Marcy Gray thought he had watched the movements of his native State pretty closely since the result of the presidential election became known, and perhaps he had; but there were some things connected with her recent history that must have slipped his mind, or he would have seen at once that the government at Washington was justified in closing her ports to the world.  The State had been in armed rebellion ever since the month of January, when her local authorities committed treason by seizing the forts along her coast.  It is true that her Governor disavowed the action, offered to restore the forts on condition that they should not be garrisoned by United States troops, and that the proposition was accepted; and it is also true that the State forces very soon took possession of the forts again, this time acting under the Governor’s authority.  The latter’s refusal to send troops to the aid of the national government proved him to be as much of a rebel as the Governor of South Carolina was.

“So North Carolina is no whit better than the States that have joined the Confederacy, is she?” said Marcy, when his mother had reminded him of all these things.  “But there’s a great difference between talking and doing,” he added, wisely.  “Three thousand miles make a pretty long coast, the first thing you know, and I don’t believe Uncle Sam has ships enough to guard it.  I’ll bet you that when the blockade is established, I can take the Fairy Belle and slip out and in as often as I feel like it.  It will be nothing but a paper blockade; but if it could be made effectual, it would send the price of things up so that you couldn’t reach them with a ten-foot pole, would it not?”

Blockading more than three thousand miles of sea-coast, some portions of which were noted for sudden and violent storms, was a gigantic undertaking, and Marcy Gray was not the only one who did not think the attempt would prove successful.  To begin with, there were only ninety vessels of all classes in the United States navy, and of the forty-two in commission all except twelve had been sent to foreign stations on purpose to have them out of the way when they were wanted.  Of the vessels comprising the home squadron, all except four were in the Gulf of Mexico, where they stood a fine chance of falling into the hands of the secessionists.  The officers, who had been educated at the expense of the government, and who had taken a solemn oath to support that government, were so badly tinctured with disloyalty that the authorities did not know whom to trust, some of the best men in the service, the gallant Porter among the rest, being suspected of disunion sentiments.  During the time that elapsed between March 4 and July 5, two hundred and fifty-nine officers resigned their commissions and went over to the Confederacy.  Some of them, who had been entrusted with commands, had the grace to give their vessels up to the government instead of surrendering them into the hands of the secessionists, and one Southern writer declared, with some disgust, that they carried their notions of honor altogether too far when they did it.  His exact language was: 

“If a sense of justice had prevailed at the separation of the States, a large portion of the ships of the navy would have been turned over to the South; and this failing to be done, it may be questionable whether the Southern naval officers in command would not have been justified in bringing their ships with them, which it would have been easy for them to do.”

But the trouble was, the government never acknowledged that there had been any “separation of the States.”  The war-ships belonged to the nation, and not to a discontented portion of it, and were needed to aid in enforcing the laws that had been trampled under-foot.

In spite of all these disadvantages the loyal people of the North went resolutely to work, and before the fourth day of July the blockade was rendered so effectual that “foreign nations could not evade it and were obliged to acknowledge its legality.”  And this was done, too, after Norfolk navy yard, with its immense stores of munitions of war, twenty-five hundred pieces of heavy ordnance, and all its ships, save one, had been doomed to destruction by the perfidious officers who surrounded and advised its loyal but too credulous commander.  It was something to be proud of.

But we have anticipated events a little.  On the day Marcy Gray went to Nashville after the mail the blockade was not established, except on paper; there was not a ship of war on the coast so far as he knew; Hatteras Inlet was still open to the world, and privateers and coasting vessels were free to go and come as often as they pleased.  Up to this time such a thing as a privateer had scarcely been heard of, but they appeared as if by magic when it became known that President Davis had invited applications for letters of marque and reprisal from good Southerners who were able and willing to fit out armed vessels to prey upon our commerce.  The first one that attracted any attention was the Savannah, which ran out of Charleston on the 2d of June, and was shortly afterward captured by a ship of war that she mistook for a merchantman; but she was not the first privateer to operate in Southern waters.  As early as May 7, several light-draught steamers, mounting two or three guns each, were hastily fitted out at New Orleans, and brought in prizes that were taken off the mouths of the Mississippi.  There were also some along the coast, principally sailing-vessels, and although they did not succeed in making a name for themselves or in spreading much alarm among our merchant marine, they made a few good hauls.  One of them was fitted out in Seven Mile Creek, not more than a mile from Mrs. Gray’s plantation, and, wide-awake as Marcy thought himself to be, he never knew a thing about it until she was almost ready to sail.  Then he found it out through her owner who came up to see him.  He was sitting on the porch when the man came up the walk, and something told him that he had come there for no good purpose.

