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,

[figure description] Page 018.[end figure description]

and he had always understood that her present commander
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 fore-
tawsail 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

[figure description] Page 019.[end figure description]

over the low bulwarks of the vessel. “Yes, dat's dem, sir.
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

[figure description] Page 020.[end figure description]

wishing to be understood that she was either very well-born,
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

[figure description] Page 021.[end figure description]

between his deportment to-day and on any ordinary occasion,
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.

[figure description] Page 022.[end figure description]

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

[figure description] Page 023.[end figure description]

hours after the bill is made out, while I own her. They
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

[figure description] Page 024.[end figure description]

full toward the speaker; regarded him intently for a moment;
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,

[figure description] Page 025.[end figure description]

he determined to forego the advantages of Jack's presence,
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

[figure description] Page 026.[end figure description]

found with their neatness and general arrangements, when
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

[figure description] Page 027.[end figure description]

on earth, for they do not seem to possess the power to protect
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,

[figure description] Page 028.[end figure description]

had actually made one voyage with her late husband, and
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

[figure description] Page 029.[end figure description]

ingenuous and innocent in the expression of her countenance,
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—

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

“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.

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

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,

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

pointing with his short, thick finger at the little bay which
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!”

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

“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.

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

“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!

CHAPTER II. Watch.

If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on
him?

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

We left the brigantine of Capt. Spike in a very critical
situation, and the master himself in great confusion of mind.

A thorough seaman, this accident would never have happened,
but for the sudden appearance of the boat and its passengers;
one of whom appeared to be a source of great
uneasiness to him. As might be expected, the circumstance
of striking a place as dangerous as the Pot Rock in Hell-Gate,
produced a great sensation on board the vessel. This
sensation betrayed itself in various ways, and according to
the characters, habits, and native firmness of the parties. As
for the ship-master's relict, she seized hold of the main-mast,
and screamed so loud and perseveringly, as to cause the
sensation to extend itself into the adjacent and thriving village
of Astoria, where it was distinctly heard by divers of
those who dwelt near the water. Biddy Noon had her share
in this clamour, lying down on the deck in order to prevent
rolling over, and possibly to scream more at her leisure, while
Rose had sufficient self-command to be silent, though her
cheeks lost their colour.

Nor was there anything extraordinary in females betraying
this alarm, when one remembers the somewhat astounding
signs of danger by which these persons were surrounded.
There is always something imposing in the swift movement
of a considerable body of water. When this movement is
aided by whirlpools and the other similar accessories of an
interrupted current, it frequently becomes startling, more
especially to those who happen to be on the element itself.
This is peculiarly the case with the Pot Rock, where, not
only does the water roll and roar as if agitated by a mighty

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

wind, but where it even breaks, the foam seeming to glance
up stream, in the rapid succession of wave to wave. Had
the Swash remained in her terrific berth more than a second
or two, she would have proved what is termed a “total
loss;” but she did not. Happily, the Pot Rock lies so low
that it is not apt to fetch up anything of a light draught of
water, and the brigantine's fore-foot had just settled on its
summit, long enough to cause the vessel to whirl round and
make her obeisance to the place, when a succeeding swell
lifted her clear, and away she went down stream, rolling as
if scudding in a gale, and, for a moment, under no command
whatever. There lay another danger ahead, or it would be
better to say astern, for the brig was drifting stern foremost;
and that was in an eddy under a bluff, which bluff lies at an
angle in the reach, where it is no uncommon thing for craft
to be cast ashore, after they have passed all the more imposing
and more visible dangers above. It was in escaping
this danger, and in recovering the command of his vessel,
that Spike now manifested the sort of stuff of which he was
really made, in emergencies of this sort. The yards were
all sharp up when the accident occurred, and springing to
the lee braces, just as a man winks when his eye is menaced,
he seized the weather fore-brace with his own hands, and
began to round in the yard, shouting out to the man at the
wheel to “port his helm” at the same time. Some of the
people flew to his assistance, and the yards were not only
squared, but braced a little up on the other tack, in much
less time than we have taken to relate the evolution. Mulford
attended to the main-sheet, and succeeded in getting
the boom out in the right direction. Although the wind was
in truth very light, the velocity of the drift filled the canvas,
and taking the arrow-like current on her lee bow, the Swash,
like a frantic steed that is alarmed with the wreck made by
his own madness, came under command, and sheered out
into the stream again, where she could drift clear of the
apprehended danger astern.

“Sound the pumps!” called out Spike to Mulford, the
instant he saw he had regained his seat in the saddle. Harry
sprang amidships to obey, and the eye of every mariner in
that vessel was on the young man, as, in the midst of a
death-like silence, he performed this all-important duty. It

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

was like the physician's feeling the pulse of his patient before
he pronounces on the degree of his danger.

“Well, sir?” cried out Spike, impatiently, as the rod reappeared.

“All right, sir,” answered Harry, cheerfully—“the well
is nearly empty.”

“Hold on a moment longer, and give the water time to
find its way amidships, if there be any.”

The mate remained perched up on the pump, in order to
comply, while Spike and his people, who now breathed more
freely again, improved the leisure to brace up and haul aft,
to the new course.

“Biddy,” said Mrs. Budd considerately, during this pause
in the incidents, “you need n't scream any longer. The
danger seems to be past, and you may get up off the deck
now. See, I have let go of the mast. The pumps have
been sounded, and are found tight.”

Biddy, like an obedient and respectful servant, did as directed,
quite satisfied if the pumps were tight. It was some
little time, to be sure, before she was perfectly certain whether
she were alive or not—but, once certain of this circumstance,
her alarm very sensibly abated, and she became
reasonable. As for Mulford, he dropped the sounding
rod again, and had the same cheering report to make.

“The brig is as tight as a bottle, sir.”

“So much the better,” answered Spike. “I never had
such a whirl in her before in my life, and I thought she was
going to stop and pass the night there. That's the very
spot on which `The Hussar' frigate was wrecked.”

“So I have heard, sir. But she drew so much water that
she hit slap against the rock, and started a butt. We
merely touched on its top with our fore-foot, and slid off.”

This was the simple explanation of the Swash's escape,
and, everybody being now well assured that no harm had
been done, things fell into their old and regular train again.
As for Spike, his gallantry, notwithstanding, was upset for
some hours, and glad enough was he when he saw all three
of his passengers quit the deck to go below. Mrs. Budd's
spirits had been so much agitated that she told Rose she
would go down into the cabin and rest a few minutes on its
sofa. We say sofa, for that article of furniture, now-a-days,

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

is far more common in vessels than it was thirty years ago
in the dwellings of the country.

“There, Mulford,” growled Spike, pointing ahead of the
brig, to an object on the water that was about half a mile
ahead of them, “there's that bloody boat—d'ye see? I
should like of all things to give it the slip. There's a chap
in that boat I do n't like.”

