“Hist!” interrupted Rose, “what noise is that in the direction of the wharf? It sounds like an oar falling in a boat.”
Mulford heard that well-known sound, as well as his companion, and, followed by Rose, he passed swiftly through the house, coming out at the front next the wharf. The moon was still shining bright, and the mystery of the echoing report and answering shot was immediately explained. A large boat, one that pulled ten oars at least, was just coming up to the end of the wharf, and the manner in which its oars were unshipped and tossed, announced to the mate that the crew were man-of-war’s men. He walked hastily forward to meet them.
Three officers first left the boat together. The gold bands of their caps showed that they belonged to the quarter-deck, a fact that the light of the moon made apparent at once, though it was not strong enough to render features distinct. As Mulford continued to advance, however, the three officers saluted him.
“I see you have got the light under way once more,” observed the leader of the party. “Last night it was as dark as Erebus in your lantern.”
“The light-house keeper and his assistant have both been drowned,” answered Mulford. “The lamps have been lit to-night by the people of the brig which has just gone out.”
“The Molly Swash, of New York; a craft that I lately belonged to myself, but which I have left on account of her evil doings.”
“The Molly Swash, Stephen Spike master and owner, bound to Key West and a market, with a cargo of eight hundred barrels of flour, and that of a quality so lively and pungent that it explodes like gunpowder! I beg your pardon, Mr. Mate, for not recognizing you sooner. Have you forgotten the Poughkeepsie, Capt. Mull, and her far-reaching Paixhans?”
“I ought to ask your pardon, Mr. Wallace, for not recognizing _you_ sooner, too. But one does not distinguish well by moon-light. I am delighted, to see you, sir, and now hope that, with my assistance, a stop can be put to the career of the brig.”
“What, Mr. Mate, do _you_ turn against your craft?” said Wallace, under the impulsive feeling which induces all loyal men to have a distaste for treachery of every sort, “the seaman should love the very planks of his vessel.”