Chapter 9

"He ran this way, and leap'd this orchard wall."--_Shakspeare._

Wilder retired from the field like a defeated man. Accident, or, as he was
willing to term it, the sycophancy of the old mariner, had counteracted
his own little artifice; and he was now left without the remotest chance
of being again favoured with such another opportunity of effecting his
purpose. We shall not, at this period of the narrative, enter into a
detail of the feelings and policy which induced our adventurer to plot
against the apparent interests of those with whom he had so recently
associated himself; it is enough, for our present object, that the facts
themselves should be distinctly set before the reader.

The return of the disappointed young sailor, towards the town, was moody
and slow. More than once he stopped short in the descent, and fastened his
eyes, for minutes together, on the different vessels in the harbour. But,
in these frequent-halts, no evidence of the particular interest he took in
any one of the ships escaped him. Perhaps his gaze at the Southern trader
was longer, and more earnest, than at any other; though his eye, at times,
wandered curiously, and even anxiously, over every craft that lay within
the shelter of the haven.

The customary hour for exertion had now arrived, and the sounds of labour
were beginning to be heard, issuing from every quarter of the place. The
songs of the mariners were rising on the calm of the morning with their
peculiar, long-drawn intonations. The ship in the inner harbour was among
the first to furnish this proof of the industry of her people, and of her
approaching departure. It was only as these movements caught his eye,
that Wilder seemed to be thoroughly awakened from his abstraction, and to
pursue his observations with an undivided mind. He saw the seamen ascend
the rigging, in that lazy manner which is so strongly contrasted by their
activity in moments of need; and here and there a human form was showing
itself on the black and ponderous yards. In a few moments, the
fore-topsail fell, from its compact compass on the yard, into graceful and
careless festoons. This, the attentive Wilder well knew, was, among all
trading vessels, the signal of sailing. In a few more minutes, the lower
angles of this important sail were drawn to the, extremities of the
corresponding spar beneath; and then the heavy yard was seen slowly
ascending the mast, dragging after it the opening folds of the sail, until
the latter was tightened at all its edges, and displayed itself in one
broad, snow-white sheet of canvas. Against this wide surface the light
currents of air fell, and as often receded; the sail bellying and
collapsing in a manner to show that, as yet, they were powerless. At this