“I do n't see how that can be very well done, sir, unless
we anchor, repass the Gate at the turn of the tide, and go to
sea by the way of Sandy Hook.”

“That will never do. I've no wish to be parading the
brig before the town. You see, Mulford, nothing can be
more innocent and proper than the Molly Swash, as you
know from having sailed in her these twelve months. You'll
give her that character, I'll be sworn?”

“I know no harm of her, Capt. Spike, and hope I never
shall.”

“No, sir—you know no harm of her, nor does any one
else. A nursing infant is not more innocent than the Molly
Swash, or could have a clearer character if nothing but
truth was said of her. But the world is so much given to
lying, that one of the old saints, of whom we read in the
good book, such as Calvin and John Rogers, would be vilified
if he lived in these times. Then, it must be owned,
Mr. Mulford, whatever may be the raal innocence of the brig,
she has a most desperate wicked look.”

“Why, yes, sir—it must be owned she is what we sailors
call a wicked-looking craft. But some of Uncle Sam's cruisers
have that appearance, also.”

“I know it—I know it, sir, and think nothing of looks
myself. Men are often deceived in me, by my looks, which
have none of your long-shore softness about 'em, perhaps;
but my mother used to say I was one of the most tender-hearted
boys she had ever heard spoken of—like one of
the babes in the woods, as it might be. But mankind go so
much by appearances that I do n't like to trust the brig too
much afore their eyes. Now, should we be seen in the lower
bay, waiting for a wind, or for the ebb tide to make, to
carry us over the bar, ten to one but some philotropic or
other would be off with a complaint to the District Attorney
that we looked like a slaver, and have us all fetched up to be

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

tried for our lives as pirates. No, no—I like to keep the
brig in out-of-the-way places, where she can give no offence
to your 'tropics, whether they be philos, or of any other
sort.”

“Well, sir, we are to the eastward of the Gate, and all's
safe. That boat cannot bring us up.”

“You forget, Mr. Mulford, the revenue-craft that steamed
up, on the ebb. That vessel must be off Sands' Point by
this time, and she may hear something to our disparagement
from the feller in the boat, and take it into her smoky head
to walk us back to town. I wish we were well to the eastward
of that steamer! But there's no use in lamentations.
If there is really any danger, it's some distance ahead yet,
thank Heaven!”

“You have no fears of the man who calls himself Jack
Tier, Capt. Spike?”

“None in the world. That feller, as I remember him,
was a little bustlin' chap that I kept in the cabin, as a sort
of steward's mate. There was neither good nor harm in
him, to the best of my recollection. But Josh can tell us
all about him—just give Josh a call.”

The best thing in the known history of Spike was the fact
that his steward had sailed with him for more than twenty
years. Where he had picked up Josh no one could say,
but Josh and himself, and neither chose to be very communicative
on the subject. But Josh had certainly been with
him as long as he had sailed the Swash, and that was from
a time actually anterior to the birth of Mulford. The mate
soon had the negro in the council.

“I say, Josh,” asked Spike, “do you happen to remember
such a hand aboard here as one Jack Tier?”

“Lor' bless you, yes sir—'members he as well as I do
the pea soup that was burnt, and which you t'rowed all over
him, to scald him for punishment.”

“I've had to do that so often, to one careless fellow or
other, that the circumstance does n't recall the man. I
remember him—but not as clear as I could wish. How
long did he sail with us?”

“Sebberal v'y'ge, sir, and got left ashore down on the
main, one night, when'e boat were obliged to shove off in
a hurry. Yes, 'members little Jack, right well I does.”

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

“Did you see the man that spoke us from the wharf, and
hailed for this very Jack Tier?”

“I see'd a man, sir, dat was won'erful Jack Tier built
like, sir, but I did n't hear the conwersation, habbin' the
ladies to 'tend to. But Jack was oncommon short in his
floor timbers, sir, and had no length of keel at all. His beam
was won'erful for his length, altogedder—what you call
jolly-boat, or bum-boat build, and was only good afore'e
wind, Cap'n Spike.”

“Was he good for anything aboard ship, Josh? Worth
heaving-to for, should he try to get aboard of us again?”

“Why, sir, can't say much for him in dat fashion. Jack
was handy in the cabin, and capital feller to carry soup from
the gally, aft. You see, sir, he was so low-rigged that the
brig's lurchin' and pitchin' could n't get him off his pins,
and he stood up like a church in the heaviest wea'der. Yes,
sir, Jack was right good for dat.”

Spike mused a moment—then he rolled the tobacco over
in his mouth, and added, in the way a man speaks when his
mind is made up—

“Ay ay! I see into the fellow. He'll make a handy
lady's maid, and we want such a chap just now. It's better
to have an old friend aboard, than to be pickin' up strangers,
'long shore. So, should this Jack Tier come off to us, from
any of the islands or points ahead, Mr. Mulford, you'll
round to and take him aboard. As for the steamer, if she
will only pass out into the Sound where there's room, it
shall go hard with us but I get to the eastward of her, without
speaking. On the other hand, should she anchor this
side of the fort, I'll not attempt to pass her. There is deep
water inside of most of the islands, I know, and we'll try
and dodge her in that way, if no better offer. I've no more
reason than another craft to fear a government vessel, but
the sight of one of them makes me oncomfortable; that's
all.”

Mulford shrugged his shoulders and remained silent, perceiving
that his commander was not disposed to pursue the
subject any further. In the mean time, the brig had passed
beyond the influence of the bluff, and was beginning to feel
a stronger breeze, that was coming down the wide opening
of Flushing Bay. As the tide still continued strong in her

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

favour, and her motion through the water was getting to be
four or five knots, there was every prospect of her soon
reaching Whitestone, the point where the tides meet, and
where it would become necessary to anchor; unless, indeed,
the wind, which was now getting to the southward and eastward,
should come round more to the south. All this Spike
and his mate discussed together, while the people were clearing
the decks, and making the preparations that are customary
on board a vessel before she gets into rough water.

By this time it was ascertained that the brig had received
no damage by her salute of the Pot Rock, and every trace
of uneasiness on that account was removed. But Spike kept
harping on the boat, and “the pilot-looking chap who was
in her.” As they passed Riker's Island, all hands expected
a boat would put off with a pilot, or to demand pilotage; but
none came, and the Swash now seemed released from all
her present dangers, unless some might still be connected
with the revenue steamer. To retard her advance, however,
the wind came out a smart working breeze from the southward
and eastward, compelling her to make “long legs and
short ones” on her way towards Whitestone.

“This is beating the wind, Rosy dear,” said Mrs. Budd,
complacently, she and her niece having returned to the deck
a few minutes after this change had taken place. “Your
respected uncle did a great deal of this in his time, and was
very successful in it. I have heard him say, that in one of
his voyages between Liverpool and New York, he beat the
wind by a whole fortnight, everybody talking of it in the
insurance offices, as if it was a miracle.”

