A word on the facts of our legend. The attentive
observer of men and things has many occasions to note
the manner in which ordinary lookers on deceive themselves,
as well as others. The species of treason portrayed
in these pages is no uncommon occurrence; and it will
often be found that the traitor is the loudest in his
protestations of patriotism. It is a pretty safe
rule to suspect the man of hypocrisy who makes a parade
of his religion, and the partisan of corruption and
selfishness, who is clamorous about the rights of
the people. Captain Spike was altogether above
the first vice; though fairly on level, as respects
the second, with divers patriots who live by their
deity.
Pros.
Why, that’s my spirit!
But was not this nigh shore?
Ariel.
Close by, my master.
Pros.
But are they, Ariel, safe?
Ariel.
Not a hair perished:
Tempest.
“D’ye here there, Mr. Mulford?”
called out Capt. Stephen Spike, of the half-rigged,
brigantine Swash, or Molly Swash, as was her registered
name, to his mate—“we shall be dropping
out as soon as the tide makes, and I intend to get
through the Gate, at least, on the next flood.
Waiting for a wind in port is lubberly seamanship,
for he that wants one should go outside and look for
it.”
This call was uttered from a wharf of the renowned
city of Manhattan, to one who was in the trunk-cabin
of a clipper-looking craft, of the name mentioned,
and on the deck of which not a soul was visible.
Nor was the wharf, though one of those wooden piers
that line the arm of the sea that is called the East
River, such a spot as ordinarily presents itself to
the mind of the reader, or listener, when an allusion
is made to a wharf of that town which it is the fashion
of the times to call the Commercial Emporium of America—as
if there might very well be an emporium of any other
character. The wharf in question had not a single
vessel of any sort lying at, or indeed very near it,
with the exception of the Molly Swash. As it
actually stood on the eastern side of the town, it
is scarcely necessary to say that such a wharf could
only be found high up, and at a considerable distance
from the usual haunts of commerce. The brig lay
more than a mile above the Hook (Corlaer’s,
of course, is meant—not Sandy Hook) and
quite near to the old Alms House—far above
the ship-yards, in fact. It was a solitary place
for a vessel, in the midst of a crowd. The grum
top-chain voice of Captain Spike had nothing there
to mingle with, or interrupt its harsh tones, and
it instantly brought on deck Harry Mulford, the mate
in question, apparently eager to receive his orders.
“Did you hail, Captain Spike?” called
out the mate, a tight, well-grown, straight-built,
handsome sailor-lad of two or three-and-twenty—one
full of health, strength and manliness.
