 | JACK TIER. Jack Tier, or, The Florida reef |  |
1. JACK TIER.
1. CHAPTER I.
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 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 the Commercial Emporium of America—
as if there might very well be an emporium of 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
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
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 aboard them, 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?” 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 is the worse for bowsing out his jib when off
duty, though a drunkard's a thing I despise. Well, well—
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 it should 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 they do say 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 her
aunt is 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
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 everything 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 of 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—“What will they 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 of them, 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 colours 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 screw 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 invention to 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 anything I do hate, it is that flag, with its
unnat'ral stripes, up and down, instead of running in the
true old way. I have heard a lawyer say, that the revenue
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 favour 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 smiles can be 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 sympathize.
“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
and “casting off,” as soon as the last made. Mulford listened
respectfully, though with a manifest distaste 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 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 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, if you sailed 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 planksheer
of the bulwarks, in the act of passing to the wharf
again. On reaching the shore, he turned and looked intently
secretly uttering maledictions on her. We say maledictions,
as the expression of his fierce ill-favoured 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 anything 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 showed 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 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 seaworthiness.
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., everything was ready for getting
the brigantine under way. Her fore-topsail—or foretaw
sail 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 the 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
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 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 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 and factotum of 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 deepblue
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
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 colour, which formed so bright a charm in Rose's
sweet face, deepened, in a way to prove that that colour 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 vid the bulwarks, on deck, ordering the plank to be
hauled aboard. A solitary labourer was paid a quarter to
throw off the fasts from the ring-bolts and posts, and everything
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
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 man had come 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 was very 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 clewlines, 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 this arrangement;
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 do n'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 do n't owe a cent, nor ever shall for twenty-four
call me ready-money Stephen, round among the ship-chandlers
and caulkers. But I do n't like them chaps, 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 clear of the wharf, and the mainsail will take now,
if we set it.”
Spike ordered the mate to clap on the outhauler, 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 the vis inertiœ of 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
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.”
“A body is apt to know a shipmate. Stephen Spike and
I sailed together twenty 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 what v'y'ge, pray?”
“The last time was twenty years since. Have you forgotten
little Jack Tier, Capt. Spike?”
Spike looked astonished, and well he might, for he had
supposed Jack to be dead fully fifteen years. Time and
hard service had greatly altered him, but the general resemblance
in figure, stature, and waddle, certainly remained.
Notwithstanding, the Jack Tier that Spike remembered was
quite a different person from this Jack Tier. That Jack
had worn his intensely black hair clubbed and curled, whereas
this Jack had cut his locks into short bristles, which time
had turned into an intense gray. That Jack was short and
thick, but he was flat and square; whereas this Jack was
just as short, a good deal thicker, and as round as a dumpling.
In one thing, however, the likeness still remained perfect.
Both Jacks chewed tobacco, to a degree that became
a distinct feature in their appearance.
Spike had many reasons for wishing Jack Tier were not
resuscitated in this extraordinary manner, and some for being
glad to see him. The fellow had once been largely in
his confidence, and knew more than was quite safe for any
one to remember but himself, while he might be of great use
to him in his future, operations. It is always convenient to
have one at your elbow who thoroughly understands you,
and Spike would have lowered a boat and sent it to the
wharf to bring Jack off, were it not for the gentleman who
was so inquisitive about pilots. Under the circumstances,
reserving the right to hunt him up on his return.
The reader will readily enough comprehend, that the
Molly Swash was not absolutely standing still while the dialogue
related was going on, and the thoughts we have recorded
were passing through her master's mind. On the
contrary, she was not only in motion, but that motion was
gradually increasing, and by the time all was said that has
been related, it had become necessary for those who spoke
to raise their voices to an inconvenient pitch in order to be
heard. This circumstance alone would soon have put an
end to the conversation, had not Spike's pausing to reflect
brought about the same result, as mentioned.
In the mean time, Mulford had got the canvas spread.
Forward, the Swash showed all the cloth of a full-rigged
brig, even to royals and flying jib; while aft, her mast
was the raking, tall, naked pole of an American schooner.
