THE YOUNG CAPTAIN UNDER FIRE.

THE day is breaking. A vessel of two hundred and fifty tons lies completely enveloped in a dense, damp fog, and becalmed, off the coast of France, in the Mediterranean.

It is impossible to discern an object twice the length of the vessel. Let us go alongside, and see if we can arrive at any conclusion respecting her character and business. She is evidently of American build, though she shows no colors; but spreading a cloud of canvas, modelled and rigged entirely with reference to speed, and though unarmed, with a much larger crew than would be required in the ordinary pursuits of commerce. The appearance of the crew as to dress is quite in contrast to that of a ship’s crew at the present time, for during the last forty years there has been a gradual change in the clothing of seafaring men, rendering it not only more comfortable, but much lighter.

At that time, sailors wore, for head covering, tarpaulins. These were generally made by the men themselves at leisure moments on board ship. The process was this: as the course of trade in those days was chiefly to the West Indies, they procured the leaves of the dwarf palm, which they split into proper widths and platted, making the button, in the middle of the crown, of the same material, though some, as a matter of fancy, took the lead tags that came on bolts of canvas, and some a piece of money, and punching holes in the rim, began their work on that. After the braid was made, it was sewed together with ravellings of duck; then, if there was a pig killed on board, or a porpoise harpooned, they soaked the hat in the blood and let it dry, to make it stiff (this was sailors’ paste), then covered it with canvas, then mixed tar, grease, and salt water together, and daubed it with the composition to render it water-proof; but after a while they found that black paint was just as good, and much lighter. Then tarpaulins gave way to peaked red caps, Scotch caps, and finally the present dress was adopted. But the crew of the brigantine wore tarpaulins of still more ancient dates, and of enormous weight, made by covering thick wool hats with tar and canvas. The dress of landsmen at that time was breeches and long hose, but sailors wore trousers very wide at the bottom of the legs, the rule for the width, being the length of the foot; on their feet, for dress-up to go ashore, slippers that showed the joint of the great toe. Sheath knives were not worn, except occasionally by some Spanish sailor; they used large, square-pointed jack-knives of English manufacture, slung to the neck by a lanyard. The officers, both captain and mate, wore at sea short jackets. If a mate then had worn a long-tail coat, the sailors would have cut the tails off with their jack-knives. Every one of the ship’s company wore his hair in a cue, which was wound, when at sea, with an eel-skin, but with a ribbon when going ashore, and hung down the back. When at work it was frequently coiled around the top of the head and covered with the hat. Men prided themselves on the length of their cue, and in their watch below, watchmates combed out and tied up each other’s cues, and the cook or steward took care of the captain’s.

She looks, for all the world, like a slaver. The use of copper on the bottom of vessels was scarcely known then, and as she rolls to windward, little spots of grease are seen floating on the water, and we perceive that her bottom is covered with a coat of tallow and soap, to increase her speed to the utmost.

There is something in the appearance of the man who is climbing the main rigging that seems familiar. Looking more closely, we are delighted to recognize our old acquaintance Walter Griffin, now growing into a lithe, fine-looking young man. He is acting as second mate, that officer being sick with a carbuncle on the back of his neck, the pain of which made him nearly frantic.

Walter was remarkably keen of sight and quick of hearing, and therefore went aloft as lookout, instead of a sailor. Although there was no possibility of discerning anything from the deck at any considerable distance, yet as the fog hung low, it was somewhat clearer aloft. There was also a probability that the fog might scale when the sun rose, or a breeze springing up sweep it away.

There is evidently great anxiety among the ship’s company to gain intelligence, for all hands are on deck, the men clustered as thick as bees on the forecastle. The mate, a stranger, paces the quarter-deck. As Walter goes aloft aft, and another man forward, he cautions them, if they see or hear anything, not to hail the deck, but make a signal. A real racer, and no mistake, this craft. Lashed to the bulwarks are huge sweeps, with which the numerous crew (for they are evidently picked men of large proportions) can move her with considerable speed in a calm. But what is she? Some slaver from the French islands, built in Baltimore, and trying to get home? But how comes Walter Griffin there? To increase our surprise, as we look at the men grouped together on the forecastle, we recognize, seated on the heel of the bowsprit, our old friend Peterson, the largest man of the crew, and just behind him his son, who is fast emulating the massive proportions of his sire; but the usually cheerful face of the black was clouded with anxiety. On the end of the windlass, with one arm flung over the bitt, sits Sydney Chase, on the shank of the best bower anchor George Warren, a brother of Seth; and leaning against the stock of the anchor, in whispered conversation with him, is another old acquaintance, Danforth Eaton, recalling Elm Island, with all its home-like associations and interests. We almost expect to see Uncle Isaac and Captain Rhines make their appearance next. Between the knight-heads is Enoch Hadlock, a brother of Sally Rhines. The rest of the crew are Pettigrews, Godsoes, Merrithews, Lancasters, Warrens, Athertons, and Elwells, all belonging to Rhinesville, Pleasant Cove, or thereabouts. While thus perplexed, we gaze, seeking for some clew to guide us and unravel the mystery, the vessel, having no steerage-way, swings lazily round in the tide, presenting her stern to full view, where we read “Arthur Brown, Pleasant Cove,” and recognize in the boy sitting on the foretop-gallant-yard, little Ned, and the next moment the manly, handsome face of Arthur Brown appears in the companion way.

