The pilot a tale of the sea |
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| 3. | CHAPTER III. |
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 | CHAPTER III. The pilot |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
That every nice offence should bear its comment.
Shakspeare.
The cliffs threw their dark shadows wide on
the waters, and the gloom of the evening had so
far advanced, as to conceal the discontent that
brooded over the ordinarily open brow of Barnstable,
as he sprang from the rocks into the boat,
and took his seat by the side of the silent pilot.
“Shove off,” cried the lieutenant, in tones that
his men knew must be obeyed. “A seaman's
curse light on the folly that exposes both planks
and lives to such navigation, and all to burn
some old timber-man, or catch a Norway trader
asleep! give way, men, give way.”
Notwithstanding the heavy and dangerous
surf that was beginning to tumble in upon the
rocks, in an alarming manner, the startled seamen
succeeded in urging their light boat over the
waves, and in a few seconds were without the
point where danger was most to be apprehended.
Barnstable had seemingly disregarded the crisis
they had passed, but sat sternly eyeing the foam
that rolled by them in successive surges, until the
boat rose regularly on the long seas, when he
barge.
“Ay, Griffith has tired of rocking in his pillowed
cradle,” he muttered, “and will give us a
pull to the frigate, when we ought to be getting
the schooner out of this hard-featured landscape.
This is just such a place as one of your
sighing lovers would doat on: a little land, a little
water, and a good deal of rock. Damme,
long Tom, but I am more than half of your
mind, that an island, now and then, is all the terra
firma that a seaman needs.”
“It's reason and philosophy, sir,” returned the
sedate cockswain; “and what land there is,
should always be a soft mud, or a sandy ooze, in
order that an anchor might hold, and to make
soundings sartain. I have lost many a deep-sea,
besides hand-leads by the dozens, on rocky bottoms;
but give me the roadsted where a lead
comes up light, and an anchor heavy. There's a
boat pulling athwart our fore-foot, Captain Barnstable;
shall I run her aboard, or give her a
birth, sir?”
“ 'Tis the barge!” cried the officer; “Ned has
not deserted me after all!”
A loud hail from the approaching boat confirmed
this opinion, and, in a few seconds, the barge
and whale-boat were again rolling by each other's
side. Griffith was no longer reclining on the
cushions of his seats, but spoke earnestly, and
with a slight tone of reproach in his manner.
“Why have you wasted so many precious moments,
when every minute threatens us with new
dangers? I was obeying the signal, when I heard
your oars, and pulled back, to take out the pilot.
Have you been successful?”
“There he is, and if he finds his way out,
through the shoals, he will earn a right to his
will need a spy-glass to find the moon. But when
you hear what I have seen on those rascally cliffs,
you will be more ready to excuse my delay, Mr.
Griffith.”
“You have seen the true man, I trust, or we
incur this hazard to an evil purpose.”
“Ay, I have seen him that is a true man, and
him that is not,” replied Barnstable, bitterly;
“you have the boy with you, Griffith—ask him
what his young eyes have seen.”
“Shall I!” cried the young midshipman,
laughing; “then I have seen a little clipper, in
disguise, outsail an old man-of-war's-man in a
hard chase, and I have seen a straggling rover in
long-togs as much like my cousin—”
“Peace, gabbler!” exclaimed Barnstable, in a
voice of thunder; “would you detain the boats
with your silly nonsense, at a time like this.
Away into the barge, sir, and if you find him
willing to hear, tell Mr. Griffith what your foolish
conjectures amount to, at your leisure.”
The boy stepped lightly from the whale-boat
to the barge, whither the pilot had already preceded
him, and as he sunk, with a mortified air,
by the side of Griffith, he said, in a low voice—
“And that won't be long, I know, if Mr. Griffith
thinks and feels on the coast of England as
he thought and felt at home.”
A silent pressure of his hand, was the only reply
that the young lieutenant made, before he
paid the parting compliments to Barnstable, and
directed his men to pull for their ship.
The boats were separating, and the plash of
the oars was already heard, when the voice of
the pilot was for the first time raised in earnest.
“Hold!” he cried; “hold water, I bid ye!”
The men ceased their efforts, at the commanding
whale-boat, he continued, in the same manner—
“You will get your schooner under-way immediately,
Captain Barnstable, and sweep into
the offing, with as little delay as possible. Keep
the ship well open from the northern headland,
and as you pass us, come within hail.”
“This is a clean chart and plain sailing, Mr.
