In courtesy to those who have not read the preceding volume of this series, it is proper to observe that Arthur Brown, the principal character of it, is a young man, twenty-one years of age, rescued, in circumstances of peculiar peril, by Captain Rhines, who (in the discharge of obligations incurred to the young man's father), together with others, puts him in command of the brigantine "Arthur Brown," named for the young man's father, who perished at sea.

The vessel, built by Charlie Bell at Pleasant Cove, modelled for speed, with a numerous crew of able seamen, having already made a successful voyage to Marseilles, a blockaded port, is now ready to sail again. Walter Griffin is a Pleasant Cove boy,—belonging to a very athletic, resolute family,—who began active life in a store, but, finding that mode of life ill adapted to his inclinations and capacities, became a sailor, shipped in the brigantine before the mast, and is now first mate.

Ned Gates is a Salem boy, in his nineteenth year, rather small of his age, was rescued at the same time with Arthur Brown by Captain Rhines (the details of which occurrence will be found in the previous volume), being a townie and at school with Arthur, was an excellent boy, and much beloved by him.

On the former voyage, Walter and Ned were before the mast together, in the same watch, and slept in the same berth, till, on the home passage, Walter was promoted; their friendship still continues, although with fewer opportunities of intercourse.

Jacques Bernoux is a Frenchman, native of Marseilles, fisherman by occupation, and thoroughly acquainted with the coast.

James Peterson is a negro, born of slave parents in Martinique, but sold in boyhood to an American captain, residing near Pleasant Cove, and obtained freedom when slavery was abolished in New England. Although ignorant and much addicted to intemperance at particular times, he was very much liked (especially by two families, Captain Rhines's and Edmund Griffin's), and by all the boys, because of other sterling qualities. He was possessed of great personal strength, an excellent seaman and pilot, first-rate calker, perfectly honest, and of a most affectionate disposition. The boys idolized him, because he taught them to wrestle, tie sailor knots, and, when at leisure, was ever ready to make playthings for them. On stormy days, when it was known he could not work, his house would be thronged with boys, coaxing him to make one thing or another. Luce, his wife, was a splendid cook, and nothing suited them better than to be asked to stop to dinner; victuals tasted a great deal better there than at home. Ben, his oldest son, was as great a favorite with the young fry as his father,—excelling in all sports that required strength and agility, always good-natured, never presuming, and full of queer, witty sayings. Ben Peterson was (in boy language and estimation) a bully fellow.

Thus it fell out that the cross-path which led to his house was deeply worn by young feet. Going to Peterson's, and having a good time, were convertible terms.

By the efforts of his young friends, he was persuaded to abandon his cups, and taught to read and write; the result of which was, that he immediately began to acquire property, became a freeholder, and was universally respected and beloved.

Captain Murch, of the mast ship Casco, coming home sick, a new captain, of the name of Aldrich, was put in to go the voyage. It was very difficult to get a crew for her, as he was generally disliked. Captain Rhines, anxious to get the ship away, persuaded Peterson and another by the name of Danforth Eaton to ship first, in consequence of which a crew was obtained.

One evening, while the ship was lying in Martinique, Peterson (then acting as cook, the cook having gone to the hospital, sick) was sent ashore by the captain with letters. In the morning he was missing. Search being made, it was evident that he returned on board, as a fire was burning and breakfast partly prepared; at length his kerchief was discovered on the fender, and the dock was dragged, but without finding the body. The captain concluded that he had met with some old shipmates the evening before, and was prevailed upon to take a friendly glass, which waked up the old appetite, and the next morning he had turned out early, obtained more liquor, fallen from the gangway plank, and the tide had swept the body to sea. The crew, on the contrary, refused to believe he drank, but thought he went ashore to get something to season his stew, made, in his haste, a misstep, and fell overboard.

Captain Rhines and the community at large inclined to the opinion of the crew. His death was universally lamented; the boys sadly missed their colored friend, and the grass grows over the well-worn path that leads to his dwelling.

Captain Murch resuming the command, Aldrich went to England. Percival, the mate, becoming intemperate, was reduced to the position of lumper around the wharves in Boston.

