"We," continued Gabriel, perceiving the impression he had made, "are called bloodthirsty, and viewed with horror, because we have shed much blood in a short time; but they have been shedding it all the time. Which, my brother, carries the most water to the sea, the river that waters the valley, and whose stream is always full, or the mountain torrent that floods the vale in the spring, and then leaves a dry channel?"
"The river, to be sure," replied Walter.
"Such is the difference between them and us. For hundreds of years there has not been a day when the peasant's blood has nor flowed at the will of his master. We guillotine a noble, or a priest; the news flies over all lands. Who knows, or cares to know, the misery he had inflicted upon the poor, and by which he had deserved a thousand deaths? Our banished aristocrats are scattered over Europe and America. They are learned men, of noble blood; tell their story at every court, among all peoples, and write it in books for all to read; while the peasant has suffered in silence, perished in prisons by starvation, and in the galleys, as unregarded as the dead leaves that strew yonder vineyard."
"I never thought of all these things before," said Walter, when Gabriel concluded; "this is indeed a story of fearful oppression."
"It is a true story, citizen. For ages the blood of the oppressed has been crying from the ground, and, at last, vengeance has come."
That night, as the boys sat around their fire, Ned observed, "Walter, it appears to me that you have done the very thing you have been talking about so long."
"I don't understand you, Ned."
"In making that mill and press for the peasants, you have certainly done some good."
"If so, I am surely glad of it; but I thought it was a shame for people to work after such a fashion as they were doing, and, since I have heard Gabriel, I wish I could do more."
"Do you know what was running in my head all the time he was talking?"
"What?"
"That it was a blessed thing to live in a free country. If Captain Rhines asks me if I've seen any better place than home, I think I shall know what to say."
"Ned, I'm glad," glancing at the new-made grave on which the moon was shining, "that we buried those people before we heard Gabriel talk; for I am afraid we shouldn't have done it afterwards."
"Perhaps not."
"We ought to be thinking about going back."
"The captain told us we might stay as long as we liked, except it looked like a gale of wind."
"We don't want to be like old sailors—stay till the last minute; besides, our provision is almost gone."
"Then we must go; for I can't live as these people do."
"Nor I, either. I was thinking how different they live from us—no tea or coffee; a little thin wine, about as strong as cider: a few olives; and soup made of bread, garlic, and potatoes; not a bit of meat; and oil instead of butter."
"Then their bread," said Ned, "as black as your hat—what do you suppose it is made of?"
"Rye and barley, I guess, or rye and buckwheat."
"But they have some nice things—fruits and preserves."
"I should think, now they've got clear of the seigniors, they might have everything if they would only put in and work—might raise two crops a year. Leroux said those potatoes he gave me were planted after the wheat came off. Now, we don't have any niceties at our house. We are plain, rough people; but, heavens! there's enough. I couldn't help thinking of the difference between their dinner and ours. We have a great pewter platter as big over as half a bushel on the table, with great junks of pork and beef on it. Father will stick the great knife up to the handle into five or six inches of clear pork or a junk of beef all yellow with fat. For vegetables, we had about a peck of potatoes, cabbages, onions, beets, and carrots; hot biscuit, tea and coffee, a great loaf of rye and Indian bread—as much better than their black stuff as white is better than Indian; and then mother will come walking along just as careful with a brimming pan of milk, and say, 'Now, boys, help yourselves.'"
"And butter," said Ned, "good, yellow butter, instead of oil."
"And then, in the fall, when we kill an ox, such soups as are soups; ain't made of bread, water, and garlics. Father'll take a great shin, crack it up with the axe, and great junks of marrow will drop out of it. That's the stuff in a cold day, I tell you. Give a boy plenty of that, and it will make him stretch out and grow; give him strength to put the axe in. We waste more in our family than they eat. I've looked in all their houses; they don't have any swill-pail at the door; eat the swill themselves."
"I'll tell you what I'd like, Wal, and, if I ever get home, I mean to have mother make it—a chicken pie, with real flaky crust, rings all round it, and apple dumplings, with lots of sauce."
"But about going back, Ned—shall we start in the morning?"
"We can't, Wal. We want to get the moss to fill our beds, and the willow sets for Mr. Bell; then, you know, we want to go over to Felix Bertault's, and see the silkworms."
"Well, get ready to-morrow, and start bright and early in the morning."
The next day they went over to the house of Felix. He told the boys he could not show them the silkworms, as it was not the time of year at which they were hatched. However, he showed them the eggs, which were about as large as a mustard seed, and gray. He informed them that the worm was like a common caterpillar, three or four inches long, lived upon mulberry leaves, could not bear the cold, and, when spring came, and it was most time for the mulberry to leaf, they put the eggs in a warm room, in the kitchen, or wore them on their bodies, and the heat hatched them. As soon as they were hatched, they put them on mulberry leaves, which must be dry and tender. This made them grow so fast, that in six days they were too large for their skin, when it cracked, and they shed it, coming out with a new one; in six days more, shed that, till they passed through five changes, and had four new skins.
