The water-logged Ship.—Alone upon the Waters.—Jolly under creditable Circumstances.—Old Solomon’s queer Fancies.—He dreads his Persecutor.—He prefers the Life of Crusoe.—Follow my Leader.—Swimming in deep Waters.—An important Meeting.—Debates.—Parties formed.—Molassesites and Sugarites.—Desperate Struggle of Phil, and melancholy Result.
THE night after Captain Corbet left was spent by the boys without any incident of an unusual character. At first when they felt them-sleves thus cut off from all chance of leaving the vessel, there came over every one a singular sense of loneliness, together with an exhilarating feeling of independence. Their situation seemed to them like that of shipwrecked mariners on a desert island, and they all found the part of Robinson Crusoe a very pleasant one, under the circumstances. Their lodgings were excellent, their provisions varied and abundant; they had a cook who was master of his art; and they looked for the return of the Antelope within twenty-four hours.
Captain Corbet had laid stress upon this; and the only conditions upon which he consented to tear himself away from them had been, that he would not go farther than the Magdalen Islands. For he had fully counted on obtaining there what he needed, and had not made any calculations with reference to a failure.
That first evening, then, the boys were in high spirits, and interchanged many jocular remarks about their situation. Solomon expressed more than usual gratification, and seemed to have a serene self-satisfaction, which was extraordinary in him. As the shades of night descended he began to illuminate the cabin. He had found some oil, and had filled the lamp which hung immediately under the skylight. It was a large one, with four argand burners, and threw a brilliant lustre over the scene. Beneath this bright glow the boys sat at the evening repast, spread by the hands of Solomon, where they found the usual variety of dishes, and also not a few of quite a novel and original character. To play the part of Robinson Crusoe under such circumstances as these was not at all unpleasant.
Among all the boys, then, there prevailed a spirit of joyousness, and old Solomon’s mood was certainly not out of accord with that of his young companions. For Bart found him alone in his solitary galley, rubbing his thighs in front of a roasting fire, and chuckling audibly to himself.
“Tell ye what, Massa Bart,” was his exclamation as he looked up at his smiling visitor, “dis yer am high ole times, an no mistake; dis yer ole nigger habn’t felt so happy an habn’t had sich a strornary feelin of skewrity, ebber since he was your age. Let dat dar Ant’lope keep way’s long ebber she kin. I don want to see her again. I want to take up my bode in dis yer galley, and bid farewell to ebery feah, an wipe my weepin eyes.”
“Well, that’s a curious fancy too,” said Bart, in some surprise. “You don’t mean to say that you’d like to live here.”
“Would so; dat dar’s jest wat I mean, an it’s wat’d zactly suit dis yer ole man, an no mistake now—would so.”
“Well,” said Bart, sympathetically, “it’s not a bad place just now, as long as the weather’s fine, though how it might be in case of a blow, I confess I have my suspicions.”
“O, you nebber mind de blow. Dar’s blows dat are a heap wuss dan de wind. How would you like blows on yer head, an backbone, an ribs, from a broomstick, or a shobbel, or a stick ob cord-wood, or a red-hot iron poker? Dem’s blows as is blows, mind I tell you! Tell you what, when you come to git blows, like dat ar, you’ll begin to hab a realizin sense ob what blows is possible for to be.”
“Why, Solomon, how very feelingly you speak!”
“Feelinly! Ony wait till you’ve felt ober your head an shoulders what she’s giben me.”
“She? Who?”
Solomon gave a groan.
“You know her. You—saw her at Loch—Lomond.”
“What, your wife! O, I understand;” and a light began to dawn upon Bart.
Solomon shuddered. The remembrance was too much for him.
“Dis yer’s de fust time I’ve felt real safe for ebber so long; and here I am real safe. She can’t git at me here no how. She can’t imagine where I am no how.”
“Pooh! nonsense, Solomon! Haven’t you been safe enough ever since you left St. John?”
“No, sah! Safe! Why, dar’s not a moment ob de day dat I don’t fancy dat ar woman’s arter me—on my back. I knows it. Tell you what, she’s a comin to fetch me. I knows it. I feel it in my bones, and dat ar’s a feelin dat’s wuss dan de rheumatics. ’Tis so!”
“But what a rdiculous fancy!” said Bart. “Do you really mean to say that you believe she will come after you?”
“Do so. No doubt bout dat ar, Mas’r Bart. She’s a comin jest as shuah’s you’re born. An I habn’t felt real safe’ till now. Here I’m all right.”
“But suppose she does come?”
“Wal, s’pposin.”
“What can she do to you?”
“Do! Lots ob tings. She can come and lib whar I lib, an hamma away all day an all night on my ole head wid broomsticks an pokers.”
“But what makes you let her?”
“Let her? Wat can I do bout it?”
“Why, the law’ll protect you.”
“Be law sakes, chile! Don’t you know de law can’t ’tect husbands agin wives? It’ll only ’tect wives agin husbands. My pinion is, dat de law’s clean in fabor ob de women, an de men hain’t got no chance—not a mite.”
At this new view of the law Bart was somewhat nonplussed.
“O, well,” said he, “I don’t believe she’ll ever trouble you again. You’ll go back to the academy, and Dr. Porter’ll take care of you.”
Solomon shook his head.
“Tell you what,” said he; “fifty millium Docta Porta’s couldn’t do anythin agin dat ar woman if she come to fetch me. De ’cadmy ain’t no place for me. Don’t think you’ll eber catch me back dar. Ise boun to be a rober; an I’ll sail de sea, so as to prebent her from eber a gittin on my track.”
“O, nonsense!” said Bart. “You’ll come with us, and it’ll be all right.”
Solomon shook his head, and relapsed into silence.
And now it became time to prepare for bed. Solomon had already arranged the state-rooms and made the beds. Thanks to their assiduous care, the rooms and the bedding were all quite dry and very inviting.
It was a beautiful night. There was a gentle breeze, which made a slight ripple on the water, but there was not enough to raise a sea. There was a slight motion on the ship, as she slowly rose and fell to the long and gentle undulations; but the motion was scarcely perceptible, and certainly did not interfere in the slightest degree with the comfort of those on board. It was about ten o’clock when they retired for the night. They went to the different rooms which had fallen to their lot. The excitement of the day and of the evening, the long fatigues, together with the exhaustion arising from former privations, all conspired to make their sleep this night very profound as well as very refreshing. Solomon sat till midnight toasting his shins in front of the galley fire, and meditating about the strange vicissitudes of life which had brought across his path that being whom he so justly feared. But Solomon’s thoughts gradually became intermingled with the confused fancies of the land of Nod; and at length awaking with a start, he rubbed his sleepy eyes, and carried his aged frame somewhere “for’ard.” None of the party awoke until late on the following day. Then, on opening their eyes, their nostrils were greeted with savory odors that were wafted from the cabin, which served to show them that Solomon, at least, had not overslept himself, but that he was up and doing, and that he had prepared everything that might be needed to fortify them for the cares and trials of a new day. For the savory odors that were wafted to their nostrils were multifarious, and among them each boy, before he had made up his mind to rise, and while he was still enjoying that luxurious doze that follows the awakening from sleep, could have enumerated, had he felt inclined, the strong, rich aroma of coffee, the pungent odor of broiled ham, the gentler steam of distilling tea, the appetizing atmosphere shed forth from hot rolls, together with a confused medley of others equally attractive, though less definable. .
A rush upon deck to breathe the glorious air, and to look upon the scene around, followed. The view was most enlivening. Far and wide around them extended the deep blue water, whereon not a sail was visible. Overhead hung the azure vault of heaven, with not a cloud in all its wide expanse. The wind was light, and blew at intervals, nor had it increased since the night before. They took their morning bath on deck in the cool, refreshing salt water, dipped out fresh from the sea. Pat improved on this, for he undressed himself again, and plunged into the sea, where he swam about, and called on the others to follow. His example was infectious, and soon the whole party were floundering and gamboling in the water, like a shoal of porpoises, beside the ship.
The bath was a most refreshing one, and added to the zest with which they attacked their breakfast. When, at length, this repast was finished, they once more came forth to the deck like giants refreshed, and began to make plans for passing the time. For their active young natures, filled to overflowing with animal spirits, some lively exercise was needed. This they found in an exploring tour among the rigging. Bart went first, and then the others. Each one tried to venture farther than the others. Thus it soon became a game—the well-known one often played at sea in fine weather called “follow my leader.”
Bart’s training in a seaport town gave him an advantage over the others, even though some of them were stronger, and others more active than he. But he had all through his boyhood been familiar with ships, and had ventured time and again to every part. There was no height so dizzy but that he had sought it out and familiarized himself with it. Bart, therefore, on the present occasion easily surpassed the others in feats of daring, and ventured where none of the others could follow. Singularly enough, it was Phil who came nearest to him. His light, lithe, slender, yet sinewy frame made him as nimble as a kitten in the rigging, and if he had only had Bart’s practice and familiarity, he would have decidedly surpassed him. Phil came near enough to Bart to elicit the admiration and the applause of all. Next to Phil came Pat, who was very sinewy and active. Bruce and Arthur were about equal, while Tom, who, though very strong, was somewhat slow and a little awkward, lingered in the rear. This exciting sport served to occupy several of the hours of that summer morning.
