 | CHAPTER IV. Nix's mate |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
By this ensample a kynge maie see,
Him self—
Gower.
That thou turn rascal.
Shak. Timon of Athens.
The day before Fitzvassal arrived at the deserted
house of his mother near Dorchester Point, the people
in the vicinity of Mount Wallaston, now Quincy,
were surprised at the appearance of “a low built,
black, rakish-looking schooner,” which, toward sunset,
coming up in that neighborhood, dropped her
anchor about a mile off in the harbor. The flag
of England was flying at her main-top, but as the sun
sank below the hills, it was hauled down soon after
her arrival: at the same time her sails were all carefully
furled. There seemed to be an unusual number
of men at this work, who by the aid of a good
glass, appeared to be dressed in blue jackets and
trowsers, the cuffs and collars of the former being
course of the evening, and a good deal of speculation
was soon afloat relative to the probable cause of this
unaccustomed appearance: for in those days the waters
of Mount Wallaston were seldom honored by any
thing in the shape of a square rigged schooner; a few
fishing boats with an occasional wood or sand lighter,
constituting her principal marine visitors. The general
impression was, that she was a government yacht,
which had brought important despatches to the administration;
and the curious who had collected to
reconnoitre her, being satisfied with this conjecture,
which was soon transferred into a piece of actual
intelligence, retired to their several abodes to discuss
the probable subject of the new orders.
For the last six years previous to the present time,
1688, the colonies had been groaning under the arbitrary
encroachments of Charles II. and his successor.
The spirit of liberty, which, in opposing the
tyrannous advances of the first Charles, unhappily
degenerated into licentiousness, and led to the very
opposite of those rusults which were anticipated by
a Hambden and a Sydney, had at one time apparently
died away in the bosoms of British subjects. Nothing
could have seemed more inauspicious to the
great cause of human freedom than a superficial
view of the political aspect of those times. In its
most discouraging appearance, however, the political
philosopher might have discovered the old
and stripped of its greenest branches, to be sound at
the root, and even more energetic there, than if the
nourishment of its beneficent mother had been diffused
through its unharmed body. The good seed,
to change the illustration, had assuredly been thrown
upon good ground; and though the tramplings of
kings and bishops were able to keep the plantsunder
for a time, there was no fear but that they would
burst forth in season and yield a plentiful harvest.
But such encouraging views were confined to comparatively
a few persons among the millions of
British subjects who were desponding under the
adverse events which they had vainly endeavored to
control. Liberty had always been dear to them; and
since the Reformation, it had been handed down to
them from generation to generation with increasing attractions.
In the course of a few generations antecedent
to the accession of Charles the first, a body of
men had arisen comprising the flower of England,
who had now become the special guardians of that
high trust, which was first executed at Runnymede.
In recognizing liberty of conscience as inseparable
from civil liberty, and thence opposing all parliamentary
action, which was compulsory on them to observe
certain rituals and ceremonies in religious
worship, they came in collision with that powerful
class of men which has existed in all countries, and
who, rioting on the privileges they possess, are ready
principles which set forth the true relations of society;
so long as they may pander to their own selfish
appetites and wallow in epicurean delights.
The attrition of classes so unlike tore off the outward
folds which had for a time enveloped them,
and revealed the interior characteristics of each.
The selfishness of the hierarchy and their dependents
became now the pander of royalty, and it was
glory enough for that degraded class of lace-clad
slaves, if, in furthering the royal prerogative, they
could partake of the luxuries it claimed: but the
sturdy non-conformists, who had seemed nothing
more than religious zealots singularly attached to a
simple mode of worship, and jealous of control in
this peculiar prejudice, now arrayed themselves between
the people and the crown, and protected the
former from that desolating sway which served for a
time to threaten the extinction of their glory.
The first parliament which was elected after the
Restoration gave the people little to hope. Wearied
as they had been under the domination of Cromwell,
with all their hopes frustrated, they had vainly expected
that the sceptre of their reinstated monarch
would not only re-establish order, but be even a
better safeguard of their rights, than if it had never
transcended the social contract: they soon found,
however, to their bitter disappointment and mortification,
that there could be no redress under the authority
the Seventh carried the ideas of divine right and popular
subserviency to such an extent, that nothing
could be expected from them but the propagation of
errors and the perpetuation of tyranny. The decapitation
of Charles I., instead of opening the eyes
of his son to the essential nature of the executive office,
served no other purpose than to infatuate him
the more with notions of kingly prerogative; and we
find his influence forthwith exerted, after the Restoration,
in packing a House of Commons which would
go any lengths in favoring the crown. From that
time forth there were few interruptions in a series of
executive aggressions, the inconvenience of which
was felt in the colonies as well as in the mother country,
till they ended in that high-handed act which
ought to have sent the head of its inventor rolling
beneath the scaffold.