There was a taunt topmast, too, to which a gaff-topsail was
set, and the gear proved that she could also show, at need,
a staysail in 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 she was in, until far enough to weather
Blackwell's, when she edged off to her course, and went
through the southern passage. Although the wind remained
light, and a little baffling, the brig was so easily impelled,
and was so very handy, that there was no difficulty in keeping
her perfectly in command. The tide, too, was fast increasing
in strength and volocity, and the movement from
this cause alone was getting to be sufficiently rapid.
As for the passengers, of whom we have lost sight in order
to get the brig under way, they were now on deck again.
At first, they had all gone below, under the care of Josh, a
somewhat rough groom of the chambers, to take possession
of their apartment, a sufficiently neat, and exceedingly comfortable
cabin, supplied with everything that could be wanted
at sea, and, what was more, lined on two of its sides with
state-rooms. It is true, all these apartments were small,
and the state-rooms were very low, but no fault could be
it was recollected that one was on board a vessel.
“Here ebbery t'ing heart can wish,” said Josh, exultingly,
who, being an old-school black, did not disdain to use some
of the old-school dialect of 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 come
here; 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 one of the sweetest voices in the world, which was
easily attuned to merriment—“and we are delighted to
learn what you tell us. How do you manage to keep up
these distinctions, and make such creatures know their
places so well?”
“Nuttin easier, if you begin right, miss. As for de pig,
I teach dem wid scaldin' water. Wheneber I sees a pig
come aft, I gets a little water from de copper, and just scald
him wid it. You can't t'ink, miss, how dat mend his manners,
and make him squeel fuss, and t'ink arter. In dat
fashion I soon get de ole ones in good trainin', and den I
has no more trouble with dem as comes fresh aboard; for
de ole hog tell de young one, 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 could no 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 it with those—other creatures?”
“Rosy, dear,” interrupted the aunt, “I wish you would
say no more about such shocking things. It's enough for
us that Capt. Spike has ordered them all to stay forward
among the men, which is always done on board well disciplined
vessels. I've heard your uncle say, a hundred
times, that the quarter-deck was sacred, and that might be
enough to keep such animals off it.”
It was barely necessary to look at Mrs. Budd in the face
to get a very accurate general notion of her character. She
was one of those inane, uncultivated beings who seem to
be protected by a benevolent Providence in their pilgrimage
themselves. Her very countenance expressed imbecility
and mental dependence, credulity and a love of gossip.
Notwithstanding these radical weaknesses, the good woman
had some of the better instincts of her sex, and was never
guilty of anything that could properly convey reproach.
She was no monitress for Rose, however, the niece much
oftener influencing the aunt, than the aunt influencing the
niece. The latter had been fortunate in having had an
excellent instructress, who, though incapable of teaching her
much in the way of accomplishments, had imparted a great
deal that was respectable and useful. Rose had character,
and strong character, too, as the course of our narrative will
show; but her worthy aunt was a pure picture of as much
mental imbecility as at all comported with the privileges of
self-government.
The conversation about “those other creatures” was
effectually checked by Mrs. Budd's horror of the “animals,”
and Josh was called on deck so shortly after as to prevent
its being renewed. The females staid below a few minutes,
to take possession, and then they re-appeared on deck, to
gaze at the horrors of the Hell Gate passage. Rose was
all eyes, wonder and admiration of everything she saw.
This was actually the first time she had ever been on the
water, in any sort of craft, though born and brought 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's beginning 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 this the incipient
state of her nautical knowledge. Perhaps the exquisite
neatness that Mulford maintained about everything that came
under his care, and that included everything on deck, or
above-board, and about which neatness Spike occasionally
muttered an oath, as so much senseless trouble, contributed
somewhat to Rose's pleasure; but her admiration would
scarcely have been less with anything that had sails, and
seemed to move through the water with a power approaching
that of volition.
