose Budd’sbeginning 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 thisthe incipient state of her nautical knowledge. Perhaps the exquisiteneatness that Mulford maintained about everything that came under hiscare, and that included everything on deck, or above-board, and aboutwhich neatness Spike occasionally muttered an oath, as so much senselesstrouble, contributed somewhat to Rose’s pleasure; but her admirationwould scarcely have been less with anything that had sails, and seemedto move through the water with a power approaching that of volition.

  It was very different with Mrs. Budd, She, good woman, had actuallymade one voyage with her late husband, and she fancied that she knewall about a vessel. It was her delight to talk on nautical subjects, andnever did she really feel her great superiority over her niece, so veryunequivocally, as when the subject of the ocean was introduced, aboutwhich she did know something, and touching which Rose was profoundlyignorant, or as ignorant as a girl of lively imagination could remainwith 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’sexclamations of admiration. “A vessel is a very wonderful thing, andwe are told what extr’orny beings they are that ‘go down to the seain ships.’ But you are to know this is not a ship at all, but only ahalf-jigger rigged, which is altogether a different thing.”

  “Was my uncle’s vessel, The Rose In Bloom, then, very different from theSwash?”

  “Very different indeed, child! Why, The Rose In Bloom was afull-jiggered ship, and had twelve masts--and this is only ahalf-jiggered brig, and has but two masts. See, you may countthem--one--two!”

  Harry Mulford was coiling away a top-gallant-brace, directly in frontof Mrs. Budd and Rose, and, at hearing this account of the wonderfulequipment of The Rose In Bloom, he suddenly looked up, with a lurkingexpression about his eye that the niece very well comprehended, whilehe exclaimed, without much reflection, under the impulse ofsurprise--“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 themby heart--it appearing to me proper that a ship-master’s wife shouldknow the names of all the masts in her husband’s vessel. Do you wish tohear their names, Mr. Mulford?”

  Harry Mulford would have enjoyed this conversation to the top ofhis bent, had it not been for Rose. She well knew her aunt’s generalweakness of intellect, and especially its weakness on this particularsubject, but she would suffer no one to manifest contempt for either, ifin her power to prevent it. It is seldom one so young, so mirthful, soingenuous and innocent in the expression of her countenance, assumed sosignificant and rebuking a frown as did pretty Rose Budd when she heardthe mate’s involuntary exclamation about the “twelve masts.” Harry, whowas not easily checked by his equals, or any of his own sex, submittedto 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 youplease, Mrs. Budd--just as you please, ma’am--only twelve is a goodmany masts--” Rose frowned again--“that is--more than I’m used toseeing--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 justtwelve masts, and, to prove it to you, I’ll give you the names--firstthen, there were the fore, main, and mizen masts--”

  “Yes--yes--ma’am,” stammered Harry, who wished the twelve masts and TheRose In Bloom at the bottom of the ocean, since her owner’s niece stillcontinued 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 mizen top-masts--they make six, if I cancount, Mr. Mulford?”

  “Ah!” exclaimed the mate, laughing, in spite of Rose’s frowns, as themanner in which the old sea-dog had quizzed his wife became apparent tohim. “I see how it is--you are quite right, ma’am--I dare say The RoseIn Bloom had all these masts, and some to spare.”

  “Yes, sir--I knew you would be satisfied. The fore, main and mizentop-gallant-masts make nine--and the fore, main and mizen royals makejust twelve. Oh, I’m never wrong in anything about a vessel, especiallyif she is a full-jiggered ship.”

  Mulford had some difficulty in restraining his smiles each time thefull-jigger was mentioned, but Rose’s expression of countenance kept himin excellent order--and she, innocent creature, saw nothing ridiculousin the term, though the twelve masts had given her a little alarm.Delighted that the old lady had got through her enumeration of thespars with so much success, Rose cried, in the exuberance of herspirits--“Well, aunty, for my part, I find a half-jigger vessel, sovery, very beautiful, that I do not know how I should behave were I togo on board a full-jigger.”

  Mulford turned abruptly away, the circumstance of Rose’s making herselfridiculous giving him sudden pain, though he could have laughed at heraunt by the hour.