“Ay, ay, Madam Budd,” put in Spike, “I'll answer for
that. They're desperate talkers in and about them there
insurance offices in Wall street. Great gossips be they,
and they think they know everything. Now just because
this brig is a little old or so, and was built for a privateer in
the last war, they'd refuse to rate her as even B, No. 2,
and my blessing on 'em.”

“Yes, B, No. 2, that's just what your dear uncle used
to call me, Rosy—his charming B, No. 2, or Betsy, No. 2;
particularly when he was in a loving mood. Captain Spike,
did you ever beat the wind in a long voyage?”

“I can't say I ever did, Mrs. Budd,” answered Spike,

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

looking grimly around, to ascertain if any one dared to smile
at his passenger's mistake; “especially for so long a pull
as from New York to Liverpool.”

“Then your uncle used to boast of the Rose In Bloom's
wearing and attacking. She would attack anything that
came in her way, no matter who, and as for wearing, I
think he once told me she would wear just what she had a
mind to, like any human being.”

Rose was a little mystified, but she looked vexed at the
same time, as if she distrusted all was not right.

“I remember all my sea education,” continued the unsuspecting
widow, “as if it had been learnt yesterday. Beating
the wind and attacking ship, my poor Mr. Budd used
to say, were nice manœuvres, and required most of his tactics,
especially in heavy weather. Did you know, Rosy
dear, that sailors weigh the weather, and know when it is
heavy and when it is light?”

“I did not, aunt; nor do I understand now how it can
very well be done.”

“Oh! child, before you have been at sea a week, you will
learn so many things that are new, and get so many ideas
of which you never had any notion before, that you'll not
be the same person. My captain had an instrument he
called a thermometer, and with that he used to weigh the
weather, and then he would write down in the log-book `today,
heavy weather, or to-morrow, light weather,' just as it
happened, and that helped him mightily along in his voyages.”

“Mrs. Budd has merely mistaken the name of the instrument—
the `barometer' is what she wished to say,” put in
Mulford, opportunely.

Rose looked grateful, as well as relieved. Though profoundly
ignorant on these subjects herself, she had always
suspected her aunt's knowledge. It was, consequently,
grateful to her to ascertain that, in this instance, the old
lady's mistake had been so trifling.

“Well, it may have been the barometer, for I know he
had them both,” resumed the aunt. “Barometer, or thermometer,
it do n't make any great difference; or quadrant,
or sextant. They are all instruments, and sometimes he
used one, and sometimes another. Sailors take on board

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

the sun, too, and have an instrument for that, as well as
one to weigh the weather with. Sometimes they take on
board the stars, and the moon, and `fill their ships with the
heavenly bodies,' as I've heard my dear husband say, again
and again! But the most curious thing at sea, as all sailors
tell me, is crossing the line, and I do hope we shall cross
the line, Rosy, that you and I may see it.”

“What is the line, aunty, and how do vessels cross it.”

“The line, my dear, is a place in the ocean where the
earth is divided into two parts, one part being called the
North Pole, and the other part the South Pole. Neptune
lives near this line, and he allows no vessel to go out of one
pole into the other, without paying it a visit. Never! never!—
he would as soon think of living on dry land as think of
letting even a canoe pass, without visiting it.”

“Do you suppose there is such a being, really, as Neptune,
aunty?”

“To be sure I do; he is king of the sea. Why should n't
there be? The sea must have a king, as well as the land.”

“The sea may be a republic, aunty, like this country;
then, no king is necessary. I have always supposed Neptune
to be an imaginary being.”

“Oh that's impossible—the sea is no republic; there are
but two republics, America and Texas. I've heard that the
sea is a highway, it is true—the `highway of nations,' I
believe it is called, and that must mean something particular.
But my poor Mr. Budd always told me that Neptune was
king of the seas, and he was always so accurate, you might
depend on everything he said. Why, he called his last Newfoundland
dog Neptune; and do you think, Rosy, that your
dear uncle would call his dog after an imaginary being?—
and he a man to beat the wind, and attack ship, and take
the sun, moon and stars aboard! No, no, child; fanciful
folk may see imaginary beings, but solid folk see solid beings.”

Even Spike was dumfounded at this, and there is no
knowing what he might have said, had not an old sea-dog,
who had just come out of the fore-topmast cross-trees, come
aft, and, hitching up his trowsers with one hand while he
touched his hat with the other, said with immoveable gravity,

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

“The revenue-steamer has brought up just under the fort,
Capt. Spike.”

“How do you know that, Bill?” demanded the captain,
with a rapidity that showed how completely Mrs. Budd and
all her absurdities were momentarily forgotten.

“I was up on the fore-topgallant yard, sir, a bit ago, just
to look to the strap of the jewel-block, which wants some
sarvice on it, and I see'd her over the land, blowin' off steam
and takin' in her kites. Afore I got out of the cross-trees,
she was head to wind under bare-poles, and if she had n't
anchored, she was about to do so. I'm sartin 't was she,
sir, and that she was about to bring up.”

Spike gave a long, low whistle, after his fashion, and he
walked away from the females, with the air of a man who
wanted room to think in. Half a minute later, he called
out—

“Stand by to shorten sail, boys. Man fore-clew-garnets,
flying jib down haul, topgallant sheets, and gaff-topsail
gear. In with 'em all, my lads—in with everything, with a
will.”

An order to deal with the canvas in any way, on board
ship, immediately commands the whole attention of all whose
duty it is to attend to such matters, and there was an end
of all discourse while the Swash was shortening sail. Everybody
understood, too, that it was to gain time, and prevent
the brig from reaching Throg's Neck sooner than was desirable.

“Keep the brig off,” called out Spike, “and let her ware—
we're too busy to tack just now.”

The man at the wheel knew very well what was wanted,
and he put his helm up, instead of putting it down, as he
might have done without this injunction. As this change
brought the brig before the wind, and Spike was in no hurry
to luff up on the other tack, the Swash soon ran over a mile
of the distance she had already made, putting her back that
much on her way to the Neck. It is out of our power to
say what the people of the different craft in sight thought of
all this, but an opportunity soon offered of putting them on
a wrong scent. A large coasting schooner, carrying everything
that would draw on a wind, came sweeping under the
stern of the Swash, and hailed.

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

“Has anything happened, on board that brig?” demanded
her master.

“Man overboard,” answered Spike—“you hav'nt seen
his hat, have you?”

“No—no,” came back, just as the schooner, in her onward
course, swept beyond the reach of the voice. Her
people collected together, and one or two ran up the rigging
a short distance, stretching their necks, on the look-out for
the “poor fellow,” but they were soon called down to “'bout
ship.” In less than five minutes, another vessel, a rakish
coasting sloop, came within hail.