Having squandered incalculable sums on his lawless
pleasures, and exhausted the resources of war
and peace to replenish his coffers, Charles II. conceived
the mad idea of seizing on all the charters in his
dominions, and granting them again under certain
restrictions, for what he deemed an equivalent in
money. The charter of the city of London was the
first that was sacrificed to this mad avarice, and it
was followed by all the others in the kingdom. The
colonies in New-England did not escape the hurricane
that swept away nearly every vestige of their ancient
civil society which their patriotic progenitors had so
carefully planted. Accordingly, in the year 1683, a
quo warranto was issued against the New-England
chief corporations, and a judgment entered up in
Chancery. In place of their own elected governors,
who were removed to make room for him, Henry
Cranfield was commissioned by the king to rule over
New England; and these outrages were followed up,
during the next year, by the infatuated James II.,
who then succeeded to the crown, and stripped the
colonies of all their remaining privileges. The king
assumed the power of making governors, deputy-governors,
judges, magistrates, and military officers;
and through the former, and four commissioners, legislated
and taxed the people at his own pleasure. In
short, the whole form and substance of the colonial
government were completely changed and destroyed.
Joseph Dudley, who was the successor of Cranfield,
was the miserable instrument of this usurpation;
but though he was odious to the people, this man
procured some favor on account of his father's
services.
All offices of any influence were now filled with
royal favorites whose political and religious principles
were diametrically opposite to those of the American
people. This state of things, with all its necessary concomitants,
lasted till the year 1686, when King James
I. having stretched his prerogative almost to the point
vice with which he grasped the people of New
England, and consummated his assumption of mastery
by sending over Sir Edmond Andros, as governor.
At the time we are now chronicling, the people,
especially of Massachusetts, were groaning under
this man's arbitrary oppression. They were not
possessed of even a remnant of that liberty which
their pilgrim fathers had toiled so hard to maintain.
Even the lands which their hardy sires had redeemed
from the wilderness, and paid for to the savage
proprietors (for not an acre had been wrongfully acquired
by them,) were taken away; their titles having
been usurped by the crown on the forfeiture of the
charters,—and they who were desirous of holding
them again, were compelled to pay one half their
value to the king. Enormous impositions were laid
on them in the shape of office fees, and pounds were
now exacted, where, under their charters, only a few
shillings had been required. The people were taxed
without mercy, and at the same time were not allowed
any assembly or general court: not only were
they refused representatives, but they were not permitted
to assemble at all, but once a year for the
choice of petty officers, so insignificant that the crown
would not condescend to interfere with them: and
even the number of the selectmen of Boston was diminished
All this, and more, was borne with as much patience
as the religious principles of the people could summon
for the occasion; and this is saying every thing
for those who considered self-denial and the endurance
of hardships, the most imperative of duties.
They endured, because they possessed that unshaken
confidence in the order of providence which had
been transmitted from their parents, and because they
knew, that so long as they reposed themselves under
that power, and exerted their utmost ability to cooperate
with the supreme will, the shadows that
enveloped them and the storms that beat so furiously
against their consecrated altars, would pass away in
season, and bring again the sun of peace and liberty
with brighter and more renovating influence. Besides
this, they were ardently attached to their mother
country, and sincerely desired to harmonize with her
in all things practicable; and their agents were even
now in London, soliciting the paternal interposition
of the sovereign to save the colonies from utter and
irremediable ruin: for, so far from their having increased
for a number of years back, they had obviously
diminished; since nearly all the objects for
which the children of liberty had left their incompetent,
criminal, and debased father-land, seemed for a
while frustrated by these high-handed usurpations.
But the people of Massachusetts had never despaired.
promises which had been repeatedly given to their petitions,
and so long as their agents remained at court,
the hope which had sustained them under so many
privations was re-kindled by every arrival in their
waters. The people of Boston, however, had for
some time given unequivocal indications that the
chain was galling them to the quick. On several
occasions they had manifested that feverish restlessness
which is so disagreeable to tyrants; and on a
late one, when certain soldiers were on trial for having
deserted from the army, and a freeman had
dared to complain to the council of its unreasonable
conduct, he was told by one of its members that
“he must not think the privileges of Englishmen
would follow them to the ends of the world.”