But at length they had exhausted the utmost resources of even so fascinating a game as “follow my leader,” and they once more came down to the common level of every-day life, when they proceeded to debate the great question what next to do. A swim about the ship served to settle this question until dinner time, after which the important subject of dinner remained under discussion long enough to consume a few more hours.
After dinner none of them felt very much inclined to take any active exertion, and they distributed themselves about in various ways. At length Bart suggested a regatta, which was at once adopted. Not having books to read, or anything else in particular to attend to, it was not surprising that they should take with much excitement to a sport which, though perhaps decidedly childish, is yet not without its attractions to the unoccupied mind. The plan was for each boy to make a boat, put it over the side, and see which one of the little fleet would beat. These boats were at first made of paper. But paper was soon found inadequate, and wood was resorted to. These wooden boats were long and sharp, and sailed with a speed which excited the warmest interest. At length Bart proposed a new kind.
Finding a piece of iron hoop, he broke it into short fragments, and sticking this underneath a wooden boat, so that it might act as ballast, keel, and rudder all in one, he produced a little vessel that would sail with the wind abeam, and carry an astonishing amount of canvas. Soon a fleet of these little vessels was formed, and the regatta went on with fresh excitement.
At length a bright thought struck Phil, which, on being suggested to the other boys, at once caused all interest in the regatta to be eclipsed by the stronger attraction of this new idea.
It was nothing less than to make candy.
About this there was a double attraction, for, first, the candy was of value in itself, and secondly, the process of cooking it would, afford an occupation at once charming and exciting.
There was sugar on board, both brown and white, and also molasses. The choice among these was the subject of a prolonged debate; but at length, on being put to the vote, it was found that the Molassesites were, in a triumphant majority. Upon this the White Sugarites and the Brown Sugarites waved their objections, and the vote became a unanimous one.
Another debate took place upon the appointment of a cook, which was terminated by a resolve to ballot for one. The result of the balloting was the unanimous election of Phil to that important and responsible post. This was nothing more than was right, and it was a handsome tribute to Phil for being the originator of the whole scheme. Phil, on being informed of his election, responded in a neat speech, which was greeted with loud applause.
A motion was then made that a deputation be sent to Solomon, requesting him to vacate the cook’s galley for a few hours, so that the new purpose of the assembly might be carried into successful accomplishment. This motion was carried, and the deputation was chosen by ballot. The deputies were Bart, chairman, Bruce, Arthur, Tom, and Pat.
Upon the departure of these on their mission, the whole assemblage consisted of Phil. Though alone, he contrived to represent the assemblage with as much dignity as possible, for he laid himself down flat on the deck, and distributed his arms and legs in all directions, so that he might occupy as much space as possible.
The deputation at length returned, and announced to the assembly that their mission had been successful, and that Solomon had kindly consented to give up to them the cook’s galley for the required time and purpose.
Upon this the assembly moved, seconded, and carried unanimously a resolution that the report of the deputation be adopted.
Upon this an adjournment took place sine die, and the meeting retired to the scene of labor.
About a gallon of molasses was procured. This was poured into an iron pot, and Phil stationed himself at his post in the galley. The fire was supplied with fresh fuel, and soon the liquid began to boil. Phil stirred away like a good fellow, and the liquid began to froth up. Phil tried to keep it down, so that it might not boil over. For some time there was a desperate struggle between Phil and the molasses. The boys stood crowding around, watching that struggle with intense interest and keen excitement. None of them offered to make a suggestion, for it was felt that any offer of advice would be derogatory to the dignity of Phil’s office.
So the struggle went on.
It grew fiercer and fiercer every moment.
Now the molasses rose up in wrath and fury, and seemed about to rush forth from its iron prison.
Now Phil, summoning all his energy, dealt a series of destructive blows at his furious enemy, and laid him low for a time.
So went the struggle. Now the molasses gained, now Phil.
But all the time the molasses was increasing in fury.
The boys stood about. They formed themselves into two parties, one embracing the cause of the molasses, the other that of Phil. Cheer after cheer arose as one or the other saw its cause in the ascendant.
Phil grew weaker and fainter.
At length he tried to make a flank attack, and tore open the stove doors so as to lessen the draught.
The movement failed.
Scarce had he torn open the doors than the molasses, rising in its wrath, rushed forth, streamed over, and poured out in resistless strength, driving Phil himself back from the clouds of hot steam that arose.
Phil fled vanquished from the galley.
The molasses had conquered!
Wild cheers arose from the Molassesites.
At length, when the smoke and steam had subsided, Phil ventured back. There was a boiling, foaming mass still in the pot; but on lifting it off the stove, and allowing it to subside for a moment, it was found that not more than a quart was left.
“Sure, an here’s some lovely flavorin I found,” said Pat, “in the pantry. It’ll make a good flavorin to the candy, so it will.”
He held forth a small vial to Phil, which was labelled,—
Extract of Lemon.
Phil thought it would be an improvement, and so poured the whole contents of the vial into the boiling molasses.
His task was soon over, and the candy was taken off, and poured into dishes to cool. There was only a little, but it was hoped that this might suffice for the present.
At length they ventured to taste it. But the first taste excited one universal cry of execration. The taste was of rancid oil, and not by any means the smooth, sweet, delicious lemon-flavored molasses candy for which they had waited so long. In bitter disappointment and vexation, Phil seized the vial which Pat had handed him. He smelt it; he poured some of the last drops out on his hand, and touched it.
“Boys,” said he, with a rueful look, “the steward of the Petrel must have taken a lemon bottle to keep his hair-oil in.”
And all the boys retired from the cook’s galley with a mournful smile.
Ingenuity of Tom and Phil.—Checkers and Chess.—Speculations as to the Future.—Melancholy Forebodings.—Where is the Antelope?—A Change of Weather.—Solemn Preparations by Solomon.—Making ready for the Worst.—The Place of Retreat.—Laying in a Stock of Provisions.—Pitching a Tent.—Reconnaissance in Force.—A midnight Alarm.—Horror of Solomon.—A haunted Ship.—Sleepers awakened.—They go to lay the Ghost.—Forth into the Night.
THE boys thus succeeded in filling the day with sufficient incidents to occupy their thoughts. It was not an unpleasant day; indeed, it was afterwards looked back upon by all of them as one of the marked days in their lives. True, most of the molasses had been lost, and the remainder, which had been turned into candy, had not been recommended to their palates by the addition of the hair-oil of the steward of the Petrel; but to active-minded boys these little disappointments caused no trouble whatever; on the contrary, they only furnished material for endless jests and laughter. The conclusion of the whole affair was reached when the party once more formed themselves into a meeting, at which it was moved, seconded, and unanimously voted, “that the thanks of this meeting be conveyed to Solomon for his generous loan of the cook’s galley.”
After this, Tom, who always was remarkably fruitful in devices, conceived the idea of making a checker-board. He was able to do this without any very great difficulty. He obtained the head of a flour barrel, and with some soot and water he was able to mark out the squares very well indeed. He then obtained the covers of some red herring boxes, which he cut up into the checker pieces, blackening them with soot. He then challenged Bruce to a game. Bruce played, and won; but, as at the end of that time Bruce, who had chosen the black men, found his fingers and face all covered with soot, and his fingers, moreover, smelling most abominably of stale red herring, his victory did not seem to give him that satisfaction which it might be supposed to have caused.
Fired by Tom’s example, Phil undertook a more ambitious task, which was nothing less than to make a set of chess-men. He went about the pantry, and succeeded in finding a number of corks, which he attempted to cut into the required shapes. His knife, however, was rather dull, and he himself was not particularly skilful at carving; so that when the pieces were completed, it required a great effort of the imagination to see the connection between the corks and the pieces which they were supposed to represent, and a still greater effort of memory to retain the recollection of such resemblance. He challenged Bart to a game, and the two attempted to play; but, after a dozen moves, attended by a dozen disputes, the game resolved itself into an insoluble problem as to whether a certain piece, belonging to Phil, was a pawn or a queen. All present took part in the discussion, but, after a long debate, it was left undecided; and so the game broke down.
After tea they adjourned to the quarter-deck. Here all was pleasant, and soothing, and agreeable. A gentle breeze still blew as before, and the prospect of this tranquil weather continued. The boys sang, and told stories, and chatted for hours. They speculated much as to the time when the Antelope might be expected back again. Some thought that she might be back by the evening of the next day, but others were inclined to allow her a longer time.
“For my part,” said Bart, “I think well have to allow about three days—one day to go to the Magdalen Islands, one day to hunt up the sails, and one day to come back.”
“O, he needn’t be so long as that,” said Phil. “I should think he could get to the Magdalen Islands in far less time. They can’t be over fifty miles away, and this breeze would take him there in fifteen hours or so. He left here at about six yesterday; he probably got there at about twelve to-day. He could hunt all over the islands before dark at farthest; and, of course, he’ll come straight back after he gets the sails. He probably left there this evening at sundown, and he may be here to-morrow.”