“Did n't that brig strike the Pot Rock, in passing the
Gate?” demanded her captain.

“Ay, ay!—and a devil of a rap she got, too.”

This satisfied him; there being nothing remarkable in a
vessel's acting strangely that had hit the Pot Rock in passing
Hell Gate.

“I think we may get in our mainsail on the strength of
this, Mr. Mulford,” said Spike. “There can be nothing oncommon
in a craft's shortening sail, that has a man overboard,
and which has hit the Pot Rock. I wonder I never
thought of all this before.”

`Here is a skiff trying to get alongside of us, Capt. Spike,”
called out the boatswain.

“Skiff be d—d! I want no skiff here.”

“The man that called himself Jack Tier is in her, sir.”

“The d—l he is!” cried Spike, springing over to the opposite
side of the deck to take a look for himself. To his
infinite satisfaction he perceived that Tier was alone in the
skiff, with the exception of a negro, who pulled its sculls,
and that this was a very different boat from that which had
glanced through Hell Gate, like an arrow darting from its
bow.

“Luff, and shake your topsail,” called out Spike. “Get
a rope there to throw to this skiff.”

The orders were obeyed, and Jack Tier, with his clothes-bag,
was soon on the deck of the Swash. As for the skiff
and the negro, they were cast adrift the instant the latter
had received his quarter. The meeting between Spike and
his quondam steward's mate was a little remarkable. Each
stood looking intently at the other, as if to note the changes

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

which time had made. We cannot say that Spike's hard,
red, selfish countenance betrayed any great feeling, though
such was not the case with Jack Tier's. The last, a lymphatic,
puffy sort of a person at the best, seemed really a
little touched, and he either actually brushed a tear from his
eye, or he affected so to do.

“So, you are my old shipmate, Jack Tier, are ye?”
exclaimed Spike, in a half-patronizing, half-hesitating way—
and you want to try the old craft ag'in. Give us a leaf
of your log, and let me know where you have been this
many a day, and what you have been about? Keep the
brig off, Mr. Mulford. We are in no particular hurry to
reach Throg's, you'll remember, sir.”

Tier gave an account of his proceedings, which could
have no interest with the reader. His narrative was anything
but very clear, and it was delivered in a cracked,
octave sort of a voice, such as little dapper people not
unfrequently enjoy—tones between those of a man and a
boy. The substance of the whole story was this. Tier
had been left ashore, as sometimes happens to sailors, and,
by necessary connection, was left to shift for himself. After
making some vain endeavours to rejoin his brig, he had
shipped in one vessel after another, until he accidentally
found himself in the port of New York, at the same time as
the Swash. He know'd he never should be truly happy
ag'in until he could once more get aboard the old hussy, and
had hurried up to the wharf, where he understood the brig
was lying. As he came in sight, he saw she was about to
cast off, and, dropping his clothes-bag, he had made the best
of his way to the wharf, where the conversation passed that
has been related.

“The gentleman on the wharf was about to take boat,
to go through the Gate,” concluded Tier, “and so I begs a
passage of him. He was good-natured enough to wait until
I could find my bag, and as soon a'terwards as the men
could get their grog we shoved off. The Molly was just
getting in behind Blackwell's as we left the wharf, and,
having four good oars, and the shortest road, we come out
into the Gate just ahead on you. My eye! what a place
that is to go through in a boat, and on a strong flood! The
gentleman, who watched the brig as a cat watches a mouse,

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

says you struck on the Pot, as he called it, but I says `no,'
for the Molly Swash was never know'd to hit rock or shoal
in my time aboard her.”

“And where did you quit that gentleman, and what has
become of him?” asked Spike.

“He put me ashore on that point above us, where I see'd
a nigger with his skiff, who I thought would be willin' to 'arn
his quarter by giving me a cast alongside. So here I am,
and a long pull I've had to get here.”

As this was said, Jack removed his hat and wiped his
brow with a handkerchief, which, if it had never seen better
days, had doubtless been cleaner. After this, he looked
about him, with an air not entirely free from exultation.

This conversation had taken place in the gangway, a
somewhat public place, and Spike beckoned to his recruit
to walk aft, where he might be questioned without being
overheard.

“What became of the gentleman in the boat, as you call
him?” demanded Spike.

“He pulled ahead, seeming to be in a hurry.”

“Do you know who he was?”

“Not a bit of it. I never saw the man before, and he
did n't tell me his business, sir.”

“Had he anything like a silver oar about him.”

“I saw nothing of the sort, Capt. Spike, and knows nothing
consarning him.”

“What sort of a boat was he in, and where did he get it?”

“Well, as to the boat, sir, I can say a word, seein' it was
so much to my mind, and pulled so wonderful smart. It
was a light ship's yawl, with four oars, and came round the
Hook just a'ter you had got the brig's head round to the
eastward. You must have seen it, I should think, though
it kept close in with the wharves, as if it wished to be snug.”

“Then the gentleman, as you call him, expected that
very boat to come and take him off?”

“I suppose so, sir, because it did come and take him off.
That's all I knows about it.”

“Had you no jaw with the gentleman? You was n't
mnm the whole time you was in the boat with him?”

“Not a bit of it, sir. Silence and I does n't agree together
long, and so we talked most of the time.”

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

“And what did the stranger say of the brig?”

“Lord, sir, he catechised me like as if I had been a child
at Sunday-school. He asked me how long I had sailed in
her; what ports we'd visited, and what trade we'd been in.
You can't think the sight of questions he put, and how
cur'ous he was for the answers.”

“And what did you tell him in your answers? You said
nothin' about our call down on the Spanish Main, the time
you were left ashore, I hope, Jack?”

“Not I, sir. I played him off surprisin'ly. He got nothin'
to count upon out of me. Though I do owe the Molly Swash
a grudge, I'm not goin' to betray her.”

“You owe the Molly Swash a grudge! Have I taken an
enemy on board her, then?”

Jack started, and seemed sorry he had said so much;
while Spike eyed him keenly. But the answer set all right.
It was not given, however, without a moment for recollection.

“Oh, you knows what I mean, sir. I owe the old hussy
a grudge for having desarted me like; but it's only a love
quarrel atween us. The old Molly will never come to harm
by my means.”

“I hope not, Jack. The man that wrongs the craft he
sails in can never be a true-hearted sailor. Stick by your
ship in all weathers is my rule, and a good rule it is to go
by. But what did you tell the stranger?”

“Oh! I told him I'd been six v'y'ges in the brig. The
first was to Madagascar—”

“The d—l you did? Was he soft enough to believe
that?”

“That's more than I knows, sir. I can only tell you
what I said; I do n't pretend to know how much he believed.”

“Heave ahead—what next?”

“Then I told him we went to Kamschatka for gold dust
and ivory.”

“Whe-e-ew! What did the man say to that?”