"What do they do then?" asked Ned.
"After shedding their last skin, they seem kind of miserable for a week or more, and then they begin to eat very greedily, grow, and fill up with the stuff they make the silk of."
"What kind of stuff is it?" asked Walter. "I've torn open the bag, and it looks like gum."
"But they do something to it that makes it silk."
"What next?"
"We know now that they want to spin; so we fasten upon the shelves where we keep them little twigs, willow, bulrushes, and sprigs of lavender, which they crawl upon, and begin to spin."
"I should think they would crawl all over the room, and get trod on."
"They won't go from the leaves."
"How do they spin?" asked Ned.
"They throw out little threads of silk, the same as a spider, from two little holes in their noses, fasten them to the twigs, and make a rough kind of covering to keep off the weather; then they spin a finer thread, till they make a ball around themselves as large as a pigeon's egg; gum the inside all but one end: then they have a real warm, water-proof house, that will keep out the weather."
"Is that the end of it?" asked Walter.
"No. In this house the caterpillar turns into a moth."
"Into a moth!"
"Yes, and eats its way out of the end that was not gummed, leaving its old skin behind, just as a chicken does its shell. The female now begins to lay eggs just such as I showed you."
"What do they do then?"
"They die, the males in eight days, the females in four; and we have the eggs to begin again. There is one of their nests," showing him a cocoon.
"There's a hole in one end."
"Yes; that is where the moth gnawed out."
"What do you do with the eggs?"
"We wrap them in a cloth, and put them in a cool, dry place; but we kill all the worms that we do not want to become moths, and lay eggs, as soon as they are done spinning, by baking them in a hot oven."
"What for?"
"If we didn't, they would become moths, eat out, cut the silk off, and break the thread so that it could not be reeled."
"What is done with this rough silk that is on the outside?"
"It is carded and spun like wool; so are those cocoons that the moths hatch in."
"I don't understand how the worm makes the silk all in one thread. Does he roll over and over like a shaft, and wind it round him?"
"No; he puts it on, back and forth, moving his head from side to side in crooked patches, but all one thread, because he keeps the end of it in his mouth, and never breaks it."
"But if they don't wind it round them, what keeps it in place?"
"The gum."
"How do you get it off the cocoon?"
Felix called his wife, who took ten of the cocoons, and put them into warm water to loosen the gum; then she stirred them with a little broom of straw; the threads of the silk stuck to the broom so she was able to take hold of them with her fingers; she then joined five of the threads together, making two compound threads of the ten, and put those two through holes in a thin piece of iron that lay across the kettle, brought them together, wound them on a hand reel, and made a skein of silk, which she divided, giving one half to Ned, and the other to Walter.
Felix told the boys that they sold the cocoons at the mills where they reeled it, as it required machinery to do it properly, and his wife had only reeled that just to let them see how it could be done.
"Suppose the thread should break," said Ned.
"Then all you have to do is to lay the end on to the main thread, and the gum will stick it."
He said the reason his wife stood so far from the kettle was, that the gum might cool and the threads not stick together. He then gave them some eggs and cocoons to take home with them.
"Gabriel," said Walter, when they met again, "I've changed my mind since I came here. I thought at first it was the last place for a man to live by farming; but if ever you get a good government, under which a man can receive the fruits of his labor, and not be beggared by imposition, I will engage to come here and get rich in ten years."
"How could you do that, citizen?"
"In the first place I would make every day of the year tell. I'd raise two crops in a year, where you raise one. I would build a mill to grind and press these olives in a quarter of the time it takes you, and get a third more oil than you can get from the press I made you. I would build my house in the midst of my land, and not lose a great part of my time walking back and forth, carting stuff, and wearing out both cattle and carts. I would make a cart that would run so much easier than yours, that one mule would haul as much as two do in yours. Then, in the winter, when there was leisure, I would make a good road; that would make half as much difference more. Then, instead of making what you call a fallow (which is letting the ground, after a crop is taken off, grow up to weeds, then ploughing them in, putting back no more than you have taken out), I would keep cattle, raise corn, and have manure. It takes, according to your statement, about thirty-five days to raise a crop of silkworms; that pays first rate, and your children could do nearly all that is to be done; it also comes at a time when there's not much else to do. Now only see how much can be raised. Here's a crop of wheat, potatoes, and buckwheat; after them (at any rate every other year), vines and olives, that will grow on the mountains where nothing else will, and come off late, after the other crops are out of the way; then silk in the latter part of winter and the early spring, before work is driving."
Gabriel scratched his head, and replied, "Citizen, so much work would make a man a slave."
