They knew––those corrugated old salts––that their gallant, considerate young captain there in the stern-sheets, with the tiller-ropes in his hands, who steered so wildly about the harbor, had something more yielding than white-laced rope in his flippers; and that the sweet little craft under white dimity, with her head throwing off the sparkling spray as she lay under his bows, was in no hurry to go to sea––not caring much, either, to what port she was bound, so long as she found good holding-ground when she got in harbor with both bowers down, and cargo ready for another voyage––not she!
Finally, old Jacob Blunt, master, again in full command of brig “Martha,” with Mr. Binnacle Binks catting the anchor forward, all sail made, sheets home, and every thing shipshape, with a fresh, steady land-wind, and a light gig towing astern, went steering out to sea, bound to New Orleans by way of the Windward Passage.
At the first ray of sunrise the gig’s line was cast off; and with the waves breaking over her, those four old sons of Daddy Neptune bared 269 their tattooed arms––illustrative of ships, anchors, and maidens––and bent their bodies with a will toward the harbor.
“Take keer, sir, if it’s the same to you, or we’ll be on that ledge off the ‘’Postles’ Battery.’ It looks jist like that ’ere reef in the Vargin’s Passage as I was wunce nearly ’racked on, in the ‘Smasher,’ sixteen-gun brig.”
“No fear, Harry Greenfield.”
“Beg your parding, Mr. Darcantel, but that ’ere wessel you is heading for is that old clump of a Spanish gun-boat; our craft is off here, under the quarter of the ‘Monongaheelee.’”
“Oh yes, Charley; I see the ‘Rosalie.’”
What made these old salts slew gravely round one to the other, as their sixteen-feet oars rattled with a regular jar in the brass row-locks, and shut one eye tight, as if they enjoyed something themselves? Probably they were thinking of a strapping lass, in blue ribbons, who lived somewhere in a sea-port town long years ago. But yet they loved that young slip of sea-weed, whose head was bent down to the buttons of his blue jacket, his epaulet lopsided on his shoulder, his sword hilt downward, and his brown eyes tracing the lines of the ash grating where pretty feet had once rested, while he jerked the tiller-ropes from side to side, and his gig went wild by reef and point toward the “Rosalie.”
When the gig’s oars at last, in spite of her meandering navigation by her abstracted helmsman, trailed alongside the schooner, and while her crew were cracking a few biscuits and jokes on deck, with the sun high up the little craft’s masts, her captain hurried down to his small cabin, and changed his rig for service on board the frigate.