“Why, he smiled a bit, and a'ter that he seemed more
cur'ous than ever to hear all about it. I told him my third
v'y'ge was to Canton, with a cargo of broom-corn, where
we took in salmon and dun-fish for home. A'ter that we

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

went to Norway with ice, and brought back silks and money.
Our next run was to the Havana, with salt and 'nips—”

“'Nips! what the devil be they?”

“Turnips, you knows, sir. We always calls 'em 'nips
in cargo. At the Havana I told him we took in leather and
jerked beef, and came home. Oh! he got nothin' from me,
Capt. Spike, that'll ever do the brig a morsel of harm!”

“I am glad of that, Jack. You must know enough of
the seas to understand that a close mouth is sometimes better
for a vessel than a clean bill of health. Was there nothing
said about the revenue-steamer?”

“Now you name her, sir, I believe there was—ay, ay,
sir, the gentleman did say, if the steamer fetched up to the
westward of the fort, that he should overhaul her without
difficulty, on this flood.

“That'll do, Jack; that'll do, my honest fellow. Go
below, and tell Josh to take you into the cabin again, as
steward's mate. You're rather too Dutch built, in your old
age, to do much aloft.”

One can hardly say whether Jack received this remark
as complimentary, or not. He looked a little glum, for a
man may be as round as a barrel, and wish to be thought
genteel and slender; but he went below, in quest of Josh,
without making any reply.

The succeeding movements of Spike appeared to be much
influenced by what he had just heard. He kept the brig under
short canvas for near two hours, sheering about in the
same place, taking care to tell everything which spoke him
that he had lost a man overboard. In this way, not only
the tide, but the day itself, was nearly spent. About the
time the former began to lose its strength, however, the
fore-course and the main-sail were got on the brigantine,
with the intention of working her up toward Whitestone,
where the tides meet, and near which the revenue-steamer
was known to be anchored. We say near, though it was,
in fact, a mile or two more to the eastward, and close to the
extremity of the Point.

Notwithstanding these demonstrations of a wish to work
to windward, Spike was really in no hurry. He had made
up his mind to pass the steamer in the dark, if possible, and
the night promised to favour him; but, in order to do this,

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

it might be necessary not to come in sight of her at all; or,
at least, not until the obscurity should in some measure
conceal his rig and character. In consequence of this plan,
the Swash made no great progress, even after she had got
sail on her, on her old course. The wind lessened, too,
after the sun went down, though it still hung to the eastward,
or nearly ahead. As the tide gradually lost its force,
moreover, the set to windward became less and less, until
it finally disappeared altogether.

There is necessarily a short reach in this passage, where
it is always slack water, so far as current is concerned.
This is precisely where the tides meet, or, as has been intimated,
at Whitestone, which is somewhat more than a mile
to the westward of Throgmorton's Neck, near the point of
which stands Fort Schuyler, one of the works recently
erected for the defence of New York. Off the pitch of the
point, nearly mid-channel, had the steamer anchored, a fact
of which Spike had made certain, by going aloft himself,
and reconnoitering her over the land, before it had got to be
too dark to do so. He entertained no manner of doubt that
this vessel was in waiting for him, and he well knew there
was good reason for it; but he would not return and attempt
the passage to sea by way of Sandy Hook. His manner of
regarding the whole matter was cool and judicious. The
distance to the Hook was too great to be made in such short
nights ere the return of day, and he had no manner of doubt
he was watched for in that direction, as well as in this.
Then he was particularly unwilling to show his craft at all
in front of the town, even in the night. Moreover, he had
ways of his own for effecting his purposes, and this was the
very spot and time to put them in execution.

While these things were floating in his mind, Mrs. Budd
and her handsome niece were making preparations for passing
the night, aided by Biddy Noon. The old lady was
factotum, or factota, as it might be most classical to call her,
though we are entirely without authorities on the subject,
and was just as self-complacent and ambitious of seawomanship
below decks, as she had been above board. The effect,
however, gave Spike great satisfaction, since it kept her out
of sight, and left him more at liberty to carry out his own
plans. About nine, however, the good woman came on

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

deck, intending to take a look at the weather, like a skilful
marineress as she was, before she turned in. Not a little
was she astonished at what she then and there beheld, as
she whispered to Rose and Biddy, both of whom stuck close
to her side, feeling the want of good pilotage, no doubt, in
strange waters.

The Molly Swash was still under her canvas, though very
little sufficed for her present purposes. She was directly off
Whitestone, and was making easy stretches across the passage,
or river, as it is called, having nothing set but her huge
fore-and-aft mainsail and the jib. Under this sail she
worked like a top, and Spike sometimes fancied she travelled
too fast for his purposes, the night air having thickened the
canvas as usual, until it “held the wind as a bottle holds
water.” There was nothing in this, however, to attract the
particular attention of the ship-master's widow, a sail, more
or less, being connected with observation much too critical
for her schooling, nice as the last had been. She was surprised
to find the men stripping the brig forward, and converting
her into a schooner. Nor was this done in a loose
and slovenly manner, under favour of the obscurity. On
the contrary, it was so well executed that it might have deceived
even a seaman under a noon-day sun, provided the
vessel were a mile or two distant. The manner in which
the metamorphosis was made was as follows: the studding-sail
booms had been taken off the topsail-yard, in order
to shorten it to the eye, and the yard itself was swayed up
about half-mast, to give it the appearance of a schooner's
fore-yard. The brig's real lower yard was lowered on the
bulwarks, while her royal yard was sent down altogether,
and the topgallant-mast was lowered until the heel rested on
the topsail yard, all of which, in the night, gave the gear
forward very much the appearance of that of a fore-topsail
schooner, instead of that of a half-rigged brig, as the craft
really was. As the vessel carried a try-sail on her foremast,
it answered very well, in the dark, to represent a
schooner's foresail. Several other little dispositions of this
nature were made, about which it might weary the uninitiated
to read, but which will readily suggest themselves to the
mind of a sailor.

These alterations were far advanced when the females

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

re-appeared on deck. They at once attracted their attention,
and the captain's widow felt the imperative necessity,
as connected with her professional character, of proving the
same. She soon found Spike, who was bustling around the
deck, now looking around to see that his brig was kept in
the channel, now and then issuing an order to complete her
disguise.

“Captain Spike, what can be the meaning of all these
changes? The tamper of your vessel is so much altered
that I declare I should not have known her!”

“Is it, by George! Then she is just in the state I want
her to be in.”

“But why have you done it—and what does it all mean?”

“Oh, Molly's going to bed for the night, and she's only
undressing herself—that's all.”

“Yes, Rosy dear, Captain Spike is right. I remember
that my poor Mr. Budd used to talk about The Rose In Bloom
having her clothes on, and her clothes off, just as if she was
a born woman! But do n't you mean to navigate at all in
the night, Captain Spike? Or will the brig navigate without
sails?”