There was, however, something quite mysterious about the disappearance of Peterson: his family refused to believe he was dead, and opinions were divided. It long formed a topic of dispute and discussion at the winter firesides; some contending that a man so athletic and agile as Peterson would have caught hold of something, and never would have been drowned between the vessel and the wharf; at least, he would have made an outcry; to which it was replied, that he might have struck his head on the wharf or fender, and stunned himself. In reply to this, it was urged that a negro's head is too thick to be affected in that manner. After a while, other topics of interest came up, and the vexed subject was gradually dropped. Before the arrival of the Casco, bringing that sad news, the brigantine had sailed for Marseilles. Thus Walter and Ned went away ignorant of the whole matter.

Walter and Ned had made their preparations for this voyage to Marseilles with feelings quite different from that blithesome, buoyant mood in which they weighed anchor before.

The death of Uncle Isaac, as he was fondly called by the young people, had blighted anticipations of pleasure to be derived from going into the woods during the holidays; and the loss of one who united in his single person the characters of parent, counsellor, and most genial companion, weighed heavily upon their hearts. Having been called to his bedside, his last words of affectionate counsel to them were fresh in their remembrance.

Ned Gates—Little Ned, as he was called at sea to distinguish him from a man by the name of Edward—had grown remarkably, in both size and strength, since his recovery from wounds received in running the broadside of an English ship on the last voyage, and no longer merited that appellation.

It is customary on shipboard for the boys and ordinary seamen to furl the light sails. The royal, therefore, on board the Arthur Brown, during the last voyage, pertained to Ned; but, in a vessel that spread so much canvas as the brigantine, it was by no means a small sail. When the wind blew fresh, and especially if the canvas was wet, all the way he could manage it was to furl the yard-arms first, which, however, was not seaman-like. In very bad weather he could not furl it at all, although he sometimes exerted himself till his finger nails were torn to the quick, and the blood spun from his nostrils.

It was a great mortification to him when a man was sent aloft to help him. He would look as meeching as a dog caught in the act of sheep-killing, and not get over it for a week.

After Walter, on the homeward voyage, was promoted to a chief mate's berth, he, in order to save Ned's feelings, and enable him to handle it, had a royal buntline rove, the legs of which, led through thimbles on each leech, which spilled the sail, that is, threw the wind out of it, gathered it up, and enabled him to handle it in all weathers.

Even this chafed the proud-spirited boy, because he thought everybody knew what it was done for, and felt that it was a tacit acknowledgment of incompetence.

Walter and Ned went on board the vessel in Boston some days before the crew came up from Pleasant Cove. Ned goes aloft in the night, unreeves the royal buntline, takes the thimbles from the sail, the block from the eyes of the rigging, and the thimbles from the tie, and stows them all away.

"Ned," said Walter, the next day, as he was looking over the running-rigging, preparatory to bending sails, "where is the royal buntline?"

"I thought, sir, it wouldn't be needed," replied Ned, slightly coloring; "so I unrove and stowed it away."

"All right. I missed it, and thought some dock thief had stolen it."

The shrewd course of Captain Brown, in making Jacques Bernoux a handsome present for his past services, and thus attaching him to his interests, was now evident. Jacques was not merely a fisherman, but also a pilot, and thoroughly acquainted with the coast all along the shores of the Gulf of Lyons, and especially between Toulon and Marseilles. Along some portions of the gulf the land is low, and there are many lagoons, separated by narrow portions of land, into which the sea is forced by storms; but towards Toulon the shores are bolder, and the land broken into many rocky heights and promontories, intersected by creeks and coves. With every one of these Jacques was thoroughly acquainted, as he had been a smuggler before his marriage.

All the passage Captain Brown was studying the charts of the French coast, and obtaining information from Jacques in respect to it.

Arthur Brown had no ordinary foes to deal with. Lord Hood was in command of the Mediterranean fleet, with orders to take all vessels, of whatever nation, attempting to enter Marseilles or Toulon, and under him was Nelson, in the Agamemnon, sixty-four guns—a very fast ship, that is, for an English ship. It was merely a question of shrewdness and seamanship, as the Arthur Brown was unarmed, and could not resist.

In order to pass the time at sea, Jacques frequently told stories in relation to his expeditions with the smugglers, and, among other things, described a cove where he had often aided to land cargoes of smuggled goods, and which was singularly adapted for concealment.

The captain listened attentively, but, at the conclusion of the story, merely remarked that it must be a curious place.

