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

Heave up at once, Mr. Barnstable, and get out of this bay as fast as possible.”

      “Ah! you don’t give the order with half the pleasure with which I shall execute it; pull away, boys – the Ariel shall never lay her bones in such a hard bed, if l can help it.”

      As the commander of the schooner uttered these words with a cheering voice, his men spontaneously shouted, and the whale-boat darted away from her companion, and was soon lost in the gloomy shadows cast from the cliffs.

      In the mean time, the oarsmen of the barge were not idle, but by strenuous efforts they forced the heavy boat rapidly through the water, and in a few minutes she ran alongside of the frigate. During this period the pilot, in a voice which had lost all the startling fierceness and authority it had manifested in his short dialogue with Barnstable, requested Griffith to repeat to him, slowly, the names of the officers that belonged to his ship. When the young lieutenant had complied with this request, he observed to his companion:

      “All good men and true, Mr. Pilot; and though this business in which you are just now engaged may be hazardous to an Englishman, there are none with us who will betray you. We need your services, and as we expect good faith from you, so shall we offer it to you in exchange.”

      “And how know you that I need its exercise?” asked the pilot, in a manner that denoted a cold indifference to the subject.

      “Why, though you talk pretty good English, for a native,” returned Griffith, “yet you have a small bur-r-r in your mouth that would prick the tongue of a man who was born on the other side of the Atlantic.”

      “It is but of little moment where a man is born, or how he speaks,” returned the pilot, coldly, “so that he does his duty bravely and in good faith.”

      It was perhaps fortunate for the harmony of this dialogue, that the gloom, which had now increased to positive darkness, completely concealed the look of scornful irony that crossed the handsome features of the young sailor, as he replied: “True, true, so that he does his duty, as you say, in good faith. But, as Barnstable observed, you must know your road well to travel among these shoals on such a night as this. Know you what water we draw?”

      “Tis a frigate’s draught, and I shall endeavor to keep you in four fathoms; less than that would be dangerous.”

      “She’s a sweet boat!” said Griffith, “and minds her helm as a marine watches the eye of his sergeant at a drill; but you must give her room in stays, for she fore-reaches, as if she would put out the wind’s eye.”

      The pilot attended, with a practised ear, to this description of the qualities of the ship that he was about to attempt extricating from an extremely dangerous situation. Not a syllable was lost on him; and when Griffith had ended, he remarked, with the singular coldness that pervaded his manner:

      “That is both a good and a bad quality in a narrow channel. I fear it will be the latter to-night, when we shall require to have the ship in leading-strings.”

      “I suppose we must feel our way with the lead?” said Griffith.

      “We shall need both eyes and leads,” returned the pilot, recurring insensibly to his soliloquizing tone of voice. “I have been both in and out in darker nights than this, though never with a heavier draught than a half-two.”

      “Then, by heaven, you are not fit to handle that ship among these rocks and breakers!” exclaimed Griffith; “your men of a light draught never know their water; ‘tis the deep keel only that finds a channel; – pilot! pilot! beware how you trifle with us ignorantly; for ‘tis a dangerous experiment to play at hazards with an enemy.”

      “Young man, you know not what you threaten, nor whom,” said the pilot sternly, though his quiet manner still remained undisturbed; “you forget that you have a superior here, and that I have none.”

      “That shall be as you discharge your duty,” said Griffith; “for if – –”

      “Peace!” interrupted the pilot; “we approach the ship, let us enter in harmony.”

      He threw himself back on the cushions when he had said this; and Griffith, though filled with the apprehensions of suffering, either by great ignorance or treachery on the part of his companion, smothered his feelings so far as to be silent, and they ascended the side of the vessel in apparent cordiality.

      The frigate was already riding on lengthened seas, that rolled in from the ocean at each successive moment with increasing violence, though her topsails still hung supinely from her yards; the air, which continued to breathe occasionally from the land, being unable to shake the heavy canvas of which they were composed.

      The only sounds that were audible, when Griffith and the pilot had ascended to the gangway of the frigate, were produced by the sullen dashing of the sea against the massive bows of the ship, and the shrill whistle of the boatswain’s mate as he recalled the side-boys, who were placed on either side of the gangway to do honor to the entrance of the first lieutenant and his companion.

      But though such a profound silence reigned among the hundreds who inhabited the huge fabric, the light produced by a dozen battle- lanterns, that were arranged in different parts of the decks, served not only to exhibit faintly the persons of the crew, but the mingled feeling of curiosity and care that dwelt on most of their countenances.

      Large groups of men were collected in the gangways, around the mainmast, and on the booms of the vessel, whose faces were distinctly visible, while numerous figures, lying along the lower yards or bending out of the tops, might be dimly traced in the background, all of whom expressed by their attitudes the interest they took in the arrival of the boat.

      Though such crowds were collected in other parts of the vessel, the quarter-deck was occupied only by the officers, who were disposed according to their several ranks, and were equally silent and attentive as the remainder of the crew. In front stood a small collection of young men, who, by their similarity of dress, were the equals and companions of Griffith, though his juniors in rank. On the opposite side of the vessel was a larger assemblage of youths, who claimed Mr. Merry as their fellow. Around the capstan three or four figures were standing, one of whom wore a coat of blue, with the scarlet facings of a soldier, and another the black vestments of the ship’s chaplain. Behind these, and nearer the passage to the cabin from which he had just ascended, stood the tall, erect form of the commander of the vessel.

      After a brief salutation between Griffith and the junior officers, the former advanced, followed slowly by the pilot, to the place where he was expected by his veteran commander. The young man removed his hat entirely, as he bowed with a little more than his usual ceremony, and said:

      “We have succeeded, sir, though not without more difficulty and delay than were anticipated.”

      “But you have not brought off the pilot,” said the captain, “and without him, all our risk and trouble have been in vain.”

      “He is here,”” said Griffith, stepping aside, and extending his arm towards the man that stood behind him, wrapped to the chin in his coarse pea-jacket, and his face shadowed by the falling rims of a large hat, that had seen much and hard service.

      “This!” exclaimed the captain; “then there is a sad mistake – this is not the man I would have, seen, nor can another supply his place.”

      “I know not whom you expected, Captain Munson,” said the stranger, in a low, quiet voice; “but if you have not forgot ten the day when a very different flag from that emblem of tyranny that now hangs over yon taffrail was first spread to the wind, you may remember the hand that raised it,”

      “Bring here the light!” exclaimed the commander, hastily.

      When the lantern was extended towards the pilot, and the glare fell strong on his features, Captain Munson started, as he beheld the calm blue eye that met his gaze, and the composed but pallid countenance of the other. Involuntarily raising his hat, and baring his silver locks, the veteran cried:

      “It is he! though so changed – –”

      “That his enemies did not know him,” interrupted the pilot, quickly; then touching the other by the arm as he led