It is all out now. Charlie has ground his broad-axe to some purpose. This is the vessel built by the Hard-scrabble boys and Captain Rhines for Arthur Brown, the noble offering of a manly, grateful heart, repaying to the son the debt incurred to the deceased parent, and bearing on her stern the name of him whose body sleeps beneath the waves that wash the cliffs of Abaco. What a contrast to the Hard-scrabble! what a testimony of the energy and progressive ideas of her builders! She is a model of symmetry and beauty; yet you can plainly see the lines of the West Wind, of famous memory. Charlie has put his whole soul in her; give her wind, she has evidently little to fear from the clumping British men-of-war.

But there is not a breath of wind; she lies helpless off the port of Marseilles, which the English are blockading, deeply laden with a cargo, every article of which is contraband of war.

It is the period when, after the outbreak of the French revolution, England had declared war against France, and, supreme at sea, was capturing the French West Indies, and blockading their home ports. The great majority of the people in this country, especially all the mercantile portion of the community, sympathized with France; they cherished a feeling of gratitude to her as our ally in the war of the revolution, a bitter hatred against England, growing out of the right of search, which she exercised in the impressment of seamen, which eventually led to the war of 1812.

It was all the government could do, aided by the great personal influence of Washington, to restrain the country from entering into alliance with France against England, and coming to open hostilities. In this state of things, sharp vessels, manned by resolute men, conducted by skilful pilots, influenced by motives of friendship and self-interest on one side, and a bitter sense of oppression on the other, broke the blockade which Great Britain (whose fleets were scattered over a vast extent of ocean) attempted to maintain in respect to the French coasts and West Indies, and supplied them with both arms and provisions.

This is the errand of the Arthur Brown to run the blockade of Marseilles, and accounts for the feeling of anxiety evident upon the faces of both officers and crew, since their fortunes are alike at stake, as each one, in lieu of wages, receives a share in the profits of the voyage, and if captured breaking the blockade both ship and cargo would be confiscated. There was also another and more terrible cause for anxiety—the dread of impressment. The commanders of English ships were accustomed to take men by force from American vessels, claiming them as British, disregarding the custom-house protection, which declared them to be American citizens, sometimes even tearing them up, and they were dragged away to spend their lives in the British fleets. A terrible instance is on record, illustrating the dread which in the minds of seamen was connected with impressment. A fine, stalwart, young American seaman, being about to be taken by force from an American merchantman, under pretence that he was an Englishman, seeing no way of escape from a bondage worse than death, clasped the boarding officer in his arms and leaped overboard with him, when both sank, to rise no more till the great day of account.

In the course of half an hour, in obedience to a signal from Walter, a man ascended the rigging, and, coming down, reported that Griffin was sure he heard a rooster crow, and also the sound of oars in a rowlock.

The tide, which was at the flood, had drifted the vessel to the neighborhood of a large rock, that was dimly seen through the fog. The captain called Peterson aft. “What rock is that, Peterson?” The black gave him the French name, and pointed it out to him on the chart.

“Then we are right in with the land?”

“Yes, massa cap’n; there’s another one inside this, right abreast the harbor.”

Peterson, who was getting somewhat in years, having broken off his intemperate habits, and obtaining good and constant employment at home, had given up all thoughts of ever again going to sea; but Captain Rhines persuaded him to go in the “Arthur Brown” as pilot and interpreter. Peterson’s parents were Guinea negroes; but the boy was born in Martinique, where his parents were slaves, and was sold, when a child, to the master of a vessel that traded to Marseilles, during which time he became perfectly acquainted with the harbor. The French captain finally sold him to Captain Hadlock, the father of Sally Rhines, who sold him to Peterson, with whom he remained till slavery was abolished in New England.

Captain Rhines had frequently availed himself of his knowledge as pilot, well knew his worth and reliability, and therefore insisted upon his going with Arthur Brown. No other person on board could speak a word of French, except Walter Griffin, and he not fluently, as he had learned it but a short time before, but was daily improving by conversation with Peterson.

