CHAPTER I. THE SHIP AND HER CREW.
It was upon a bright morning of the month of May, 1813, as I, a sailor just paid off from my last ship, was wandering along the wharves of Boston, that I was hailed by an old messmate, named Tony Trybrace.
"Ship ahoy!" cried Tony.
"The Barney Blake," I responded. "Out of employment, with compass gone, and nothing to steer by."
"What!" cried Tony, giving me his flipper. "Do you want a ship? A strange wish to go unsatisfied in these times."
"Yes," I hesitatingly rejoined, "but, you see, I've never been in the navy—always sailed in a merchantman—and—"
"Nonsense!" cried Tony. "That kind of blarney won't do for these times. I shipped the other day on as cracky a craft as ever kicked the spray behind her. Come and join us."
"What! on a man-o'-war?"
"Better than that. On a bold privateer! Look out there to windward," said Tony, directing my attention with his pointing hand, "and tell me what you think of her. That's her, the brigantine, with her r'yals half furled."