Such a sentiment could not be lost on the inhabitants
of Boston. It was not bruited abroad and proclaimed
from the house-tops, but it was indignantly
whispered about in private; and wherever it was
heard, it roused the blood of the people to a more tumultuous
action, than if the war-trumpet of the
most beloved monarch had summoned them to contend
for their altars. Meetings were held in spite of
the denunciations of Sir Edmund Andros and his
council, and measures were in rapid progress for effecting
a revolution in some degree analogous to that
which in less than a hundred years after, was achieved
by the sons of liberty.
Such is a brief outline of the condition of public
affairs, and of the popular affection towards the crown
officers, at the time when the events hereafter to be
described were secretly working for consummation;
and it will in part explain the readiness with which
the people about Mount Wallaston assured themselves
that the Grampus was a government vessel.
The sun had now sunk behind the blue hills of
Massachusetts, and the shadows of evening had enveloped
the landscape in gloom. Two days had
passed since the arrival of this vessel, which was
still riding at anchor about a mile below Mount Wallaston.
At seven o'clock that evening, a person
wrapped in a long pea-jacket stood at the door of a
rude hut, which was built on the borders of the sea
at half gun-shot distance from the anchorage of the
vessel. The hut was constructed under the lee of a
bank of earth, that, breaking abruptly in that place,
sloped gradually down to the water, where was a
small boat fastened to a rock, which served the double
purpose of an anchor and a ring-bolt. The hut
was erected over a natural excavation of the earth,
which, with little assistance from art, rendered it
available as a cellar. An abundance of sea-weed
was heaped round the foundation of the tenement to
keep the frost more effectually out; and you ascended
to the door by the aid of steps that had been
constructed out of broken spars, which the proprietor
had gathered from the floating wrecks of
shore.
A challenge within of, “Who's there?” followed
immediately on a low tap at the door, which, on the
summons being repeated, was slowly opened by the
occupant.
“What do you want here at this time of the day?”
growled the inquirer, as his head peered from the
opening, and a dark lantern gleamed on the face of
the person who had disturbed him.
“It is only I, Morgan!” responded the visitor—
“I'll tell you my business presently; in the meantime,
I'll take a place by your fireside, if you've no
objection.”
“Oh, it's you, is it?” said Morgan in a more friendly
tone, “come in;” on which he stepped back to
admit his visitor. “I thought it might have been
one of those infernal revenue officers, who are everlastingly
prowling about these ere parts: and jest
now, I guessed that the old rats had nosed out the
cheese you know on.”
“It is on that very account I have called to see
you now,” rejoined the guest; “the moon rises at
about one o'clock, I believe,” continued he, musing.
The man took down from a small shelf over the
fireplace a very dirty almanac, and after thumbing it
awhile, replied.
“She rises to-night at a quarter past one precisely.”
“Very well;” resumed the other, “the Dolphin
must be under weigh before the moon rises; the
revenue-cutter will be after her before that hour,
unless she clears out from this place; I may be mistaken,
but if Sir Edmund Andros gets scent of me,
as I have reason to think that he will, farewell to
all your hopes, and to mine too, as for that matter.
You know the soundings about Nahant?”
“Perfectly!”—
“Run her down to Nahant, then, and anchor her
on the sou'west shore, close by the Swallow's Cave;
—if we can get her in there before the moon rises,
she will be snug enough. There is not a solitary
inhabitant on that witch place that ever I heard of,
and the fishing-boats never run round that side.”
Morgan put his nose aside with the fore-finger of
his right hand, as much as to intimate to his employer
that he thoroughly understood his meaning; and
then looking at him shrewdly, inquired,
“You'll not trouble Nahant yourself, I suppose?”
“Not to-night; I have business of the utmost importance
in Boston. Run the schooner as near in
among the rocks as you can, and stay at anchor till I
come; unless you are attacked, which is not probable.
You know there is no danger in riding that
side of the peninsula unless it blows a tornado, for
you are well sheltered from the north-east. Here is
something as an earnest of the future.”
With this, the stranger placed in the hand of Morgan
without returning any answer, except to invite his
guest to be seated.
