Ludlow hesitated. A strong desire to put Alida in a place of safety, was met by his distrust of the smuggler’s faith. He reflected a moment, ere he answered.
“Your cockle-shell is not sufficiently secure for more than its owner.–Go, and as you prove loyal, may you prosper!”
“Abide the blow!” said the Skimmer, grasping his hand. He then stepped carelessly on the dangling ropes, and descended into the boat beneath. Ludlow watched his movements, with an intense and possibly with a distrustful curiosity. When seated at the sculls, the person of the free-trader was nearly indistinct; and as the boat glided noiselessly away, the young commander no longer felt disposed to censure those who had permitted its approach without a warning. In less than a minute, the dusky object was confounded with the surface of the sea.
Left to himself, the young commander of the Coquette seriously reflected on what had passed. The manner of the Skimmer, the voluntary character of his communication, its probability, and the means by which his knowledge had been obtained, united to confirm his truth. Instances of similar attachment to their flag, in seamen whose ordinary pursuits were opposed to its interests, were not uncommon. Their misdeeds resemble the errors of passion and temptation, while the momentary return to better things is like the inextinguishable impulses of nature.
The admonition of the free-trader, who had enjoined the captain to allow his people to sleep, was remembered. Twenty times, within as many minutes, did our young sailor examine his watch, to note the tardy passage of the time; and as often did he return it to his pocket, with a determination to forbear. At length he descended to the quarter-deck, and drew near the only form that was erect. The watch was commanded by a youth of sixteen, whose regular period of probationary service had not passed, but who, in the absence of his superiors, was intrusted with this delicate and important duty. He stood leaning against the capstan, one hand supporting his cheek, while the elbow rested against the drum, and the body was without motion. Ludlow regarded him a moment, and then lifting a lighted battle-lantern to his face, he saw that he slept. Without disturbing the delinquent, the captain replaced the lantern and passed forward. In the gangway there stood a marine, with his musket shouldered, in an attitude of attention. As Ludlow brushed within a few inches of his eyes, it was easy to be seen that they opened and shut involuntarily, and without consciousness of what lay before them. On the top-gallant-forecastle was a short, square, and well-balanced figure, that stood without support of any kind, with both arms thrust into the bosom of a jacket, and a head that turned slowly to the west and south, as if it were examining the ocean in those directions.
Stepping lightly up the ladder, Ludlow saw that it was the veteran seaman who was rated as the captain of the forecastle.
“I am glad, at last, to find one pair of eyes open, in my ship,” said the captain. “Of the whole watch, you alone are alert.”
“I have doubled cape fifty, your Honor, and the seaman who has made that voyage, rarely wants the second call of the boatswain. Young heads have young eyes, and sleep is next to food, after a heavy drag at gun-tackles and lanyards.”
“And what draws your attention so steadily in that quarter? There is nothing visible but the haze of the sea.”
“’Tis the direction of the Frenchmen, Sir–does your Honor hear nothing?”
“Nothing;” said Ludlow, after intently listening for half a minute. “Nothing, unless it be the wash of the surf on the beach.”
“It may be only fancy, but there came a sound like the fall of an oar-blade on a thwart, and ’tis but natural, your Honor, to expect the mounsheer will be out, in this smooth water, to see what has become of us.–There went the flash of a light, or my name is not Bob Cleet!”
Ludlow was silent. A light was certainly visible in the quarter where the enemy was known to be anchored, and it came and disappeared like a moving lantern. At length it was seen to descend slowly, and vanish as if it were extinguished in the water.
“That lantern went into a boat, Captain Ludlow, though a lubber carried it!” said the positive old forecastle-man, shaking his head and beginning to pace across the deck, with the air of a man who needed no further confirmation of his suspicions.
Ludlow returned towards the quarter-deck, thoughtful but calm. He passed among his sleeping crew, without awaking a man, and even forbearing to touch the still motionless midshipman, he entered his cabin without speaking.
The commander of the Coquette was absent but a few minutes. When he again appeared on deck, there was more of decision and of preparation in his manner.
“’Tis time to call the watch, Mr. Reef;” he whispered at the elbow of the drowsy officer of the deck, without betraying his consciousness of the youth’s forgetfulness of duty. “The glass is out.”
“Ay, ay, Sir.–Bear a hand, and turn the glass!” muttered the young man. “A fine night, Sir, and very smooth water.–I was just thinking of–”
“Home and thy mother! ’Tis the way with us all in youth. Well, we have now something else to occupy the thoughts. Muster all the gentlemen, here, on the quarter-deck, Sir.”
“When the half-sleeping midshipman quitted his captain to obey this order, the latter drew near the spot where Trysail still lay in an unquiet sleep. A light touch of a single finger was sufficient to raise the master on his feet. The first look of the veteran tar was aloft, the second at the heavens, and the last at his captain.
“I fear thy wound stiffens, and that the night air has added to the pain?” observed the latter, speaking in a kind and considerate tone.
“The wounded spar cannot be trusted like a sound stick, Captain Ludlow; but as I am no foot-soldier on a march, the duty of the ship may go on without my calling for a horse.”
“I rejoice in thy cheerful spirit, my old friend, for here is serious work likely to fall upon our hands. The Frenchmen are in their boats, and we shall shortly be brought to close quarters, or prognostics are false.”
“Boats!” repeated the master. “I had rather it were under our canvas, with a stiff breeze! The play of this ship is a lively foot, and a touching leech; but, when, it comes to boats, a marine is nearly as good a man as a quarter-master!”
“We must take fortune as it offers.–Here is our council!–It is composed of young heads, but of hearts that might do credit to gray hairs.”
Ludlow joined the little group of officers that was by this time assembled near the capstan. Here, in a few words, he explained the reason why he had summoned them from their sleep. When each of the youths understood his orders, and the nature of the new danger that threatened the ship, they separated, and began to enter with activity, but in guarded silence, on the necessary preparations. The sound of footsteps awoke a dozen of the older seamen, who immediately joined their officers.
Half an hour passed like a moment, in such an occupation. At the end of that time, Ludlow deemed his ship ready. The two forward guns had been run in, and the shot having been drawn, their places were supplied with double charges of grape and canister. Several swivels, a species of armament much used in that age, were loaded to the muzzles, and placed in situations to rake the deck, while the fore-top was plentifully stored with arms and ammunition. The matches were prepared, and then the whole of the crew was mustered, by a particular call of each man. Five minutes sufficed to issue the necessary orders, and to see each post occupied. After this, the low hum ceased in the ship, and the silence again became so deep and general, that the wash of the receding surf was nearly as audible as the plunge of the wave on the sands.
Ludlow stood on the forecastle, accompanied by the master. Here he lent all his senses to the appearance of the elements, and to the signs of the moment. Wind there was none, though occasionally a breath of hot air came from the land, like the first efforts of the night-breeze. The heavens were clouded, though a few thoughtful stars glimmered between the masses of vapor.
“A calmer night never shut in the Americas!” said the veteran Trysail, shaking his head doubtingly, and speaking in a suppressed and cautious tone. “I am one of those, Captain Ludlow, who think more than half the virtue is out of a ship when her anchor is down!”
“With a weakened crew, it may be better for us that the people have no yards to handle, nor any bowlines to steady. All our care can be given to defence.”