  “Ah, my dear, that is on account of your youth and inexperience--butyou will learn better in time. I was just so, myself, when I was ofyour age, and thought the fore-rafters were as handsome as thesquared-jiggers, but soon after I married Capt. Budd I felt thenecessity of knowing more than I did about ships, and I got him to teachme. He did n’t like the business, at first, and pretended I would neverlearn; but, at last, it came all at once like, and then he used to bedelighted 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, forhalf an hour together--and then he would swear--that was the worstfault your uncle had, Rosy--he would swear, sometimes, in a way thatfrightened me, I do declare!”

  “But he never swore at you, aunty?”

  “I can’t say that he did exactly do that, but he would s
wear all roundme, even if he did n’t actually touch me, when things went wrong--butit would have done your heart good to hear him laugh! he had a mostexcellent heart, just like your own, Rosy dear; but, for that matter,all the Budds have excellent hearts, and one of the commonest ways youruncle had of showing it was to laugh, particularly when we were togetherand talking. Oh, he used to delight in hearing me converse, especiallyabout vessels, and never failed to get me at it when he had company. Isee his good-natured, excellent-hearted countenance at this moment, withthe tears running down his fat, manly cheeks, as he shook his very sideswith laughter. I may live a hundred years, Rosy, before I meet againwith your uncle’s equal.”

  This was a subject that invariably silenced Rose. She remembered heruncle, herself, and remembered his affectionate manner of laughing ather aunt, and she always wished the latter to get through her eulogiumson her married happiness, as soon as possible, whenever the subject wasintroduced.

  All this time the Molly Swash kept in motion. Spike never took a pilotwhen he could avoid it, and his mind was too much occupied with hisduty, in that critical navigation, to share at all in the conversationof his passengers, though he did endeavour to make himself agreeable toRose, by an occasional remark, when a favourable opportunity offered.

  As soon as he had worked his brig over into the south or weather passageof Blackwell’s, however, there remained little for him to do, until shehad drifted through it, a distance of a mile or more; and this gave himleisure to do the honours. He pointed out the castellated edifice onBlackwell’s as the new penitentiary, and the hamlet of villas, on theother shore, as Ravenswood, though there is neither wood nor ravens toauthorize the name. But the “Sunswick,” which satisfied the Delafieldsand Gibbses of the olden, time, and which distinguished their loftyhalls and broad lawns, was not elegant enough for the cockney tastes ofthese latter days, so “wood” must be made to usurp the place ofcherries and apples, and “ravens” that of gulls, in order to satisfy itscravings. But all this was lost on Spike. He remembered the shore as ithad been twenty years before, and he saw what it was now, but little didhe care for the change. On the whole, he rather preferred the GrecianTemples, over which the ravens would have been compelled to fly, hadthere been any ravens in that neighbourhood, to the old-fashioned andhighly respectable residence that once alone occupied the spot. Thepoint he did understand, however, and on the merits of which he hadsomething to say, was a little farther ahead. That, too, had beenre-christened--the Hallet’s Cove of the mariner being converted intoAstoria--not that bloody-minded place at the mouth of the Oregon, whichhas come so near bringing us to blows with our “ancestors in England,” as the worthy denizens of that quarter choose to consider themselvesstill, if one can judge by their language. This Astoria was a verydifferent place, and is one of the many suburban villages that areshooting up, like mushrooms in a night, around the great CommercialEmporium. This spot Spike understood perfectly, and it was not likelythat he should pass it without communicating a portion of his knowledgeto Rose.

  “There, Miss Rose,” he said, with a didactic sort of air, pointing withhis short, thick finger at the little bay which was just opening totheir view; “there’s as neat a cove as a craft need bring up in. Thatused to be a capital place to lie in, to wait for a wind to pass theGate; but it has got to be most too public for my taste. I’m rural, Itell 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 catchme down in any of the crowded slips, around the markets, or anywhere inthat 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 andtide didn’t sarve to take us through the Gate.”

  “Are we near the Gate, Capt. Spike?” asked Rose, the fine bloom on hercheek lessening a little, under the apprehension that formidable name isapt to awaken in the breasts of the inexperienced.

  “Half a mile, or so. It begins just at the other end of this island onour larboard hand, and will be all over in about another half mile, orso. It’s no such bad place, a’ter all, is Hell-Gate, to them that’s usedto 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 properand polite name. We call it Whirl-Gate altogether now,” said the relict.

  “Well, that’s new to me,” cried Spike. “I have heard somechicken-mouthed folk say Hurl-Gate, but this is the first time I everheard it called Whirl-Gate--they’ll get it to Whirligig-Gate next. I don’t think that my old commander, Capt. Budd, called the passage anythingbut honest up and down Hell-Gate.”