“O, I don’t know,” said Bruce. “I dare say he did leave this evening to come back; but, mind you, my boy, this wind’s against him. He’ll have to tack coming back, and the Antelope isn’t much at that. I don’t believe he’ll do it by to-morrow.”
“Three days, I think, will have to be allowed,” said Arthur.
“Well, three days ought to do it at the farthest,” said Tom. “He certainly won’t wait at the Magdalen Islands. The only thing that’ll keep him’ll be the head winds.”
“Sure, an’ for my part,” said Pat, “he may stay three weeks, if he likes. This place is over an over again betther than the Antelope.”
“O, I don’t know,” said Bart. “It’s all very well while the wind is this way, but if an easterly or southerly wind should come up, it wouldn’t be so comfortable. A heavy sea would roll through and through the cabin, and we’d have to live, and eat, and sleep up here.”
“Sure, an ayvin that wouldn’t be so bad.”
“Well, if it were to rain at the same time,” said Bruce, “it might be a little damp up here; and I’m afraid we wouldn’t have quite so good a table.”
“I only hope that the Antelope’ll get back before it begins to blow,” said Tom.
“Yes,” said Bart, “it’s all very well in fine weather; for I’d rather be on board here than in the Antelope; but if the weather is going to change, I’d a precious sight rather have the Antelope within hail.”
“O, well,” said Phil, cheerily, “there’s no sign of a blow just yet, at any rate; so I suppose we needn’t talk about that. I’ve no doubt this weather’ll hold on for a day or so longer, and by that time, at the farthest, the Antelope will be here.”
“If the Antelope were really in sight,” said Bart, “I don’t believe I should give one thought to the weather; but the fact that she is away makes the subject a very important one. This head wind may detain her, and if it were to blow hard, it would be bad for us.”
“Well,” said Bruce, “I believe that if it did blow hard, the wind would change; and in that case, it would be all the more favorable for the Antelope, and, of course, bring her here all the faster. So, at the worst, our hardships couldn’t last more than a few hours.”
“There’s a good deal in that,” said Bart; “I didn’t think of it before.”
Such were their speculations as to the Antelope; but all these, together with all apprehensions of danger, and all fears about the change of weather, were soon forgotten in a sound and refreshing sleep.
The next morning came, and their conversation of the previous night made every one think of the Antelope. On going upon deck, their first thought was of her. But of the Antelope there was not a sign, nor was any sail visible whatever. Little did they imagine that at that moment, instead of steering his bark back to them, Captain Corbet was sailing away from them, and directing his course to Miramichi. But the weather was fine, and the breeze was still mild; and so, after one glance around, they all dismissed the subject.
Breakfast, and morning occupations, and games, and swimming, and various other pastimes, took up the interval until midday, when dinner came to engage their attention.
On going upon deck after dinner, they noticed a change in the appearance of sea and sky. Clouds were visible on the horizon, and the wind had shifted. It was blowing from another quarter. It had been north-east. It was now south-east. It was also a little stronger than it had been, and created more than a ripple on the water. The surface of the sea was now agitated, and the halcyon times of calm had passed. The boys noted all these things at one glance.
“It’s going to be rough,” said Bart. “The wind has changed, and it’s going to blow.”
“Well,” said Bruce, “let it blow. It’ll be fair for the Antelope, and fetch her up all the faster.”
“It’s an ill wind that blows no good,” said Tom, quietly.
“Let her rip,” said Phil.
The boys were not by any means inclined to borrow trouble, and so they soon drove away these thoughts, and began to get up amusements of the old sort. They ransacked the cabin, they peered into places heretofore neglected. Nothing, however, of any particular interest rewarded their searches. So the afternoon passed away.
The tea table was set. Solomon did his best. All praised the repast, as something of a superior order. This time Solomon did not kindle, and glow, and chuckle at the praises of his young friends, but preserved a demeanor of unchangeable gravity.
As they sat at table, they all noticed a slight motion in the vessel, which would not have been regarded under ordinary circumstances, but which now, in their very peculiar situation, excited comment.
“The wind is increasing,” said Arthur.
“I dare say we’ll have a blow to-night,” said Bart.
“If there’s much more motion, we must expect to get a ducking,” said Tom.
“Any way,” said Phil, “my berth’s out of the reach of the water; it’s the upper one.”
“Sure, thin, an I’ll have to change my berth to an upper one,” said Pat, “if that’s what ye’re thinkin of.”
“Well,” said Bruce, “it’ll be all the better for the Antelope. The wind won’t be much, after all. We’ll only feel it because we’re so low in the water.”
“O, of course,” said Bart; “and if the worst comes to the worst, we can go to the quarterdeck.”
The change in their prospects, however, did not in the slightest degree affect the appetite of the boys; but, on the contrary, they exhibited a greater devotion than ordinary to this repast, as though they were all under the impression that this might be the last one which they were to eat under such luxurious circumstances.
This impression, if it did exist, was confirmed after tea, when they went out upon deck. Solomon was there, grave and preoccupied.
“Chilen,” said he, in a mild voice, “we mus get some ’visium up dis yar ebenin on to dat ar quarter-deck. I ben a riggin some tackle to hist up some barls ob biscuit. Dar’s water up dar already, two barls, an dat’ll be nuff for de present. You’ll all hab to len a han, an hist up biscuit barls; an you can fotch up as many oder tings as you can lay yer hans on.”
“O, let’s wait till to-morrow,” said Tom.
“No, no; bes be in time,” said Solomon. “It’s a gwine to blow dis yer night, an we’ve got to work so as to hab all tings ready.”
None of the boys were surprised at this; so they all prepared to lend a hand at the work. This was, as Solomon said, to hoist up some barrels of biscuit. These they rolled out from the store-room, and hoisted up to the quarter-deck. They then lashed them round the mizzenmast securely. Two stout seamen’s chests were then brought up, being first emptied of their contents, and into these the boys packed an assortment of such articles of food as might be desirable in the event of a prolonged stay on the quarter-deck, such as two hams, which Solomon, with wise forethought, had boiled, cheese, potted meats, knives, forks, mustard, butter, salt, &c.
They now felt prepared to some extent for the worst; but the question still remained, how they were to procure shelter in the event of rain. A diligent search resulted in the discovery of several tarpaulins. These they hung over the boom, securing the ends on each side to the deck in such a way that a tent was formed, which was spacious enough to shelter them all in case of need, and quite impervious to water. In the middle of this tent rose the skylight, which might serve for a table, or even a sleeping-place, in case of need. Upon the top of this they spread some mattresses and blankets.
“Dar,” said Solomon, “dat ar’s de best dat we can do; an if dis yer wind’s boun to rise, an dis yer vessel’s decks get a swimmin wid water, we’ll be able to hab a dry place to lib in.”
“Well, I don’t believe we’ll have to use it,” said Tom; “but there’s nothing like having things ready.”
“O, we’ll sleep all the sounder for this,” said Bart.
“There’s nothing like knowing that we’ve got a place to run to, if the worst comes to the worst.”
“And then, even if the sea does wash over the decks,” said Phil, “all we’ve got to do is, to take off our shoes and stockings, roll up our trousers, and meander about barefoot.”
“Sure, an there’s a good deal to be said in favor of goin barefoot,” remarked Pat.
“O, well,” said Bruce, “it’ll only be for a little while; for I’ve no doubt that the Antelope’ll be along some time to-morrow.”
“At any rate, we can get our sleep this night in our beds,” said Arthur. “I’m going to my old crib, and I mean to sleep there, too, till I’m washed out of it.”
“And so will I,” said Bart.
“And I,” said Tom.
“And I,” said Phil.
“And sure an meself will do that same too,” said Pat.
“Of course,” said Bruce; “we’d be great fools not to sleep there as long as we can.”
The wind had increased a little, but not much, and the motion of the ship was, after all, but slight.
It was rather the prospect before them than the present reality that had led to these preparations.
Two or three hours passed, and ten o’clock came. By that time the wind had increased to a fresh, strong breeze, and the sea had risen into moderate waves. The motion of the ship had grown to be a slow, regular rise and fall of about two feet. On walking to the bows, they saw that at every rise and fall the water came in through the scupper-holes and flowed over the deck.
“Well, there it comes,” said Tom; “but for my part, I persist in refusing to believe that it’ll be anything of consequence. I don’t believe it’ll get into the cabin. As to the deck here, a thorough washing’ll do it good. I was thinking to-day that it needed one.”
“O, it’ll not be much,” said Phil.
“Sure an where’s the harrum,” said Pat, “if it does come into the cabin, so long as we’re high up in our berths, out of reach?”
“Solomon’ll have trouble in cooking to-morrow,” said Bart.
“Then we’ll feed on biscuit,” said Arthur. “A few days ago we’d have been glad enough to be where we are now.”
“That’s true,” said Bruce; “and, besides, tomorrow the Antelope’ll be almost sure to be here. This wind’s fair, and as I’ve always said, what’s bad for us in one way is best for us in another, for-it’ll bring the Antelope along all the faster.”
