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“Now, gentlemen,” he said in his serious voice, “I’m called Pecos Tom, and I’ve had considerable experience in my time, but this is my fust with human creatur’s so weak and thoughtless that they’ll drug and steal three men without takin’ their guns away from them. And so, on ‘count o’ this shiftless improvidence, I reckon this boat will have to turn round and go back.”

They bound them, rolled and kicked the two mates to the rail, lifted the captain to his feet, and then the leader said significantly:

“Give the right and proper order to yer men to turn this boat round.”

With his face working convulsively, Captain Belchior glanced at his captors, at his eager, waiting crew, at the wheel without a helmsman, at a darkening of the water on the starboard bow to the southward, up aloft, and back again at the three frowning muzzles so close to his head.

“One hand to the wheel! Square in main and cro’-jack yards!” he called. He was conquered.

With a hurrah which indicated the sincerity of these orders, the crew sprang to obey them, and with foreyards braced to starboard and head-sheets flat, the ship Wilmington paid off, wore around, and bringing the young breeze on the port quarter, steadied down to a course for Sandy Hook, which the captain, with hands released, but still under the influence of those threatening pistols, worked out from the mate’s dead-reckoning. Then he was pinioned again, but allowed to pace the deck and watch his ship, while the two officers were kept under the rail, sometimes stepped upon or kicked, and often admonished on the evil of their ways.

Early passengers on the East River ferryboats were treated to a novel sight next morning, which they appreciated according to their nautical knowledge. A lofty ship, with sky-sails and royals hanging in the buntlines, and jibs tailing ahead like flags, was charging up the harbor before a humming southerly breeze, followed by an elbowing crowd of puffing, whistling, snub-nosed tugs. It was noticeable that whenever a fresh tug arrived alongside, little white clouds left her quarter-deck, and that tug suddenly sheered off to take a position in the parade astern. Abreast of Governor’s Island, topgallant-halyards were let go, as were those of the jibs; but no cluing up or hauling down was done, nor were any men seen on her forecastle-deck getting ready lines or ground-tackle. She passed the Battery and up the East River, craft of all kinds getting out of her way,–for it was obvious that something was wrong with her,–until, rounding slowly to a starboard wheel, with canvas rattling and running-gear in bights, she headed straight for a slip partly filled with canal-boats. Now her topsail-halyards were let go, and three heavy yards came down by the run, breaking across the caps; and amid a grinding, creaking, and crashing of riven timbers, and a deafening din of applauding tug whistles, she plowed her way into the nest of canal-boats and came to a stop.

Then was a hejira. Down her black sides by ropes and chain-plates, to the wrecked and sinking canal-boats,–some with bags or chests, some without,–came eager men, who climbed to the dock, and answering no questions of the gathering crowd of dock-loungers, scattered into the side-streets. Then three other men appeared on the rail, who shook their fists, and swore, and shouted for the police, calling particularly for the apprehension of three dark-faced, long-haired fellows with big hats.

In the light of later developments it is known that the police responded, and with the assistance of boarding-house runners gathered in that day nearly all of this derelict crew,–even to the cautious boatswain,–who were promptly and severely punished for mutiny and desertion. But the later developments failed to show that the three dark-faced men were ever seen again.