“What in the world does Lon Beardsley want here?” said Marcy to his mother, who was sitting near by.  “He hasn’t been to see me since I came from Barrington, and I don’t think he would come now if he wasn’t up to some meanness.”

“Don’t allow him to throw you off your guard with any of his specious talk,” replied his mother, in a cautious tone.  “To quote from Morris, he is a mighty palavering sort of fellow.”

“I’ll watch him.  Good-afternoon, Mr. Beardsley.  Will you come up and take a chair?” The man was a visitor, and as such was entitled to civil treatment even if his company wasn’t desired.

“Yes, I reckon I’ll set while I talk,” answered Beardsley, taking possession of the seat that was placed for him.  “Rough times these.”

“Yes; and they’ll be rougher before we see the end of them,” was Marcy’s reply.

“Don’t reckon there’ll be any fighting, do you?”

The boy said he was sure of it.

“Well, what’s one man’s pizen is another man’s meat,” said Mr. Beardsley, with a wink that no doubt meant a great deal.  “By the way, Marcy, you’ve been to school and oughter be posted in such things,-what is a letter of mark-we and reprisal?  I’ve been down to Wilmington a time or two on business, but I did not like to ask the folks there what it meant.  They’re strangers mostly, and I sorter scringed against letting ’em see how ignorant I was.”

“It’s a commission granted by a sovereign of a State to his subjects, authorizing them to prey upon the property of the subjects of another State, if they happen to find any at sea,” answered Marcy.  “That’s as near as I can tell it without looking the matter up.”

“It is about what I thought it meant.  Now, does that letter or commission give protection to the crew of the privateer if they happen to be caught?  They won’t hang ’em, will they?”

“I don’t think they will.  A few years ago some European powers tried to induce Uncle Sam to enter into an agreement to abolish privateering, but he wouldn’t do it.  Our private armed vessels gave England a good deal of trouble while she was trying to whip us, and might do the same thing again under like circumstances.”

“So the United States wouldn’t agree to no such bargain,” exclaimed Mr. Beardsley, with something like a sigh of relief.  “Then Uncle Sam can’t find fault with us for going into the business, can he?”

“He’ll make prisoners of you and destroy or confiscate your vessel, if he can catch you,” replied Marcy.

“Of course.  That’s to be expected; but he’ll have to catch us first, and even then he won’t treat us like we was pirates.  That’s what I want to know.”

“Why do you ask?  Are you interested in the matter?”

“Somewhat,” answered the man, with a laugh.  “My schooner is fixed over and fitted with bunks for twenty men and three officers, and I’ve bargained for two howitzers in Newborn.  That’s what I meant when I said that one man’s pizen is another man’s meat.  Now is the time to slip out to sea and make a prize or two before that blockade comes and stops the business.”

Marcy was astonished and so was his mother; and neither of them could imagine why Mr. Beardsley had taken the pains to come to the house and tell them all this.

“Make hay while the sun shines, eh?” said he, with a chuckle.  “I aint got my commission yet, and can’t get it till my bond for five thousand dollars, which I give to the collector at Wilmington to send to the Secretary of State, has been approved.  I’ve got to promise to obey the laws, you know, and that’s easy.”

“What do you intend to do with your prizes, if you make any?” inquired Mrs. Gray.

“Take ’em into Newbern and have ’em appraised and sold by a competent tribunal, whatever that means.  I heard while I was in Newbern that there aint no admiralty court in this country like there is in England, and that the district court would most likely ’tend to the matter.  As owner of the schooner I will, of course, get the lion’s share of the money, and the rest will be divided up among the officers and crew.  But I’ll do the fair thing by you, Marcy.”

“By me!” exclaimed the boy.

“Yes.  You know this coast like a book-”

“There are plenty of others who know it better,” interrupted Marcy, who now saw what the man’s object was in coming there.  It was two-fold:  If Marcy would help him, he would give him good wages and a big share of prize-money to act as pilot; but if he wouldn’t help him, then Mr. Beardsley would denounce him among the planters as unfriendly to the cause of the South, and that would be a bad thing for him to do.  Marcy read the whole scheme as easily as he could have read a printed page, and if it had not been for his mother, he would have refused, point-blank, any offer that the owner of the privateer could have made him.  But he would do anything rather than add to his mother’s troubles.