In this way they all made light of the change that had taken place; and, turning away, they all went to the cabin and retired to their respective berths. The lamp under the skylight was burning brightly, the cabin had its usual cheerful appearance, and the comforts here served still more to make them overlook the troubles outside.
So they all went to bed.
For a few hours they slept.
Then they were awakened by a cry—a wild, wailing cry, a cry of terror and of despair. Every one started up at once. The cry came again from the cabin.
“O, chilen, we’re lost! we’re done for! we’re ru-i-na-ted for ebbemo!”
“Hallo, Solomon!” cried Bart. “What are you making all that row about?”
And as he said this he jumped out of his berth. As he entered the cabin one glance reassured him partially. The lamps were burning; they had allowed them to burn for this night; the floor was dry. Everything had the same air of comfort which had prevailed when they retired. The motion of the ship was certainly greater, perhaps even much greater; but under any other circumstances it would not have been noticed. This much Bart saw first; and then he noticed a figure bowed over the table, sighing and groaning. It was Solomon. His head was buried in his hands.
“Come,” said Bart, laying his hand on Solomon’s shoulder. “What’s the matter? What’s upset you so?”
Solomon raised his head and grasped Bart’s arm convulsively in both of his hands.
“Dar’s ghosts about!”
“Ghosts?
“Yes, Mas’r Bart; d-d-d-dars g-g-ghosts a-b-b-b-bout,” said Solomon, with a shudder and with chattering teeth.
“Pooh! nonsense! What do you mean?” asked Bart.
By this time all the other boys were out in the cabin. They had all gone to bed with their clothes on, and stood now wide awake and prepared for any emergency. They all stared fixedly at Solomon, expecting to hear some dreadful disclosure. They had never before seen him so completely upset.
“Dar’s g-g-ghosts a-b-b-b-b-b-b-oard,” said Solomon. “I went to bed. I waked at de row dey made down below, in de hole.”
“What, in the hold?”
“Y-y-yes, Mas’r Bart, in d-d-d-d-e hole ob de ship. It’s a haunted ship—an—full ob hobgobblums.”
“Pooh!” said Bart, with a sigh of relief; “is that all? Some nightmare or other. Never mind, old Solomon; it’s all right; we’ll go and lay the ghosts. You come and show me the place.”
“Darsn’t,” gasped Solomon.
“If you’ll come with us, you know; we’ll all go.”
“D-d-d-arsn’t,” said Solomon again.
“Well, we’ll go, and T think it’ll be better for you to come with us than to stay here alone,” said Bart. “Come along, boys; let’s find out what it is. Perhaps something’s the matter.”
With these words he went out.
The other boys followed.
Solomon gave one wild glance around, and then, finding himself forsaken, and dreading the loneliness, he hurried after the others.
Rushing forth at the Alarm of Solomon.—The rolling Waters.—The flooded Decks.—Strange, uneartlily Noises.—Dread Fears.—is the Ship breaking up?—Consolations.—Refuge in the Cabin.—A Barricade against the Waters.—A damp Abode.—A Debate.—Where shall we pass the Night?—Solomon on Guards—The fourth Day.—No Antelope.—A long Watch.—The Cabin deserted.—Sleeping on Deck.
AT the alarm of Solomon, the boys thus all hurried out upon deck. The night was dark. The sky was overcast. The motion of the ship was greater than it had been. As they stepped out, they felt their feet plash in a stream of water that rolled towards them, and perceived by this that the waves had risen high enough to break over the low-lying deck. But it was only enough to wet the deck, and not enough to cause either alarm or even discomfort, since it had not penetrated to the cabin. As they advanced forward, however, they encountered deeper streams of water, which swept down from the bows towards them, rising as high as their ankles. Yet even this excited but little attention. Solomon’s alarm had prepared them all for something serious, and so slight a thing as this was not deemed worthy of notice. They hurried on, therefore, and at length having reached the forecastle, they stood and looked all around.
The motion of the vessel would have been considered very ordinary in any one differently situated. The waves had risen somewhat, and at their motion the ship rose and fell about four feet. This was sufficient to bring her deck under the surface of the sea, and at each fall the water streamed in and rolled about. The wind was rather fresh, but not by any means violent, and it sighed through the rigging overhead.
“Why, Solomon,” said Bart, at length, “what do you mean? I don’t see that anything’s happened.”
Solomon had been clinging to the outskirts of the party, and at this he. cried out,—
“Dey ain’t out dar! Dey’s inside.”
“Inside? Where?”
“In dar!” said Solomon, pointing to the door of the forecastle.
At this Bart went in, followed by all the boys. A dim lamp was burning, suspended from a beam. The boys looked around, and saw the seamen’s berths, but nothing more.
“There isn’t anything here,” said Bruce.
At that moment Solomon grasped Bart’s arm, and said, with a gasp,—
“Jes’ you listen to ‘em!”
The boys all listened.
As they listened, there arose a confused medley of sounds, which seemed to come from the hold of the ship—sounds of pounding, thumping, and grinding, mingled with groanings, gurglings, sobs, choking sighs, squeals, scrapings, rumblings, tumblings, shiverings, and many others of an indefinable character. To these the boys all listened in silence, and for a time there came a solemn feeling of awe over every one of that little band of listeners.
“D-d-d-dem’s um!” said Solomon, with a shudder. “D-d-d-dem’s d-d-de g-g-g-ghosts, d-d-d-dem’s d-d-de hobble-bobble-gobblums!”
“Nonsense!” said Bart. “Don’t talk that trash just now. This may be something serious.”
“The cargo seems moving,” said Bruce. “The leak may be a large one.”
“I dare say she’s got a bad strain,” said Phil.
“It’s very likely,” said Arthur, solemnly, “that she won’t last very long.”
“That’s my own idea,” said Tom. “Come, boys, we may as well look the worst in the face. It’s my opinion that she’s breaking up.”
“Well, we’ve got the captain’s gig,” said Pat, “an can take to that, so we can. We’ve got lots of provisions.”
“But we’ve no oars,” said Bart.
“Well, we can rig up a bit of a sail, so we can, out of thim ould tarpowlines.”
“After all, though,” said Bruce, “she may not be breaking up. I’ve heard somewhere that in a water-logged ship the water makes the most extraordinary noises ever heard whenever there is the slightest motion; so these may, after all, be nothing more than the usual noises.”
“And besides, what is this sea!” said Bart; “it can’t do anything; it’s nothing. In fact, the more I think of it, the more sure I feel that this ship can’t break up, unless she strikes a rock. I remember what sea captains have told me—that a timber ship may float and drift about for fifty years, and hold together without any trouble, unless it should strike a rock or be driven ashore. So now that I think of it, I don’t believe there’s the slightest danger.”
“But, if that is so, why did the captain of the Petrel desert her? He must have known this, if it is so.”
This was Tom’s objection, who was not quite inclined to receive Bart’s assertion.
“Well, I dare say he hadn’t been in the timber trade,” said Bart. “This was something new for him, and he thought she would go to pieces. That’s what he wrote in the message that he put in the bottle.”
This conversation had not been lost on Solomon, whose fears, prompted by superstition, gradually faded away, and finally died out. The true cause of the terrific noises being thus asserted and accepted by the boys, there was no difficulty on Solomon’s part about adopting it. Accordingly he soon regained his ordinary equanimity, and began to potter about the forecastle, arranging some dishes and pans.
The descent of Solomon from the supernatural to the commonplace had a good effect upon the boys, who, seeing that he had suddenly lost all his fears, thought it time to throw aside their own anxieties.
“Well,” said Phil, “I don’t see the use of staying in this dismal forecastle any longer, when there is a comfortable cabin aft; so I’m going back to my berth.”
“Sure an it’s meself,” cried Pat, “that was jist goin to say that same.”
“I think it’s about the best thing we can do, boys,” said Bruce. “There’s no danger just yet, evidently, and so there’s no reason why we should lose our night’s rest. Let’s sleep while we can, say I, and I dare say the Antelope’ll be along some time to-morrow.”
Upon this proposal the boys acted forthwith, and soon they were all not only back again in their berths, but slumbering profoundly. Solomon also turned in “forard,” and finished his night’s sleep, which, however, was frequently interrupted by excursions and reconnoitrings which he made for the purpose of seeing how the weather was.
On the following morning they all awaked early, and hurried upon deck. This was the third day since the Antelope had left, and by evening the three days would be completed which they allowed for her probable absence. There was not one of them who did not go up on deck that morning with the expectation of seeing her somewhere in the distance. But on looking around, they saw no sail of any kind. It was with a feeling of disappointment that they recognized this fact, for, though thus far they had not encountered any danger, they had, at least, become aware of the fact that an increase of wind might make their situation very dangerous indeed.
