“Clear out, and saddle four horses, and arm yourselves with boarding-pikes and cutlasses!” commanded the admiral, fastening a rusty sword to his side, and sticking a couple of pistols in his belt. “And then mount, and ride round to the front door, and stand by for further orders. Oh, the blamed black villain! He deserves to walk the plank, if ever any one did!”
All this time, the admiral had been going panting and puffing round, like a whale, arming himself with every conceivable weapon he could lay hands on, and vociferating, alternately, to himself, to “heave to!” and “stand from under!”
Pet had run out, and sprung upon Starlight, while the three alarmed servants rode behind her. And in a few moments the admiral made his appearance, and got astride a solemn, misanthropic-looking old roan, with many grimaces and contortions; for the admiral did not believe in riding himself, and would sooner have faced a tornado, any day, on the broad Atlantic, than ride three yards on horseback.
The night was still intensely dark, but perfectly calm, and by the command of Petronilla, the men had provided dark lanterns. All were now ready; but the admiral, like most generals leading his troops to battle, considered it his duty to make a speech. Short, concise speeches on the eve of a battle are, I believe, most efficacious, and, acting on this conviction, Admiral Havenful’s was brief, pithy and to the point, beginning with an adjuration to his horse:
“Sho, Ringbone, sho! Steady’s the word, and steady it is! You are now going to fight the battles of your country, my boys, under the glorious Stars and Stripes. We ain’t got ’em here, but that’s no matter. The enemy’s before you; give ’em a raking broadside first, and then board ’em, sword in hand. The eyes of all the world are upon you now—or would be only they are sleeping about this time! Clap on all sail; and scud before the wind! Hoorah! Gee up, Ringbone!”
The effect of this spirited address could not be seen in the dark, and resolved at all hazards to practice what he preached, the admiral gave both heels a simultaneous dig into the ribs of his gloomy-looking steed, which had the effect of setting that ominously-named animal off at a shuffling dog-trot, or, rather, something between a trot and a canter, partaking of the nature of both, but being, in reality, neither. Up and down our fat admiral was churned, while groan after groan was jerked from his jolted bosom by the uneasy motion of his steed.
“She—pitches—like—an—old—hulk—on—a—swell!” came churned, word by word, like short grunts, from the lips of the admiral. “Straight—up—and—down—, and—I’ll—be—capsized—directly—by—the—confounded—old—brute!”
“Can’t you hurry, uncle?” exclaimed Pet, impatiently, reining in her fiery horse with difficulty, to the dead march of the admiral. “Here we’re going along like a funeral or a mourning procession, or a pilgrimage, or anything else that’s slow and stupid. Can’t you put some life into that spavined, knock-kneed, ring-boned, wheezy old nag of yours with your whip and spurs?”
“I—I’m—jolted—to—death—already—Pet. Every—timber—in—this—old—hulk—is—sprung. Couldn’t—go-a—step—further—if—old—Neptune—was—to—rise—from the—ocean—and—ask—it—of—me—as—a—particular—favor!” grunted the jolted admiral.
“Well, then, I can’t wait. Starlight won’t be held in,” said Pet. “I’ll ride on to old Barrens Cottage, and wake up Ray. He’ll have time to be up, and dressed, and mounted, before you reach there, at this solemn shuffle.”