  “That he did--that he did--and all my arguments and reading could notteach him any better. I proved to him that it was Whirl-Gate, as anyone can see that it ought to be. It is full of whirlpools, they say, andthat 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 agate--the gate to that wicked place I suppose is meant.”

  “Rose, you amaze me! How can you, a young woman of only nineteen, standup for so vulgar a name as Hell-Gate!”

  “Do you think it as vulgar as Hurl-Gate, aunty?” To me it always seemsthe most vulgar to be straining at gnats.”

  “Yes,” said Spike sentimentally, “I’m quite of Miss Rose’s way ofthinking--straining at gnats is very ill-manners, especially at table. Ionce knew a man who strained in this way, until I thought he would havechoked, though it was with a fly to be sure; but gnats are nothingbut small flies, you know, Miss Rose. Yes, I’m quite of your way ofthinking, Miss Rose; it is very vulgar to be straining at gnats andflies, more particularly at table. But you’ll find no flies or gnatsaboard 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.Do n’t let me catch you straining at anything, though it should be thefin of a whale!”

  The people forward looked at each other, as they listened to this noveladmonition, though they called out the customary “ay, ay, sir,” asthey went to the sheets, braces and bowlines. To them the passage of noHell-Gate conveyed the idea of any particular terror, and with the onethey were about to enter, they were much too familiar to care anythingabout it.

  The brig was now floating fast, with the tide, up abreast of the eastend of Blackwell’s, and in two or three more minutes she would be fairlyin the Gate. Spike was aft, where he could command a view of everythingforward, and Mulford stood on the quarter-deck, to look after thehead-braces. An old and trustworthy seaman, who acted as a sort ofboatswain, had the charge on the forecastle, and was to tend the sheetsand tack. His name was Rove.

  “See all clear,” called out Spike. “D’ye hear there, for’ard! I shallmake a half-board in the Gate, if the wind favour us, and the tide provestrong enough to hawse us to wind’ard sufficiently to clear the Pot--somind your--”

  The captain breaking off in the middle of this harangue, Mulford turnedhis head, in order to see what might be the matter. There was Spike,levelling a spy-glass at a boat that was pulling swiftly out of thenorth channel, and shooting like an arrow directly athwart the brig’sbows into the main passage of the Gate. He stepped to the captain’selbow.

  “Just take a look at them chaps, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, handing hismate the glass.

  “They seem in a hurry,” answered Harry, as he adjusted the glass to hiseye, “and will go through the Gate in less time than it will take tomention the circumstance.”

  “What do you make of them, sir?”

  “The little man who called himself Jack Tier is in the stern-sheets ofthe 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 meansto board us at Riker’s Island, and make us pay pilotage, whether we wanthis services or not.”

  “Blast him and his pilotage too
! Give me the glass”--taking another longlook at the boat, which by this time was glancing, rather than pulling,nearly at right angles across his bows. “I want no such pilot aboardhere, Mr. Mulford. Take another look at him--here, you can see him, awayon our weather bow, already.”

  Mulford did take another look at him, and this time his examination waslonger and more scrutinizing than before.

  “It is not easy to cover him with the glass,” observed the youngman--“the boat seems fairly to fly.”

  “We’re forereaching too near the Hog’s Back, Capt. Spike,” roared theboatswain, from forward.

  “Ready about--hard a lee,” shouted Spike. “Let all fly, for’ard--helpher round, boys, all you can, and wait for no orders! Bestiryourselves--bestir yourselves.”

  It was time the crew should be in earnest. While Spike’s attention hadbeen thus diverted by the boat, the brig had got into the strongest ofthe current, which, by setting her fast to windward, had trebled thepower of the air, and this was shooting her over toward one of thegreatest dangers of the passage on a flood tide. As everybody bestirredthemselves, however, she was got round and filled on the opposite tack,just in time to clear the rocks. Spike breathed again, but his head wasstill full of the boat. The danger he had just escaped as Scylla methim as Charybdis. The boatswain again roared to go about. The order wasgiven as the vessel began to pitch in a heavy swell. At the next instantshe rolled until the water came on deck, whirled with her stern down thetide, and her bows rose as if she were about to leap out of water. TheSwash had hit the Pot Rock.