The Pilot (5 page)

"'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 forgotten 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 him aside, he continued, in
a lower tone, "neither must his friends, until the proper hour shall
arrive."

Griffith had fallen back to answer the eager questions of his messmates,
and no part of this short dialogue was overheard by the officers, though
it was soon perceived that their commander had discovered his error, and
was satisfied that the proper man had been brought on board his vessel.
For many minutes the two continued to pace a part of the quarter-deck,
by themselves, engaged in deep and earnest discourse.

As Griffith had but little to communicate, the curiosity of his
listeners was soon appeased, and all eyes were directed toward that
mysterious guide, who was to conduct them from a situation already
surrounded by perils, which each moment not only magnified in
appearance, but increased in reality.

—"Behold the threaden sails,
Borne with the invisible and creeping winds,
Draw the huge bottoms through the furrowed sea,
Breasting the lofty surge."
Shakespeare.

It has been already explained to the reader, that there were
threatening symptoms in the appearance of the weather to create serious
forebodings of evil in the breast of a seaman. When removed from the
shadows of the cliffs, the night was not so dark but objects could be
discerned at some little distance, and in the eastern horizon there was
a streak of fearful light impending over the gloomy waters, in which the
swelling outline formed by the rising waves was becoming each moment
more distinct, and, consequently, more alarming. Several dark clouds
overhung the vessel, whose towering masts apparently propped the black
vapor, while a few stars were seen twinkling, with a sickly flame, in
the streak of clear sky that skirted the ocean. Still, light currents of
air occasionally swept across the bay, bringing with them the fresh odor
from the shore, but their flitting irregularity too surely foretold them
to be the expiring breath of the land breeze. The roaring of the surf,
as it rolled on the margin of the bay, produced a dull, monotonous
sound, that was only Interrupted at times by a hollow bellowing, as a
larger wave than usual broke violently against some cavity in the rock.
Everything, in short, united to render the scene gloomy and portentous,
without creating instant terror, for the ship rose easily on the long
billows, without even straightening the heavy cable that held her to her
anchor.

The higher officers were collected around the capstan, engaged in
earnest discourse about their situation and prospects, while some of the
oldest and most favored seamen would extend their short walk to the
hallowed precincts of the quarter-deck, to catch, with greedy ears, the
opinions that fell from their superiors. Numberless were the uneasy
glances that were thrown from both officers and men at their commander
and the pilot, who still continued their secret communion in a distant
part of the vessel. Once, an ungovernable curiosity, or the heedlessness
of his years, led one of the youthful midshipmen near them; but a stern
rebuke from his captain sent the boy, abashed and cowering, to hide his
mortification among his fellows. This reprimand was received by the
elder officers as an intimation that the consultation which they beheld
was to be strictly inviolate; and, though it by no means suppressed the
repeated expressions of their impatience, it effectually prevented an
interruption to the communications, which all, however, thought were
unreasonably protracted for the occasion.

"This is no time to be talking over bearings and distances," observed
the officer next in rank to Griffith; "but we should call the hands up,
and try to kedge her off while the sea will suffer a boat to live."

"'Twould be a tedious and bootless job to attempt warping a ship for
miles against a head-beating sea," returned the first lieutenant; "but
the land-breeze yet flutters aloft, and if our light sails would draw,
with the aid of this ebb tide we might be able to shove her from the
shore."

"Hail the tops, Griffith," said the other, "and ask if they feel the air
above; 'twill be a hint at least to set the old man and that lubberly
pilot in motion."

Griffith laughed as he complied with the request, and when he received
the customary reply to his call, he demanded in a loud voice:

"Which way have you the wind, aloft?"

"We feel a light catspaw, now and then, from the land, sir," returned
the sturdy captain of the top; "but our topsail hangs in the clewlines,
sir, without winking."

Captain 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.