"He'll do no mast-climbing!" said Dr. Eccleston. "One sailor in the family is enough. His climbing will be confined to the steps of a pulpit. I am training him for the ministry!"
Alexander looked at me quizzically. I winked at him. He and I had agreed from childhood that ours should be a seafaring life. My brother had boldly carried out his intention to follow father's example, but I, seeing that the rector had set his heart upon my adopting a shore career, had postponed making my declaration. I was immensely fond of the rector; I did not care to be the means of bringing further sadness to him, so I bided my time.
Commodore Barney heard the rector rebuke Alexander and saw my wink. Bless me, behind the minister's back, he winked too. He had told me that, when the United States began to build her navy, he expected to obtain a place for me on a frigate. "America's prosperity on the sea is just beginning," he said. "Don't turn your back on your natural calling. One voyage in a privateer in one of the wars that are on the horizon will make your fortune. I'll take you to sea with me. Let the dominie look elsewhere for his recruits!"
The rector and the commodore were great comrades, but on the subject of a career for me they never agreed.
Commodore Barney had been a hero to Alexander and myself as far back as we could remember. He was a part of our lives from the first—an unofficial second guardian. I have heard him declare that he was on his way to our house to adopt us when he met the rector coming out with one of us clinging to each hand. Dr. Eccleston had told him then, the commodore stated, that a seafaring man was no fit guardian for children.
The commodore was a burly, pink-cheeked, big-hearted man. What a dandy he was! When on shore he wore a cocked hat, a coat with large lace cuffs, and a cape cut low to show his neck-stock of fine linen cambric. His breeches were closely fitted with large buckles. He wore silk stockings and large buckled shoes. No one who saw him sauntering along Market Street would take him to be a sailor, although his tongue betrayed his calling. Nautical terms, strange oaths, shipping topics were forever on his lips. His clothes spoke of the ballroom, but his language had the tang of the ship's deck and the salt wind.
He was fond of the ladies. It often amused us to see him dancing attendance on a maid who minced along in brocade or taffeta, with her skirts ballooning from the hoops underneath, with bright-colored shoes peeping out from beneath her skirts, and with an enormous plume in her big bonnet that waved towards the commodore's cocked hat. The hooped skirts seemed to be trying to keep her escort at a distance, while he struggled manfully to pour his words into her ear.
Murad was still hovering around us. Evidently anxious to appease the commodore, he had begun to talk to him on sea topics. The commodore, in turn, started to draw out the Egyptian as to opportunities American shippers might have to sell cargoes of American goods to Mediterranean cities.
"In Barbary, Egypt and beyond," said Murad, "will lie your country's chief market. The ports of the Mediterranean are eager for your goods. Lads like these——" he fixed glowing eyes on Alexander and myself—"will live to make their fortunes in the Mediterranean."