"You are a slave now, and get nothing for it, either. I'd rather put things through, and get something, then, when I'm old, lay back and take the good of it, than to be forever a mulling, and eat up as fast as I get. If you would only raise corn instead of this miserable rye, you could have bread, pork, beef, fodder for your cattle, and dressing for your land."
The boys now began to prepare for departure, collecting moss, lavender, and other herbs for their beds, getting willow sets from the island for Mr. Bell, and some pieces of carved panel and broken china, on which were beautiful designs, from the old castle.
When they returned, Gabriel said, "Don't take these broken things to America;" and he gave them a bowl and goblet most elaborately ornamented, while Raffard gave them a panel that had never been injured, on which was the figure of a deer with an arrow in its flank. Leroux gave Walter a pistol inlaid with silver, Tonnelot presented Ned with a rapier richly ornamented; indeed, all were sorry to part with them, and anxious to give them something as a token of affection and remembrance. Julien, François, and Beaupré (sons of Bernard and Bertault), brought from their houses pears preserved in honey, almonds, figs, pickled olives, and preserved quinces.
Early the next morning they took leave of the peasants, and set out with Gabriel for the vessel, having with them, in the cart, their presents and the wine and oil contributed by the peasants for the purchase of the tackle from the captain.
They arrived just before dinner, and the captain not only sold Gabriel the tackle, but offered to buy all the oil he and his neighbors had to dispose of at a much higher price than they could sell it for at Marseilles, and also their honey.
After feeding his mules and eating a hearty dinner himself, Gabriel went home in high spirits to carry the news to his neighbors.
As they were riding along on their way to the vessel, the boys amused themselves by imagining the astonishment they would create at home by telling all they had learned in regard to affairs in France, and especially concerning silkworms, but were quite crestfallen upon finding that the captain was as familiar with the subject as themselves, who informed them that they had been, and were then, raised at home.
"At home!" cried both the boys, in surprise. "Where?"
"They were raised in Virginia and Georgia when the country was first settled. I have read about it in books in the Salem library. I read in an old newspaper that President Stiles wore at Commencement, in 1788, a gown of silk made and woven in Connecticut. Two years ago my mother had a pair of silk stockings sent her from Northampton by a cousin of ours, who raised the worms, reeled the silk, and made the stockings."
"I never knew all that before," said Ned.
"Ah, my boy, you might have known it," replied the captain; "for you had better privileges than Walter. There were books in the library that told about it; but half the time, even in school, while your eyes were on your book, you were dreaming of going to sea, and, the moment school was out, were sailing boats, climbing on vessels' rigging, helping bend sails; and you know you would work all Saturday afternoons for Frank Hall, the rigger, hold a turn at the windlass, run of errands to the blacksmith shop, in short, do anything if he would only let you furl a royal when it came night, send up a royal yard, or reeve running-rigging. Didn't Deacon Chase tell your mother that you would certainly break your neck: for he saw you, only the day before, astride the end of a royal-yard? You never found time to read about silkworms or anything else."
"That is true, sir. However, what I learned of the riggers all came into play when I got on shipboard."
After sleeping by a camp fire in the fresh air, the boys felt so reluctant to get into their berths in the vessel, even for a night, that they lost no time in filling their beds, and placing them in the tree, where they enjoyed a most delightful night's repose.
"I declare, Ned," said Walter, as he woke in the morning, "if we were on wages, instead of shares, and were not eating our own grub, I shouldn't care much though we had a few more lazy days."
During the forenoon they were occupied in making rough coops for some hens the captain had engaged of Gabriel; but, being at leisure after dinner, they hastened to the platform to talk over the past, lay plans, and cherish expectations for the future.
About three o'clock in the afternoon,—which was beautiful, with a very light breeze that barely stirred the leaves on the evergreen oak,—Walter said, "How clear the sky looks! and the water in the cove—I can see the bottom from here. I can see those sea-fowl that are diving when they are on the bottom."
"Only hear the crows," said Ned; "what a yelling! Look in these pines; they are black with them. They are having a meeting just as they do at home."
"Then I guess the sheep are having a meeting, too. Look under the side of that ledge of rocks. What a lot of 'em! and their heads all one way! There's one cloud, a real mare's tail" (cirrus), "creeping up in the north."
"Here comes Jacques, running as hard as he can. Look at him. He's hallooing, and making signals. I can't hear a word he says; but it must be something about the fleet."
The boys, occupied with the singular conduct of Jacques, had ceased to take note of the sky, or they would have perceived that the cirrus cloud had spread out, covering a great extent of sky, while below it was another, of darker hue, and, while striving to catch Jacques' words, attributed his signals to something connected with the fleet; and so did the captain, who, having observed his motions, was hastening to the tree in order to see if there was any man-o'-war in sight.