It was very different with Mrs. Budd, She, good woman,
she fancied that she knew all about a vessel. It was her
delight to talk on nautical subjects, and never did she really
feel her great superiority over her niece, so very unequivocally,
as when the subject of the ocean was introduced, about
which she did know something, and touching which Rose
was profoundly ignorant, or as ignorant as a girl of lively
imagination could remain with 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's exclamations of admiration. “A vessel is a
very wonderful thing, and we are told what extr'orny beings
they are that `go down to the sea in ships.' But you are
to know this is not a ship at all, but only a half-jigger rigged,
which is altogether a different thing.”
“Was my uncle's vessel, The Rose In Bloom, then, very
different from the Swash?”
“Very different indeed, child! Why, The Rose In Bloom
was a full-jiggered ship, and had twelve masts—and this is
only a half-jiggered brig, and has but two masts. See, you
may count them—one—two!”
Harry Mulford was coiling away a top-gallant-brace,
directly in front of Mrs. Budd and Rose, and, at hearing this
account of the wonderful equipment of The Rose In Bloom,
he suddenly looked up, with a lurking expression about his
eye that the niece very well comprehended, while he exclaimed,
without much reflection, under the impulse of surprise—
“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 them by heart—it appearing to me proper that a
ship-master's wife should know the names of all the masts
in her husband's vessel. Do you wish to hear their names,
Mr. Mulford?”
Harry Mulford would have enjoyed this conversation to
the top of his bent, had it not been for Rose. She well knew
her aunt's general weakness of intellect, and especially its
weakness on this particular subject, but she would suffer no
one to manifest contempt for either, if in her power to prevent
it. It is seldom one so young, so mirthful, so ingenuous
assumed so significant and rebuking a frown as did pretty
Rose Budd when she heard the mate's involuntary exclamation
about the “twelve masts.” Harry, who was not easily
checked by his equals, or any of his own sex, submitted to
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 you please, Mrs. Budd—just as you please, ma'am—
only twelve is a good many masts—” Rose frowned again
—“that is—more than I'm used to seeing—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 just twelve masts, and, to prove
it to you, I'll give you the names—first then, there were
the fore, main, and mizen masts—”
“Yes—yes—ma'am,” stammered Harry, who wished the
twelve masts and The Rose In Bloom at the bottom of the
ocean, since her owner's niece still continued 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 can count, Mr. Mulford?”
“Ah!” exclaimed the mate, laughing, in spite of Rose's
frowns, as the manner in which the old sea-dog had quizzed
his wife became apparent to him. “I see how it is—you
are quite right, ma'am—I dare say The Rose In Bloom had
all these masts, and some to spare.”
“Yes, sir—I knew you would be satisfied. The fore,
main and mizen top-gallant-masts make nine—and the fore,
main and mizen royals make just twelve. Oh, I'm never
wrong in anything about a vessel, especially if she is a full-jiggered
ship.”
Mulford had some difficulty in restraining his smiles each
time the full-jigger was mentioned, but Rose's expression of
countenance kept him in excellent order—and she, innocent
creature, saw nothing ridiculous in the term, though the
twelve masts had given her a little alarm. Delighted that
the old lady had got through her enumeration of the spars
with so much success, Rose cried, in the exuberance of her
spirits—
“Well, aunty, for my part, I find a half-jigger vessel, so
very, very beautiful, that I do not know how I should behave
were I to go on board a full-jigger.”
Mulford turned abruptly away, the circumstance of Rose's
making herself ridiculous giving him sudden pain, though
he could have laughed at her aunt by the hour.
“Ah, my dear, that is on account of your youth and inexperience—but
you will learn better in time. I was just so,
myself, when I was of your age, and thought the fore-rafters
were as handsome as the squared-jiggers, but soon after I
married Capt. Budd I felt the necessity of knowing more
than I did about ships, and I got him to teach me. He
did n't like the business, at first, and pretended I would
never learn; but, at last, it came all at once like, and then
he used to be delighted 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, for half an hour together
—and then he would swear—that was the worst fault your
uncle had, Rosy—he would swear, sometimes, in a way
that frightened me, I do declare!”
“But he never swore at you, aunty?”