“I can wait with you an hour,” was the reply,
while the visitor looked at a very elegant watch; “at
eight o'clock I must see you on board.”
The speaker remained silent for some moments,
and seemed to be pondering something in his mind,
while he stirred the embers with the iron scabbard of
his rapier, which, as he seated himself on the wooden
settle, projected from under his pea-jacket. At last
he turned his face round with a sort of suppressed
whistle through his teeth, and gazing carelessly on
the rude habitation of his pilot, which was almost
entirely without furniture—the bedstead being
built of rough boards on one side of the room after the
manner of the berths of a vessel, and a small deal table
occupying the centre, on which lay a few clams,
a piece of sea biscuit, and a black bottle—the tout
ensemble bronzed by the flickering light that flared
up reluctantly from the hearth,—questioned him as
follows.
“And how long, pray, have you lived here, Morgan?—The
last I heared of you before I left Boston,—for
though I hailed from the old point over
there in Matapan, I always regarded myself as an inhabitant
of the good old town of notions,—you were
in Limbo for debt.”
“You are jest about right there,” replied Morgan,
the corners of his eyes as he spoke; “and I should
have remained there to this day, for what I know on,
if the rascals, not being contented with burying me
alive one way, hadn't tried to bury me another;—
but the carcass of Jake Morgan got into the clutches
of the wrong grave-diggers that time, ha! ha!
ha!”—
And he chuckled at the remembrance of something
of which his visitor was too uninformed to be able to
participate in his mirth.
“If you haven't been the most prosperous man in
the world, Jake,” said he, “you have at least been
lucky enough not to lose your good humor. Suppose,
now, you tell me the adventure you allude to;
for by the dull face of a puritan, I'll swear that since
I hove in sight of the Light-House I have met with
hardly any thing but melancholy and misery. Come,
Jake Morgan, before we set to work let us have the
story that seems to put you in such excellent spirits.”
Jake Morgan was a muscular, square-built man, of
about forty years of age. His raven, black hair,
braided into a triple cue with their ends fastened together,
hung half-way down his back. His face was
very pale and cadaverous, contrasting strongly with
his black beard and eyebrows; but his dark eyes, always
moist and restless, had a very mirthful expression,
though it arose rather from mischievous purpose
than from any very laudable impulse. His
much yellowed with tobacco, which he could not
help exhibiting in consequence of a remarkable spasmodic
action of the lips when interested in conversation.
He was always ready to tell stories, being generally
himself the subject of them; yet he rarely
had an opportunity of indulging this disposition, except
when he met with an accommodating customer
on his excursions to the neighboring settlements to
dispose of fish and wild fowl,—for when Morgan
was out of employment as pilot, his necessities compelled
him to resort to this means of living,—and
then he was so universally regarded as an unprincipled
and dangerous man, who could be easily engaged
in executing schemes of mischief,—that few
men were mirthful enough to pay the price of being
amused by him. He was nothing loath, therefore, to
comply with the solicitation of his present employer,
and regale him with one of his personal anecdotes.
Therefore, having drawn himself closer to the fire,
and mused and cleared his throat for the effort, after
disposing of an “old soldier,” which had been worn
out in the wars of his corn-grinders, and supplying
its place by a fresh recruit of “nigger-head,” he proceeded
as follows:—
“Well, you see, as how, I'd been in the stone jug
more than a year, e'en-a-most eighteen months, living
on bread and water, a thin diet for one whose
belly-timber had never been short of salt-junk and
Two Gridirons, kept by Job Tileston;—you remember
Job, I dare say?”—
“I think I heard of such a fellow's being hanged
some time ago,” replied the guest.
“The same feller, exactly,” resumed Morgan; “he
was taken up a year or two arter I used to patronize
him, for cutting a man's throat who put up at his
house. It was about as dirty a job as ever I heared
tell on, that are murder—perhaps you'd like to hear
about it!”
“Perhaps you had better finish the yarn you began
with,” said the visitor, “and leave that for another
time.”
“Well, may be I had,” replied Morgan; “but it's no
yarn, I assure you; I'll bet a shilling the main part
of what I'm going to tell you is registered down in
the chronicles of Boston jail:—I know it must be, if
them fellers who keep it have any regard for true
history. But to proceed without any more palavering,
I'll soon get through, for a short horse is soon
curried.
