A CRUSADER AND A SIGN.


It was the 4th of August, 1854, off Cape Corrientes. Morning was
breaking over a heavy sea, and the closely-reefed topsails of a barque
that ran before it bearing down upon the faint outline of the Mexican
coast. Already the white peak of Colima showed, ghost-like, in the east;
already the long sweep of the Pacific was gathering strength and volume
as it swept uninterruptedly into the opening Gulf of California.

As the cold light increased, it could be seen that the vessel showed
evidence of a long voyage and stress of weather. She had lost one of
her spars, and her starboard davits rolled emptily. Nevertheless, her
rigging was taut and ship-shape, and her decks scrupulously clean.
Indeed, in that uncertain light, the only moving figure besides the
two motionless shadows at the wheel was engaged in scrubbing the
quarter-deck--which, with its grated settees and stacked camp-chairs,
seemed to indicate the presence of cabin passengers. For the barque
Excelsior, from New York to San Francisco, had discharged the bulk of
her cargo at Callao, and had extended her liberal cabin accommodation to
swell the feverish Californian immigration, still in its height.

Suddenly there was a slight commotion on deck. An order, issued from
some invisible depth of the cabin, was so unexpected that it had to be
repeated sternly and peremptorily. A bustle forward ensued, two or three
other shadows sprang up by the bulwarks, then the two men bent over the
wheel, the Excelsior slowly swung round on her heel, and, with a parting
salutation to the coast, bore away to the northwest and the open sea
again.