Jack Tier | Page 6

a sensible change in and around that brigantine.
Her people had all come back to duty, and what was very remarkable
among seafaring folk, sober to a man. But, as has been said, Spike was
a temperance man, as respects all under his orders at least, if not strictly
so in practice himself. The crew of the Swash was large for a
half-rigged brig of only two hundred tons, but, as her spars were very
square, and all her gear as well as her mould seemed constructed for
speed, it was probable more hands than common were necessary to
work her with facility and expedition. After all, there were not many
persons to be enumerated among the "people of the Molly Swash," as
they called themselves; not more than a dozen, including those aft, as
well as those forward. A peculiar feature of this crew, however, was the

circumstance that they were all middle-aged men, with the exception of
the mate, and all thorough-bred sea-dogs. Even Josh, the cabin-boy, as
he was called, was an old, wrinkled, gray-headed negro, of near sixty.
If the crew wanted a little in the elasticity of youth, it possessed the
steadiness and experience of their time of life, every man appearing to
know exactly what to do, and when to do it. This, indeed, composed
their great merit; an advantage that Spike well knew how to appreciate.
The stores had been brought alongside of the brig in a cart, and were
already showed in their places. Josh had brushed and swept, until the
ladies' cabin could be made no neater. This ladies' cabin was a small
apartment beneath a trunk, which was, ingeniously enough, separated
from the main cabin by pantries and double doors. The arrangement
was unusual, and Spike had several times hinted that there was a
history connected with that cabin; though what the history was Mulford
never could induce him to relate. The latter knew that the brig had been
used for a forced trade on the Spanish Main, and had heard something
of her deeds in bringing off specie, and proscribed persons, at different
epochs in the revolutions of that part of the world, and he had always
understood that her present commander and owner had sailed in her, as
mate, for many years before he had risen to his present station. Now, all
was regular in the way of records, bills of sale, and other documents;
Stephen Spike appearing in both the capacities just named. The register
proved that the brig had been built as far back as the last English war,
as a private cruiser, but recent and extensive repairs had made her
"better than new," as her owner insisted, and there was no question as
to her sea-worthiness. It is true the insurance offices blew upon her, and
would have nothing to do with a craft that had seen her two score years
and ten; but this gave none who belonged to her any concern, inasmuch
as they could scarcely have been underwritten in their trade, let the age
of the vessel be what it might. It was enough for them that the brig was
safe and exceedingly fast, insurances never saving the lives of the
people, whatever else might be their advantages. With Mulford it was
an additional recommendation, that the Swash was usually thought to
be of uncommonly just proportions.
By half-past two, P. M., everything was ready for getting the brigantine
under way. Her fore-topsail--or foretawsail as Spike called it--was
loose, the fasts were singled, and a spring had been carried to a post in

the wharf, that was well forward of the starboard bow, and the brig's
head turned to the southwest, or down the stream, and consequently
facing the young flood. Nothing seemed to connect the vessel with the
land but a broad gangway plank, to which Mulford had attached
life-lines, with more care than it is usual to meet with on board of
vessels employed in short voyages. The men stood about the decks with
their arms thrust into the bosoms of their shirts, and the whole picture
was one of silent, and possibly of somewhat uneasy expectation.
Nothing was said, however; Mulford walking the quarter-deck alone,
occasionally looking up the still little tenanted streets of that quarter of
the suburbs, as if to search for a carriage. As for the revenue-steamer,
she had long before gone through the southern passage of Blackwell's,
steering for the Gate.
"Dat's dem, Mr. Mulford," Josh at length cried, from the look-out he
had taken in a stern-port, where he could see over the low bulwarks of
the vessel. "Yes, dat's dem, sir. I know dat old gray horse dat carries his
head so low and sorrowful like, as a horse has a right to do dat