“Well, you see,” continued Morgan, “after Job
Tileston had put the screws on me, there seemed to be
no earthly chance of getting out; and I had purty
much made up my mind to stay there till I died. A
good many on'em, who were not very fond of an active
life, have done so; but I was used to knocking
round, and didn't care about staying there in the public
used to come every now and then, especially Sunday
arternoons, and look at me through the bars; many
a time had that same man of Uz looked over the bar
at me before,—but that's neither here nor there.
On them occasions, though, he was more like one of
Job's comforters than Job himself,—and the way I
used to curse him! Howsomever, it was all done in
a quiet way, and I soon got so used to being there,
boarding and lodging all free, that I wouldn't have
given a tinker's d—n to be let out agin: and hadn't
it been for the meerest accident in the world, I might
have been there to this day, and then the Dolphin
might have whistled for a pilot, and the world been
cheated out of one of the best jail-bird legends it ever
yet heared on.”
“At the rate you are now going,” interrupted the
listener, whose patience began to be a little fretted,
“it will be time to go aboard before you have got
under weigh with your story.”
“Well, then,” continued Jake, squaring himself in
earnest, “I will try to tack as little as possible. It
seldom happened that I was left alone in the cell I
occupied; while I boarded there, I suppose I chummed
with more than a dozen different persons, who
like schollards in old Mather's College, had been examined,
admitted, and graduated. Some on 'em out
of that same institution occupied very elevated stations
when they left—Job Tileston climbed to the very
though—good again! not so bad that”—
His employer could not help laughing at the fellow's
drollery, for though he had told the story a dozen
times before, his sense of the ludicrous and whimsical
constantly suggested the most grotesque relations
among his fancies.
“The last chum,” resumed Morgan,“was a queer feller,
who had never, as he confessed, been out of debt in
his life. There was nothing strange in that, though;
but what tickled me was, he took it into his head to
die, and then he was so cool about it. `Sam,' says
I, `aint you afeard to hop the twig?'—`Afeared!'
says he, `what have I to be afeared on? But I tell
you what it is, Jake,' says he, `I don't much like
this paying the debt of natur—its inconsistent.'
Soon arter this the death-rattles came over him, and
his eyes turned up in his head, and he struggled like
a good fellow”—
“For pity's sake,” interrupted the listener, “pass
over the particulars of that scene; I have no stomach
for the horrors to-night.”
“Why, od's niggers!” cried Morgan, “I know'd
well enough that Sam couldn't feel nothing—he
didn't suffer no more than a lobster does in a pot—
kicking's no sign! “Howsomever, it was all one;
a few minutes arter, and I laid him out as straight as
a salt fish, and closed his eyes; but they wouldn't
stay closed, they wouldn't; so I put two coppers I had
I had ever seen, I assure you!
“It was now about midnight, and while I was fixing
Sam, I felt something cold and clammy catch
hold of my naked arm behind: by Golly! warn't I
scared then? For as soon as it got hold o'me, such
a scream came through the wall as you never heared
in your born days. And what do you think it
was? A crazy feller next cell, who had poked his
arm through the air-hole, and finding he had caught
something, set up that diabolical screaming. I tried
to make him undo his grip, and he wouldn't; so I
cut the tendons of his wrist—you needn't be alarmed,
it didn't hurt him none—but he let go though,
like a monkey hold on a hot potater. I had an extra
blanket that night, and slept very comfortable.
The next day, the carpenter brought a pine coffin,
and the turnkey and him put Sam into it;—talk of
feeling for a feller, I was a perfect mourner compared
to them ere fellers! The way they knocked Sam
about was a caution. Well, having packed away the
body, the carpenter, put the top of the coffin on and
fixed the nails, and then found that he had left his hammer;—so
off they both started, and left me with my
late chum who now, as the thought struck me, would
be a friend indeed:—the friendship you meet with in
the world has no such body to it as mine had;—
good again!
“While the jail folks were busying themselves
by the blankets; and it was while they were banging
the doors and rattling the bars and padlocks on their
way out, that I planned one of the grandest schemes
that ever entered into the head of man, or ever you
heared on. And what do you think it was? Why,
I'll tell you, for I got up in no time to put the plan in
execution. I went to work, and dragged out the
dead body of poor Sam;—by the bye, I forget to tell
you that I see'd that infernal jailor put them are very
coppers in his pocket which I put on Sam's eyes to
keep 'em down,—but I didn't say nothing;—I say I
dragged the dead body of poor Sam out of the coffin,
and carrying it to my bundle of straw, I kivered
it up with the blankets exactly as I was kivered up
myself a few minutes afore when the jailer and the
carpenter was in the cell. My next step was to get
into the wooden surtout myself, which had been vacated
by my accommodating fellow-boarder. Here I
placed myself as quietly as possible, having snugged
the top and fixed the nails just as they had been
fixed by the carpenter.”
