Arthur Brown, The Young Captain

by Elijah Kellogg

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.