“That's it—she's just as good in the dark, under one
sort of canvas, as under another. So, Mr. Mulford, we'll
take a reef in that mainsail; it will bring it nearer to the
size of our new foresail, and seem more ship-shape and
Brister fashion—then I think she'll do, as the night is getting
to be rather darkish.”

“Captain Spike,” said the boatswain, who had been set
to look-out for that particular change—“the brig begins to
feel the new tide, and sets to windward.”

“Let her go, then—now is as good a time as another.
We've got to run the gantlet, and the sooner it is done the
better.”

As the moment seemed propitious, not only Mulford, but
all the people, heard this order with satisfaction. The night
was star-light, though not very clear at that. Objects on
the water, however, were more visible than those on the land,
while those on the last could be seen well enough, even from
the brig, though in confused and somewhat shapeless piles.
When the Swash was brought close by the wind, she had
just got into the last reach of the “river,” or that which

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

runs parallel with the Neck for near a mile, doubling where
the Sound expands itself, gradually, to a breadth of many
leagues. Still the navigation at the entrance of this end of
the Sound was intricate and somewhat dangerous, rendering
it indispensable for a vessel of any size to make a crooked
course. The wind stood at south-east, and was very scant
to lay through the reach with, while the tide was so slack
as barely to possess a visible current at that place. The
steamer lay directly off the Point, mid-channel, as mentioned,
showing lights, to mark her position to anything which might
be passing in or out. The great thing was to get by her
without exciting her suspicion. As all on board, the females
excepted, knew what their captain was at, the attempt was
made amid an anxious and profound silence; or, if any one
spoke at all, it was only to give an order in a low tone, or
its answer in a simple monosyllable.

Although her aunt assured her that everything which had
been done already, and which was now doing, was quite in
rule, the quick-eyed and quick-witted Rose noted these unusual
proceedings, and had an opinion of her own on the
subject. Spike had gone forward, and posted himself on the
weather-side of the forecastle, where he could get the clearest
look ahead, and there he remained most of the time,
leaving Mulford on the quarter-deck, to work the vessel,
Perceiving this, she managed to get near the mate, without
attracting her aunt's attention, and at the same time out of
ear-shot.

“Why is everybody so still and seemingly so anxious,
Harry Mulford?” she asked, speaking in a low tone herself,
as if desirous of conforming to a common necessity. “Is
there any new danger here? I thought the Gate had been
passed altogether, some hours ago?”

“So it has. D'ye see that large dark mass on the water,
off the Point, which seems almost as huge as the fort, with
lights above it? That is a revenue-steamer which came out
of York a few hours before us. We wish to get past her
without being troubled by any of her questions.”

“And what do any in this brig care about her questions?
They can be answered, surely.”

“Ay, ay, Rose—they may be answered, as you say, but
the answers sometimes are unsatisfactory. Captain Spike,

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

for some reason or other, is uneasy, and would rather not
have anything to say to her. He has the greatest aversion
to speaking the smallest craft when on a coast.”

“And that's the reason he has undressed his Molly, as
he calls her, that he might not be known.”

Mulford turned his head quickly toward his companion,
as if surprised by her quickness of apprehension, but he
had too just a sense of his duty to make any reply. Instead
of pursuing the discourse, he adroitly contrived to change
it, by pointing out to Rose the manner in which they were
getting on, which seemed to be very successfully.

Although the Swash was under much reduced canvas,
she glided along with great ease and with considerable rapidity
of motion. The heavy night air kept her canvas
distended, and the weatherly set of the tide, trifling as it yet
was, pressed her up against the breeze, so as to turn all to
account. It was apparent enough, by the manner in which
objects on the land were passed, that the crisis was fast approaching.
Rose rejoined her aunt, in order to await the
result, in nearly breathless expectation. At that moment,
she would have given the world to be safe on shore. This
wish was not the consequence of any constitutional timidity,
for Rose was much the reverse from timid, but it was the
fruit of a newly-awakened and painful, though still vague,
suspicion. Happy, thrice happy was it for one of her naturally
confiding and guileless nature, that distrust was thus
opportunely awakened, for she was without a guardian competent
to advise and guide her youth, as circumstances required.

The brig was not long in reaching the passage that
opened to the Sound. It is probable she did this so much
the sooner because Spike kept her a little off the wind, with
a view of not passing too near the steamer. At this point,
the direction of the passage changes at nearly a right angle,
the revenue-steamer lying on a line with the Neck, and
leaving a sort of bay, in the angle, for the Swash to enter.
The land was somewhat low in all directions but one, and
that was by drawing a straight line from the Point, through
the steamer, to the Long Island shore. On the latter, and
in that quarter, rose a bluff of considerable elevation, with
deep water quite near it; and, under the shadows of that

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

bluff, Spike intended to perform his nicest evolutions. He
saw that the revenue vessel had let her fires go down, and
that she was entirely without steam. Under canvas, he had
no doubt of beating her hand over hand, could he once fairly
get to windward; and then she was at anchor, and would
lose some time in getting under way, should she even commence
a pursuit. It was all important, therefore, to gain as
much to windward as possible, before the people of the
government vessel took the alarm.

There can be no doubt that the alterations made on board
the Swash served her a very good turn on this occasion.
Although the night could not be called positively dark, there
was sufficient obscurity to render her hull confused and indistinct
at any distance, and this so much the more when
seen from the steamer outside, or between her and the land.
All this Spike very well understood, and largely calculated
on. In effect he was not deceived; the look-outs on board
the revenue craft could trace little of the vessel that was
approaching beyond the spars and sails which rose above
the shores, and these seemed to be the spars and sails of a
common foretopsail schooner. As this was not the sort of
craft for which they were on the watch, no suspicion was
awakened, nor did any reports go from the quarter-deck to
the cabin. The steamer had her quarter watches, and
officers of the deck, like a vessel of war, the discipline of
which was fairly enough imitated, but even a man-of-war
may be overreached on an occasion.

Spike was only great in a crisis, and then merely as a
seaman. He understood his calling to its minutiæ, and he
understood the Molly Swash better than he understood any
other craft that floated. For more than twenty years had
he sailed her, and the careful parent does not better understand
the humours of the child, than he understood exactly
what might be expected from his brig. His satisfaction
sensibly increased, therefore, as she stole along the land,
toward the angle mentioned, without a sound audible but the
gentle gurgling of the water, stirred by the stem, and which
sounded like the ripple of the gentlest wave, as it washes
the shingle of some placid beach.

As the brig drew nearer to the bluff, the latter brought
the wind more ahead, as respected the desired course. This

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

was unfavourable, but it did not disconcert her watchful
commander.

“Let her come round, Mr. Mulford,” said this pilot-captain,
in a low voice—“we are as near in as we ought to
go.”