“You must remember that I am not a professional pilot, and that a good many months have passed since I sailed my schooner along this coast,” continued Marcy.  “I might run you aground at the wrong time.  You can get plenty of better men in Newbern or Wilmington.”

“If I am willing to trust you it’s all right, aint it?  I don’t want a professional pilot.  I want somebody who knows Crooked Inlet.  You’ve been through there often.”

As Marcy could not deny it he said nothing.

“I aint going to follow the reg’lar routes of travel,” continued Mr. Beardsley.  “If I was, I could sail my own vessel without hiring anybody to act as pilot.  My plan is to slip down to Newbern some dark night, after I get notice that my application has been granted, take my guns aboard, ship a good crew, and then run up to, and out of, Crooked Inlet.  That will bring me a good piece above Hatteras, and out of the way of any war-ship that may be prowling along the coast.  If one see me and gives chase, I’ll put back through the Inlet where she can’t follow on account of shoal water.  What do you think of the scheme?”

Much against his will Marcy was obliged to say that he thought it would work, provided the pursuing vessel did not happen to be a steamer fast enough to cut the schooner off from the Inlet.

“And if she is, I won’t go nigh her,” replied Mr. Beardsley, with a grin which was intended to mean that he was altogether too sharp to be caught in that way.  “We won’t chase steamers, kase we know we can’t catch ’em; and ’taint no ways likely that we’ll go to sleep and let one of ’em get between us and the coast.”

“Did you have to buy the guns you intend to put on the schooner?” asked Marcy, when the visitor paused and looked at him as if waiting for him to say something.

“No.  They came from one of the forts taken by the State troops awhile ago.  I borrowed ’em on condition that I give ’em back when they are wanted.  They’re too light for coast defense, but just the thing for our business.  Well, what do you say?”

“You have not yet asked my consent,” Mrs. Gray reminded him.

“I didn’t think I’d have to,” answered Mr. Beardsley.  “I reckoned you were like all the other women folks-ready and willing to do anything for the cause.”

“But if Marcy should be killed-”

“Aw!  He aint going to be killed,” exclaimed the visitor rudely.  “Don’t I tell you that we’ll run the minute we sight a war-vessel.”

“But you might run aground and they might capture you,” answered Mrs. Gray, who knew as well as anybody how dangerous the coast was, even to those who were acquainted with it.  “And if Marcy should be sent to prison, as he would if he were taken on board an armed schooner, what would become of me?  My oldest boy is at sea, and it is my desire to keep Marcy with me as much as I can.”

“He can run up and see you when we come into port, which will be as often as we take a prize, or see signs of a blow in the clouds outside,” said Mr. Beardsley, putting on his hat, and getting upon his feet.  “Come down and see the schooner, Marcy.  Stop at my house, and I’ll show you right where she is.”

“How soon do you start?”

“Some time this week, I hope.  The sooner we get outside the better our chances will be.  That’s why I say, make hay while the sun shines.  Two or three hauls will make us so rich that we needn’t do no more work the longest day we live.”

“And will you feel no sorrow for those who lose their property, and perhaps their all, through your efforts to enrich yourself?” asked Mrs. Gray.

“That’s why I say that one man’s pizen is another man’s meat,” replied Beardsley.  “Not a mite of sorrow will I feel for them Yankees.  Let them come under our flag if they want protection.  When will you be along, Marcy?”

“To-morrow about this time,” answered the boy.

“All right.  Think over what I’ve said to you, and be ready with an answer.  When you learn a little more about a vessel I will give you a chance as mate.  Good-by.”

Beardsley walked down the steps and out of the gate, and Marcy kept his eyes fastened upon him as long as he remained in sight.  Then he faced about and looked at his mother, who had dropped her sewing into her lap and sat motionless in her chair, the picture of misery and dejection.

“They’re going for us, mother,” said he, with a smile.  “That interview with Beardsley has satisfied me that I can’t live up to my principles in this country as I should like to.”

“I never dreamed of anything like this,” said Mrs. Gray, at length.  “What are you going to do, Marcy?”

“There’s only one thing I can do and keep a roof over your head,” answered Marcy, thrusting his hands deep into his pockets and striding up and down the porch.  “I must accept his proposition; that’s all there is about it.”

“Oh, Marcy!” exclaimed his mother.

