Mr. Arnold: A romance of the RevolutionLynde, Francis
General
Mr. Arnold: A romance of the Revolution
Lynde, Francis
Arnold, Benedict, 1741-1801 -- Fiction
So he said, and so I thought, and so it presently proved when the fog
closed in about us. We had no compass, and could only hold on as nearly
as we could guess in the direction we thought we ought to go. Once we
made sure we heard the tramp of the sentry on the battlements of the
fort, and the low-voiced challenge of guard-relieving,--which would
make the time eleven o’clock,--but before we could be certain of these
sounds we were tangled again as to our directions, and the next sounds
that came to us were the bumping of our boat’s bows against the side of
a ship, and a hoarse voice shouting, “Avast there, you lubbers! Unship
your oars and lie still or I’ll fire into you!”
XVI
THE CUP OF TANTALUS
TAKING it all in all, it seems that we should have come promptly to the
conclusion that, on this raw night of the seventeenth of December, the
stars in their courses were fighting against us; that our own lucky
star, if we had any, was a million miles below the horizon.
At the gruff hail from the ship we had collided with, there was nothing
for it but to lie on our oars, and to take what was coming to us. I
expected a peremptory command to come aboard; but instead, a boat-hook
was reached down to hold us as we were, a lantern was lowered in our
direction, and the officer of the watch demanded to know who we were
and what we were doing.
Here was a chance for the exercising of my most promising gift, and I
improved it instantly.
“If this is a king’s ship, we are wearing his majesty’s colors. If not,
you may go to the devil with your questions,” I made answer, with all
the coolness I could muster.
“Your names, your business, and the night password!” roared our
questioner, losing patience, as I thought he would.
“We don’t yield any of the three to every jack-in-a-box ensign who bobs
up to ask them,” I retorted blandly. “Go and call your captain, my
friend.”
Judging by the choking and spluttering going on in the upper dimnesses
I thought our officer, a little man with bullet eyes and a turned-up
nose, would have a fit. When he had sworn himself into some atmosphere
of coherence he commanded us to tumble aboard, or by all the sea-gods
he would keelhaul us first and hang us at the yard-arm afterward.
Whereupon I laughed pleasantly, and told him we should do well enough
as we were if he would let us have a compass by which to find our way
ashore.
That brought him down to us, hand-under-hand on the first rope he could
lay hold of; and when he dropped into our cockle-shell we had much ado
to keep him from swamping it or himself.
“Up the side, the pair of you!” he blustered, lugging out a huge
pistol; and then the light of the lantern showed him our Loyal American
facings and my captain’s shoulder-knot, and he changed countenance.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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