The helm was put down, the head sheets started, and
away into the wind shot the Molly Swash, fore-reaching famously
in stays, and, of course, gaining so much on her
true course. In a minute she was round, and filled on the
other tack. Spike was now so near the land, that he could
perceive the tide was beginning to aid him, and that his weatherly
set was getting to be considerable. Delighted at
this, he walked aft, and told Mulford to go about again as
soon as the vessel had sufficient way to make sure of her in
stays. The mate inquired if he did not think the revenue
people might suspect something, unless they stood further
out toward mid-channel, but Spike reminded him that they
would be apt to think the schooner was working up under
the southern shore, because the ebb first made there. This
reason satisfied Mulford, and, as soon as they were half-way
between the bluff and the steamer, the Swash was again
tacked, with her head to the former. This manœuvre was
executed when the brig was about two hundred yards from
the steamer, a distance that was sufficient to preserve, under
all the circumstances, the disguise she had assumed.

“They do not suspect us, Harry!” whispered Spike to
his mate. “We shall get to windward of 'em, as sartain
as the breeze stands. That boatin' gentleman might as well
have staid at home, as for any good his hurry done him or
his employers!”

“Whom do you suppose him to be, Captain Spike?”

“Who,—a feller that lives by his own wicked deeds.
No matter who he is. An informer, perhaps. At any rate,
he is not the man to outwit the Molly Swash, and her old,
stupid, foolish master and owner, Stephen Spike. Luff, Mr.
Mulford, luff. Now's the time to make the most of your
leg—Luff her up and shake her. She is setting to windward
fast, the ebb is sucking along that bluff like a boy at
a molasses hogshead. All she can drift on this tack is clear
gain; there is no hurry, so long as they are asleep aboard
the steamer. That's it—make a half-board at once, but

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

take care and not come round. As soon as we are fairly
clear of the bluff, and open the bay that makes up behind it,
we shall get the wind more to the southward, and have a
fine long leg for the next stretch.”

Of course Mulford obeyed, throwing the brig up into the
wind, and allowing her to set to windward, but filling again
on the same tack, as ordered. This, of course, delayed her
progress toward the land, and protracted the agony, but it
carried the vessel in the direction she most wished to go,
while it kept her not only end on to the steamer, but in a
line with the bluff, and consequently in the position most favourable
to conceal her true character. Presently, the bay
mentioned, which was several miles deep, opened darkly toward
the south, and the wind came directly out of it, or
more to the southward. At this moment the Swash was
near a quarter of a mile from the steamer, and all that distance
dead to windward of her, as the breeze came out of
the bay. Spike tacked his vessel himself now, and got her
head up so high that she brought the steamer on her lee
quarter, and looked away toward the island which lies northwardly
from the Point, and quite near to which all vessels
of any draught of water are compelled to pass, even with
the fairest winds.

“Shake the reef out of the mainsail, Mr. Mulford,” said
Spike, when the Swash was fairly in motion again on this
advantageous tack. “We shall pass well to windward of
the steamer, and may as well begin to open our cloth
again.”

“Is it not a little too soon, sir?” Mulford ventured to remonstrate;
“the reef is a large one, and will make a great
difference in the size of the sail.”

“They'll not see it at this distance. No, no, sir, shake
out the reef, and sway away on the topgallant-mast rope;
I'm for bringing the Molly Swash into her old shape again,
and make her look handsome once more.”

“Do you dress the brig, as well as undress her, o'mights;
Captain Spike?” inquired the ship-master's reliet, a little
puzzled with this fickleness of purpose. “I do not believe
my poor Mr. Budd ever did that.”

“Fashions change, madam, with the times—ay, ay, sir—
shake out the reef, and sway away on that mast-rope,

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

boys, as soon as you have manned it. We'll convart our
schooner into a brig again.”

As these orders were obeyed, of course, a general bustle
now took place. Mulford soon had the reef out, and the
sail distended to the utmost, while the topgallant-mast was
soon up and fidded. The next thing was to sway upon the
fore-yard, and get that into its place. The people were
busied at this duty, when a hoarse hail came across the
water on the heavy night air.

“Brig ahoy!” was the call.

“Sway upon that fore-yard,” said Spike, unmoved by
this summons—“start it, start it at once.”

“The steamer hails us, sir,” said the mate.

“Not she. She is hailing a brig; we are a schooner
yet.”

A moment of active exertion succeeded, during which the
fore-yard went into its place. Then came a second hail.

“Schooner, ahoy!” was the summons this time.

“The steamer hails us again, Captain Spike.”

“The devil a bit. We're a brig now, and she hails a
schooner. Come boys, bestir yourselves, and get the canvas
on Molly for'ard. Loose the fore-course before you quit
the yard there, then up aloft and loosen everything you can
find.”

All was done as ordered, and done rapidly, as is ever the
case on board a well-ordered vessel when there is occasion
for exertion. That occasion now appeared to exist in earnest,
for while the men were sheeting home the topsail, a
flash of light illuminated the scene, when the roar of a gun
came booming across the water, succeeded by the very distinct
whistling of its shot. We regret that the relict of the
late Captain Budd did not behave exactly as became a ship-master's
widow, under fire. Instead of remaining silent and
passive, even while frightened, as was the case with Rose,
she screamed quite as loud as she had previously done that
very day in Hell-Gate. It appeared to Spike, indeed, that
practice was making her perfect; and, as for Biddy, the
spirit of emulation became so powerful in her bosom, that,
if anything, she actually outshrieked her mistress. Hearing
this, the widow made a second effort, and fairly recovered
the ground some might have fancied she had lost.

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

“Oh! Captain Spike,” exclaimed the agitated widow,
“do not—do not, if you love me, do not let them fire
again!”

“How am I to help it!” asked the captain, a good deal to
the point, though he overlooked the essential fact, that, by
heaving-to, and waiting for the steamer's boat to board him,
he might have prevented a second shot, as completely as if
he had the ordering of the whole affair. No second shot
was fired, however. As it afterward appeared, the screams
of Mrs. Budd and Biddy were heard on board the steamer,
the captain of which, naturally enough, supposing that the
slaughter must be terrible where such cries had arisen, was
satisfied with the mischief he had already done, and directed
his people to secure their gun and go to the capstan-bars, in
order to help lift the anchor. In a word, the revenue vessel
was getting under way, man-of-war fashion, which means
somewhat expeditiously.

Spike understood the sounds that reached him, among
which was the call of the boatswain, and he bestirred himself
accordingly. Experienced as he was in chases and all
sorts of nautical artifices, he very well knew that his situation
was sufficiently critical. It would have been so, with
a steamer at his heels, in the open ocean; but, situated as
he was, he was compelled to steer but one course, and to
accept the wind on that course as it might offer. If he
varied at all in his direction it was only in a trifling way,
though he did make some of these variations. Every
moment was now precious, however, and he endeavoured to
improve the time to the utmost. He knew that he could
greatly outsail the revenue vessel, under canvas, and some
time would be necessary to enable her to get up her steam;
half an hour at the very least. On that half hour, then,
depended the fate of the Molly Swash.