The wind also had grown stronger, and sang through the rigging in a way that was anything but music to their ears. The sky was overcast with rolling clouds. In another vessel they would have called it a fine day, and a fresh breeze, but to them it became equivalent to a storm. The waves had risen to a height commensurate with the increase of the wind. The rise and fall of the ship amounted to about six feet, and at every other plunge her bows went entirely under water. The deck was now completely flooded, and Solomon in traversing it was sometimes up to his knees in the rushing torrent. The fire in the cook’s galley had been put out, and he had been compelled to transfer his apparatus to the stove in the cabin.
The quarter-deck astern prevented the sea from coming aboard in that direction; and by the time the water that rolled over the bows had reached the cabin doors, it had greatly subsided; yet still enough had poured into the cabin to saturate it in every nook and corner. A pool of water filled all the cabin and all the state-rooms to a depth of six inches, and rolled about with the motion of the ship.
“Well, this isn’t certainly quite as comfortable as it might be,” said Phil, with a blank look.
“At this rate,” said Tom, “if this, sort of thing keeps on, we’ll have to launch the boat, and row to the cook’s galley.”
“It’s strange that the Antelope isn’t in sight!” said Arthur, shading his eyes, and trying to force them to see.
“No use,” said Bart, who had been peering through the glass, and now handed it to Arthur. “No use. There’s not only no Antelope, but no other vessel; in fact, there’s not a sign of any sail of any kind whatever.”
At this Arthur, who had already exhausted all the capabilities of the spy-glass, took it, and began sweeping the entire circuit of the horizon.
“O, don’t trouble yourselves, boys,” said Bruce. “It isn’t quite time yet for the Antelope to get here. We allowed her three days. They won’t be up till evening. Besides, she’s just as likely to be four days; she’s not over fast. For my part, I don’t intend to look for her to-day at all. It’s quite possible that a vessel may heave in sight; but I don’t believe it’ll be the Antelope. And if any vessel does turn up, we can easily signalize, for I found all the signal-flags of the Petrel in the closet next my state-room.”
That morning Solomon had to cook the breakfast in the cabin. The boys all concluded to go about barefoot. The breakfast was cooked, and, considering all the circumstances, was a great success; but the glory of the cabin had departed, and it was hardly to be expected that a breakfast could be thoroughly enjoyable at which one had to sit with the water playing all about his feet and ankles. Still the boys made the best of it, and did ample justice to the fare. Solomon still struggled manfully against the difficulties of his position, and on this occasion actually furnished them with hot rolls. These, with broiled ham, coffee, tea, and other things, made a breakfast that was not to be despised.
After breakfast the boys were glad to leave the cabin, and seek the quarter-deck, which arose like an island out of the water. They began to look upon this quarter-deck as a place that was likely to become their home. The sashes of the skylight were kept open and made use of, as affording a readier means of passing in and out of the cabin. They began to feel very seriously the restriction of space which had been caused by the flowing waters, and the charms of the comfortable cabin had never seemed so great as when they were deprived of them. Formerly they had been able to lounge in and out, and, above all, to prolong the various repasts, and thus pass away the time; but now breakfast, dinner, and tea had to be hurried over as rapidly as possible, and there came the prospect of final banishment from the cabin altogether.
The sea at midday was somewhat rougher; but Solomon heroically cooked the dinner in the cabin, although the water was sometimes half way up to his knees. Measures were now taken to keep the water out. The door was shut and locked, and in the interstices they fastened oakum. Had this been done at the first, the cabin might have been saved; but unfortunately it had been neglected, and now that the water was in, there was no way of getting it out. Still this was a decided improvement, and there was comfort in the thought that it could not grow any worse now, unless it became very bad indeed.
Dinner was served in the cabin, and the boys did justice to it, though they showed no inclination to linger at the table any longer than was absolutely necessary.
After dinner they sought the quarter-deck, where they spent the afternoon. They had now begun to look for the coming of the Antelope with great impatience, and their anxiety in this respect kept them in a state of suspense which did not allow them to feel interest in any other thing. To all of them the time seemed interminable. The spyglass was passed around a hundred times, and each one on using it seemed reluctant to give it up. But at every fresh survey of the horizon there was the same result; and as hour after hour passed, they began to fear that something might have happened to Captain Corbet.
So the time passed. All the afternoon the wind grew higher, and the rolling of the vessel increased; still they took tea in the cabin; and there arose the important question as to where they should sleep.
The opinions varied. Some of them, in view of the fact that the wind was rather increasing than diminishing, were inclined to desert their staterooms, and sleep on the quarter-deck, upon the skylight, under the friendly shelter of the tarpaulin.
Tom advocated this most strongly.
“It’ll be just as comfortable,” said he, “and much less liable to interruption. Here are our mattresses, all spread out, and roomy enough for all of us. Here is the tarpaulin hanging over the boom, and making a first-rate tent. Down in the cabin the water seems to be slowly increasing, and we’ll be liable to be washed out of our berths before morning.”
“Yes,” said Phil, who chimed in with Tom, “and what’s worse, if the sea gets rougher, we’ll be certain to ship some seas astern before morning, and in that case it’ll come pouring into the cabin through the skylight.”
“Well, if it does,” said Bruce, “we should get as wet on the skylight as in the cabin.”
“Yes,” said Arthur, “and we might be washed off into the sea.”
“Sure an we can lash ourselves to the mast, an sleep there,” said Pat. “That’s what shipwrecked sailors always do.”
“O, there’s all the difference in the world,” said Tom. “If we are above, we’ll be able to avoid any danger, but down below there we’ll only be drowned like rats in a hole. For my part, if the sea is coming in, I should like to be where I can have a chance to swim, at least.”
“O, come now, Tom,” said Bart, “you are putting it too strong altogether. The wind hasn’t increased very much, and the change has been very gradual. There’s no likelihood of any sudden change, you know. If it gets much rougher, we’ll find it out soon enough, and we’ll be able to get out of the cabin, I should think, before it gets filled with water. If the ship begins to pitch like that, so as to ship heavy seas astern, the first one that comes aboard will be enough to wake every mother’s son of us. I believe in sticking to the cabin as long as we can. Our berths are as comfortable as ever. The puddle of water about the floor don’t really amount to much, after all. The door is so tight now that very little more water can get in; and as to shipping seas over the stern, I, for my part, don’t believe that there is any danger of that just yet; not to-night, at any rate.”
“No,” said Bruce. “Just see. After all, there’s been no very great change since morning. If we were aboard the Antelope, we’d think nothing of this.”
“But unfortunately,” said Tom, “we’re not aboard the Antelope.”
“O, well,” said Bruce, cheerfully, “we needn’t bother ourselves. We’re pretty certain to be aboard of her to-morrow, if we choose to go, for by that time she’s sure to show herself. We allowed her three days, and the time is up; but we ought to allow one day more in case of unlooked-for delays. Perhaps Captain Corbet had to wait for the sails, getting them mended, and all that sort of thing. I don’t think he’d wait more than one day, at the farthest; so we may look for him tomorrow pretty confidently. And in the mean time, I’m of Bart’s opinion, and think that we’d better make ourselves comfortable as long as we can, and sleep below until we are driven out. I don’t believe we’ll be driven out to-night, at any rate; and if we are, we’ll have plenty of warning.”
The end of it was, that they all decided to sleep below. Solomon, however, who had been present at the discussion, informed them that he would sleep on deck, and keep one eye open. Some remonstrance was offered, but in vain, and at length this arrangement was entered into.
Fortunately the night passed without any accident. Their sleep was undisturbed. On waking in the morning, they found not much increase in the water inside the cabin, but felt that the vessel was pitching about more than ever, and creaking and groaning in every timber.
Hurrying out on deck, they looked eagerly around. Bruce was up first, and seizing the spyglass, scanned the whole horizon in the most searching manner. But not to the eyes of any one, nor to the searching gaze of Bruce, appeared any sail whatever. Not one word was said. The disappointment of all amounted almost to dismay for a moment, and their feelings were too strong for utterance.
All around them the sea arose in foaming billows. Overhead the sky was covered with clouds that drove onward impetuously. The wind howled through the rigging; the ‘ship labored and plunged, shipping heavy seas, and thrusting her bows far under the rolling waves. But the quarter-deck, as yet, was spared, and rose above the seas like an island, whereon they could rest.
This day passed like the previous one. They spent the whole time looking for the Antelope. It was now the fourth day since her departure, and her delay made all feel uneasy. The cabin was now too uncomfortable for them, so that they decided to eat their meals on the quarter-deck; but Solomon cooked their meals in the cabin stove, and struggled heroically against fate in the effort to afford his young friends the best fare that could be furnished. .
The day passed slowly.
No Antelope!
Night came.
This time there was no debate about a sleeping-place. No one thought of going below, and they all stretched their weary frames on the mattresses, which were laid on the skylight.
A strange Sleeping-place.—The Tent.—The View astern.—Rolling Waters in Pursuit.—Morning.—Astonishing Discovery.—The solid Land moving towards the anchored Ship.—How to account for it.—What Land is this?—Various Theories.—Every one has a different Opinion.—Solomon driven from the Cabin.—Drawing nearer.—An iron-bound Coast.
