“No,” replied the captain, “I shall stick to Mr. Gibbons till he is through his troubles.”

That was the reason why he remained so long in the service of Mr. Gibbons.

After this war was over, the genius of Captain Vanderbilt had full play, and he conducted the line with so much energy and good sense, that it yielded an annual profit of forty thousand dollars.  Gibbons offered to raise his salary to five thousand dollars a year, but he declined the offer.  An acquaintance once asked him why he refused a compensation that was so manifestly just.

“I did it on principle,” was his reply.  “The other captains had but one thousand, and they were already jealous enough of me.  Besides, I never cared for money.  All I ever have cared for was to carry my point.”

A little incident of these years he has sometimes related to his children.  In the cold January of 1820, the ship Elizabeth—­the first ship ever sent to Africa by the Colonization Society—­lay at the foot of Rector Street, with the negroes all on board, frozen in.  For many days, her crew, aided by the crew of the frigate Siam, her convoy, had been cutting away at the ice; but, as more ice formed at night than could be removed by day, the prospect of getting to sea was unpromising.  One afternoon, Captain Vanderbilt joined the crowd of spectators.

“They are going the wrong way to work,” he carelessly remarked, as he turned to go home.  “I could get her out in one day.”

These words, from a man who was known to mean all he said, made an impression on a bystander, who reported them to the anxious agent of the Society.  The agent called upon him.

“What did you mean, Captain, by saying that you could get out the ship in one day?”

“Just what I said.”

“What will you get her out for?”

“One hundred dollars.”

“I’ll give it.  When will you do it?”

“Have a steamer to-morrow, at twelve o’clock, ready to tow her out.  I’ll have her clear in time.”

That same evening, at six, he was on the spot with five men, three pine boards, and a small anchor.  The difficulty was that beyond the ship there were two hundred yards of ice too thin to bear a man.  The captain placed his anchor on one of his boards, and pushed it out as far as he could reach; then placed another board upon the ice, laid down upon it, and gave his anchor another push.  Then he put down his third board, and used that as a means of propulsion.  In this way he worked forward to near the edge of the thin ice, where the anchor broke through and sunk.  With the line attached to it, he hauled a boat to the outer edge, and then began cutting a passage for the ship.

At eleven the next morning she was clear.  At twelve she was towed into the stream.

In 1829, after twelve years of service as captain of a steamboat, being then thirty-five years of age, and having saved thirty thousand dollars, he announced to his employer his intention to set up for himself.  Mr. Gibbons was aghast.  He declared that he could not carry on the line without his aid, and finding him resolute, said:—­