Munson and his companion suspended their discourse while this question and answer were exchanged, and then resumed their dialogue as earnestly as if it had received no interruption.
“If it did wink, the hint would be lost on our betters,” said the officer of the marines, whose ignorance of seamanship added greatly to his perception of the danger, but who, from pure idleness, made more jokes than any other man in the ship. “That pilot would not receive a delicate intimation through his ears, Mr. Griffith; suppose you try him by the nose.”
“Faith, there was a flash of gunpowder between us in the barge,” returned the first lieutenant, “and he does not seem a man to stomach such hints as you advise. Although he looks so meek and quiet, I doubt whether he has paid much attention to the book of Job.”
“Why should he?” exclaimed the chaplain, whose apprehensions at least equaled those of the marine, and with a much more disheartening effect; “I am sure it would have been a great waste of time: there are so many charts of the coast, and books on the navigation of these seas, for him to study, that I sincerely hope he has been much better employed.”
A loud laugh was created at this speech among the listeners, and it apparently produced the effect that was so long anxiously desired, by putting an end to the mysterious conference between their captain and the pilot. As the former came forward towards his expecting crew, he said, is the composed, steady manner that formed the principal trait in his character:
“Get the anchor, Mr. Griffith, and make sail on the ship; the hour has arrived when we must be moving.”
The cheerful “Ay! ay! sir!” of the young lieutenant was hardly uttered, before the cries of half a dozen midshipmen were heard summoning the boatswain and his mates to their duty.
There was a general movement in the living masses that clustered around the mainmast, on the booms, and in the gangways, though their habits of discipline held the crew a moment longer in suspense. The silence was first broken by the sound of the boatswain’s whistle, followed by the hoarse cry of“ All hands, up anchor, ahoy!” – the former rising on the night air, from its first low mellow notes to a piercing shrillness that gradually died away on the waters; and the latter bellowing through every cranny of the ship, like the hollow murmurs of distant thunder.
The change produced by the customary summons was magical. Human beings sprang out from between the guns, rushed up the hatches, threw themselves with careless activity from the booms, and gathered from every quarter so rapidly, that in an instant the deck of the frigate was alive with men. The profound silence, that had hitherto been only interrupted by the low dialogue of the officers, was now changed for the stern orders of the lieutenants, mingled with the shriller cries of the midshipmen, and the hoarse bawling of the boatswain’s crew, rising above the tumult of preparation and general bustle.
The captain and the pilot alone remained passive, in this scene of general exertion; for apprehension had even stimulated that class of officers which is called “idlers” to unusual activity, though frequently reminded by their more experienced messmates that, instead of aiding, they retarded the duty of the vessel. The bustle, however, gradually ceased, and in a few minutes the same silence pervaded the ship as before.
“We are brought-to, sir,” said Griffith, who stood overlooking the scene, holding in one hand a short speaking, trumpet, and grasping with the other one of the shrouds of the ship, to steady himself in the position he had taken on a gun.
“Heave round, sir,” was the calm reply.
“Heave round!” repeated Griffith, aloud.
“Heave round!” echoed a dozen eager voices at once, and the lively strains of a fife struck up a brisk air, to enliven the labor. The capstan was instantly set in motion, and the mea sured tread of the seamen was heard, as they stamped the deck in the circle of their march. For a few minutes no other sounds were heard, if we except the voice of an officer, occasionally cheering the sailors, when it was announced that they “were short;” or, in other words, that the ship was nearly over her anchor.
“Heave and pull,” cried Griffith; when the quivering notes of the whistle were again succeeded by a general stillness in the vessel.
“What is to be done now, sir?” continued the lieutenant; “shall we trip the anchor? There seems not a breath of air; and as the tide runs slack, I doubt whether the sea do not heave the ship ashore.”
There was so much obvious truth in this conjecture, that all eyes turned from the light and animation afforded by the decks of the frigate, to look abroad on the waters, in a vain desire to pierce the darkness, as if to read the fate of their apparently devoted ship from the aspect of nature.
“I leave all to the pilot,” said the captain, after he had stood a short time by the side of Griffith, anxiously studying the heavens and the ocean. “What say you, Mr. Gray?”
The man who was thus first addressed by name was leaning over the bulwarks, with his eyes bent in the same direction as the others; but as he answered he turned his face towards the speaker, and the light from the deck fell full upon his quiet features, which exhibited a calmness bordering on the supernatural, considering his station and responsibility.
“There is much to fear from this heavy ground-swell,” he said, in the same unmoved tones as before; “but there is certain destruction to us, if the gale that is brewing in the east finds us waiting its fury in this wild anchorage. All the hemp that ever was spun into cordage would not hold a ship an hour, chafing on these rocks, with a northeaster pouring its fury on her. If the powers of man can compass it, gentlemen, we must get an offing, and that speedily.”
“You say no more, sir, than the youngest boy in the ship can see for himself,” said Griffith – “ha! here comes the schooner!”
The dashing of the long sweeps in the water was now plainly audible, and the little Ariel was seen through the gloom, moving heavily under their feeble impulse. As she passed slowly under the stern of the frigate, the cheerful voice of Barnstable was first heard, opening the communications between them.
“Here’s a night for spectacles, Captain Munson!” he cried; “but I thought I heard your fife, sir. I trust in God, you do not mean to ride it out here till morning?”
“I like the berth as little as yourself, Mr. Barnstable,” returned the veteran seaman, in his calm manner, in which anxiety was, however, beginning to grow evident. “We are short; but are afraid to let go our hold of the bottom, lest the sea cast us ashore. How make you out the wind?”
“Wind!” echoed the other; “there is not enough to blow a lady’s curl aside. If you wait, sir, till the land-breeze fills your sails, you will wait another moon. I believe I’ve got my eggshell out of that nest of gray-caps; but how it has been done in the dark, a better man than myself must explain.”
“Take your directions from the pilot, Mr. Barnstable,” returned his commanding officer, “and follow them strictly and to the letter.”
A deathlike silence, in both vessels, succeeded this order; for all seemed to listen eagerly to catch the words that fell from the man on whom, even the boys now felt, depended their only hopes for safety. A short time was suffered to elapse, before his voice was heard, in the same low but distinct tones as before:
“Your sweeps will soon be of no service to you,” he said, “against the sea that begins to heave in; but your light sails will help them to get you out. So long as you can head east-and-by-north, you are doing well, and you can stand on till you open the light from that northern headland, when you can heave to and fire a gun; but if, as I dread, you are struck aback before you open