THEIR sleep that night was somewhat disturbed, for the novelty of their position prevented them from having that placidity of mind which is the best promoter of slumber. At times through the night they awaked, and were sensible of the rush of waters about the ship’s quarter, and also of a greater motion of the vessel, accompanied by all manner of creakings and groan-ings. The tarpaulins hung over them, having been secured in such a fashion as to form an excellent tent, opening towards the stern, and closed at the other end by the mizzen-mast and the barrels of biscuit and other things around it. Through the opening astern they could see at times, as the ship sunk, the phosphorescent gleam of foaming billows rolling around them as if about to break over them. Most of these did dash themselves against the ship, but none fell upon the quarterdeck; all that the boys felt was the fine spray which floated under their resting-place, and saturated everything.
None of them, however, attempted to rise and go forth until daybreak. There was no cause for doing so; their sleeping-place was the most comfortable now left in the ship, and the scene without had no attraction strong enough to draw them away. Day dawned, and still there was some hesitation about getting up.
This day was the fifth since the departure of the Antelope. Their situation was now quite serious; but they had not yet seen any signs of Captain Corbet. They looked forward towards seeing him on this day, but the disappointment of the two previous days made them despondent, and each one dreaded to look out, for fear that his forebodings might be confirmed. This was the waking thought of each, and each one also perceived that this day was worse than any they had known yet. If the Antelope still kept away, they scarcely knew what to hope for.
At length they went forth, and looked around. All over the sea the waves were larger, and rougher, and fiercer. The motion of the ship was greater than ever. It seemed as though the billows, that raced and chased about in all directions, were hurrying to overwhelm her. The deck below was all covered with white foam, and at times the bows plunged so far under water, and remained there so long, and were overwhelmed by such floods of rolling billows, that it seemed as though the ship would never again emerge. The quarterdeck was now more than ever like an island; but every moment lessened its security, and brought it more and more within reach of the ravenous waves that surged around on all sides. Such was the sight that met their view, as they took their first look around.
But for all this they had been prepared during the long night, by all that they had felt, and heard, and seen; and therefore this did not affect them so much. It was the long, eager look which they turned towards the distant sea, the sharp, scrutinizing gaze with which they swept the horizon, that brought the deepest trouble; for there, over the wide surface of the waters, not a single sail was visible; and the fifth day, while it brought fresh calamities, brought no Antelope, and no hope of relief.
Suddenly Pat gave a loud shout.
“What’s that?” he cried; “what in the wide wurruld is it that I see over there? Sure it’s draimin I must be.”
All the boys looked in the direction where Pat was pointing.
“It’s land!” cried Bruce, in tones of amazement. .
“Land!”
“Land!”
“Land!” burst from the other boys, who, with inexpressible wonder, looked at the unaccountable sight, and scarcely were able to believe what they saw.
Yet it was land—most unmistakably. There it rose, a long, blue line, apparently about fifteen miles away. It was a rugged shore, and extended along the horizon for some distance. For such a sight as this they had not been in the slightest degree prepared; in fact, they would have expected anything sooner; for how could the land move itself up to their fast-anchored ship? Yet there was the fact, and before that fact they were simply confounded.
“I don’t understand it at all,” said Bruce. “If it had been foggy during the last few days, or even hazy, I could then understand it; but it’s been particularly bright and clear all the time.”
“I wonder if it can be something like mirage,” said Arthur.
“No,” said Bart. “The mirage never appears, except when the sea is perfectly still.”
“My opinion is,” said Arthur, “that the ship’s been dragging her anchor, and has been drifting all these five days; or, at any rate, ever since the wind rose.”
“Perhaps she has broken loose,” said Tom. “The chain may have had a weak link. I remember the anchor went down with a tremendous jerk.”
“For my part,” said Phil, “I’m half inclined to believe that the anchor never got to the bottom. I don’t know how deep the water is in the middle of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, but I remember thinking at the time that it was a very short chain to reach to the bottom of the sea. I remember wondering that the gulf was so shallow, but I thought that Captain Corbet knew what he was about; but now, the more I think of it, the more sure I feel that Captain Corbet did not know what he was about, but dropped anchor, and let things slide, after his usual careless fashion. He confessed, over and over, that he knew nothing at all about these waters; and he never once took the trouble to sound, or to try and hunt up a chart. No; he has dropped anchor, and the anchor has never begun to get near the bottom. The consequence is, we’ve been drifting along ever since he left us, and are now ever so many miles away from the place where the anchor was dropped. And, what’s worse, I dare say the Antelope was back there two days ago; but we were gone, and so, of course, Captain Corbet’s lost us, and has no more idea where to look for us than a child.”
Phil’s theory was so plausible, that it was at once accepted by all the boys. It seemed the most natural way of accounting for everything,—for the absence of the Antelope, and the appearance of this strange shore. For a time a deep gloom fell over all, and they stood in silence, staring at the land.
Out of this gloom Tom was the first to rouse himself.
“I tell you what it is, boys,” said he, at length, “I don’t know that it’s so bad a thing after all. The more I think of it, the better it seems. I’d ten times sooner be near some land, as we are now, than be far away out in the midst of the sea, with nothing to be seen, day after day, but sky and water. It seems to me that we must be drawing nearer to the land, and before evening we may be close enough to see what sort of a country it is. If the worst comes to the worst, we can launch the boat, and go ashore. It’s a little rough, but, after all, not too rough for the boat. I’ve been out in an open boat when the water was quite as rough as this. It seems rough to us, because the ship is water-logged, and is drifting every way—end on, side on, and so forth.”
“I wonder what land it is,” said Phil.
“If we only knew how the wind has been, we might guess how we have been drifting,” said Bruce; “but the wind has changed once or twice, and I’ve never kept any account of it.”
“Sometimes,” said Bart, “it has been blowing from the bows, and sometimes from the quarter.”
“O, of course, and every other way,” said Arthur; “for the simple reason that the ship must have been turning about, first one way and then the other, as she drifted.”
“I’ve got a strong idea,” said Phil, “that this land is Newfoundland.”
“O, no,” said Tom; “my impression is, that it’s Prince Edward’s Island. For this to be Newfoundland, the wind should have been from the south or the south-west; but it seems to me that it has been generally from a northerly direction.”
“I don’t think anything of the kind,” said Bart; “I think it’s been from a westerly direction, and that this is some part of Nova Scotia or Cape Breton.”
“Sure, an I agree with Tom,” said Pat, “about the wind, only I don’t think that this is Prince Edward’s Island; it’s too high—so it is—and it’s meself that wouldn’t be a bit surprised if it should turrun out to be the Magdalen Islands after all.”
“O, no,” said Bruce, “it’s too long in extent for the Magdalen Islands. I think it may be some part of the New Brunswick coast, perhaps Miramichi,—for it seems to me that the wind has generally come from the east.”
“So it seems to me,” said Arthur; “but, Bruce, an east wind couldn’t take us to Miramichi; it would bring us a good distance to the north of that, from the place where we were. It seems to me that this must be Gasp茅,—and if so, we won’t be very far away from the Bay de Chaleur.”
“Well, well,” cried Pat, with a laugh, “sure it’s the whole surroundin coasts that we’ve gone over, so it is, an every one of us has put her in a different place from every one else. One comfort is, that some of us’ll have to be right, an so I’ll stick, so I will, to the Magdalen Islands, an if it is, why sure we’re certain of good intertainment, so we are, ivery one of us.”
“Well, boys,” said Bruce, cheerily, “perhaps, after all, this is about the best thing that could have happened to us.”
“I don’t see why,” said Tom.
“Why, you know the very reason that Captain Corbet went away was to get sails to bring this ship to some land. The very thing we all wanted was to get her to some land. Well, here we’ve been drifting along, and now, lo and behold! here is the land that we wanted to reach.”
“Yes; but how can we get her to any port? We’ve got no sails, and we can’t steer her.”
“O, when we get nearer, some pilots or fishermen will come off.”
“Yes; but will they be salvors too?” asked Phil, anxiously.
“Certainly not,” said Bruce, in a lofty tone; “they shall be nothing of the kind. We’ll hire them to help us bring her into port. We’ll pay them liberally, of course.”
“Yes,” said Bart, “and we won’t let Captain Corbet’s absence make any difference. He shall have his share all the same—for his not being here isn’t his fault.”
“My idea is,” said Arthur, “that we’d better make a contribution, call it the Corbet Baby Fund, and add it to his share for the sake of old times, and all that sort of thing.”
“Our profits,” Bruce went on to say, in the same lofty tone, “will depend very largely upon the sort of place we can bring the ship to. If this is Miramichi, they ought to be very large,—in fact, the ship’ll bring as large a price there as anywhere; but if it’s the Magdalen Islands, why, of course we can’t expect to do quite so well. Still we ought to do well in almost any case.”
“I should like to know how we can get word to Captain Corbet again,” said Arthur. “I’m afraid he’ll feel anxious about us.”
“O, that’s easy enough,” said Bruce. “On landing, we can telegraph to the Magdalen Islands, and they’ll get word to him somehow.”
“But there isn’t any cable to the Magdalen Islands.”
“Doesn’t the Newfoundland cable pass by there?”
