And, hurrah again! there came the pilot-boat. Now was the time: we could not lose a minute. “Loosen topgallant-sails and royals!” (We dared not set them; but should the wind have moderated, we would have lost no time in casting off gaskets.) A few minutes more, and the pilot-boat was alongside. “Is there New-Bedford pilot in the boat?” was our hail. “Aye, aye!” came booming across the water. “Send down a boat, with a barrel of pork and a tub of tow-line, and he will board you.” This was soon effected. The pilot entered the boat, now half full of water; but her crew knew bow to manage her. He was soon aboard the ship, and without further delay took the command of her.
Captain Sherman’s vocation has gone—his responsibility is over: the ship is now in American waters, with an American pilot aboard, who gives his orders to the ever-willing crew. He is obeyed with alacrity, as long as he makes sail; but no one wants to take any in—neither does he. He is a perfectly competent man, and fortunately a driver. “Where are your studding-sails? Pack them on whilst we have a chance. Never mind a few yards of canvass, or a whole sail. Give them to her. Let her have all she can spread: the wind may not hold half an hour.”
There she goes!—now she is moving! Block Island is passed. There, off the beam, frowns Point Judith. Now for Cuttyhunk light. “Go along, old ship!—cleave the waters, as never you did before. Soon you, as well as we, will be at rest.”
Nobly did the old barque answer our appeal. She appeared endowed with life—and, on she goes! The Cuttyhunk light is passed; Clarke’s Point opens to our view, and some of the crew, who reside in the rural districts, see familiar landmarks. “There I live,” you hear from one. “There is the church-steeple—there, the sawmill—there, the almshouse.”
“Hurrah!”—now we near the city. There are new buildings, erected since we left here. There is a new lighthouse. There is Fair Haven. There is the shipping at the docks. And now we are closing-in with Clarke’s Point. The wind is hauling—well, who cares—who cares now? We are perfectly independent of the clerk of the weather. But we can go only a few ship’s lengths farther: that is near enough—we are only three miles from New Bedford.
“Now, then, round in on your weather-braces. Start away tacks and sheets. Clew up everything. Haul down your jibs and staysails. Start away your halyards, and let your yards come down by the run. Let the spanker remain till she comes to the wind. Hard down the helm. Square the main yard. Brail up the spanker—one minute more. Let go the anchor.” The heavy cable runs out unimpeded, and once more we have a firm hold on American bottom!
Our next duty is to furl the sails, and then our engagement is ended: then we are free to do as we please; then we are released from all discipline, except that enjoined by self-respect; then we once more become members of society; then we will discard the blue shirt of the sailor, and in the midst of long anticipated comforts forget our manifold hardships and dangers; then we will take the preliminary steps toward meeting friends and relatives, and in the joy of the moment we are repaid for much that we have undergone of toil and exposure.
Our job aloft was an arduous one, having carried such a press of sail up the bay and river, and then when a ship is at anchor she always swings head to wind—consequently her sails are pressed aft by the breeze, and it is only by considerable tugging and straining that they are drawn up to the yard. However, this, like many other unpleasant duties, could not last for ever. By dint of hauling and tugging, we accomplished it, and descended to the deck, with the gratifying consciousness that we should have no more of it to do for this voyage at least, whatever the future may have in store for us.
Whilst aloft on the maintopsail yard, from which I had a good view of the bay and the ocean beyond, I asked myself whether I should be content ashore, or whether it was decreed that I should form one of that great body of uneasy spirits who gain their livelihood by toil upon the ocean. All my chequered life for the previous four years passed in array before me, with its ills and its pleasantries; and, although the former overbalanced the latter, I could not, without a sigh of regret, bid farewell to old ocean.
On getting on deck, all hands were busily employed packing and securing chests, donning their best suits, and making all necessary preparations for leaving the ship. This leaving the ship was by no means a pleasant operation. Her sturdy sides had so long afforded us protection from the storm and wave, that she was endeared to us by a thousand ties. Every spar and rope in her were as familiar to us as household words, and each object begat some pleasant reminiscence; but we were too busy reflecting on dearer objects to allow the old barque’s memory to make us sad—so we continued our preparations in silence, scarce a word being spoken, each heart being too full for utterance.