Pilot,” returned Barnstable; “but who is to justify
my moving without orders, to Captain Munson?
I have it in black and white, to run the
Ariel into this feather-bed sort of a place, and I
must at least have it by signal or word of mouth
from my betters, before my cut-water curls another
wave. The road may be as hard to find
going out as it was coming in—and then I had
daylight, as well as your written directions to
steer by.”
“Would you lie there to perish on such a
night!” said the pilot, sternly. “Two hours
hence, this heavy swell will break where your
vessel now rides so quietly.”
“There we think exactly alike; but if I get
drowned now, I am drowned according to orders;
whereas, if I knock a plank out of the schooner's
bottom, by following your directions, 'twill be a
hole to let in mutiny, as well as sea-water. How
do I know but the old man wants another pilot
or two?”
“That's philosophy,” muttered the cockswain
of the whale-boat, in a voice that was audible:
“but it's a hard strain on a man's conscience to
hold on in such an anchorage.”
“Then keep your anchor down, and follow it
to the bottom,” said the pilot to himself; “it's
worse to contend with a fool than a gale of wind;
but if—”
“No, no sir—no fool either,” interrupted
epithet, though he certainly carries the point of
duty to the extreme. Heave up at once, Mr.
Barnstable, and get out of this bay as fast as
possible.”
“Ah! you don't give the order with half the
pleasure with which I shall execute it; pull away,
boys—the Ariel shall never lay her bones in such
a hard bed, if I can help it.”
As the commander of the schooner uttered
these words with his cheering voice, his men
spontaneously shouted, and the whale-boat darted
away from her companion, and was soon lost in
the gloomy shadows cast from the cliffs.
In the mean time, the oarsmen of the barge
were not idle, but by strenuous efforts they forced
the heavy boat rapidly through the water, and in
a few minutes she ran alongside of the frigate.
During this period the pilot, in a voice which had
lost all that startling fierceness and authority that
it had manifested in his short dialogue with Barnstable,
requested Griffith to repeat to him, slowly,
the names of the officers that belonged to his ship.
When the young lieutenant had complied with
this request, he observed to his companion—
“All good men and true, Mr. Pilot; and though
this business in which you are just now engaged
may be hazardous to an Englishman, there are
none with us who will betray you. We need
your services, and as we expect good faith from
you, so shall we offer it to you in exchange.”
“And how know you that I need its exercise?”
asked the pilot, in a manner that denoted
a cold indifference to the subject.
“Why, though you talk pretty good English,
for a native,” interrupted Griffith, “yet you have
a small bur-r-r in your mouth that would prick the
of the Atlantic.”
“It is of but little moment where a man is
born, or how he speaks,” returned the pilot, coldly,
“so that he does his duty bravely, and in
good faith.”
It was perhaps fortunate for the harmony of this
dialogue, that the gloom, which had now increased
to positive darkness, completely concealed the
look of scornful irony that crossed the handsome
features of the young sailor, as he replied—
“True, true, so that he does his duty, as you
say, in good faith. But, as Barnstable said, you
must know your road well to travel among these
shoals on such a night as this. Know you what
water we draw?”
“ 'Tis a frigate's draught, and I shall endeavour
to keep you in four fathoms; less than that
would be dangerous.”
“She's a sweet boat!” said Griffith; “and
minds her helm as a marine watches the eye of
his sergeant at a drill; but you must give her
room in stays, for she fore-reaches, as if she
would put out the wind's eye.”
The pilot attended, with a practised ear, to this
description of the qualities of the ship that he
was about to attempt extricating from an extremely
dangerous situation. Not a syllable was
lost on him; and when Griffith had ended, he remarked,
with the singular coldness that pervaded
his manner—
“That is both a good and a bad quality in a
narrow channel. I fear it will be the latter, to
night, when we shall require to have the ship in
leading strings.”
“I suppose we must feel our way with the
lead?” said Griffith.
“We shall need both eyes and leads,” returned
tone of voice. “I have been both in and
out in darker nights than this, though never with
a heavier draught than a half-two.”
“Then, by heaven, you are not fit to handle
that ship, among the rocks and breakers!” exclaimed
Griffith; “your men of a light draught
never know their water; 'tis the deep keel only,
that finds a channel—pilot! pilot! beware how
you trifle with us ignorantly; for 'tis a dangerous
experiment to play at hazards with an enemy.”
“Young man, you know not what you threaten,
nor whom,” said the pilot, sternly, though
his quiet manner still remained undisturbed;
“you forget that you have a superior here, and
that I have none.”