But Jacques was shouting, "Mistral, mistral!" with all his might. There was a sharp flash, followed by a terrific peal of thunder, a roar among the tree-tops, and instantly the air was filled with broken limbs, leaves, both green and dry, torn from the trees, and raised from the ground, mixed with clouds of gravel. A large pine near by was torn up; the platform, with everything on it, sent whirling in the air, the oak bent, groaned, and seemed ready to follow the pine. Walter caught hold of a limb forming one side of a crotch; the branch split down four or five feet, when the limb to which he clung came in contact with another cross limb; the tough fibres of the oak, aided by the spring of the cross limb, held on, and there he hung, blown out like a streamer. Ned caught by a larger branch, clasping it with his legs. The captain's spy-glass, falling into the cleft of the fork, stuck there; three of the chairs went over the land to sea; another lodged in the thick top of a pine; the rest went across the cove, and were blown up against the bank. Ned's blanket was twisted round the main-topmast rigging; Walter's sailed for parts unknown. Ned's bed, lavender and all, went to sea; Walter's was jammed between two rocks, on the end of the high bluff.
Hail, mixed with snow, began to fall, and everything wore the garb of winter. When the squall struck, the captain was half way up the tree; the rope-ladder being on the weather-side, the lashings that held the bull's eyes to the ground were parted, and the shrouds, with the captain clinging to them, blew out at an acute angle with the tree.
"Ned!" shouted Walter.
"All right, Wal, I am now," was the reply, as he succeeded in getting hold of the limb over which that to which he clung was chafing.
"This beautiful climate of Provence," said Ned—"see the snow!"
"This wind is right from the Alps," said Walter. "Cuts like a knife."
It was indeed the terrible mistral, the scourge of Provence.
Sliding down the trunk of the tree, they found one of the lashings dangling. Catching hold of it, aided by Jacques, who had now arrived, they pulled down the shrouds, and relieved the captain.
There was not a hat on the head of any one save the pilot, and their hair was plastered with snow, and faces cut by the hail.
"Where were the blockaders when you left, Jacques?" asked the captain the moment he could get breath.
"Some of them were cruising, some at anchor."
"Two frigates went by here with a cutter yesterday. Where was Nelson?"
"Yesterday he chased a French ship, cut her off from Marseilles, and she ran under the guns of a very heavy battery, an earth-work, half way between here and Marseilles; and he is watching her."
"Can they hold on?"
"No, except the Agamemnon. She is more under the lee. Nothing can hold against this except they are under a lee, and strongly-moored with anchors well bedded. They generally lie at a single anchor, and the topsail yards swayed up, so as to be ready to get under way in a moment."
"We will hold on a while, to let the 'fiery edge' get off the wind, and give them a chance to get out of the way."
In the mean time the mainsail was balance-reefed, the scope hove in, the fore topmast and main staysails loosed, ready to set, which was all the sail the brigantine would bear, so great was the violence of the wind.
Jacques now said to the boys, "Why didn't you come down when I was making signs to you, hallooing 'mistral' enough to split my throat?"
"We couldn't hear you."
"Couldn't you hear the crows, and see the sheep all huddled together?"
"We didn't know what it meant."
"I rather think you know now."
They lay thus for an hour, when an order was given to man the windlass. The crew, all young, athletic men, having enjoyed a long repose,—stimulated by the strongest motives, self-interest, pride of seamanship, and manly emulation,—sprang like tigers to their work, and "catted" the anchor by hand.
"There's your bed, Mr. Griffin," said Ned, as they shot by the high bluff.
"Never mind; I've had one good night's sleep in it."
"There's Nelson," said Jacques, as they rounded the first prominent headland; "he means to hold on. I had a good look at him yesterday with a glass. He has sent his top hamper down; his yards are pointed to the wind, and, I've no doubt, two anchors ahead."
"Nelson hates the Yankees," said the captain. "How he would grit his teeth if he knew who we are!"
Nelson's dislike for the Yankees was based upon very solid grounds.
After the war of independence, the United States were prohibited by Great Britain from all trade with her West India colonies. Before the war that trade had been exceedingly profitable, and the Americans were loath to relinquish it. It had been no less so to the inhabitants of the islands, custom-house officers, and all holding office under the crown, since that shrewd and persistent people, fully appreciating the importance of the principle illustrated by the old saw of "throwing a sprat to catch a herring," had never shown themselves ungrateful. With a shrewd suspicion of this, the home government sent out a fleet to look after matters in general, and enforce prohibition.