There was now a signal from the foremast, Ned Gates reporting that he heard blows as of a hammer on iron; and while all hands were anxiously listening, the sound of a boatswain’s whistle was faintly audible.

“Man the sweeps,” cried the captain, running to the compass to note the quarter from which the sound came. Taking the helm himself, while the whole ship’s company applied their force to the sweeps, he steered in a direction opposite to that from which the sound that had so alarmed them proceeded. An hour thus passed without any repetition of the sounds, when the fog suddenly lifted, the sun broke out, and they found themselves almost within range of an English frigate on the port bow, while a sloop of war lay some miles off on the other quarter. The crew redoubled their efforts at the oars.

“It’s no use, boys,” said the mate; “you might as well put on your jackets; the frigate is getting out her boats; they’ll be alongside of us before we can sweep half a mile.”

“Sweep away, men,” cried the young captain, who was coolly watching the clouds; “something may yet turn up in our favor.”

The man-o’-war’s-men, well aware of the character of the chase by the efforts put forth to escape, and anticipating a rich prize, strained every nerve, coming down upon their helpless victim with the speed of an arrow. The sound of the oars in the rowlocks could now be distinctly heard as the two leading boats diverged, one making for the fore and the other for the main chains of the “Arthur.”

An expression of bitter anguish passed over the face of Arthur, as he felt that all his fair prospects, the hopes of Captain Rhines and others who had so nobly stepped forth to aid and start him in life, were to be blighted in the bud.

The boats were now close aboard, and the bowmen stood up to grapple the prize.

“Pull, men, for your lives!” shouted the captain, whose eye caught the sails; “there’s a breeze coming; her length, only her length ahead.”

They exerted themselves to the utmost, while, in pure recklessness, Peterson burst into a song used by whalemen when towing a whale.

Despite their efforts, the foremost boat gained the quarter, and flung a grappling; it caught. Just then a light air filled the loftier sails, although there was not a breath of wind on deck. Slight as it was, it was sufficient to shoot the swift craft ahead with accelerated speed, leaving one boat far astern, towing and well nigh upsetting the other. A sharp axe in the hand of Peterson descended upon the grappling warp, and the boat was left astern, as the increasing breeze filled, partially, the larger sails of the “Arthur.”

A broadside burst from the side of the frigate; but the shot all fell far short, covering the water with foam.

The breeze now sensibly increased. The direction in which it sprung up brought the frigate dead to windward.

“Dis be a bully grappling,” said Peterson, taking up the now harmless implement. “Me take him home to Massa Rhines, to moor his boat with.”

The light breeze, which propelled the swift brigantine with considerable velocity, was scarcely felt by the frigate; but as it gradually freshened she began to move through the water, and picking up her boats, crowded all sail in pursuit. But she had, during the light wind, lost much precious time, profiting by which the brigantine had increased the distance between them.

But now the situation of things was entirely reversed. The frigate, though no match for the swift, sharp-built American, close-hauled on a wind; yet dead before it, her great bulk and vast cloud of sail rendered her superior; besides, as she could carry sail much longer, and the wind was every moment increasing, she would, after a while, drown the smaller vessel out. She was too near, at the outset, for the brigantine to haul on the wind, and endeavor to cross her bows, as already the shots from her guns began to fall uncomfortably near. The wind was blowing in squalls; when the squall struck, the frigate would gain, and almost heave her shot on board; when the wind slacked, the brigantine would gain. Directly ahead lay a cluster of islands, reefs, and outlying rocks; one island was called Pomegues, the other Rataneau. These islands are now connected by a breakwater; then they were not. The brow of the young captain now wore an expression of great anxiety; he called the mate and Peterson to his councils.

“We are doing all we can,” said the captain to his subordinates, “and as the wind increases we bury and she gains; her shot will soon be coming aboard.”

“I see no way,” replied the mate, “but to haul our sheets aft, and endeavor to cross her bows. If we could once get him on a wind, we could shake him off.”

“Then,” replied the captain, “she would run square down on us; it is useless to attempt that. What is your advice, pilot?” addressing himself to the black, who was too modest to obtrude his opinion upon his superiors.

“Massa cap’n,” said the black, “dis darky know all dese rocks jes as little boy know his letters in de book. Dis island on de starboard hand, he Rataneau; bold water close along shore, till get down to de pint; den he shoal, many rocks, bad place. It low water now; we luff right round de pint ob de island, right in among de shoals and rocks.”

“Then we shall go ashore.”

