 | CHAPTER III. The pilot |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
Do so conjointly meet, let not men say,
These are their reasons,—They are natural;
For, I believe they are portentous things
Unto the climate that they point upon.”
Casca.
The reader will discover, by referring to the
time consumed in the foregoing events, that the
Ariel, with her prize, did not anchor in the bay,
already mentioned, until Griffith and his party,
had been for several hours in the custody of their
enemies. The supposed capture of the rebel
schooner, was an incident that excited but little
interest, and no surprise, among a people who
were accustomed to consider their seamen as invincible;
and Barnstable had not found it a difficult
task to practise his deception on the few
rustics whom curiosity induced to venture along-side
the vessels during the short continuance of
daylight. When, however, the fogs of evening
began to rise along the narrow basin, and the
curvatures of its margin were lost in the single
outline of its dark and gloomy border, the young
seaman thought it time to apply himself in earnest
to his duty. The Alacrity, containing all his
own crew, together with the Ariel's wounded,
was gotten silently under way, and driving easily
before the heavy air that swept from the land, she
drifted from the harbour, until the open sea lay
before her, when her sails were spread, and she
him if the Dutchman was a more unlikely thing,
than that there should be places where the inhabitants
split the year in two watches, and had day
for six months, and night the rest of the time, the
green-horn laughed in my face, and I do believe
he would have told me I lied, but for one thing.”
“And what might that be?” asked Barnstable,
gravely.
“Why, sir,” returned Tom, stretching his bony
fingers, as he surveyed his broad palm, by the
little light that remained, “though I am a
peaceable man, I can be roused.”
“And you have seen the Flying Dutchman?”
“I never doubled the east cape; though I can
find my way through Le Maire in the darkest
night that ever fell from the heavens; but I have
seen them that have seen her, and spoken her
too.”
“Well, be it so; you must turn flying Yankee,
yourself, to-night, Master Coffin. Man your
boat at once, sir, and arm your crew.”
The cockswain paused a moment, before he
proceeded to obey this unexpected order, and,
pointing towards the battery, he inquired, with
infinite phlegm—
“For shore-work, sir? Shall we take the cut-lashes
and pistols? or shall we want the pikes?”
“There may be soldiers in our way, with their
bayonets,” said Barnstable, musing; “arm as
usual, but throw a few long pikes into the boat,
and harkye, Master Coffin, out with your tub
and whale-line; for I see you have rigged yourself
anew in that way.”
The cockswain, who was moving from the
forecastle, turned short at this new mandate, and,
with an air of remonstrance, ventured to say—
gratified midshipman swelled with the conscious
pleasure of possessing his commander's confidence,
and followed to the taffrail, over which Barnstable
leaned, while he delivered the remainder of his
communication. “I have gathered from the
'long-shore-men who have come off, this evening,
to stare at the vessel which the rebels have been
able to build, that a party of seamen and marines
have been captured in an old ruin near the Abbey
of St. Ruth, this very day.”
“'Tis Mr. Griffith!” exclaimed the boy.
“Ay! the wit of your cousin Katherine is not
necessary to discover that. Now, I have proposed
to this gentleman with the Savannah face,
that he should go into the Abbey, and negotiate
an exchange. I will give him for Griffith, and
the crew of the Alacrity for Manual's command
and the Tigers.”
“The Tigers!” cried the lad, with emotion;
“have they got my Tigers, too! would to God
that Mr. Griffith had permitted me to land!”
“It was no boy's work they were about, and
room was scarcer in their boat than live-lumber.
But this Mr. Dillon has accepted my proposition,
and has pledged himself that Griffith shall return
within an hour after he is permitted to enter the
Abbey: will he redeem his honour from the
pledge?”
“He may,” said Merry, musing a moment,
“for I believe he thinks the presence of Mr.
Griffith under the same roof with Miss Howard,
a thing to be prevented, if possible; he may be
true in this instance, though he has a hollow
look.”
“He has bad-looking light-houses, I will
own,” said Barnstable; “and yet he is a gentleman,
and promises fair; 'tis unmanly to suspect
Now listen, sir. The absence of older heads
must throw great responsibility on your young
shoulders; watch that battery as closely as if you
were at the mast-head of your frigate, on the
look-out for an enemy; the instant you see lights
moving in it, cut, and run into the offing; you
will find me somewhere under the cliffs, and you
will stand off and on, keeping the Abbey in
sight, until you fall in with us.”
Merry gave an attentive ear to these and divers
other solemn injunctions that he received from his
commander, who, having sent the officer next to
himself in authority in charge of the prize, (the
third in command being included in the list of the
wounded,) was compelled to intrust his beloved
schooner to the vigilance of a lad whose years
gave no promise of the experience and skill that
he actually possessed.