“It looks fair enough on the surface, but I tell you there is something back of it,” said the boy, confidently.  “He pretends to take it for granted that I am a rebel, but he doesn’t really believe it, and this proposition of his is intended to try me and find out where I stand.  Almost the last question our class debated in school was:  “Is a man ever justified in acting from policy rather than principle.”  I took the negative, and contended that he ought to act from principle, let the consequences be what they might; but I don’t think so now.  I shall join that rebel privateer, and I shall do it because I am sure something will happen to your house if I don’t.  Now please don’t say a word about it.  I feel bad enough as it is.”

If Mr. Beardsley really was testing the boy hoping to find him wanting, he was doomed to be disappointed, for promptly at half-past two the next afternoon Marcy rode into his yard and went with him to see the schooner, which was hidden in a bayou half a mile away.  Marcy knew the little craft as well as he knew his own, but her appearance had been so greatly changed that he would not have recognized her if he had seen her on the sound.  Her black hull had been painted white, so that she would not offer so fair a mark for the cannon of any cruiser she might be unlucky enough to fall in with; her midship section had been changed into a berth-deck, and she had gun-decks fore and aft.  The two white men who had charge of her had hoisted her canvas to give it an airing, and Marcy saw a large figure “9” painted on her fore and main sails.

“That’s to make folks believe that she is a pilot-boat,” chuckled Mr. Beardsley.  “We’ll be almost certain to find some fellow creeping along inside of Diamond shoals, thinking of no danger, and he’ll never try to sheer off when he sees us coming, kase he’ll think we’re friendly.  He’ll think different when he sees a puff of smoke go up from our bows, but then it will be too late for him to square away.  Good scheme; don’t you think so?”

Although Marcy had never felt greater contempt for a man in his life, he managed to get through the interview to his satisfaction; but whether or not Mr. Beardsley was satisfied, the boy could not tell.  Sometimes he acted as if he was, and then again he looked and talked as if he suspected that Marcy was not half as enthusiastic as he pretended to be, and that his heart was set on something besides privateering.

“I’d like to capture this vessel, hoist Dick Graham’s flag over it, and give her up to some man-of-war,” he said to himself.  “But if I should try it, I’d never dare show myself around home again.  The game isn’t worth the candle.  Some of Uncle Sam’s boys will knock her into kindling-wood if she stays outside long enough, and possibly they may send me to Davy’s locker along with her.  It’s rather a desperate chance, but it’s the only thing that will save mother from persecution.  Perhaps the neighbors will be a little more civil to her when they find that I am in the service of the Confederacy.”  Then aloud he said:  “When she gets her guns and stores aboard she will draw a good deal of water for Crooked Inlet, and I’d feel safer if I could have Julius at my elbow when-”

“Oh, that wouldn’t do at all,” interrupted Mr. Beardsley, stamping about the deck and shaking his head most emphatically.  “Julius is a nigger and an abolitionist, and we don’t want no such around.  I’ve had carpenters at work on the schooner for almost two weeks, and there aint been one of my black people aboard of her.”

“But they must all know that you have been doing something to her,” replied Marcy.

“Of course.  I told ’em that I was getting ready to go a-trading between Plymouth, Edenton, and Newbern, and that I was fixing on her up so’t I could carry big cargoes.”

“Mebbe they believed it and mebbe they didn’t,” was the boy’s mental comment.  “If the darkies hereabouts are as sharp as they are down Barrington way, they understand what this vessel is intended for as well as you do yourself.”

“I won’t have no niggers aboard my privateer,” continued Mr. Beardsley, who talked and acted as if he had grown in importance since those gun-decks were put into the schooner.  “I wouldn’t trust the best of ’em in times like these, and so I shall man my ship with whites.  These men belong to my crew, and the rest will be just as good.”

Marcy thought they might be better without hurting anything, for he did not at all like the appearance of the two fellows he had found in charge of the privateer.  They had probably been picked up among the sailor boardinghouses in Newbern; and if the test of the crew were going to be like them, Marcy thought he would not care to be in their company for a great while at a time.  He afterward learned that one of the men was deep in Mr. Beardsley’s confidence.

Before the boy took leave of the owner of the privateer they came to a plain understanding on all points, agreed upon terms, and Marcy was to hold himself in readiness to sail for Newbern at any hour of the day or night.  He felt almost like a criminal when he rode home to meet his mother, but, although he was among the first, he was by no means the last, to serve the cause of the Confederacy because he could not help himself.