“Good Lord!” roared a voice from on board the brig, now shut up again all alone in the fog––“if that old nigger has not gone and jumped overboard, my name’s not Binks!”
“All right, Mr. Binks; Banou is safe! Send a boat on board the ‘Monongahela,’ and report that the schooner ‘Rosalie’ has passed ahead,” went back in a clear note.
It was some considerable time before Binks could believe that he had not been hailed by David Jones himself, for he had seen nothing, being at the time in the lower cabin reading his Bible, and writing his name, “Binnacle Binks, Master of brig ‘Martha Blunt,’” on the fly-leaf; and he was only disturbed in this praiseworthy occupation by a heavy body plunging overboard, and by one of the drowsy crew, 286 who had, with his comrades, been sleeping near, reporting that circumstance with his eyes half shut.
Then young Binks took considerable more time to get a boat lowered, and send her, with the cabin-boy, to the large frigate close on his beam, whose bell had just struck seven.
The boat, too, with four sleepy hands to pull her, took considerable time to find the ship, and then the whistles were piping to dinner, and all the good people from the brig, with the flag-officers, had retired to the commodore’s cabin for luncheon.
When Jacob Blunt heard the news, regardless of sherry and cold tongue, he himself got in his boat, leaving his passengers in an excited frame of mind, but rather comfortable on the whole, and returned to the teak bosom of his “Martha.”
There he took young Binks firmly by the shoulder, and walked him aft to the rail where his father––long since dead and murdered––had been used to sit and sing sailor ditties.
Then he impressively told him that “this ’ere sort of thing wouldn’t do! even if he was a readin’ the Bible, which was all very good on occasion, sich as clear weather out on the broad Atlantic; but in fog times, when schooners was creepin’ about in among the Antilles, and partick’larly off Jamaiky or the south side of Cuby, mates and men should be wide awake and lookin’ every wheres. And harkee, Binnacle! when you commands this ’ere old brig, or maybe a bran-new ‘Martha Blunt,’ and me and my old woman lying below together in narrow cabins, you must bear in mind these my words! Well, my boy, don’t rub that ’ere sleeve over your eyes no more, and it will be all right.”
Young Binks promised “that from that ’ere minnit he would never sit on no rails, or sip no grog, or even read his old mother’s Bible when he wos on watch, but always be as keerful as if there wos no lady passengers or children on board, or bags of shiners in the lower cabin stateroom––that he would! And his blessed old second father might take his davy he, young Binks, would never be caught foul again.”
Meanwhile the girlish schooner tripped away far out of sight, and when the fog lifted and the breeze came to blow it to leeward she was once more tidily dressed in snowy white, and splashing the water from her black eyes, as the last rays of the setting sun showed her the Tiger’s Trap in the distance.