“I should have feared,” interrupted the listener,
who now seemed to place some reliance on the story,
and attended with deep interest, “I should have
feared suffocation in the coffin.”
“There was no danger o' that,” resumed the story-teller;
“I don't know but a feller might have lived
there a week, for there was a purty considerable
fool enough to trust to that; so what does I do, but
put two wedges of wood under the top of the box to
keep it from being made too tight, and every thing
being now ready, I laid as comfortable as ever a live
corpse did afore me. And this reminds me of another
story which”—
“Which you had better postpone for the present,
perhaps;” suggested his guest.
“As you like,” continued Morgan, a little piqued;
“but do let me tell it to you one of these days—it's a
devilish queer story about a man who was going to
be buried alive;—howsomever, I will not interrupt
what is now telling. As the arternoon advanced, the
old slamming of doors and rattling of chains, and bars,
and padlocks began again—we used to hear that constant
three times a-day for meals, and extra when
new boarders came.—By and bye the door of my cell
opened, and in came I don't know how many persons.
The first thing done was to drive the nails, which
operation sounded in my ears like thunder. As soon
as this was over, the coffin was lifted from the floor
and placed on the shoulders of my pall-bearers. I
now had the satisfaction of perceiving that there was
room between the coffin and the kiver for air enough
to supply a grampus; so that, you see, I was in no
sort of danger of wanting wind,—the only fear was
that those outside would get wind of me,—good again!
into the street, and to talk together as follows:—
“`How long has this rotten old rascal been
dead, Joe?' asked one of my body guard of another.
“`About a week I should judge,' replied the feller,
spitting.
“`Who's going to have him; do you know?' again
inquired the first feller.
“`Doctor Sikes,' said the feller called Joe, who
was at my right shoulder; his turn comes next.
The doctor is a queer feller at buying bodies, but I
guess he got bit last week a little.'
“`How so?' asked my body-guard at my left foot.
“`Why, you see,' said he, `the doctor's son, and
some other chaps, were blowing it out down at the
Red Lion, and all in a nat'ral way they got as drunk
as you please;—well, arter they were purty well
tired on't, and 'twas time for them to be packing, they
found that they hadn't got no money none on'em.
`I see the way to fix it,' said one; `how's that?'
said another. `Let's put Ned Sikes in a fire bag,'
said he, `and sell him to the old man; Ned's dead
drunk, and as good as a corpse,' said he. `Hurrah!'
cried they all at once, and set to work in earnest to
do it. So they hauled an old canvass bag out of a
boot-closet they know'd on, and crammed into it the
body of Ned Sikes, and off four on them started for
the doctor's house, leaving the rest of the company to
await the result of the negotiation. So knock, knock,
stuck his old night-cap out of the window with his
head in it. `Who's there?' said he,—`hush!' said
they,—and the old feller took the hint, and came
down. The Doctor looked at the bag, and lifted one
end on it. `What is it?' said he; `a man,' said
they; `what did he die on?' said he; `rum,' said
they. `He isn't worth more than fifteen shillings,
then,' said he; `make it a pound,' said they, `and it
is yourn;' `done,' said old Sikes, and they carried the
Doctor's own drunken son into his study, and left it
on the floor in the dark.
“`The doctor was gammoned that time, any how,'
said the man, who kept me up on the left shoulder;
`and he'll get gammoned this time too; for we've got
the money, and this is about the rottenest corpse I've
had the honor of bearing many a day; and if he don't
get gammoned this time, there is no such thing as
rum in punch.'
“You're right there, my body-guard,” thought I,
“for once in your life at least; and the pall-bearers
just then began to laugh aloud, for they had turned
down near the bottom of the common. I know'd
that they were in the habit of burying hungry debtors
down at that old grave-yard, and I could calculate
purty well the whereabouts. My friends made
a terrible fuss with my body, and were already tired
enough of their burden, when we drew nigh to my
long home. They stopped, and I couldn't mistake,
to kick and scream at the same instant, as if heaven
and earth were coming together, and all the devils
in devildom had been suddenly unchained at once.