“Send the booms on the yards, and set stun'sails at once,
Mr. Mulford,” said Spike, the instant the more regular canvas
was spread forward. “This wind will be free enough
for all but the lower stun'sail, and we must drive the brig
on.”

“Are we not looking up too high, Captain Spike? The
Stepping-Stones are ahead of us, sir.”

“I know that very well, Mulford. But it's nearly high

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

water, and the brig's in light trim, and we may rub and go.
By making a short cut here, we shall gain a full mile on
the steamer; that mile may save us.”

“Do you really think it possible to get away from that
craft, which can always make a fair wind of it, in these
narrow waters, Captain Spike?”

“One don't know, sir. Nothin' is done without tryin',
and by tryin' more is often done than was hoped for. I
have a scheme in my head, and Providence may favour me
in bringing it about.”

Providence! The religionist quarrels with the philosopher
if the latter happen to remove this interposition of a
higher power, even so triflingly as by the intervention of
secondary agencies, while the biggest rascal dignifies even
his success by such phrases as Providential aid! But it is
not surprising men should misunderstand terms, when they
make such sad confusion in the acts which these terms are
merely meant to represent. Spike had his Providence as
well as a priest, and we dare say he often counted on its
succour, with quite as rational grounds of dependence as
many of the pharisees who are constantly exclaiming,
“The Temple of the Lord, the Temple of the Lord are
these.”

Sail was made on board the Swash with great rapidity,
and the brig made a bold push at the Stepping-Stones.
Spike was a capital pilot. He insisted if he could once gain
sight of the spar that was moored on those rocks for a
buoy, he should run with great confidence. The two lights
were of great assistance, of course; but the revenue vessel
could see these lights as well as the brig, and she, doubtless,
had an excellent pilot on board. By the time the studding-sails
were set on board the Swash, the steamer was aweigh,
and her long line of peculiar sails became visible. Unfortunately
for men who were in a hurry, she lay so much
within the bluff as to get the wind scant, and her commander
thought it necessary to make a stretch over to the southern
shore, before he attempted to lay his course. When he
was ready to tack, an operation of some time with a vessel
of her great length, the Swash was barely visible in the obscurity,
gliding off upon a slack bowline, at a rate which
nothing but the damp night air, the ballast-trim of the vessel,

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

united to her excellent sailing qualities, could have produced
with so light a breeze.

The first half hour took the Swash completely out of sight
of the steamer. In that time, in truth, by actual superiority
in sailing, by her greater state of preparation, and by the
distance saved by a bold navigation, she had gained fully a
league on her pursuer. But, while the steamer had lost sight
of the Swash, the latter kept the former in view, and that
by means of a signal that was very portentous. She saw
the light of the steamer's chimneys, and could form some
opinion of her distance and position.

It was about eleven o'clock when the Swash passed the
light at Sands' Point, close in with the land. The wind
stood much as it had been. If there was a change at all,
it was half a point more to the southward, and it was a little
fresher. Such as it was, Spike saw he was getting, in that
smooth water, quite eight knots out of his craft, and he made
his calculations thereon. As yet, and possibly for half an
hour longer, he was gaining, and might hope to continue to
gain on the steamer. Then her turn would come. Though
no great traveller, it was not to be expected that, favoured
by smooth water and the breeze, her speed would be less
than ten knots, while there was no hope of increasing his
own without an increase of the wind. He might be five
miles in advance, or six at the most; these six miles would
be overcome in three hours of steaming, to a dead certainty,
and they might possibly be overcome much sooner. It was
obviously necessary to resort to some other experiment than
that of dead sailing, if an escape was to be effected.

The Sound was now several miles in width, and Spike,
at first, proposed to his mate, to keep off dead before the
wind, and by crossing over to the north shore, let the
steamer pass ahead, and continue a bootless chase to the
eastward. Several vessels, however, were visible in the
middle of the passage, at distances varying from one to
three miles, and Mulford pointed out the hopelessness of
attempting to cross the sheet of open water, and expect
to go unseen by the watchful eyes of the revenue people.

“What you say is true enough, Mr. Mulford,” answered
Spike, after a moment of profound reflection, “and every
foot that they come nearer, the less will be our chance.

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

But here is Hempstead Harbour a few leagues ahead; if we
can reach that before the blackguards close, we may do well
enough. It is a deep bay, and has high land to darken the
view. I don't think the brig could be seen at midnight by
anything outside; if she was once fairly up that water a mile
or two.”

“That is our chance, sir!” exclaimed Mulford cheerfully.
“Ay, ay, I know the spot; and everything is favourable—
try that, Captain Spike; I'll answer for it that we go clear.”

Spike did try it. For a considerable time longer he stood
on, keeping as close to the land as he thought it safe to run,
and carrying everything that would draw. But the steamer
was on his heels, evidently gaining fast. Her chimneys
gave out flames, and there was every sign that her people
were in earnest. To those on board the Swash these flames
seemed to draw nearer each instant, as indeed was the fact,
and just as the breeze came fresher out of the opening in
the hills, or the low mountains, which surround the place
of refuge in which they designed to enter, Mulford announced
that by aid of the night-glass he could distinguish both sails
and hull of their pursuer. Spike took a look, and throwing
down the instrument, in a way to endanger it, he ordered
the studding-sails taken in. The men went aloft like cats,
and worked as if they could stand in air. In a minute or
two the Swash was under what Mrs. Budd might have called
her “attacking” canvas, and was close by the wind, looking
on a good leg well up the harbour. The brig seemed to
be conscious of the emergency, and glided ahead at capital
speed. In five minutes she had shut in the flaming chimneys
of the steamer. In five minutes more Spike tacked,
to keep under the western side of the harbour, and out of
sight as long as possible, and because he thought the breeze
drew down fresher where he was than more out in the
bay.

All now depended on the single fact whether the brig had
been seen from the steamer or not, before she hauled into
the bay. If seen, she had probably been watched; if not
seen, there were strong grounds for hoping that she might
still escape. About a quarter of an hour after Spike hauled
up, the burning chimneys came again into view. The brig
was then half a league within the bay, with a fine dark

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

background of hills to throw her into shadow. Spike ordered
everything taken in but the trysail, under which the brig
was left to set slowly over toward the western side of the
harbour. He now rubbed his hands with delight, and
pointed out to Mulford the circumstance that the steamer
kept on her course directly athwart the harbour's mouth!
Had she seen the Swash, no doubt she would have turned
into the bay also. Nevertheless, an anxious ten minutes
succeeded, during which the revenue vessel steamed fairly
past, and shut in her flaming chimneys again by the eastern
headlands of the estuary.