But the naval officers, from the admiral to his midshipmen, dearly loved dinner-parties given by the civil magistrates and wealthy merchants, and were much influenced by them. The officers of his majesty's customs—governor, generals, and presidents of council—missed many a box of spermaceti candles, and were often feelingly reminded of their old friends by their empty pockets. When, therefore, a down-east brig, displaying the stars and stripes, and laden scuppers to with lumber, spermaceti candles, codfish, butter, hoops, apples, and live stock, entered the harbor of a British island, and the boarding officer saw the sharp face of some Yankee friend peering over the rail, with an expression, "It's me, and no mistake," it was certainly natural that he should greet him cordially; and when the captain presented a protest, setting forth that he had sprung his mast, or sprung a leak, was in distress, and wished to discharge enough of his cargo to enable him to get at the leak, and sell enough to pay his repairs, the official could not refuse so reasonable a request. Thus it happened that a great many American vessels sprung a leak; and whatever number of vessels went in loaded, they always came out light, and the Yankee master, with his pocket full of British gold, then sailed for Martinico to buy molasses.
There were vessels in the States, built before the war, having British registers. These were run out there, under their old registers, and no questions asked.
A still more audacious evasion was practised. Captains took the oath of allegiance, hoisted British colors, and the custom-house officials gave them British registers, although American built, owned by Americans, and with American captains and crews.
But in 1784, when Nelson—who cared nought for dinner-parties, and whose ruling nature was love of glory and duty—was sent out to the West Indies, under Admiral Hughes, and found the British ports full of these illicit traders, he pounced upon them like a falcon upon a flock of herons. Adhering to the words of the statute, that all trade to and from the British West Indies and America must be in British bottoms, navigated by British captains, three fourths of the crew British seamen, and owned by Englishmen, inhabitants of Great Britain or her colonies, he seized at once four American vessels under English colors, with English registers, but with American captains and crews, owned and built in America. But the American captains, so far from submitting, prosecuted him in the civil court for assault and imprisonment, laying their damages at the enormous sum of four thousand pounds sterling, while Nelson, knowing he could not obtain a fair trial in the islands, dared not leave his ship for eight weeks, for fear of being arrested on a civil suit; and, as he continued to seize vessels, the captains, after his return to England to avoid prosecution, served a writ on his wife, laying the damages at twenty thousand pounds sterling.
The admiral was disposed to wink at these proceedings, and, in reply to a representation from Nelson, said it was an affair of the custom-house officers, and ordered him not to interfere with their decisions.
In this dilemma he petitioned to the king, who came to the rescue, and ordered him to be defended by his lawyers. The Yankees, however, were an overmatch for him, aided as they were by unprincipled officials.
American captains would clear for some of the Dutch or French islands, then go to Trinidad, put the vessel under Spanish colors, ship a few creoles, to put a better face on the matter, take some live stock on deck, and go to the British islands.
The custom-house officers, despite the efforts of Nelson, would admit them, under an old order from the Board of Treasury, 1763, declaring British ports open to Spanish vessels bringing bullion and live stock, although all the bullion they brought was a hold full of Yankee lumber.
Our young readers will now perceive why Nelson disliked the Yankees, and how much good it would have done him to have closed his jaws upon the "Arthur Brown."
"Suppose we should run up the colors, captain," said Walter, "and stir them up a little."
"We are dead to leeward. If too much provoked, he might slip his cables and come down on us."
"No provocation," said Jacques, "could make him leave the vessel he is watching; for he knows as soon as he makes sail she is away."
It was evident the brigantine had already been the subject of close scrutiny; for, while Ned was bending the flag to the halyards, a flash was seen from the stern of the ship, followed by the report, and a ball sank harmless into the water, a long distance to windward; for the guns of that day were of short range, compared with those of the present time.
As the flag streamed out on the wind, shot followed shot in quick succession, attesting the galling nature of this taunt.
"Let her luff, Lancaster," said the captain to the seaman at the helm.
"Luff, sir."
"That will do; steady."
"Steady, sir."
"He likes the looks of us so well, Mr. Griffin, we'll give him a chance to see more of us."
The firing now suddenly ceased.
"He knows by our springing our luff," said Jacques, "that he's throwing away his powder and shot."
"I see a boat," said the second mate; "he's going to board us."
The captain, getting into the companion-way, where he could brace himself, as it was impossible to stand without holding on to something, put the glass to his eye.
"There's a man overboard," he cried.
"God help him," said Walter; "he can't live long in this sea."
"He's got hold of something that has been flung over,—a spar or plank,—and they are after him."
In a few moments he could be seen with the naked eye whenever he rose on the crest of a wave. They continued silently to watch him, approaching fast before the wind and sea.
"They don't see the man," shouted the captain; "the boat's crew don't see him, the vapor is so thick, and he so low in the water; they are lying on their oars, and the cockswain is standing up, looking round. We must save him, or he's a dead man. Hard down the helm."