“I can't say that he did exactly do that, but he would
swear all round me, even if he did n't actually touch me,
when things went wrong—but it would have done your heart
good to hear him laugh! he had a most excellent heart, just
like your own, Rosy dear; but, for that matter, all the
Budds have excellent hearts, and one of the commonest
ways your uncle had of showing it was to laugh, particularly
when we were together and talking. Oh, he used to
delight in hearing me converse, especially about vessels, and
never failed to get me at it when he had company. I see
his good-natured, excellent-hearted countenance at this moment,
with the tears running down his fat, manly cheeks,
as he shook his very sides with laughter. I may live a
hundred years, Rosy, before I meet again with your uncle's
equal.”
This was a subject that invariably silenced Rose. She
remembered her uncle, herself, and remembered his affectionate
manner of laughing at her aunt, and she always
wished the latter to get through her eulogiums on her married
happiness, as soon as possible, whenever the subject
was introduced.
All this time the Molly Swash kept in motion. Spike
never took a pilot when he could avoid it, and his mind was
too much occupied with his duty, in that critical navigation,
to share at all in the conversation of his passengers, though
he did endeavour to make himself agreeable to Rose, by an
occasional remark, when a favourable opportunity offered.
As soon as he had worked his brig over into the south or
weather passage of Blackwell's, however, there remained
little for him to do, until she had drifted through it, a distance
of a mile or more; and this gave him leisure to do the
honours. He pointed out the castellated edifice on Blackwell's
as the new penitentiary, and the hamlet of villas, on
the other shore, as Ravenswood, though there is neither wood
nor ravens to authorize the name. But the “Sunswick,”
which satisfied the Delafields and Gibbses of the olden, time,
and which distinguished their lofty halls and broad lawns,
was not elegant enough for the cockney tastes of these latter
days, so “wood” must be made to usurp the place of cherries
and apples, and “ravens” that of gulls, in order to
satisfy its cravings. But all this was lost on Spike. He
remembered the shore as it had been twenty years before,
and he saw what it was now, but little did he care for the
change. On the whole, he rather preferred the Grecian
Temples, over which the ravens would have been compelled
to fly, had there been any ravens in that neighbourhood, to
the old-fashioned and highly respectable residence that once
alone occupied the spot. The point he did understand, however,
and on the merits of which he had something to say,
was a little farther ahead. That, too, had been re-christened—the
Hallet's Cove of the mariner being converted into
Astoria—not that bloody-minded place at the mouth of the
Oregon, which has come so near bringing us to blows with
our “ancestors in England,” as the worthy denizens of that
quarter choose to consider themselves still, if one can judge
by their language. This Astoria was a very different place,
and is one of the many suburban villages that are shooting
up, like mushrooms in a night, around the great Commercial
Emporium. This spot Spike understood perfectly, and
it was not likely that he should pass it without communicating
a portion of his knowledge to Rose.
“There, Miss Rose,” he said, with a didactic sort of air,
was just opening to their view; “there's as neat a cove as
a craft need bring up in. That used to be a capital place
to lie in, to wait for a wind to pass the Gate; but it has got
to be most too public for my taste. I'm rural, I tell 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
catch me down in any of the crowded slips, around the markets,
or anywhere in that 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 and tide didn't
sarve to take us through the Gate.”
“Are we near the Gate, Capt. Spike?” asked Rose, the
fine bloom on her cheek lessening a little, under the apprehension
that formidable name is apt to awaken in the breasts
of the inexperienced.
“Half a mile, or so. It begins just at the other end of
this island on our larboard hand, and will be all over in
about another half mile, or so. It's no such bad place, a'ter
all, is Hell-Gate, to them that's used to 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 proper and polite name. We call it Whirl-Gate altogether
now,” said the relict.
“Well, that's new to me,” cried Spike. “I have heard
some chicken-mouthed folk say Hurl-Gate, but this is the
first time I ever heard it called Whirl-Gate—they'll get it
to Whirligig-Gate next. I do n't think that my old commander,
Capt. Budd, called the passage anything but honest
up and down Hell-Gate.”
