“Shure, and it’s a gentleman ye are, Misther Westbrook, and I’d like to see the spalpeen that says ye aint,” said O’Shaughnessy, grasping the proffered hand, and shaking it heartily. “Yonder are the white caps of the Atlantic, rolling ahead,” said I, as we stretched past Sandy Hook, and beheld the broad ocean opening in all its vastness and sublimity before us. We were now fairly afloat. At that time the enterprise in which we had embarked was one of the greatest danger, for not only were we liable to the usual dangers of nautical warfare, but we were, as yet, uncertain in what manner we should be treated in case of a capture. But we were all confident in the justness of our country’s cause, and being such, we were prepared for either fortune. Nearly a week elapsed without anything occurring to dissipate the monotony of our voyage, excepting a momentary alarm at the appearance of a frigate, which we at first took to be an English one, but which subsequently turned out to be a Frenchman. Meanwhile, we were not without many a merry bout in the gun-room, and over our salt junk and Jamaica, we enjoyed ourselves as hilariously as many an epicure would over his Burgundy and turtle-soup. The jest went round; the song was gaily trolled; many a merry story was rehearsed, and anticipations of a successful cruize were mingled with determinations to bear the worst, if fortune should so will it. Under the broad flag of New York, we were resolved “to do or die,” against the prouder ensign of an unjust, and tyrannical king. We had run down well nigh to the Windward islands, and were beating up against a head wind, when we spoke a French merchantman, who informed us that he had passed a rich Indiaman, but the day before, bound from London to Jamaica. After enquiring the course of the Englishman, our skipper hauled his wind, and bidding the friendly Gaul, “_un bon voyage_,” we steered away in pursuit of our prize. Night settled down upon us before we caught sight of her; but still crowding on all sail we kept on in our way. It was about eight bells in the middle watch, and I was on the point of preparing to go below, after the relief should have been called, when I thought I heard a rattling of cordage down in the thick bank of fog to leeward. I listened attentively, and again heard the sound distinctly, but this time it was like the rollicking of oars. “Hist! Benson,” said I to the boatswain, who was standing near me at the moment, “hist! lay your ear close to the water here, and listen if you do not hear the sound of oars.” The old fellow got into the main chains, and holding on with one hand to them, cautiously leaned over and listened for several minutes. “I hear nothing, sir,” said he in a whisper, “it’s as still as death down in yonder fog-bank. But I’ll keep a sharp look-out, for it may be there’s a sail close on to us, without our knowing it, in this mist.”