but again bulging forward in a full-breasted curve, the vessel felt the tug, and began to dash the spray from her bluff bows till it fell away beyond the lee cathead in flying masses of foam. The studding-sail booms rolled out, the sailors busied themselves aloft in making the additional sail, and by-and-by the old brig floundered along, the bubbles gurgling 23 out ahead in the ruffled water, tipping over astern as the crests broke on her quarter; at times plunging her bows into the rolling swell, but coming up sturdily again, and so on as before.
Meanwhile the corvette had edged away in a parallel course with the brig, running past her at first as if she were at anchor, when she let her topgallant-sails slide down to the caps, and, with the weather clew of her main-sail triced up, she held way with the brig a mile or more to windward.
The moon was sinking well down in the west, and the clear, well-defined crescent was occasionally obscured by the light fleecy clouds moving under the influence of the trade wind, when, toward eight bells, the moon gave one pure white glimmer, threw a rippling flood of light over the waves, and sunk below the horizon. Still the stars twinkled and the planets flamed out like young moons––masked at intervals by the darkening clouds as they swept overhead in heavy masses––and tinging the sea with shade, which would again break out in phosphorescent flashes as the waves caught the reflection.
“Now, Madame Rosalie,” said the kind old skipper, “it is nearly midnight; take your last snooze in the old barky, and wake up bright and happy for Port Royal and––you know who, in the morning.”
The charming woman had been watching, with soul-rapt gaze, the lofty hills of Jamaica from the last blaze of the setting sun, and until the moon too had vanished and left only a dim blue haze over the island. She started as the captain spoke, gave a deep sigh, kissed her hand to the good old skipper, said “Bon soir, mon ami,” and with a smile she entered her cabin.
The black was seated within the partition of the apartment, near a small swinging cot, urging it gently to and fro, and watching over his little charge.
“Good-night, Banou,” she said, in patois French; “you may go to bed, and I will take care of my little boy.”
The black grinned so as to show his double range of white teeth beneath the rays of the cabin lamp, and without a word he moved silently away. The lady stood for a few moments gazing lovingly at the sleeping child, and then drawing the miniature from her bosom, she detached it with the chain from her neck, and after pressing it to her lips, she leaned softly over the cot and fastened it around the little sleeper. As light and zephyr-like as was the effort, it caused the little fellow to stir, and reaching out his tiny arms, while a baby smile played around the dimples of his cheeks, he clasped his mother’s neck.
Ah! fond and devoted mother! That was the last sweet infantile caress your child was ever destined to give you! Treasure it up in joy and sorrow, in sunshine and gloom, for long, long years will pass before you press him to your heart again!
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CHAPTER V.
DARKNESS.
| “The busy deck is hushed, no sounds are waking But the watch pacing silently and slow; The waves against the sides incessant breaking, And rope and canvas swaying to and fro. The topmost sail, it seems like some dim pinnacle Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air; While red and fitful gleams come from the binnacle, The only light on board to guide us––where?” |
On went the “Martha Blunt” with no fears of danger near. The bell struck eight, the watch had been called, and the captain, taking a satisfactory look all around the horizon, glanced at the compass, and, with a slight yawn, said,
“Well, Mr. Binks, I believe I’ll turn in for a few hours; keep the brig on her course, and at daylight call me. It will be time enough then to bend the cables, for I don’t think we shall want the anchors much afore noon to-morrow. Where’s the corvette?”
“There she is, sir, away off on the port beam. She made more sail a few minutes ago, and now she appears to be edging off the wind, and steering across our forefoot. I s’pose she’s enjoying of herself, sir, and exercisin’ the crowds of chaps they has on board them craft.”
“Well, good-night, matey”––pausing a moment, however, as the honest old skipper stepped down the companion-way, and half communing with himself, and then, with his head just above the slide, he added, “I say, Mr. Binks, there’s no need, p’r’aps, but you may as well have a lantern alight and bent on to the ensign halliards there under the taffrail, in case you want to signalize the corvette. Ah, Banou! that you, old nigger? Good-night!”
So Captain Blunt went slowly down below, and at the same time the black went aft, coiled himself down on the deck, and made a pillow of the brig’s ensign.
Mr. Binks wriggled himself upon the weather rail, where, with a short pipe in his mouth, he kicked his heels against the bulwarks, and while the old brig plunged doggedly on, he indulged himself with a song, the air, however, being more like the growl of a bull-dog than a specimen of music:
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| “If lubberly landsmen, to gratitude strangers, Still curse their unfortunate stars; Why, what would they say did they try but the dangers Encounter’d by true-hearted tars? If life’s vessel they put ’fore the wind, or they tack her, Or whether bound here or there, Give ’em sea-room, good-fellowship, grog, and tobaker, Well, then, damme if Jack cares where!” |
“What d’ye think of that, Ben?” said Mr. Binks, as he finished his ditty, and sucked away on his pipe.
“Why, Mr. Mate,” replied Ben, as he gave the wheel a spoke or two to windward and glanced at the binnacle, “the words is first-rate, but it seems to me your singing gear is a bit out o’ condition, and I thought you wos a prayin’; but the fact is,” concluded Ben, apologetically, “that whenever I hears grog and tobaker jined together, I likes to see them in my fist.”
“Oh! you would, eh? Well, shipmate, turn and turn about is fair play; so here, just take a pull at the pipe, and I’ll step to the cuddy for the bottle, and we’ll have a little sniffler all around!”
Saying this, Mr. Binks swung off the rail, handed Ben the pipe, and after an absence of a few moments, he returned with a square case-bottle and a pewter mug.
“Now, Ben,” said he, “this ’ere is not a practice, as you know, I often is guilty of; but you bein’ a keerful hand and a stiddy helmsman, and port here close aboard, I’ve no objections to take a toss with ye.” Then pouring out a moderate quantity of the fluid, the mate handed it to Ben, who, taking the pipe out of his mouth, and with one hand on the king-spoke of the wheel and one eye at the compass-card, threw his head back and pitched the dram down his throat.
“My sarvice to ye, sir!” said Ben, as he smacked his lips and then shut them tight together, fearful lest a breath of the precious liquid might escape; “a little of that stuff goes a great ways.”
Mr. Binks hereupon measured himself off an allowance, and touching Ben on the shoulder, raised the pewter to his lips. Before, however, draining the cup, he tuned his pipes once more, and croaked forth in this strain:
| “While up the shrouds the sailor goes, Or ventures on the yard, The landsman, who no better knows, Believes his lot is hard. But Jack with smiles each danger meets; Casts anchor, heaves the log, Trims all the sails, belays the sheets, And drink his can of grog!” |
“Here comes the corvette, sir!” broke in Ben, as he stood on tiptoe, holding on to the spokes of the wheel, and taking his eyes off 26 the binnacle a moment to get a clear view over the rail. “Here she comes, with her starboard tacks aboard, athwart our bow, and moving like an albatross!”
The man-of-war