“That he did—that he did—and all my arguments and
reading could not teach him any better. I proved to him
that it was Whirl-Gate, as any one can see that it ought to
be. It is full of whirlpools, they say, and that 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 a gate—the gate to that wicked place
I suppose is meant.”
“Rose, you amaze me! How can you, a young woman
of only nineteen, stand up for so vulgar a name as Hell-Gate!”
“Do you think it as vulgar as Hurl-Gate, aunty?” To
me it always seems the most vulgar to be straining at gnats.”
“Yes,” said Spike sentimentally, “I'm quite of Miss
Rose's way of thinking—straining at gnats is very ill-manners,
especially at table. I once knew a man who strained
in this way, until I thought he would have choked, though it
was with a fly to be sure; but gnats are nothing but small
flies, you know, Miss Rose. Yes, I'm quite of your way
of thinking, Miss Rose; it is very vulgar to be straining at
gnats and flies, more particularly at table. But you'll find
no flies or gnats aboard 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 the fin of a whale!”
The people forward looked at each other, as they listened
to this novel admonition, though they called out the customary
“ay, ay, sir,” as they went to the sheets, braces and
bowlines. To them the passage of no Hell-Gate conveyed
the idea of any particular terror, and with the one they were
about to enter, they were much too familiar to care anything
about it.
The brig was now floating fast, with the tide, up abreast
of the east end of Blackwell's, and in two or three more
minutes she would be fairly in the Gate. Spike was aft,
where he could command a view of everything forward, and
Mulford stood on the quarter-deck, to look after the head-braces.
An old and trustworthy seaman, who acted as a
sort of boatswain, had the charge on the forecastle, and was
to tend the sheets and tack. His name was Rove.
“See all clear,” called out Spike. “D'ye hear there,
for'ard! I shall make a half-board in the Gate, if the wind
favour us, and the tide prove strong enough to hawse us to
wind'ard sufficiently to clear the Pot—so mind your—”
The captain breaking off in the middle of this harangue,
Mulford turned his 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 the north channel, and shooting
like an arrow directly athwart the brig's bows into the
main passage of the Gate. He stepped to the captain's elbow.
“Just take a look at them chaps, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike,
handing his mate the glass.
“They seem in a hurry,” answered Harry, as he adjusted
the glass to his eye, “and will go through the Gate in
less time than it will take to mention the circumstance.”
“What do you make of them, sir?”
“The little man who called himself Jack Tier is in the
stern-sheets of the 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 means to board us at Riker's Island, and make
us pay pilotage, whether we want his services or not.”
“Blast him and his pilotage too! Give me the glass”—
taking another long look at the boat, which by this time was
glancing, rather than pulling, nearly at right angles across
his bows. “I want no such pilot aboard here, Mr. Mulford.
Take another look at him—here, you can see him, away on
our weather bow, already.”
Mulford did take another look at him, and this time his
examination was longer and more scrutinizing than before.
“It is not easy to cover him with the glass,” observed
the young man—“the boat seems fairly to fly.”
“We're forereaching too near the Hog's Back, Capt.
Spike,” roared the boatswain, from forward.
“Ready about—hard a lee,” shouted Spike. “Let all fly,
for'ard—help her round, boys, all you can, and wait for no
orders! Bestir yourselves—bestir yourselves.”
It was time the crew should be in earnest. While Spike's
attention had been thus diverted by the boat, the brig had
got into the strongest of the current, which, by setting her
fast to windward, had trebled the power of the air, and this
was shooting her over toward one of the greatest dangers of
the passage on a flood tide. As everybody bestirred themselves,
however, she was got round and filled on the opposite
tack, just in time to clear the rocks. Spike breathed
again, but his head was still full of the boat. The danger
he had just escaped as Scylla met him as Charybdis. The
boatswain again roared to go about. The order was given
as the vessel began to pitch in a heavy swell. At the next
instant she rolled until the water came on deck, whirled with
her stern down the tide, and her bows rose as if she were
about to leap out of water. The Swash had hit the Pot Rock!
| JACK TIER. Jack Tier, or, The Florida reef | |