When his admonitory instructions were ended,
Barnstable stepped again to the opening in the
cabin-hood, and for a single moment before he
spoke, once more examined the countenance of his
prisoner, with a keen eye. Dillon had removed
his hands from before his sallow features, and, as
if conscious of the scrutiny his looks were to undergo,
had concentrated the whole expression of
his forbidding aspect in a settled gaze of hopeless
submission to his fate. At least, so thought his
captor, and the idea touched some of the finer
feelings in the bosom of the generous young
seaman. Discarding, instantly, every suspicion
of his prisoner's honour, as alike unworthy of
them both, Barnstable summoned him, in a
cheerful voice, to the boat. There was a flashing
of the features of Dillon, at this call, which
gave an indefinable expression to his conntenance,
that again startled the sailor; but it was so very
smile of pleasure at his promised liberation, that
the doubts it engendered passed away almost as
speedily as the equivocal expression itself. Barnstable
was in the act of following his companion
into the boat, when he felt himself detained by a
slight hold of his arm.
“What would you have?” he asked of the
midshipman, who had given him the signal.
“Do not trust too much to that Dillon, sir,”
returned the anxious boy, in a whisper; “if you
had seen his face, as I did, when the binnacle
light fell upon it, as he came up the cabin ladder,
you would put no faith in him.”
“I should have seen no beauty,” said the generous
lieutenant, laughing; “now, there is long-Tom,
as hard-featured a youth of two score and
ten as ever washed in brine, who has a heart as
big, ay, bigger than that of a kraaken. A
bright watch to you, boy, and remember, a keen
eye on the battery.” As he was yet speaking,
Barnstable crossed the gunwale of his little vessel,
and it was not until he was seated by the side of
his prisoner, that he continued, aloud—“Cast the
stops off your sails, Mr. Merry, and see all clear,
to make a run of every thing; recollect, you are
short-handed, sir. God bless ye! and d'ye
hear? if there is a man among you who shuts
more than one eye at a time, I'll make him, when
I get back, open both wider than if Tom Coffin's
friend, the Flying Dutchman, was booming
down upon him. God bless ye, Merry, my
boy; give 'em the square-sail, if this breeze
off-shore holds on till morning; shove off.”
As Barnstable gave the last order, he fell back
on his seat, and, drawing his boat-cloak around
him, maintained a profound silence, until they had
passed the two small headlands that formed the
muffled oars, their long, vigorous strokes, and the
boat glided, with amazing rapidity, by the objects
that could be yet indistinctly seen along the dim
shore. When, however, they had gained the
open ocean, and the direction of their little bark
was changed to one that led them in a line with
the coast, and within the shadows of the cliffs,
the cockswain, deeming that the silence was no
longer necessary to their safety, ventured to break
it, as follows—
“A square-sail is a good sail to carry on a
craft, dead afore it, and in a heavy sea; but if
fifty years can teach a man to know the weather,
it's my judgment that if the Ariel breaks ground
after the night turns at eight bells, she'll need her
main-sail to hold her up to her course.”
The lieutenant started at this sudden interruption
to his musing, and casting his cloak from his
shoulders, he looked abroad on the waters, as if
seeking those portentous omens which disturbed
the imagination of his cockswain.
“How now, Tom,” he said, sharply, “have ye
turned croaker in your old age? what see you, to
cause such an old woman's ditty!”
“'Tis no song of an old woman,” returned
the cockswain, with solemn earnestness, “but the
warning of an old man; and one who has spent
his days where there were no hills to prevent the
winds of heaven from blowing on him, unless
they were hills of salt water and foam. I judge,
sir, there'll be a heavy north-easter setting in
upon us afore the morning watch is called.”
Barnstable knew the experience of his old messmate
too well, to feel no uneasiness at such an opinion,
delivered in so portentous a manner; but after
again surveying the horizon, the heavens, and the
“Your prophecy is idle, this time, Master
Coffin; every thing looks like a dead calm.
This swell is what is left from the last blow; the
mist over-head is nothing but the nightly fog,
and you can see, with your own eyes, that it is
driving seaward; even this land-breeze is nothing
but the air of the ground mixing with that of the
ocean; it is heavy with dew and fog, but it's as
sluggish as a Dutch galliot.”
“Ay, sir, it is damp, and there is little of it,”
rejoined Tom; “but as it comes only from the
shore, so it never goes far on the water. It is hard
to learn the true signs of the weather, Captain
Barnstable, and none get to know them well, but
such as study little else, or feel but little else.
There is only One who can see the winds of heaven,
or who can tell when a hurricane is to begin,
or where it will end. Still, a man isn't like a
whale or a porpoise, that takes the air in his nostrils,
but never knows whether it is a south-easter
or a north-wester that he feeds upon. Look,
broad-off to leeward, sir; see the streak of clear
sky shining under the mists; take an old sea-faring
man's word for it, Captain Barnstable,
that whenever the light shines out of the heavens
in that way, 'tis never done for nothing; besides,
the sun set in a dark bank of clouds, and the
little moon we had was dry and windy.”
