Weigh anchor! said the Captain to his subordinate. To hesitate on these drunken threats would be tantamount to surrendering my command.
In less time than it takes to write it, the anchor is weighed, the sails spread, and the Reindeer moves majestically toward the broad Atlantic.
A gentle breeze drove the Reindeer through the rippled water, and just as the sun was setting behind the western hills, Captain Davis had the satisfaction of knowing that his ship was safely out to sea.
Yet the Captain felt uneasy. The conduct of the men on shore raised some suspicion in his mind that trouble was brewing. In his officers he had perfect confidence.
The night was clear, with just wind enough to fill the sails, and the Captain and his First Lieutenant were sitting on the quarter-deck, discussing the events of the day.
By the way, Captain, who was that tall, noble-looking young man, that faced the whole company of cut-throats, and laid them out right and left, as a boy would so many marbles?
That is Walter Wallace, the foster child of my friend Charles Webb.
Wallace—that is a familiar name to me. Do you know what branch of the Wallace family he descended from?
No. Neither do I think he knows himself. Webb found him an orphan, alone, in the woods, and adopted him in his family. They lived at a place called Callicoon, not far from the Delaware river. The river overflowed the banks and drowned all but him.
Powers, for such was the Lieutenant’s name, manifested some feeling at this revelation, and exclaimed: