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Jack Tier or The Florida Reef

J >> James Fenimore Cooper >> Jack Tier or The Florida Reef



Edited by Charles Aldarondo (aldarondo@yahoo.com)



JACK TIER;

OR

THE FLORIDA REEF.

BY THE AUTHOR OF
"THE PILOT," "RED ROVER," "TWO ADMIRALS," "WING AND
WING," "MILES WALLINGFORD," ETC.






PREFACE.





This work has already appeared in Graham's Magazine, under the title
of "Rose Budd." The change of name is solely the act of the author,
and arises from a conviction that the appellation given in this
publication is more appropriate than the one laid aside. The
necessity of writing to a name, instead of getting it from the
incidents of the book itself, has been the cause of this departure
from the ordinary rules.

When this book was commenced, it was generally supposed that the
Mexican war would end, after a few months of hostilities. Such was
never the opinion of the writer. He has ever looked forward to a
protracted struggle; and, now that Congress has begun to interfere,
sees as little probability of its termination, as on the day it
commenced. Whence honourable gentlemen have derived their notions of
the constitution, when they advance the doctrine that Congress is an
American Aulic council, empowered to encumber the movements of
armies, and, as old Blucher expressed it in reference to the
diplomacy of Europe, "to spoil with the pen the work achieved by the
sword," it is difficult to say more than this, that they do not get
them from the constitution itself. It has generally been supposed
that the present executive was created in order to avoid the very
evils of a distracted and divided council, which this new
construction has a direct tendency to revive. But a presidential
election has ever proved, and probably will ever prove, stronger
than any written fundamental law.

We have had occasion to refer often to Mexico in these pages. It has
been our aim to do so in a kind spirit; for, while we have never
doubted that the factions which have possessed themselves of the
government in that country have done us great wrong, wrong that
would have justified a much earlier appeal to arms, we have always
regarded the class of Mexicans who alone can properly be termed the
`people,' as mild, amiable, and disposed to be on friendly terms
with us. Providence, however, directs all to the completion of its
own wise ends. If the crust which has so long encircled that nation,
enclosing it in bigotry and ignorance, shall now be irretrievably
broken, letting in light, even Mexico herself may have cause
hereafter to rejoice in her present disasters. It was in this way
that Italy has been, in a manner, regenerated; the conquests of the
French carrying in their train the means and agencies which have, at
length, aroused that glorious portion of the earth to some of its
ancient spirit. Mexico, in certain senses, is the Italy of this
continent; and war, however ruthless and much to be deplored, may
yet confer on her the inestimable blessings of real liberty, and a
religion released from "feux d'artifice," as well as all other
artifices.

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.






CHAPTER I.

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.

"Hail! If you call straining a man's throat until he's hoarse,
hailing, I believe I did. I flatter myself, there is not a man north
of Hatteras that can make himself heard further in gale of wind than
a certain gentleman who is to be found within a foot of the spot
where I stand. Yet, sir, I've been hailing the Swash these five
minutes, and thankful am I to find some one at last who is on board
to answer me."

"What are your orders, Capt. Spike?"

"To see all clear for a start as soon as the flood makes. I shall go
through the Gate on the next young flood, and I hope you'll have all
the hands aboard in time. I see two or three of them up at that
Dutch beer-house, this moment, and can tell'em; in plain language,
if they come here with their beer aboard them, they'll have to go
ashore again."

"You have an uncommonly sober crew, Capt. Spike," answered the young
man, with great calmness. "During the whole time I have been with
them, I have not seen a man among them the least in the wind."

"Well, I hope it will turn out that I've an uncommonly sober mate in
the bargain. Drunkenness I abominate, Mr. Mulford, and I can tell
you, short metre, that I will not stand it."

"May I inquire if you ever saw me, the least in the world, under the
influence of liquor, Capt. Spike?" demanded the mate, rather than
asked, with a very fixed meaning in his manner.

"I keep no log-book of trifles, Mr. Mulford, and cannot say. No man
is the worse for bowsing out his jib when off duty, though a
drunkard's a thing I despise. Well, well--remember, sir, that the
Molly Swash casts off on the young flood, and that Rose Budd and the
good lady, her aunt, take passage in her, this v'y'ge."

"Is it possible that you have persuaded them into that, at last!"
exclaimed the handsome mate.

"Persuaded! It takes no great persuasion, sir, to get the ladies to
try their luck in that brig. Lady Washington herself, if she was
alive and disposed to a sea-v'y'ge, might be glad of the chance.
We've a ladies' cabin, you know, and it's suitable that it should
have some one to occupy it. Old Mrs. Budd is a sensible woman, and
takes time by the forelock. Rose is ailin'--pulmonary they call it,
I believe, and her aunt wishes to try the sea for her
constitution--"

"Rose Budd has no more of a pulmonary constitution than I have
myself," interrupted the mate.

"Well, that's as people fancy. You must know, Mr. Mulford, they've
got all sorts of diseases now-a-days, and all sorts of cures for'em.
One sort of a cure for consumption is what they tarm the
Hyder-Ally--"

"I think you must mean hydropathy, sir--"

"Well it's something of the sort, no matter what--but cold water is
at the bottom of it, and they do say it's a good remedy. Now Rose's
aunt thinks if cold water is what is wanted, there is no place where
it can be so plenty as out on the ocean. Sea-air is good, too, and
by taking a v'y'ge her niece will get both requisites together, and
cheap."

"Does Rose Budd think herself consumptive, Capt. Spike?" asked
Mulford, with interest.

"Not she--you know it will never do to alarm a pulmonary, so Mrs.
Budd has held her tongue carefully on the subject before the young
woman. Rose fancies that her aunt is out of sorts, and that the
v'y'ge is tried on her account--but the aunt, the cunning thing,
knows all about it."

Mulford almost nauseated the expression of his commander's
countenance while Spike uttered the last words. At no time was that
countenance very inviting, the features being coarse and vulgar,
while the color of the entire face was of an ambiguous red, in which
liquor and the seasons would seem to be blended in very equal
quantities. Such a countenance, lighted up by a gleam of successful
management, not to say with hopes and wishes that it will hardly do
to dwell on, could not but be revolting to a youth of Harry
Mulford's generous feelings, and most of all to one who entertained
the sentiments which he was quite conscious of entertaining for Rose
Budd. The young man made no reply, but turned his face toward the
water, in order to conceal the expression of disgust that he was
sensible must be strongly depicted on it.

The river, as the well-known arm of the sea in which the Swash was
lying is erroneously termed, was just at that moment unusually clear
of craft, and not a sail, larger than that of a boat, was to be seen
between the end of Blackwell's Island and Corlaer's Hook, a distance
of about a league. This stagnation in the movement of the port, at
that particular point, was owing to the state of wind and tide. Of
the first, there was little more than a southerly air, while the
last was about two-thirds ebb. Nearly everything that was expected
on that tide, coast-wise, and by the way of the Sound, had already
arrived, and nothing could go eastward, with that light breeze and
under canvas, until the flood made. Of course it was different with
the steamers, who were paddling about like so many ducks, steering
in all directions, though mostly crossing and re-crossing at the
ferries. Just as Mulford turned away from his commander, however, a
large vessel of that class shoved her bows into the view, doubling
the Hook, and going eastward. The first glance at this vessel
sufficed to drive even Rose Budd momentarily out of the minds of
both master and mate, and to give a new current to their thoughts.
Spike had been on the point of walking up the wharf, but he now so
far changed his purpose as actually to jump on board of the brig and
spring up alongside of his mate, on the taffrail, in order to get a
better look at the steamer. Mulford, who loathed so much in his
commander, was actually glad of this, Spike's rare merit as a seaman
forming a sort of attraction that held him, as it might be against
his own will, bound to his service.

"What will they do next, Harry?" exclaimed the master, his manner
and voice actually humanized, in air and sound at least, by this
unexpected view of something new in his calling--"What will they do
next?"

