“God-protect us from anymore strange sails!” exclaimed the surly Nighthead. “There we have the pinnace hanging at the stern, and here must be land at some forty leagues to the north-west. Water and food are plenty, and twelve, stout hands can soon pull a boat to the continent of America; that is, always provided, America is left where it was seen no later than at the sun-set of yesterday.” “You then propose to abandon the vessel?” “I do. The interest of the owners is dear to all good seamen, but life is sweeter than gold.” “The will of heaven be done! But surely you meditate no violence against this gentleman, who, I am quite certain, has governed the vessel, in very critical circumstances, with a discretion far beyond his years!” Nighthead muttered his intentions, whatever they might be, to himself; and then he walked apart, apparently to confer with the men, who already seemed but too well disposed to second any of his views, however mistaken or lawless. During the few moments of suspense that succeeded, Wilder stood silent and composed, a smile of something like scorn struggling about his lip, and maintaining the air rather of one who had power to decide on the fortunes of others, than of a man whose own fate was most probably at that very moment in discussion. When the dull minds of the seamen had arrived at their conclusion, the mate advanced to proclaim the result. Indeed, words were unnecessary, in order to make known a very material part of their decision; for a party of the men proceeded instantly to lower the stern-boat into the water, while others set about supplying it with the necessary means of subsistence. “There is room for all the Christians in the ship to stow themselves in this pinnace,” resumed Nighthead; “and as for those that place their dependance on any particular persons, why, let them call for aid where they have been used to receive it.” “From all which I am to infer that it is your intention,” said Wilder, calmly, “to abandon the wreck and your duty?” The half-awed but still resentful mate returned a look in which fear and triumph struggled for the mastery, as he answered,— “You, who know how to sail a ship without a crew, can never want a boat! Besides, you shall never say to your friends, whoever they may be, that we leave you without the means of reaching the land, if you are indeed a land-bird at all. There is the launch.” “There is the launch! but well do you know, that, without masts, all your united strengths could not lift it from the deck; else would it not be left.” “They that took the masts out of the ‘Caroline’ can put them in again,” rejoined a grinning seaman; “it will not be an hour after we leave you, before a sheer-hulk will come alongside, to step the spars again, and then you may go cruise in company.”