Instantly Walter, followed by Ned and two more of the crew, one of whom was Henry Merrithew (the strongest man in the ship's company), sprang to cut the lashings of the boat. It was no child's play to launch a boat, get clear of the vessel, and pull to windward against that wind and sea; but with the exception of Ned, who made up in resolution and quickness of apprehension for lack of strength and practice, these men had from childhood been brought up in boats, accustomed to fishing among shoals in the edge of the surf, and pursuing sea-fowls among breaking rocks. Enveloped in spray, they forced the boat to windward with long, steady strokes, while the captain, with his eye on the man, pointed out the direction in which they were to pull, which, as they were back to, was a most effectual aid.
"Keep cool, Merrithew," said Walter, who pulled the after oar, as he heard the crack of a thole-pin behind him; "keep cool; if you break that oar or thole-pin, we are dished."
"Here he is, close aboard," said Ned, looking over his shoulder.
Walter, flinging his oar out of the row-lock into the scull-hole, steered the boat directly for the man, who was clinging by the jack-stay to a royal yard.
"Ship your oar, Ned, and stand by."
Ned caught the end of the spar as it came broadside on, when it drifted alongside of the boat, bringing the man abreast of Merrithew, who caught him by the hair and collar of his coat. Notwithstanding the great strength of the seaman, he could not break the death-grip of the drowning man. In a moment Blaisdell drew his knife across the jack-stay, and he was taken on board.
"A midshipman, by his dress, and dead—dead enough, too, poor boy," said Merrithew, as he laid him in the stern-sheets.
"There's life in him yet," said Walter. "I saw him treading water with his feet to keep the spar from rolling over, while you were pulling up."
"His mouth is shut," said Blaisdell, "which shows he knew how to take care of himself in the water. If he was dead, his mouth would be partly open, and his tongue between his teeth."
"There's a big sea coming; round with her before it gets along; pull, boys, pull, and don't let him die in the boat. The air is colder than the water, and taking him out of the water has chilled him."
When the boat came alongside, and the apparently lifeless body was conveyed to the cabin of the brigantine, every heart was touched.
"Dear little fellow! He can't be more than eighteen; and what a noble face!" said the captain, while they were stripping off his wet clothing, rubbing the body, and wrapping him in blankets. "There's life," said he after he was placed in the captain's own berth. "I can just see that he breathes, and there's a faint fluttering of the heart."
As the readiest and most efficacious means in their power, they put bags filled with hot salt to his feet and other parts of his body. His cheeks were pale, flesh cold, muscles relaxed, and eyes half closed. The crew of the man-o'-war's boat, after witnessing the rescue, endeavored to return; but they could no longer perceive the ship, and, as the only course left them by which to save their own lives, pulled for the brigantine.
A rope was thrown to them as they came under her stern, the "gig" hoisted on board, and the brigantine kept on her course.
"Make yourselves at home, boys," said the captain, "here's plenty to eat, and not much to do."
"You picked up the young gentleman, sir," said the cockswain of the gig, addressing the captain.
"Yes; he's in my berth below."
"Will he win through it, sir?"
"I think so; but there's just the breath of life in him."
"God be thanked! he's a fine young gentleman, and much thought of by all the ship's company; there's not a man but would risk his life to save him. He was very poorly when we were in Leghorn, but has been getting quite stout latterly."
"How did he get overboard?"
"I don't know; the boat was hanging at the cranes, and we were sitting in her, when there was a shout, 'Man overboard!' While they were lowering us away, the boatswain sung out that it was Mr. Reed. I suppose he slipped. The ship was rolling very heavy, and everything covered with sleet. We never got sight of him at all, but pulled the way we thought he must drift."
The young man lay for three hours in the condition we have described, breathing regularly, but faintly, and manifesting no other signs of returning consciousness than a convulsive twitching of the eyelids. The captain hung over him with the greatest anxiety, making such outward application as he thought of use.
In three hours more, to his great delight, his patient was able to swallow; but it was not till nine o'clock the next morning, twelve hours after he was taken from the water, that he could speak, or reply to questions. Ascertaining where he was, and by whom rescued, he seemed greatly moved, and expressed the wish that he had perished rather than be carried to Marseilles, and become a French prisoner of war.
"Make yourself easy, sir," replied the captain. "I will cut my right hand off before I will deliver those who have come on board my vessel in distress into the hands of their enemies. I'll put you and your men into an English man-o'-war."
This frank declaration proved more efficacious than all the other remedies that had been administered. His pale cheeks flushed in a moment, the light of youth and vigor returned to his eyes, and, after eating, he got up, and put on his uniform, which the seamen had dried for him, and scoured the buttons. He then went on deck, and met the boat's crew, who manifested great pleasure at seeing him. He shook hands with them all, calling each man by name.