“That shall be as you discharge your duty,”
cried Griffith; “for if—”
“Peace,” interrupted the pilot, “we approach
the ship; let us enter her in harmony.”
He threw himself back on the cushions, when
he had said this, and Griffith, though filled with
the apprehensions of suffering, either by great
ignorance, or treachery, on the part of his
companion, smothered his feelings so far as to be
silent, and they ascended the side of the vessel in
apparent cordiality.
The frigate was already riding on lengthened
seas, that rolled in from the ocean, at each successive
moment, with increasing violence, though
her topsails still hung supinely from her yards;
the air, which continued to breathe, occasionally,
from the land, being unable to shake the heavy
canvass of which they were composed.
The only sounds that were audible, when Griffith
and the pilot had ascended to the gangway
of the frigate, were produced by the sullen dashing
of the sea against the massive bows of the
mate, as he recalled the side-boys, who were
placed on either side of the gangway, to do honour
to the entrance of the first lieutenant and his
companion.
But though such a profound silence reigned
among the hundreds who inhabited the huge
fabric, the light produced by a dozen battle lanterns,
that were arranged in different parts of the
decks, served not only to exhibit, faintly, the persons
of the crew, but the mingled feeling of curiosity
and care that dwelt on most of their countenances.
Large groups of men were collected in the
gangways, around the mainmast, and on the
booms of the vessel, whose faces were distinctly
visible, while numerous figures, lying along the
lower yards, or bending out of the tops, might
be dimly traced in the back ground, all of whom
expressed, by their attitudes, the interest they
took in the arrival of the boat.
Though such crowds were collected in other
parts of the vessel, the quarter deck was occupied
only by the officers, who were disposed according
to their ranks, and were equally silent
and attentive as the remainder of the crew. In
front stood a small collection of young men, who,
by their similarity of dress, were the equals and
companions of Griffith, though his juniors in
rank; and on the opposite side of the vessel was
a larger assemblage of youths, who claimed Mr.
Merry as their fellow. Around the capstern,
three or four figures were standing, one of whom
wore a coat of blue, with the scarlet facings of a
soldier, and another the black vestments of the
ship's chaplain. Behind these, and nearer to
the passage to the cabin, from which he had just
of the vessel.
After a brief salutation between Griffith and
the junior officers, the former advanced, followed
slowly by the pilot, to the place where he was expected
by his veteran commander. The young
man removed his hat entirely, as he bowed with a
little more than his usual ceremony, and said—
“We have succeeded, sir, though not without
more difficulty and delay than were anticipated.”
“But you have not brought off the pilot,” said
the captain, doubtingly; “and without him, all
our risk and trouble have been in vain.”
“He is here,” said Griffith, stepping aside, and
extending his arm towards the man that stood behind
him, wrapped to the chin in his coarse pea-jacket,
and with his face shadowed by the falling
rims of a large hat, that had seen much and hard
service.
“This!” exclaimed the captain; “then there
is a sad mistake—this is not the man I would
have seen, nor can another supply his place.”
“I know not whom you expected, Captain
Munson,” said the stranger, in a low, quiet
voice; “but if you have not forgotten the day
when a very different flag from that emblem of
tyranny that now hangs over yon tafferel was first
spread to the wind, you may remember the hand
that raised it.”
“Bring here the light!” exclaimed the commander,
hastily.
When the lantern was extended towards the
pilot, and the glare fell strong on his features,
Captain Munson started, as he beheld the calm
blue eye that met his gaze, and the composed,
but pallid countenance of the other. Involuntarily
raising his hat, and baring his silver locks,
the veteran cried—
“It is he! though so changed—”
“That his enemies did not know him,” interrupted
the pilot, quickly; then touching the other
by the arm as he led him aside, he continued, in
a lower tone, “neither must his friends, until the
hour and season shall arrive.”
Griffith had fallen back, to reply to the eager
questions of his messmates, and no part of this
short dialogue was overheard by the officers,
though it was soon perceived that their commander
had discovered his error, and was satisfied that
the proper man had been brought on board his
vessel. For many minutes the two continued to
pace a part of the quarter-deck, by themselves,
engaged in deep and earnest discourse.
As Griffith had but little to communicate, the
curiosity of his listeners was soon appeased, and
all eyes were directed towards that mysterious
guide, who was to conduct them from a situation
already surrounded by perils, which each moment
not only magnified in appearance, but increased
in reality.
| CHAPTER III. The pilot | |