I was the only person on board who regretted that the voyage was over. I wished to see the country, and the Indians, and the vast lakes and boundless prairies; but far rather would I have remained with Mary and her father—at least I thought so, as the time for quitting them, probably for ever, arrived. I regretted much leaving Captain Dean, for he had been very kind to me; indeed, he had treated me almost like a son, and I felt grateful to him. It was evening. The ship was to haul in the next morning alongside the quay to discharge her cargo. The captain was on shore and all the emigrants. Except the anchor-watch on deck, the crew were below. Mary and I were the only persons on the quarter-deck.
“Mary,” I said, as I took her hand—the words almost choked me while I spoke—“to-morrow I must leave you to look out for a berth on board some homeward-bound ship. You have been very, very kind to me, Mary; and I am grateful, I am indeed, to you and to your father.”
“But I do not see why you should leave us, Peter,” answered Mary, looking gravely up with a somewhat surprised air. “Has not my father told you that he thinks of asking you to remain with him? And then, some day, when you know more of seamanship, you will become his mate. Think of that, Peter, how pleasant it will be! So you must not think of leaving us.”
“I have no wish to go, I can assure you, except that I am expected at home,” I replied. “But if I stay, what office are you to hold on board, Mary?” I could not help asking.
“Oh, I suppose that I shall be another of the mates,” she replied, laughing. “Do you know, Peter, that if I have you to study with, I think that I shall make a very good sailor in a short time. I can put the ship about now in a very good style, let me tell you.”
“That’s more than I can do, I am afraid,” I observed. “But then I can go aloft, and hand and reef; so there I beat you.”
“I should not be a bit afraid of going aloft, if I was dressed like you, and papa would let me,” she answered naïvely. “I often envy the men as I see them lying out on the yards or at the mast-head when the ship is rolling and pitching; and I fancy that next to the sensations of a bird on the wing, theirs must be the most enjoyable.”
“You are a true sailor’s daughter, Mary,” I answered, with more enthusiasm than I had ever before felt. “But I don’t think your father would quite like to see you aloft; and, let me tell you, when there’s much sea on, and it’s blowing hard, it’s much more difficult to keep there than it looks.”
Thus we talked on, and touched on other topics; but they chiefly had references to ourselves. Nearly the last words Mary uttered were, “Then you will sail with father, if he asks you, Peter?”
I promised, and afterwards added, “For the sake of sailing with him, Mary, my dear young sister, if you are on board, I would give up kindred, home, and country. I would sail with you round and round the world, and never wish again to see the shore, except you were there.” She was satisfied at having gained her point. We were very young, and little knew the dangerous sea on which we were proposing to sail. I called her sister, for I felt as if she were indeed my sister.