The weather now began to moderate fast. The reefs were shaken out, yards sent up, and all sail made upon the vessel. When, at length, the high lands of Marseilles, and Planier Island, ten miles from the city, came into view, and it was evident the coast was clear of blockaders, the brigantine was hove to. A very strict watch was kept during the night; and, just as the sun rose, the lookout at the mast-head sung out, "A sail to leeward!" The mate went aloft with the glass, and reported that it was an English man-o'-war.
"She is beating back to her station," said the captain. "We'll get our breakfast while she is working up."
The midshipman, somewhat surprised at the coolness of the captain, said, "You have great confidence in the sailing qualities of your vessel, captain."
"I have reason for it, Mr. Reed," was the reply. "Indeed, if assured this wind would hold, I should not fear to lie here till she came nearly within gunshot."
After the meal was concluded, which was not at all hurried, the man-o'-war was near enough to be distinguished with the naked eye.
"Do you recognize that frigate, Mr. Reed?"
"Yes, sir. It is the Leda, Captain Campbell."
"One of your blockading fleet?"
"Yes, sir."
The frigate, with every sail set, now came up fast.
"I am about as near to her as is prudent," said the captain, and gave orders to launch the gig.
He then said, "Now, Mr. Reed, there is one of your own fleet. You are at liberty to depart with a fair wind and a fresh crew. Your captain, I believe, don't like us Yankees; but give my respects to him, and add whatever you think proper."
All sail was made on the brigantine, and, by the time the boat reached the frigate, she was nearing the harbor of Marseilles.
Notwithstanding Nelson's prejudices (certainly not groundless), the Arthur Brown had not been a week in Marseilles when a flag of truce came in, and by it came a letter to the captain from the midshipman, enclosing a note from Nelson, thanking him for the rescue of his officer, and the kindness manifested to both him and his crew.
The midshipman, at the close of his letter, written in the most affectionate spirit, particular reference being made to his rescuers, Walter, Ned, and their companions in the boat, on that occasion, said,—
"You will recollect, my dear sir, that when you first hove in sight, on the day of the gale, it was not so thick as afterwards, and then a person in either vessel could, with a glass, easily make out the other; but, shortly after I fell overboard, it shut down thick of snow. During that time, our captain and first luff (lieutenant) recognized the Arthur Brown, knew her to be the same vessel that was almost under the guns of the Lowestaff in a fog, some months ago, and that she gave chase to. The officers and crews of all the other vessels had a good chance to look at her, when you lay so long under the guns of the castle, after running the fire of the flag-ship. Her masts rake so much, she carries such a cloud of canvas and is such a beautiful model, that there is no mistaking her, although you have altered her paint since the last trip. The fleet has taken scarcely any prizes, so that all are hungry for prize-money. Every one of us from the admiral to the powder-monkeys, feel chagrined at being thus bearded; that our reputation as seamen will suffer if you should again escape us. There's another motive. We all know if we could take the Arthur Brown, and put a few light guns on board of her, she would catch everything on the coast, and fill our pockets with prize-money. Add to this, your slapping our captain in the face with your flag, the other day, and you will perceive how matters stand between us. In short, while your noble treatment of myself and shipmates has gained you the respect and good will of every one,—and you would experience the utmost kindness, should you fall into our hands,—believe me, you have a difficult task, and one which will tax your resources to the utmost, for the fleet are determined to have the brigantine, or sink her. I could not do less than put those, to whom I owe my life, on their guard. But, from what I have seen of yourself, the character of your crew, and the capacity of the brigantine, I should not be so much surprised as my shipmates, should you, by some of those chances which always seem to turn up in favor of your people, escape us, though it by no means becomes me, as a British officer, to express any such desire."
The ship's company of the brigantine being, with the exception of Jacques, all Americans, most of them having grown up together from childhood, and a good part of them shipmates on the last voyage, the relation between officers and crew was very different from that usually existing on shipboard.
The communion was also more intimate from the fact that no one was hired, each having a share in the risk and profits of the voyage, and that they were bound together by a sense of common danger, cherished a personal attachment to each other, and reposed perfect confidence in the ability of the captain, insomuch that Quesnard, who marked with curious interest the manner in which things went on board the brigantine, said that he "would vote for a king in France if they could have a government like the government of that vessel."
Upon receiving the letter, Captain Brown, calling his officers and crew together, read it to them, remarking, "You see, boys, what they are preparing for us."
They received the communication without much emotion of any kind. Henry Merrithew observed, in his drawling way,—
"Yes, cap'n, I see what they calc'late; but they say 'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' Me and George here, and Elwell, was figerin' up on our chists, with chalk, what each man's share of this cargo of silks and other truck that we are taking in will come to. If it comes to as much as the one we've just discharged,—and Elwell, who's been in the trade afore, judges it will come pretty well up, cause sich stuff is high now on account of the blockade,—why, I, for one, think the game's worth the candle."
