We walked down Pearl Street to Broad Street, where the landing-basin indents the land; and I was passing on, with intent to secure a wherry from the foot of Whitehall Street to row me out to the Bristol packet, when Darby drew my attention to the soaring masts and tangled cordage of a great ship lying at anchor in the East River anchorage.
"'Tis a frigate, Master Robert!" he exclaimed.
There was no mistaking the rows of painted gun-ports and the solid bulwarks; and for a moment I fancied Commodore Burrage had anticipated our needs. Then the flag at her mizzen truck rippled out, and I beheld the red-and-gold banner of Spain.
"D'ye suppose he hath come after the pirate?" whispered Darby, all agog.
"Not he," I answered, laughing. "'Tis a Spaniard, and he and his kidney are not hungry for pirate gore, Darby."
"Whisht, but if he would only make to shoot off a cannon or two!" sighed Darby. "Or maybe hang a poor soul at the yardarm the while we watched. Oh, Master Robert, wouldn't it be grand?"
"Go to," said I, laughing again at the quaint fancies of the lad. "You are as bloodthirsty as any pirate that sails the Spanish Main."
"I'll warrant you I am," returned Darby sturdily. "I'd be a grand pirate, I would—and I'd make naught of frigates, be they Spaniard or King's ship; aye, or Frenchies. I'd take 'em all!"
"Certes, you would," I agreed. "But look, Darby! There's another strange vessel—beyond the frigate."
I pointed to a battered little brig with patched and dirty sails and a spatter of white showing in her black-painted hull where a roundshot had sent the splinters flying.