The Pilot: A Tale of the Sea. Джеймс Фенимор Купер

for life.”

      “And how would you dispose of me in the interval?” said the young maiden, retreating slowly from his advances.

      “In the Ariel – by heaven, you shall be her commander; I will bear that rank only in name.”

      “I thank you, thank you, Barnstable, but distrust my abilities to fill such a station,” she said, laughing, though the color that again crossed her youthful features was like the glow of a summer’s sunset, and even her mirthful eyes seemed to reflect their tints. “Do not mistake me, saucy one. If I have done more than my sex will warrant, remember it was through a holy motive, and if I have more than a woman’s enterprise, it must be —”

      “To lift you above the weakness of your sex,” he cried, “and to enable you to show your noble confidence in me.”

      “To fit me for, and to keep me worthy of being one day your wife.” As she uttered these words she turned and disappeared, with a rapidity that eluded his attempts to detain her, behind an angle of the hedge, that was near them. For a moment, Barnstable remained motionless, through surprise, and when he sprang forward in pursuit, he was able only to catch a glimpse of her light form, in the gloom of the evening, as she again vanished in a little thicket at some distance.

      Barnstable was about to pursue, when the air lighted with a sudden flash, and the bellowing report of a cannon rolled along the cliffs, and was echoed among the hills far inland.

      “Ay, grumble away, old dotard!” the disappointed young sailor muttered to himself, while he reluctantly obeyed the signal; “you are in as great a hurry to get out of your danger as you were to run into it.”

      The quick reports of three muskets from the barge beneath where he stood urged him to quicken his pace, and as he threw himself carelessly down the rugged and dangerous passes of the cliffs, his experienced eye beheld the well-known lights displayed from the frigate, which commanded “the recall of all her boats.”

      Chapter III

      In such a time as this it is not meet

      That every nice offence should bear its comment.

Shakespeare

      The cliffs threw their dark shadows wide on the waters, and the gloom of the evening had so far advanced as to conceal the discontent that brooded over the ordinarily open brow of Barnstable as he sprang from the rocks into the boat, and took his seat by the side of the silent pilot. “Shove off,” cried the lieutenant, in tones that his men knew must be obeyed. “A seaman’s curse light on the folly that exposes planks and lives to such navigation; and all to burn some old timberman, or catch a Norway trader asleep! give way, men, give way!”

      Notwithstanding the heavy and dangerous surf that was beginning to tumble in upon the rocks in an alarming manner, the startled seamen succeeded in urging their light boat over the waves, and in a few seconds were without the point where danger was most to be apprehended. Barnstable had seemingly disregarded the breakers as they passed, but sat sternly eyeing the foam that rolled by them in successive surges, until the boat rose regularly on the long seas, when he turned his looks around the bay in quest of the barge.

      “Ay, Griffith has tired of rocking in his pillowed cradle,” he muttered, “and will give us a pull to the frigate, when we ought to be getting the schooner out of this hard-featured landscape. This is just such a place as one of your sighing lovers would doat on; a little land, a little water, and a good deal of rock. Damme, long Tom, but I am more than half of your mind, that an island now and then is all the terra firma that a seaman needs.”

      “It’s reason and philosophy, sir,” returned the sedate cockswain; “and what land there is, should always be a soft mud, or a sandy ooze, in order that an anchor might hold, and to make soundings sartin. I have lost many a deep-sea, besides hand leads by the dozen, on rocky bottoms; but give me the roadstead where a lead comes up light and an anchor heavy. There’s a boat pulling athwart our forefoot, Captain Barnstable; shall I run her aboard or give her a berth, sir?”

      “’Tis the barge!” cried the officer; “Ned has not deserted me, after all!”

      A loud hail from the approaching boat confirmed this opinion, and in a few seconds the barge and whale-boat were again rolling by each other’s side. Griffith was no longer reclining on the cushions of his seats, but spoke earnestly, and with a slight tone of reproach in his manner.

      “Why have you wasted so many precious moments, when every minute threatens us with new dangers? I was obeying the signal, but I heard your oars, and pulled back to take out the pilot. Have you been successful?”

      “There he is; and if he finds his way out, through the shoals, he will earn a right to his name. This bids fair to be a night when a man will need a spy-glass to find the moon. But when you hear what I have seen on those rascally cliffs, you will be more ready to excuse my delay, Mr. Griffith.”

      “You have seen the true man, I trust, or we incur this hazard to an evil purpose.”

      “Ay, I have seen him that is a true man, and him that is not,” replied Barnstable, bitterly; “you have the boy with you, Griffith – ask him what his young eyes have seen.”

      “Shall I!” cried the young midshipman, laughing; “then I have seen a little clipper, in disguise, out sail an old man-of-war’s man in a hard chase, and I have seen a straggling rover in long-togs as much like my cousin – –”

      “Peace, gabbler!” exclaimed Barnstable in a voice of thunder; “would you detain the boats with your silly nonsense at a time like this? Away into the barge, sir, and if you find him willing to hear, tell Mr. Griffith what your foolish conjectures amount to, at your leisure.”

      The boy stepped lightly from the whale-boat to the barge, whither the pilot had already preceded him, and, as he sunk, with a mortified air, by the side of Griffith, he said, in a low voice:

      “And that won’t be long, I know, if Mr. Griffith thinks and feels on the coast of England as he thought and felt at home.”

      A silent pressure of his hand was the only reply that the young lieutenant made, before he paid the parting compliments to Barnstable, and directed his men to pull for their ship.

      The boats were separating, and the plash of the oars was already heard, when the voice of the pilot was for the first time raised in earnest.

      “Hold!” he cried; “hold water, I bid ye!”

      The men ceased their efforts at the commanding tones of his voice, and turning toward the whale-boat, he continued:

      “You will get your schooner under way immediately, Captain Barnstable, and sweep into the offing with as little delay as possible. Keep the ship well open from the northern headland, and as you pass us, come within hail.”

      “This is a clean chart and plain sailing, Mr. Pilot,” returned Barnstable; “but who is to justify my moving without orders, to Captain Munson? I have it in black and white, to run the Ariel into this feather-bed sort of a place, and I must at least have it by signal or word of mouth from my betters, before my cutwater curls another wave. The road may be as hard to find going out as it was coming in – and then I had daylight as well as your written directions to steer by.”

      “Would you lie there to perish on such a night?” said the pilot, sternly. “Two hours hence, this heavy swell will break where your vessel now rides so quietly.”

      “There we think exactly alike; but if I get drowned now, I am drowned according to orders; whereas, if l knock a plank out of the schooner’s bottom, by following your directions, ‘twill be a hole to let in mutiny, as well as sea-water. How do I know but the old man wants another pilot or two.”

      “That’s philosophy,” muttered the cockswain of the whaleboat, in a voice that was audible: “but it’s a hard strain on a man’s conscience to hold on in such an anchorage!”

      “Then keep your anchor down, and follow it to the bottom,” said the pilot to himself; “it’s worse to contend with a fool than a gale of wind; but if – –”

      “No,