“Nebber you fear. Dis chile carry you clear. Dis darky know frigate no dare come in. We drew leben feet ob water. ‘Spose he draw twenty-fibe; he stand off good way; his shot no reach us. Den you be on de wind, close-hauled, beat up ’twixt de islands and de main, hab smooth water; ’spose frigate he try beat up too; he no do any ting; wid dis vessel on de wind, he nowhar. ’Spose he beat up toder side; den he hab rough water; he do noting at all.”

There was not much time for deliberation, for, even while they were speaking, a shot carried away the port davit, and splintered the planks of the stern.

“If that shot had struck the main boom,” said the mate,—“and it did not lack much of it,—all had been up with us.”

“You are right, pilot. Mr. Rogers, brace up the yards.”

While this manoeuvre was being executed, a succession of terrible screams arose from the forward part of the ship.

“Some poor fellow is struck,” cried the captain; “run forward, Mr. Rogers, and see who it is.”

The second mate was now heard singing out, “Avast hauling on that fore-brace. Slack it off handsomely.” Four or five men were at the same time seen running up the fore-rigging.

In those days iron trusses to lower yards by (which they swing in all directions as easily as a door on its hinges) were not known; but they were made of rope, covered with leather, and very stiff. A man must be sent up to overhaul them when the yards were swung.

Danforth Eaton went up to overhaul the weather-truss. The wind blew the end of his cue—he had the longest cue on board—into the hole of the cleat; it jammed fast, and the men bracing the yard hauled it in, pulling out the hair by the roots, starting the skin from the flesh, and well nigh breaking his neck.

“Cut the blasted thing off,” cried the sufferer (his eyes bloodshot, and the tears streaming down his cheeks) to Walter, who was the first to reach him.

Eaton never wore another cue, and his example was followed by a few of his shipmates; and at length cues went out of fashion altogether.

The next shot fell wide; but as both vessels were now brought nearer to the wind, it was evident, by the balls falling short, that the brigantine was increasing the distance between them, which became still greater as the man-of-war, afraid of the shoals, gave the island a wider berth, while the brigantine, under the skilful pilotage of the black, running as near as possible to the rocks, rounded the point of the island, gradually coming up more and more to the wind, till, having passed the last shoal, at a signal from Peterson, the yards were braced sharp, the main sheet hauled flat aft, and she shot out into a clear channel.

“Dere,” cried the black (who had stood on the bow, with his eye glancing alternately from the water to the sails), as he flung his tarpaulin upon the deck, and wiped the sweat from his forehead, “where dat frigate now? Dis chile no see her,” he exclaimed, looking straight to windward. “You ole man, Peterson, you lose de eyesight.”

A merry laugh went round, as the captain exclaimed, “You are looking the wrong way, Peterson. Look to leeward. Well done, my old pilot; reckon on a suit of clothes for yourself, and a dress for the old woman. I see you are all Captain Rhines recommended you to be, and more too.”

“Me tank you, massa cap’n; tank you, sar. Cap’n Rhines he know dis chile well as he know hisself; wind blow awful; big sea; take two men hold toder man’s hair on; ship scudding; Massa Rhines, he come on deck; ‘Mr. Strout!’ ‘Ay, ay, sar.’ ‘Who got de helm?’ ‘Flour, sar.’ (Dey call me Flour den.) He say, ‘Den I go below. Gib me call, any change in de weder.’ ‘Ay, ay, sar.’”

“Here comes another,” said the mate, as a hundred gun ship, aroused by the firing, stood out from the roadstead of Marseilles.

“Here comes Grandfather Bull,” cried the captain, proud of the sailing qualities of his craft. “On a taut bowline I wouldn’t fear their whole navy. Come along, old gentleman.”

The fleets of Great Britain were at this time so fully occupied in all parts of the world, that but a small number of vessels could be spared to blockade the most important of the French ports, the heavier ships lying just out of range of the forts, and patrolling the roadstead with boats, while the lighter vessels scoured the coast. In bad weather they were obliged to ride it out in an open roadstead, or run to sea—a time always improved by the blockade-runners who were inside to get out, and by those outside, while the fleet was scattered, to run in.

It was of the greatest importance for blockade-runners to ascertain the position of the fleet in the daytime, and, eluding the outside vessels, run by the others in the night, taking the chance of an attack from their boats, and a broadside. In making the coast in thick weather, they were always liable to find themselves, as in the present instance, in the very jaws of the enemy.

Nothing but her sweeps saved the “Arthur Brown,” by preventing the boats from boarding her, till the breeze came. The frigate, finding the chase was hopeless, tacked ship, and returned to the coast; but so far were the crew of the brigantine from relinquishing their purpose, that they kept in sight, and the moment the twilight came on, stood in for the land, guided by the frigate’s lights, while all was dark on board the brigantine.