“I heard the wrack,
As earth and sky would mingle.” —Milton.
The Neck was a tongue of land, which, jutting out into the tide, and surrounded on two sides by salt marshes, formed the last piece of solid ground as the voyager descended the river. As the crow flies, this point was but a few miles from the bay. But the navigator, after leaving the Neck, practically had to conquer many a weary league before he reached the Atlantic, the stream winding, in sinuous turns, in and out among the low meadows, before it finally attained its destination.
On this bit of fast land a few scattering houses had been built, the principal one being about a hundred yards from the water’s edge. Cornfields extended for some distance inland, where they were met by dense woods, which stretched on both sides, wherever there was solid ground, as far as the eye could see. A few fine old chestnut trees, growing in a clump near the extreme end of the point, made the spot a land-mark, visible for miles up and down the stream.
The neck of land formed, on its upper side, a little bay, in which were now disposed about thirty dismantled merchant vessels. Bales of goods were piled upon the shore, as if just unloaded; while others were being hurried into the neighboring store-houses. At least five hundred men were already collected, when Major Gordon reached the rendezvous. They were all busy, for those who were not engaged in securing the cargos of the prizes, were occupied in throwing up a rude earthen breastwork for the defence of the place.
Among the first to welcome our hero was the old waterman, Mullen, whom the reader will recollect as having been with him, when Kate was rescued from the wreck. Charley Newell was also there, but came forward more coyly, and blushed like any girl when the Major complimented him for his conduct on that occasion.
From these old comrades our hero learned that the express rider had preceded him several hours; that intelligence had already reached the settlements on both sides of the river; and that the privateers had made good their escape. Nothing, as yet, had been seen of the British. Meantime, the whole country was rising, and Mullen predicted that, before four and twenty hours, a thousand men would rendezvous at the Neck.
“There’s no danger of surprise?” said Major Gordon, interrogatively.
“We know the cut of every sail on the river,” said Mullen, “and can tell a strange one miles off. There isn’t a child even, hereabouts, who can’t say whether a craft is ours or not, a’most as soon as he can pint out a gray-back or a millet. The river makes a wide sweep, as maybe you may remember, just below here, so that what’s but a mile right across the mash hereaway, is a matter of three miles as the water runs. You can see a sail an hour or more before she can reach the Neck.”
Satisfied on this point, and having posted sentinels at every proper point, so as to provide against being surprised in the darkness, Major Gordon dismissed his command to their quarters soon after nightfall; and directly hundreds of men, fatigued by a hurried march, or a day of severe labor in storing goods, were fast asleep, bivouacking around him. Slumber was not, however, for his eyes. Though he scarcely expected an attack before the following day, even if then, the anxiety natural to his position kept him awake. He paced slowly up and down, hour after hour, under the shadows of the chestnut trees, now listening to the sentry’s cry of “all’s well,” and now to the low plash of the tide as it swept past the point. Or he stood, with folded arms, cooling his heated brow in the night air, or gazing dreamily over the vast and silent expanse of salt meadows between him and the ocean, as they were vaguely seen in the starlight. Occasionally he went the rounds personally. At other times, he leaned against one of the old chestnuts, and gave himself up to reflection, Kate dividing his thoughts nearly equally with the responsibilities of his command.
The morning dawned, close and misty. The fog hung low and thick over the marshes, or lay packed, like aerial fleeces, upon the stream. Now and then a faint breeze would wave it gently, as when a light curtain is stirred by the wind; and here and there it eddied and undulated, apparently without cause. The atmosphere was warm, almost stifling.