"It's my opinion, captain," said Sewall Lancaster, squirting the tobacco-juice through his teeth over the rail, "that it's a good thing for us these English are making the blockade so close, as long as we kin run it; and I reckon we kin, because, as Henry says, it makes both the cargo we fetch and the one we take away worth double; and I guess, as that youngster says,—not wishing any harm to him howsomever,—that something'll turn up on our side."
This cool preference of greater risk, with the prospect of greater profit, was received with a universal murmur of assent.
"Well, boys," said the captain, folding up the letter, "I wanted to know your minds, because we can't wait here a great while for a gale of wind to drive the fleet from their anchors. We have sold our cargo, and shall soon be short of provisions, and there are none to be had here. We must take our chance, the first suitable night, to run their battery, unless I can contrive some other way."
While the vessel was completing her lading, the captain seemed quite thoughtful, and spent the greater portion of his time alone on a high hill, called Viste, over which led the road to Paris, and commanding a good view of the fleet.
The port of Marseilles is completely land-locked, being a salt water lake, of the shape of an egg, half a mile in length, and a quarter of a mile in breadth. The entrance into it is not more than a hundred yards in width, and defended by strong fortifications.
From his situation on the hill, the captain soon had ocular evidence of the accuracy of the statements contained in the letter he had received. He saw that not only had the number of vessels cruising outside been reduced to two, but they had formed a complete cordon across the road, effectually stopping all egress, except by encountering their broadsides at short range. The increased number of vessels also made it evident to him that the night patrols would be doubled.
As the young captain—after a careful scrutiny of the disposition of the vessels—sat with the glass lying across his knees, an idea presented itself, which, on his way to dinner, he more fully matured.
"Jacques," said he, while eating, "what was it you were saying the other day to a countryman of yours about a fire-ship? I can only catch a word or two, here and there, of your dialect."
"I was telling him, captain, that there were two condemned vessels lying here, one a privateer, and the other a Guineaman (slaver), and the government was going to make fire-ships of them both, and send them down among the blockading fleet, now that they are moored in such close order."
"Indeed," replied the captain; but, making no further allusion to the topic, he asked, "How is the water along the shore, from the outlet of the port, as you go to the westward?"
"The shore is quite bold, captain, with a few shoal spots, for some miles."
"Could you carry this vessel along shore, in the night, for two miles without getting aground?"
"Yes, captain. I can feel my way with the lead, or I can carry you through narrow passages, between islands and the main shore, where no man-o'-war can follow."
The captain said no more, but, rising from the table, sought his merchants, who went with him to wait upon the authorities. From them he learned that the privateer only was to be fitted for a fire-ship; that the magazine was already made, and the powder would be put on board directly.
Captain Brown bought the slaver for a trifle, as she was fit only to break up for her iron. He also bought some old sails, and then hauled her alongside his own vessel. She was not far from the tonnage of the Arthur Brown; and there was so much resemblance between them, that, in the night, one might easily be mistaken for the other. They were both brigantines, but the difference was this: the main boom of the slaver was shorter, she had no royal-mast, and was painted differently.
The young captain now communicated his plans to his crew, who set to work with a will to execute them. The main-boom was lengthened, a royal-mast, royal-yard, and flying-jib-boom added, and she was painted precisely like the Arthur. The old sails were limed to make them conspicuous in the night, as, in this case, no concealment was intended; ballast was put in, to give her the appearance of being loaded; in short, even a close observer would not have distinguished one from the other in the night. The two were now hauled near to the entrance of the harbor, awaiting the motions of the fire-ship.
The moment the captain told his plans to his officers and crew, Walter and Ned volunteered to take charge of the slaver.
"I don't believe," said the captain, "they will accomplish anything with their fire-ship, except a scare."
"Why so?" asked the second mate.
"Because they must have a northerly wind to get down to the fleet, and, with the wind that way, will not be likely to have a very dark night. The guard-boats will probably see them before they get very near, and give warning. It cannot be very hard work to get out of the way of a vessel steering herself."
"I should like very well," said Walter, "to have the fleet scattered, but have no desire that the young midshipman, whose life we labored so hard to save, should be blown to pieces."
"He won't be," said Jacques.
"Why not he as liable as another?"
"Because the Agamemnon, the vessel he belongs to, is the fastest vessel they have, and is most always cruising."
In the hold of the old privateer, near the foot of the mainmast, was constructed a square room for a magazine, in which were placed eight hundred barrels of powder. From this to the stern a fire-proof passage-way or trunk was made, in which the train was laid, that it might not explode prematurely. The train was ignited by a port-fire, arranged to burn long enough to give those firing the train time to escape.
The deck was filled with barrels of tar, dry wood, shavings, live shells, pieces of pot-metal, spikes, broken glass, and links of chains, to act as missiles when the explosion took place, and the guns were loaded with grape shot.