"I see no wheels, sir, nor any movement in the water astern, as if
she were a propeller," returned the young man.

"She's an out-of-the-way sort of a hussy! She's a man-of-war,
too--one of Uncle Sam's new efforts."

"That can hardly be, sir. Uncle Sam has but three steamers, of any
size or force, now the Missouri is burned; and yonder is one of
them, lying at the Navy Yard, while another is, or was lately, laid
up at Boston. The third is in the Gulf. This must be an entirely new
vessel, if she belong to Uncle Sam."

"New! She's as new as a Governor, and they tell me they've got so
now that they choose five or six of them, up at Albany, every fall.
That craft is sea-going, Mr. Mulford, as any one can tell at a
glance. She's none of your passenger-hoys."

"That's plain enough, sir--and she's armed. Perhaps she's English,
and they've brought her here into this open spot to try some new
machinery. Ay, ay! she's about to set her ensign to the navy men at
the yard, and we shall see to whom she belongs."

A long, low, expressive whistle from Spike succeeded this remark,
the colours of the steamer going up to the end of a gaff on the
sternmost of her schooner-rigged masts, just as Mulford ceased
speaking. There was just air enough, aided by the steamer's motion,
to open the bunting, and let the spectators see the design. There
were the stars and stripes, as usual, but the last ran
perpendicularly, instead of in a horizontal direction.

"Revenue, by George!" exclaimed the master, as soon as his breath
was exhausted in the whistle. "Who would have believed they could
screw themselves up to doing such a thing in that bloody service?"

"I now remember to have heard that Uncle Sam was building some large
steamers for the revenue service, and, if I mistake not, with some
new invention to get along with, that is neither wheel nor
propeller. This must be one of these new craft, brought out here,
into open water, just to try her, sir."

"You're right, sir, you're right. As to the natur' of the beast, you
see her buntin', and no honest man can want more. If there's
anything I do hate, it is that flag, with its unnat'ral stripes, up
and down, instead of running in the true old way. I have heard a
lawyer say, that the revenue flag of this country is
onconstitutional, and that a vessel carrying it on the high seas
might be sent in for piracy."

Although Harry Mulford was neither Puffendorf, nor Grotius, he had
too much common sense, and too little prejudice in favour of even
his own vocation, to swallow such a theory, had fifty Cherry Street
lawyers sworn to its justice. A smile crossed his fine, firm-looking
mouth, and something very like a reflection of that smile, if smiles
can be reflected in one's own countenance, gleamed in his fine,
large, dark eye.

"It would be somewhat singular, Capt, Spike," he said, "if a vessel
belonging to any nation should be seized as a pirate. The fact that
she is national in character would clear her."

"Then let her carry a national flag, and be d--d to her," answered
Spike fiercely. "I can show you law for what I say, Mr. Mulford. The
American flag has its stripes fore and aft by law, and this chap
carries his stripes parpendic'lar. If I commanded a cruiser, and
fell in with one of these up and down gentry, blast me if I wouldn't
just send him into port, and try the question in the old
Alms-House."

Mulford probably did not think it worth while to argue the point any
further, understanding the dogmatism and stolidity of his commander
too well to deem it necessary. He preferred to turn to the
consideration of the qualities of the steamer in sight, a subject on
which, as seamen, they might better sympathize.

"That's a droll-looking revenue cutter, after all, Capt. Spike," he
said--"a craft better fitted to go in a fleet, as a look-out vessel,
than to chase a smuggler in-shore."

"And no goer in the bargain! I do not see how she gets along, for
she keeps all snug under water; but, unless she can travel faster
than she does just now, the Molly Swash would soon lend her the
Mother Carey's Chickens of her own wake to amuse her."

"She has the tide against her, just here, sir; no doubt she would do
better in still water."

