The light from the
cabin shed its faint gleams over the quarter-deck, as Hardweather
halted on the capsill, and with a sailor's pride run his quick black
eye along her pirate-like hull, then aloft along the rigging.
Exultingly, he says, "She is the sauciest witch that ever faced sea
or showed a clean pair of heels. The Maggy Bell!"-he pats his friend
on the shoulder-"why, sir, she has-just between ourselves now-slided
many a poor slave off into freedom; but folks here don't think it of
me. Now, if I reckon right"-he bites his tobacco, and extends it to
the stranger-"and I believe I do, it's twenty years since the Maggy,
of one dark night, skimmed it by that point, with Fort Pinkney on
it, yonder, that good creature on board." He points to the murky
mass, scarce visible in the distance, to the east. "And now she's
one of the noblest women that ever broke bread to the poor; and
she's right comfortable off, now,--alwa's has a smile, and a kind
word, and something good for old Jack Hardweather whenever she sees
him. Lord bless yer soul!"-here he shakes his head earnestly, and
says he never was a lubber-"Jack Hardweather didn't care about the
soft shot for his locker; it was my heart that felt the kindness.
Indeed, it always jumps and jerks like a bobstay in a head sea, when
I meets her. And then, when I thinks how 'twas me done the good
turn, and no thanks to nobody! You hearn of me 'afore, eh" (he turns
to his companion, who measuredly answers in the affirmative).
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