The two clerks, or, The orphan's gratitude :: :: University of Virginia Library

At eight o'clock, the next morning, the
dull beams of a winter sun shone on a little
schooner, sailing with a spanking breeze
from the harbor of Boston. On board were
two individuals previously favorably known
to the reader; their names were Richard
Martin, and our friend Stimson. At nine
o'clock the affidavit of Frederick Johnson to
the robbery of Abbot & Co., was on file in
the town court.

Away went the little bark over the blue
waters. Stimson unfolded carefully the plan
of his contemplated villany. “How much
l'argent do you at present possess, my young
friend?” asked he of Dick, with a winning
smile.

“A couple of hundreds.”

“Which will give you a genteel fit-out in
the piratical line.”

“Piratical?”

“Ay, you did not think that mutiny was
our only object. No, my boy, a few years
cruising in the Main will fill our pockets,
and then we can hoist colors for one of the
five hundred republics of South America,
and with a commission, sail scot free. Hey,
my boy, what say you?”

“Why can we not hoist colors at first,
and procure a commission, it'll be safer.”

“Don't you see? Well, they're all by
the ears now, and it would puzzle a Philadelphia
lawyer to tell which will beat. So,
we free boys of the ocean will prey on all,
and declare for the one that fights longest—
ho!”

“A fine plan if we don't fail in the outset.”

“Fail, my boy! there's no such a word in
the almanac I go by; no, our way is clear;
only be firm, and don't stick, and your fortune's
made.”

“And yours marred,” thought Dick—and
then, he plotted in his thoughts his own
schemes, for he hated the man with whom
he had linked himself, and revenge was his
god.

New York burst upon them—New York,
with its thousand ships, and its thousand
warehouses—its merchant-princes, and its
pauper-villains. New York was before them;
the light skiffs, the swift steamboats plying
for pleasure or profit, the turmoil of a great
city's crowd—the voice of a mighty traffic

“See you that neat-built craft, that sits
like a duck in the water, with the black
yards, and the long pennon streaming from
her topmast?”

Richard cast his eye in the direction indicated;
“that,” said Stimson, as the two
gazed from the schooner's quarter deck—
“that's the Halcion, our ship, my boy.”

The schooner sped along, and passed,
broadside to, the vessel Stimson had pointed
out. She was indeed a goodly craft. Her
white taper masts contrasted strongly with
the sable hue of her fairy spars. Her long
sharp build, and low draught, marked her as
“Baltimore built,” and she swayed up and
down at every heave of the waves, like a
swan rocked to sleep by her own watery
cradle. Every thing was “taught-drawn,”
“ship-shape.” She was a craft for a sailor
to love.

“Yes, that's our ship, and with brave
hearts and firm nerves, d—n it, my friend,
our fortune's in our own hands.”

Dick answered not. The schooner soon
hauled up, and the two worthies took their
course for their quarters. They preceeded
up Peck Slip, and striking through the city,
directed their steps to the eastern side, then,
as now, a sort of Alsatia for the mass of rascals
who infest the metropolis. At the corner
of Fish street, they stopped, and Stimson,
leading the way, conducted Richard to
the upper part of a house, whose time-worn
sign-board, as it swung on its rusty crane,
gave forth the intimation that this was the

“Pipe and Bowl” Inn. They traversed a
long entry, and Stimson, after listening a
moment at a door, made known his presence
by three smart raps upon its pannel. It
was opened by a young man, clad in a short
sea-jacket, his linen entirely guiltless of the
christian ordinance of baptism.

“Halcion,” said Stimson.

“Come in,” said the man, and then, as
they entered, he held up the lamp to scrutinize
their features, for the entry, entirely
destitute of windows, rendered a lamp, although
it was broad daylight without, indispensable
within.

“Ha, captain, is it you?” cried the engaging
janitor,—“when did you spring?”

“Five bells,” said Stimson, “but who's
ashore; I'm half frozen, and hungry enough
to eat a horse. Heave away, and overhaul
the bread-locker.”

“Ay, ay! come along,” said the man, and
opening another door, he ushered them into
a room, where were four others seated round
a table, discussing the merits of a steaming
bowl of punch that sent up its fragrance to
the olfactories of the visitors. They all rose
as Stimson entered, and shaking his hand,
poured out a confused volley of oaths and
welcomings, which almost stunned the ears
of the sensitive Dick.

“I'll tell you all, my hearties, in a jiffey,
but give way there, till I make you acquainted
with a new comrade; here, my boys is
Dick Martin—true blue—staunch to the backbone.
What do you say—Dick—we're a jolly
crew.”

“Bear a hand with the grog, Jim,” cried
Dick, “I always sail best with a deep cargo.”

“Hurra for Dick Martin, he's the boy,”
cried the sailors, who were taken with Dick's
joke, and his frank manner.

“Thank you, my hearties; here's halcion
days for all of us.” The toast was drunk
with vehement applause; scarcely one in
the company understood what it meant, only
the “halcion” pleased them; and then Dick,
ensconseing himself in a vacant seat, was
as deep in punch, pipes, and plotting as the
oldest of them.

“When do we sail?” asked Stimson of an
old tar, with a long pigtail, and a deep scar
over his left eye. He had been a pirate with Lafitte.

“Vy, that sall be as se vind sall go,” answered
the man; “if it sall blow east, vy,
ve sail to-morar, and if—”

“D—n your ifs; when did the captain
tell you to be on board.”

“Tomorar, sare, tomorar.”

“Be on hand, my hearties, then,” said
Stimson; “we sail to-morrow, probably;
you will be in your stations. Tusker,” continued
he, glancing at a large, heavy-built
man, who had been smoking a long meerschaum,
in utter abstraction, “Tusker will go
with us, in the cabin-passengers. Look here
boys, listen.”

The jingle of the glasses ceased instantly,
and there was a dead silence. It was evident
that Stimson possessed as much control
over the rest as he had attained over the cidevant
clerk.

“We shall sail to-morrow: now, mark
me, in eight-and-forty hours from the time
we pass the Narrows, with a stiff breeze, the
Halcion must be ours. What say you, boys?”

“Ay, ay! hurra for Captain Spanker.”

“A new name,” thought Dick. “Captain
Spanker,” shouted he, “Captain Spanker
forever!”