Barnstable listened attentively, and with increasing
concern, for he well knew that his
cockswain possessed a quick and almost unerring
judgment of the weather, notwithstanding the
confused medley of superstitious omens and signs
with which it was blended; but, again throwing
himself back in his boat, he muttered—
“Then let it blow; Griffith is worth a heavier
risk, and if the battery can't be cheated, it can
be carried.”
Nothing further passed on the state of the weather.
Dillon had not ventured a single remark
since he entered the boat, and the cockswain had
the discretion to understand that his officer was
willing to be left to his own thoughts. For near
an hour they pursued their way with diligence,
the sinewy seamen, who wielded the oars, urging
their light boat along the edge of the surf with
unabated velocity, and, apparently, with untired
exertions. Occasionally, Barnstable would cast
an inquiring glance at the little inlets that they
passed, or would note, with a seaman's eye, the
small portions of sandy beach that were scattered
here and there along the rocky boundaries of the
coast. One, in particular, a deeper inlet than
common, where a run of fresh water was heard
gurgling as it met the tide, he pointed out to
his cockswain, by significant, but silent gestures,
as a place to be especially noted. Tom,
who understood the signal as intended for his
own eye alone, made his observations on the spot,
with equal taciturnity, but with all the minuteness
that would distinguish one long accustomed
to find his way, whether by land or water, by
land-marks, and the bearings of different objects.
Soon after this silent communication between the
lieutenant and his cockswain, the boat was suddenly
turned, and was in the act of dashing upon
the spit of sand before it, when Barnstable checked
the movement by his voice—
“Hold water!” he said; “'tis the sound of
oars!”
The seamen held their boat at rest, while a
deep attention was given to the noise that had
alarmed the ears of their commander.
“See, sir,” said the cockswain, pointing towards
the eastern horizon; “it is just rising
into the streak of light to seaward of us—now
it settles in the trough—ah! here you have it
again!”
“By heavens!” cried Barnstable, “'tis a
man-of-war's stroke it pulls; I saw its oar-blades
as they fell! and, listen to the sound! neither
your fisherman nor your smuggler pulls such a
regular oar.”
Tom had bowed his head nearly to the water,
in the act of listening, and now, raising himself,
he spoke with confidence—
“That is the Tiger; I know the stroke of her
crew as well as I do of my own. Mr. Merry
has made them learn the new-fashioned jerk, as
they dip their blades, and they feather with such
a roll in their rullocks! I could swear to the
stroke.”
“Hand me the night-glass,” said his commander,
impatiently; “I can catch them, as they
are lifted into the streak. You are right, by every
star in our flag, Tom!—but there is only one
man in her stern-sheets. By my good eyes, I
believe it is that accursed Pilot, sneaking from
the land, and leaving Griffith and Manual to die
in English prisons. To shore with you—beach
her at once.”
The order was no sooner given, than it was
obeyed, and in less than two minutes, the impatient
Barnstable, Dillon, and the cockswain, were
standing together on the sands.
The impression he had received, that his friends
were abandoned to their fate by the Pilot, urged
the generous young seaman to hasten the departure
of his prisoner, as he was fearful every moment
might interpose some new obstacle to the
success of his plans.
“Mr. Dillon,” he said, the instant they were
landed, “I exact no new promise—your honour
is already plighted”—
“If oaths can make it stronger,” interrupted
Dillon, “I will take them.”
“Oaths cannot—the honour of a gentleman
is, at all times, enough. I shall send my cockswain
with you to the Abbey, and you will either
return with him, in person, within two hours, or
give Mr. Griffith and Captain Manual to his
guidance. Proceed, sir; you are conditionally
free; there is an easy opening by which to ascend
the cliffs.”
Dillon, once more, thanked his generous captor,
and then proceeded to force his way up the
rough eminence.
“Follow, and obey his instructions,” said
Barnstable to his cockswain, aloud.
Tom, long accustomed to implicit obedience,
handled his harpoon, and was quietly following
in the footsteps of his new leader, when he felt
the hand of the lieutenant on his shoulder.
“You saw where the brook emptied over the
hillock of sand?” said Barnstable, in an under
tone.
Tom nodded assent.
“You will find us there, riding without the
surf—'twill not do to trust too much to an enemy.”
The cockswain made a gesture of great significance
with his weapon, that was intended to
indicate the danger their prisoner would incur,
should he prove false; and, applying the wooden
end of the harpoon to the rocks, he ascended the
ravine at a rate that soon brought him to the side
of his companion.
| CHAPTER III. The pilot | |