“O, no.”
“O, well, we’ll telegraph to various places, and he’ll be sure to hear sooner or later.”
“I wonder what’s become of him?” said Phil.
“I dare say he’s cruising about the gulf everywhere, asking every vessel he meets about us.”
“I only hope, then, he’ll meet with more vessels than we have.”
“It’s a very curious thing that we haven’t seen any vessels.”
“O, I suppose we’ve drifted out of the way of the fishing vessels and the timber ships. I dare say the fishing vessels keep generally to the same places, for fishes must be more abundant in some spots than in others, and, as to the timber ships, they try to keep as much as possible in one given course.”
“I wonder whether we’re drifting towards that land, or past it.”
“O, well, we didn’t see it yesterday, and we do see it to-day, which proves that we have drifted towards it during the night; and from this it follows that we will be likely to continue drifting towards it. When we get pretty close we must contrive to get some of the fishermen on the coast to help us; but I don’t suppose there’ll be any trouble about that. They’ll all come piling on board as soon as they catch sight of us, and see our situation.”
“I wonder what sort of people they are,” said Phil. “Along some of these shores they don’t bear the best of characters. Some of the fishing population are given to wrecking.”
“I don’t believe a word of that,” said Bruce, “and I never did. I dare say if a ship breaks up they appropriate what they can in a quiet way, and when the owners appear, they may be rather loath to surrender their spoil; but wrecking, in its bad sense, is not known here on these shores. Wrecking, as I understand it, means decoying vessels ashore, and sometimes murdering the shipwrecked crews. And I never heard of a case of that kind about these waters.”
“Perhaps,” suggested Bart, “they won’t feel inclined to recognize our ownership. I confess I don’t feel myself a very strong confidence in our claim.”
“Why not?” said Bruce.
“O, I don’t know. The claim don’t seem to be a just one; for instance, now, if the owners were to appear in a steam-tug and hitch on, would you order them off?”
“Yes, I would,” said Bruce, firmly; “of course I would. I would hire them to tow our ship and cargo into port, and pay them liberally, of course; but as to recognizing them as being owners, so long as we, the salvors, were on board, I would do nothing of the kind. The moment the captain and crew deserted the Petrel, that moment they lost all claims to her, on their own account and on account of their employers. The owners after that must look to the insurance companies, while we gain the benefits of good fortune and our own boldness.”
Bruce spoke all this in the most cool and confident manner in the world, and in the same tone as though the Petrel was lying in some safe harbor, and he and the boys were contemplating her, and considering her from a cosy nook on the wharf. Yet all the time the ship was pitching, and tossing, and straining, and the waves boiled around, and the seas rolled in foam over her deck.
The conversation was at length interrupted by Solomon.
His head and shoulders were projecting from the skylight. He was standing on the cabin table.
“Ise ben a tryin, chilen,” said he, “an a deav-orin to git up some kine ob a fire down heah, but I ben an made it six or seben times, an ebery time de water hab stinguished it. Don know dat dar’s any sort o’ use in tryin to kin’l it agin, specially as all de kinlin wood’s used up, an de res ob it is soaked through an through. Pears to me we’ll hab to do widout de tea an coffee, an drink cole water dis time, unless we can manage to hist dis yer stove on deck. Only, if we do, it might turn out to be a leetle mite tottlish.”
“Well, boys,” said Bart, “what do you say? Shall we try and get the stove on deck, or drink cold water?”
“The stove on deck? O, nonsense!” said Arthur. “What’s the odds if we don’t have tea and coffee? We’ve got enough to eat; we’ve got a precious sight better supply than we ever had on board the Antelope—cold boiled ham, mustard, biscuit, butter, cheese, potted meats, and no end of things. Bother the stove, I say. Let it slide. What do we want with it up here? We never could fix it in a tight place.”
This was the decision of all. In fact all saw that any attempt to hoist up the stove would have been absurd. The ship was pitching and tossing too much to make such a task practicable.
So Solomon came forth, having been driven from the cabin, as he had formerly been driven from the cook’s galley; but not for this did he lose any of his equanimity. He proceeded to lay out the breakfast as well as he could upon the skylight, piling up the mattresses in a dry place, and laying the table with a regard rather to use than to show. He tacitly assumed that under the circumstances the breakfast would be somewhat informal, and did not think it necessary to risk plates and cups by putting them where they would be certain to be flung off by the motion of the ship. The table was therefore rudely spread, but the eatables were all that could be desired.
After breakfast the day went on, and the boys watched hour after hour the distant shore. By midday it had grown much more distinct, and they knew that they were drawing nearer. A few hours after they had drawn still nearer.
But the nearer they came the less satisfaction did they feel in the aspect of the land. The most careful examination through the glass failed to show the slightest sign of life. No houses appeared, no tilled fields, no pastures even, no clearings of any kind; but a rocky shore, with a wooded country behind, was all that they could see.
“O, well, boys,” said Bruce, “this is the way it is almost everywhere around these coasts; but I dare say Miramichi settlement is only a few miles away, and we may find a fisherman’s hut in some cove close by.”
A miserable Day.—Keeping their Courage up.—Solomon unmoved.—The Cook triumphs over the Man.—A big Wave.—A Shower-bath.—Helter-skelter.—All in a Heap.—Flight.—The Rigging.—Solomon ventures his Life for a Ham Bone.—Remarks.—Flight farther up.—The Mizzen-top.—The Fugitives.—Pat ties himself to the Mast.—Remonstrances.—Pat is obdurate.—Night, and Storm, and Darkness.
ALL through that day the sea continued as rough as at first, and the wind blew as strongly. In the afternoon the wind came up more fiercely, and far surpassed anything they had experienced since they had boarded the Petrel. It sang and roared through the rigging, and so great was its power, that there was a perceptible list in the ship in spite of the tremendous weight of her cargo and water-logged hull. Soon the increasing wind stirred up the sea to greater fury, and the ship began to labor most fearfully. Every hour made it worse; and at length the whole ship forward seemed to be perpetually submerged, for nothing could be seen of its deck, and the foaming waves rolled backward and forward, and boiled, and seethed, and swept resistlessly to and fro. Sometimes a dozen huge waves in succession broke in thunder on the helpless ship which lay beneath them, and received these mountain torrents, quivering and groaning in every plank and beam.
By this time the boys had certainly become accustomed to the creaking and groaning of the straining ship, but this surpassed all that they had yet seen, and filled them with awe. They stood there looking at the scene; the land was now forgotten. It had lost its interest. The feeling began to arise that perhaps they might never reach those shores, and if they did turn a glance any longer in that direction, it was solely in order to measure the intervening distance, and try whether it might be possible for the ship to reach the shore before going to pieces.
Solomon alone stood unmoved. Faithful to the last, with his one idea, the performance of his duty, Solomon prepared the evening meal. The cook triumphed over the man, and professional feeling rose superior to the frailties of humanity. It was ham that they would have, and biscuit, and butter. They should have cheese, too, and sardines. Pickles and mustard should not be wanting. And Solomon laid these on the skylight, one by one, solemnly and in silence, as though the consciousness was present in his breast that this meal might be the last on board. Never before had he arranged a repast more deliberately and more thoughtfully. The table was set under circumstances which, indeed, required deliberation and thought. The pitching of the ship was so violent, that it required the most careful management to induce the things to lie in their places; and it was only by covering the biscuit with bits of board, that he succeeded in keeping them to their places. With the ham he had a long struggle, but finally tied it with rope-yarn to the skylight. As to the smaller articles, he had to leave them in the chest.
Solomon was just returning for the last time, carrying a piece of cheese and a box of sardines; the boys were seated on the edge of the skylight, waiting for the preparations to be completed, when suddenly the stern of the ship went down, down, down, very much farther than they had ever known it to descend before. An awful thought seized upon all: the ship was sinking! Every one started wildly up, clutching at anything that happened to be nearest, without knowing what they were doing, and looking fearfully through the opening at the end of their shelter.
It was a terrific sight that appeared in that direction.
There rose a wall of water, black, towering high in wrathful menace, with its crest boiling in white foam. For a few moments that great mass hung poised above them; and then, with terrific fury, and with resistless might, it descended in thunder upon them. For a few moments all was the blackness of darkness, and the boys struggled despairingly with the rolling, overwhelming, foaming waters, which swept them helplessly about. The thought, and the only thought in every mind, was, that the ship was going down, and with this conviction that the last hour of life had come, there rose from each a short prayer, gasped out in that moment of agony.
It seemed ages; but at length the ship slowly struggled up, and the waters rolled away. For a few moments they all lay where they had been thrown, heaped up together; and then they struggled to their feet, and each began to call after the others. To their great joy they found that they all were there, and that, except a few bruises more or less severe, no evil had been incurred. But the tarpaulins had been torn from the fastenings, and blown away by the fury of the wind, and the boys had been saved from a similar fate only by the quarter-deck rail, against which they had been flung. To this rail they clung as they rose to their feet, and for a short time stood clinging there, not knowing what to do.
But from this stupor they were roused by the voice of Solomon.
