Bang from the bow port and the union jack at the fore!
“God bless my soul, fellows, this is the most infernal tyranny I ever heard of!” came from the wardroom; “all of us engaged to dine and dance in Kingston this evening, and––”
“It’s ‘All hands up anchor, gentlemen!’” and away they all went.
Down went the mess-kids, and down came the awnings, and up came the boats to their davits; in went the bars to both capstans, the nippers clapped on, and the muddy cables coming in to the tunes of fifes; while above the running gear was rove, the Sunday bunts to the sails cast off, and the five hundred sailors dancing about on the decks, spars, and rigging of that American double-banked frigate, as if they could always work her sails and battery to the admiration of their good commodore there, who was looking at them from the quarter-deck.
“Massa captan,” said the shining ebony pilot, in his snowy suit, as he took off his fine white Panama hat, “dis is de ole pilot, sa, Peter Crabreef––name after dat black rock way dere outside. Suppose you tink ob beating dis big frigate troo de channel? Unpossible, wid dis breeze!”
“Peter Crabreef,” said the old sailing-master, to whom these observations were addressed, “you had better not give such a hint to that gentleman there in the epaulets; for if you do, you’ll never see Mrs. Crabreef again! You had better keep your wits about you, too, and plenty of water under the keel, for the commodore is fond of water!”
“Sartainly, massa ossifa! I is old Peter, and never yet touch a nail of man-of-war copper battam on de reefs!”
On board the pigmy black schooner near, half a dozen old salt veterans were squinting at the flag-ship and holding much deliberate speculation as to what all the row meant. Old Harry Greenfield, however, with Ben Brown, who were the gunner and boatswain of the little vessel, observed that, “In the ewent of our bein’ wanted, ye see, Harry, it will be as well to have the deck tackle stretched along for heavin’ in, and get the prop from under the main boom.”
Even as they spoke, a few bits of square bunting went up in balls to the mizzen of the frigate, and, blowing out clear, said, as plain as flags could speak, “Prepare to weigh anchor!”