Spike muttered something between his teeth, and jumped down on deck,
seemingly dismissing the subject of the revenue entirely from his
mind. His old, coarse, authoritative manner returned, and he again
spoke to his mate about Rose Budd, her aunt, the "ladies' cabin,"
the "young flood," and "casting off," as soon as the last made.
Mulford listened respectfully, though with a manifest distaste for
the instructions he was receiving. He knew his man, and a feeling of
dark distrust came over him, as he listened to his orders concerning
the famous accommodations he intended to give to Rose Budd and that
"capital old lady, her aunt;" his opinion of "the immense deal of
good sea-air and a v'y'ge would do Rose," and how "comfortable they
both would be on board the Molly Swash."

"I honour and respect, Mrs. Budd, as my captain's lady, you see, Mr.
Mulford, and intend to treat her accordin'ly. She knows it--and Rose
knows it--and they both declare they'd rather sail with me, since
sail they must, than with any other ship-master out of America."

"You sailed once with Capt. Budd yourself, I think I have heard you
say, sir?"

"The old fellow brought me up. I was with him from my tenth to my
twentieth year, and then broke adrift to see fashions. We all do
that, you know, Mr. Mulford, when we are young and ambitious, and my
turn came as well as another's."

"Capt. Budd must have been a good deal older than his wife, sir, if
you sailed with him when a boy," Mulford observed a little drily.

"Yes; I own to forty-eight, though no one would think me more than
five or six-and-thirty, to look at me. There was a great difference
between old Dick Budd and his wife, as you say, he being about
fifty, when he married, and she less than twenty. Fifty is a good
age for matrimony, in a man, Mulford; as is twenty in a young
woman."

"Rose Budd is not yet nineteen, I have heard her say," returned the
mate, with emphasis.

"Youngish, I will own, but that's a fault a liberal-minded man can
overlook. Every day, too, will lessen it. Well, look to the cabins,
and see all clear for a start. Josh will be down presently with a
cart-load of stores, and you'll take 'em aboard without delay."

As Spike uttered this order, his foot was on the plank-sheer of the
bulwarks, in the act of passing to the wharf again. On reaching the
shore, he turned and looked intently at the revenue steamer, and his
lips moved, as if he were secretly uttering maledictions on her. We
say maledictions, as the expression of his fierce ill-favoured
countenance too plainly showed that they could not be blessings. As
for Mulford, there was still something on his mind, and he followed
to the gangway ladder and ascended it, waiting for a moment when the
mind of his commander might be less occupied to speak. The
opportunity soon occurred, Spike having satisfied himself with the
second look at the steamer.

"I hope you don't mean to sail again without a second mate, Capt.
Spike?" he said.

"I do though, I can tell you. I hate Dickies--they are always in the
way, and the captain has to keep just as much of a watch with one as
without one."

"That will depend on his quality. You and I have both been Dickies
in our time, sir; and my time was not long ago."

"Ay--ay--I know all about it--but you didn't stick to it long enough
to get spoiled. I would have no man aboard the Swash who made more
than two v'y'ges as second officer. As I want no spies aboard my
craft, I'll try it once more without a Dicky."

Saying this in a sufficiently positive manner, Capt. Stephen Spike
rolled up the wharf, much as a ship goes off before the wind, now
inclining to the right, and then again to the left. The gait of the
man would have proclaimed him a sea-dog, to any one acquainted with
that animal, as far as he could be seen. The short squab figure, the
arms bent nearly at right angles at the elbow, and working like two
fins with each roll of the body, the stumpy, solid legs, with the
feet looking in the line of his course and kept wide apart, would
all have contributed to the making up of such an opinion. Accustomed
as he was to this beautiful sight, Harry Mulford kept his eyes
riveted on the retiring person of his commander, until it
disappeared behind a pile of lumber, waddling always in the
direction of the more thickly peopled parts of the town. Then he
turned and gazed at the steamer, which, by this time, had fairly
passed the brig, and seemed to be actually bound through the Gate.
That steamer was certainly a noble-looking craft, but our young man
fancied she struggled along through the water heavily. She might be
quick at need, but she did not promise as much by her present rate
of moving. Still, she was a noble-looking craft, and, as Mulford
descended to the deck again, he almost regretted he did not belong
to her; or, at least, to anything but the Molly Swash.

Two hours produced 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.

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