It was the middle of an afternoon, and the vessel well in with the land, when they made a sail, which Jacques, after looking at it a long time with the glass, declared to be Nelson's ship.

"I don't care who she is," said the captain; "she's dead to leeward. She can't catch us, and we can dodge her in the night."

The wind was blowing a wholesale breeze, and fair.

"Jacques," said the captain, laying his hand on the pilot's shoulder, "do you remember that singular cove you were telling about a fortnight ago?"

"The oven, sir?"

"That's it. Could you take a vessel in there in the night?"

"Yes, captain, night or day. I know it as well as I know the way to my berth."

"It is bright starlight; the wind is fair, and plenty of it. Put this vessel in there before daylight, and I'll make it the best night's work you ever did in your life."

"I can take you in, captain; but remember it is an oven. If any of the fleet see you, you are gone."

"I'll take the risk."

With a spanking breeze, and every inch of canvas spread that would draw, the swift vessel sped on her way, and long before daybreak was under the shadow of the land, with her studding-sails and all her square-sails taken in.

The entrance was so narrow that two vessels could not have gone in abreast, while high bluffs and overhanging foliage made it as black as a wolf's mouth. The ship's company held their breath. The vessel seemed rushing on to certain destruction; but, as she rounded a high bluff, the wind was left behind, and, after running twice her length into a calm basin, Jacques ordered the anchor let go, and she was brought up.

"There, captain," said Jacques, "I've put you into a harbor where no wind can touch you, and about half way between Marseilles and Toulon. The rest is your affair."

"How much of this vessel, lying here, could be seen from a passing ship?"

"A vessel of this size, nothing below the top-mast-head. Besides, men-of-war don't care to come in here. There are batteries on the shore a mile from this, each way. If they thought of looking, they couldn't see so small a spar as this vessel's topgallant-mast without a glass."

The morning light revealed a most singular place. On the starboard hand, a rugged promontory, covered with a thick growth of pine and fir, mixed with oak and ash, rose perpendicularly from the sea. The other, and port side of the entrance, was formed by a small island, its extremity, like that of the other point, terminating in a long, rocky, and wooded bluff, but of less height. (Perhaps some of our young readers may have noticed, and thought strange, that seamen never say, "Put the helm to larboard," or speak of the larboard side of a vessel, but say, "Port the helm," "Hard a-port," or, "Hard down." Port is a military term borrowed from the French, an abbreviation of "Porta la timone," meaning, "Carry the helm to the left," because soldiers, when they port arms, carry the pieces to the left.)

The inner extremity of this island, where it approached the main land, "locked by" (as the seamen say) another wooded point of the main shore, affording between them only a shallow and tortuous passage for small boats. The position of these two points completely intercepted the view of the harbor from the sea. It was only from the main shore that it was possible to look into it through the passage between the points.

It must be evident to our young readers that the captain of the brigantine could only hope to escape capture, or at least the loss of vessel and cargo, by concealment. In entering this oven, he had completely cut himself off from all chance of flight, since, should the enemy discover him, a man-o'-war's crew might easily enter, and tow the vessel out or set her on fire.

On the other hand, if undiscovered, he was in a safe harbor; the cargo, in case of necessity, could be landed, and transported to Marseilles or Toulon by land; and it was sufficiently valuable to leave a handsome profit, even if the vessel was lost.

"It is best," said the captain, "to be on the safe side, especially if you have to do with English sailors, commanded by Nelson, who hates a Yankee as much as he does a Frenchman. If we had to do with Frenchmen and Spaniards, it would be another matter."

He instantly set the crew at work to send down the foretopgallant-mast and maintop-mast, with the yards. He then run a hawser to a tree, and, paying out on the cable, hauled the vessel in close under the high cliffs on the starboard hand, and, not satisfied even with this, cut branches from the trees, and lashed them to the head of the mainmast and also of the foretop-mast. It was now impossible to see the vessel from sea; and even a boat pulling along shore could not perceive her without actually entering the mouth of the oven. This was next to impossible, as man-o'-war boats, liable to be fired upon with small arms and field-pieces, were not inclined to venture near the shore without some special object, or information of some valuable prize, which might repay them for the risk. Jacques, having received a very handsome reward from the captain, went to Marseilles to see his family, and bore a message from the captain to merchants there, to whom he sold his former cargo.