My pall-bearers, half frightened out of their wits,
dropped the coffin, and scampered away as if for
their lives; one on'em tumbled over a tomb-stone
and nearly broke his neck. I had no time to lose.
With a desperate effort, I drew my knees up, and at
the same time strained with my back and elbows till the
sides and top of the coffin split asunder an gin away
at once. I tore and wounded my shoulder horribly
against the nails of the coffin, and here are the scars
at this day. You ought to have seen the way I
cleared! I never stopped till I reached Nigger Hill,
and there I remained as snug as you please for the
next six months; till, accidentally mistaking another
man's wallet for my own, I was induced to remove
here, where I built this house. Since then I have
been pilot to all the scamps, saving your presence,
who have honored these parts with their countenance.
What think you now of my adventure?”
“I think,” replied the other, “you have had an excellent
education for a cut-purse, and that your adventure
of the coffin is altogether worthy of you.
Did the sharks let you alone after your escape?”
“I never heared any more of their capiases, as
they call them. I guess they thought Jake Morgan
the whole, it would be as well to let him alone.”
The time was now arrived which had been determined
on for proceeding on board the schooner.
Accordingly, the captain of the Dolphin opened the
door of the hut, and proceeding down to the water's
edge, gave a loud and shrill whistle, which was
answered immediately by the appearance of a light
from on board the vessel. In a few minutes the
light passed down the side of the schooner, and was
seen shining over the water, and growing brighter
and brighter, till presently the plash and dip of the
oars were heard, and a barge, rowed by eight men,
with a coxswain, rounded to the wharf.
“Is it you, Mr. Rogers?” inquired the captain, addressing
the man at the helm as he stepped on one of
the after-thwarts.
“Ay, ay, Sir!” returned the helmsman.
“Step aboard, Morgan!” said the captain; and
Morgan seated himself aft, along-side the officer.
Having shoved off according to orders, the barge
was on her way back to the schooner. It was not
long before they were on her deck. She was a
sharp built schooner, with raking masts; her bowsprit
running almost parallel with her deck, like the
modern Baltimore clippers. She was of about one
hundred and fifty tons burthen, carrying six twelve
pound carronades and one long twenty-four pounder,
which was swung aft of the foremast. Her bulwarks
with a deck like that of pilot-boat. She was painted
black, and was, on the whole, as suspicious looking
a craft as ever fell under the glass of a revenue cutter.
It was not the first time that Jake Morgan had
been on board the Dolphin. He had piloted her in,
a few days before, having seen her signal far down
in the bay, where he had gone to fish for cod and
haddock. He was now in her cabin, with the captain,
and Mr. Felton, his lieutenant. They were
seated at the table, their only light that which shone
in the binnacle, and which cast a peculiar gleam
on the visages of the company. The captain turned
towards his lieutenant.
“We must weigh anchor immediately, Mr. Felton,
and proceed to Nahant; I have given the pilot directions,
as he will continue with you till I come. I
have reason to suspect that Sir Edmund Andros has
got scent of us, or that he will have, this very
evening. Keep your guns loaded with grape and
cannister, and if the revenue cutter should come,
I know that you are able to blow her out of the water.
Should this happen, run out to sea, and in a
week from this time cruise off Cohasset, by the
glades. I will join you there. Otherwise wait for
me at Nahant. You may send the men for fresh
provisions to Salem. Business in town requires my
presence.”
So saying, he went to his state-room, and from his
and placed it in his bosom; he then replenished his
pockets with gold, which he took from a sheet-iron
box; and being thus provided, he went on deck,
and descended into the barge which was waiting for
him along-side.
“I shall take your boat, Morgan, this evening,”
said the captain, giving a farewell nod, “and I shall
probably bring it with me to Nahant. Keep a sharp
look-out!”
In a few minutes the barge landed him on the
shore, and returned to the vessel.
Being now alone, he cast off Morgan's boat, and
having set the mast in the forward thwart, and unloosed
the sail, he was soon on his way to Boston.
He beat about, however, some time, till he had seen
his favorite vessel under weigh with a stiff breeze,
and then he put his helm down, and bore directly
for the long wharf in the metropolis of New England.
| CHAPTER IV. Nix's mate | |