Chapter 25

"Or feeling--, as the storm increases,
The love of terror nerve thy breast,
Didst venture to the coast:
To see the mighty war-ship leap
From wave to wave upon the deep,
Like chamois goat from steep to steep,
Till low in valley lost."
ALLSTON.

Roger Talcott had not been idle during my absence. Clawbonny was so
dear to me, that I had staid longer than was proposed in the original
plan; and I now found the hatches on the Dawn, a crew shipped, and
nothing remaining but to clear out. I mean the literal thing, and not
the slang phrase, one of those of which so many have crept into the
American language, through the shop, and which even find their way
into print; such as "charter coaches," "on a boat," "on board a
stage," and other similar elegancies. "_On_ a boat" always makes
me--, even at my present time of life. The Dawn was cleared the day I
reached town.

Several of the crew of the Crisis had shipped with us anew, the poor
fellows having already made away with all their wages and prize-money,
in the short space of a month! This denoted the usual improvidence of
sailors, and was thought nothing out of the common way. The country
being at peace, a difficulty with Tripoli excepted, it was no longer
necessary for ships to go armed. The sudden excitement produced by the
brush with the French had already subsided, and the navy was reduced
to a few vessels that had been regularly built for the service; while
the lists of officers had been curtailed of two-thirds of their
names. We were no longer a warlike, but were fast getting to be a
strictly commercial, body of seamen. I had a single six-pounder, and
half a dozen muskets, in the Dawn, besides a pair or two of pistols,
with just ammunition enough to quell a mutiny, fire a few signal-guns,
or to kill a few ducks.

We sailed on the 3rd of July. I have elsewhere intimated that the
Manhattanese hold exaggerated notions of the comparative beauty of the
scenery of their port, sometimes presuming to compare it even with
Naples; to the bay of which it bears some such resemblance as a Dutch
canal bears to a river flowing through rich meadows, in the freedom
and grace of nature. Nevertheless, there _are_ times and seasons
when the bay of New York offers a landscape worthy of any pencil. It
was at one of these felicitous moments that the Dawn cast off from the
wharf, and commenced her voyage to Bordeaux. There was barely air
enough from the southward to enable us to handle the ship, and we
profited by a morning ebb to drop down to the Narrows, in the midst of
a fleet of some forty sail; most of the latter, however, being
coasters. Still, we were a dozen ships and brigs, bound to almost as