“Chilen,” said he, “de suppa am ’sposed of, an you got to go widout it dis bressed night. No use settin de table agin. Don’t pay in dis yer weather. Anybody dat wants anytin to eat, had bes go to de barl or de trunk an fish for hisself. Dere all full ob salt water, and dem dat’s fond ob salt junk can get deir fill.”
None of the boys, however, showed any disposition to eat. This last wave had destroyed all appetite. It had showed them how the wind had increased. They had hoped all along that the quarter-deck would be spared, and that they would be safe there; but now this hope was lost: where one wave had come, others were sure to follow, and the prospects for the night were dark and dismal indeed. For the night was before them. The sun was already going down; the sky looked lowering, and dark, and menacing; the wind had grown to a gale, and all around the waters seemed waiting to ingulf them. Once they had wondered why the captain and crew had fled from the ship; now they understood but too well the reason of that flight. The idea of salvage seemed now to all of them a miserable mockery. What would they not have given to have escaped from this ship to any place of safety? Even the days of famine on board the Antelope seemed less terrible than the fate that now frowned wrathfully upon them out of the lowering night.
“It won’t do to stay here,” said Bruce. “Another wave’ll follow. Let’s get higher up, out of the way.”
“Where can we go?” asked Tom.
“Up in the rigging,” said Bruce. “Come.” Saying this, he climbed up the mizzen shrouds for a little distance on the windward side. The others followed. Last of all came Solomon, who took up his station below them all as though to guard them.
6
There they all clung, and watched with awful eyes the scene below. It seemed for some time as though they had been premature in deserting the quarter-deck, for no wave followed that mountain billow which had precipitated itself upon them. But the recollection of that one wave was enough; and though its successor came not for some time, still they all confidently expected it. They knew that it would come before long, followed by many others, for the sea grew higher every minute, and the wrath of its waters grew more wild. Forward all was a sea of foam, and the quarter-deck appeared beneath them like a raft over which they hung as they clung to the shrouds.
They did not climb far up. They were not more than ten feet above the deck, having rested at this point, so that they might be out of the reach of the waves and no more. About their lost repast they did not think for one moment. That wave which had swept away their supper, had carried with it all thoughts and all desires concerning it. The only one who gave it a thought was Solomon, who, even now, was still true to his professional duties; and seeing the boiled ham lying against the quarter-deck railing, in the very place where it had been flung, he leaped down, at the peril of his life, hastily seized it, pitched it into the trunk, and then clambered back again.
“Boun to skewer dat ar ham dis yer time,” said he, in a soliloquizing tone. “No use lettin de win an de sea hab it all deir own way, nohow. Dat ar ham’s too precious to be lost, an I’se boun to’ serve it up yet for breakfus to-morrow, when de storm goes down. Lucky we didn’t try to hist up dat ar cabin stove. Jerusalem! wouldn’t it hab spun overboard? Would so. But it’s down deep ’nough now in de water, for de cabin’s chock full. Don’t ebber ’member bein so ’sturbed before in all my cookin ’sperience; an watebbers goin to be de suit ob it all’s more’n I can tell. Beats all; an dese yer chilen’s all boun to catch deir deff ob cold.”
At this Solomon raised his head, and looked at each one of the boys in succession. He saw them all wet to the skin, with the water dripping from their clothes, and their hands clutching fast the rigging. It was a painful sight, too painful: he turned away his face, and drops of brine ran down his face which did not come from the sea.
Suddenly a thunderous sound arose, which made every one look in terror towards the place from which it came. It was forward. In an instant they saw it all. Several great waves had fallen there in swift succession, striking amidships full upon a round-house which stood there, and was used for the reception of deck cargoes. The force of these blows was resistless; the structure yielded with a crash, and gave way utterly. For a moment it was brought up against the ship’s bulwarks, but the waters poured in underneath, floated it far upward, and tumbled it over into the sea. There it floated at the mercy of the waves, farther and farther away, while the raging billows, like hungry wolves, 茅ncompassed it on every side.
The boys had already felt sufficiently awed by the scene around to be. hushed into silence, but about this last event there was something so appalling that they all uttered an involuntary cry, and clung more closely to the rigging, each one looking at his neighbor with a face of despair. For the only thought now present to each one was, that the ship was breaking up, and that utter ruin and destruction was imminent. The crash of the wave, as it struck the massive structure and tore it away, was so tremendous that the boys might well have dreaded the worst; and the sight of it now, as it tossed and tumbled in the boiling floods, had in it something so terribly suggestive of their own fate, that they shuddered and turned their eyes away.
But suddenly Solomon’s voice broke the silence.
“Dar,” said he; “dar’s how I knowed it was goin for to be. I bet high on de cook’s galley. Dem dar round-houses only built for show; dey got no rail strenf. Now de cook’s galley down dar ain’t goin to gib way dat fashium; she’s boun to stan, jes like de rock ob Gibberalter, an de stove too,—dat’s so.”
There was something in Solomon’s tone which was so cool and matter-of-fact that the others felt a little reassured, and recovered a little of their former coolness. They saw that the ship was still holding together, and as the waves rolled back, they saw the smooth firm deck where the roundhouse had stood, and learned from this that the round-house did not constitute a portion of the ship, but was merely an erection on that deck, and therefore to some extent a movable.
But Solomon’s confidence in the cook’s galley was by no means warranted by facts. Thus far it had been protected to some extent from the sweep of the waves by the round-house, and the loss of this barrier left it all exposed to the full fury of the waters. For some time it bore up gallantly, and as each wave rolled over it, Solomon cheered exultantly, to see it come forth erect from the rolling torrents. At length, however, Solomon’s exultant cries grew fainter, and finally ceased altogether. For the galley was shaking, and quivering, and yielding. At length one side started, and was beaten out; the rest soon followed, until all was crushed to fragments, and its separate portion hurled out upon the angry sea.
“Anyhow,” said Solomon, “dat ar galley held out pooty tough, mind I tell you; an dar’s de stove yet, as large as life, an it’s goin to take a good many waves afore they’ll be able to start her. Yes, dat ar stove’s goin to hold on, mind I tell you; an I’se a goin to bile a kittle ob water on her yet, you see. Will so.”
Whether Solomon really meant what he said, is an open question. He may have really believed it all, or, as is most probable, he may have expressed himself in this way merely for the purpose of giving courage and confidence to the boys, and preventing them from sinking into despair. Certain it is that his words had this effect; and seeing that the loss of the round-house and galley had made no material difference in the ship herself, they clung to hope, and tried to believe that the stout hull, with its firm cargo, would ride out the storm.
But by this time the sun had set; and now, in addition to their other troubles, there was added the dismal prospect of the coming night. Dark, indeed, would that night be to all of them. Fearful enough was their position already; but when, in addition to this, they would find the light of day cut off, and the horror of great darkness all around, what support could they find for their sinking souls, or what hope of escape? Already the land was fading out of sight, lost in the gathering shadows of evening. By the dim twilight they could see that they had drawn much nearer, and their distance seemed now but a few miles. Thus far they had regarded the land only with pleasure; now, however, as the night came down, and the darkness deepened, and the storm increased, they began to experience other feelings with regard to this dreary shore. That it was rocky and forbidding they had already seen, nor had they hitherto been able to detect any part of the coast here which was at all inviting or favorable to a landing. If in such a storm the ship should be driven upon such a shore, what could save her from being shattered to pieces? If in such a darkness they were driven upon those rocks, what could save them from destruction? Yet towards that unknown shore they were every moment drawing nearer, and wind and tide seemed alike to urge them onward towards it.
It was not yet dark, when suddenly a giant wave rose high from underneath the stern, and hung suspended over the quarter-deck. It was the counterpart of that wave which had struck them an hour before. For a few moments it hung, poised and quivering, and then it fell, in thunder, down. It poured all over the barrels of biscuit that were lashed to the mizzen-mast, it swept down through the skylight into the cabin, it rolled in a flood over the deck, and rushed forward, pouring down, and blending its waters with those that boiled and foamed amidships.
The ship now seemed unable to rise. She seemed to have sunk into some vortex, and being without anything like buoyancy, the waters held her fast. Wave after wave rolled in, and poured over the quarter-deck. The whole ship, from stem to stern, seemed to be one mass of foam. The hull was lost to sight. They seemed supported by masts that rose out of the sea. Destruction appeared close at hand. Clinging to the rigging with death-like tenacity, they could only murmur their prayers of despair to that mighty unseen Being who holds the waters in the hollow of his hand.
At length, shuddering, and groaning, and trembling in every fibre, like some living thing, the ship struggled up out of the mass of waters, and freed herself for a time. The boys could see the quarter-deck. They could see the barrels lashed to the mizzen-mast still secure. They breathed more freely. It seemed as though they had received a reprieve,—as though their despairing cries had been heard and answered.
“Boys,” said Bruce, “we can’t hang here all night. We’ll fall off. Lets go up higher. There’s room for all of us, I think, in the mizzen-top. Come.”
With these words he started upward. The rest followed. Solomon went up last. They all reached the mizzen-top in safety, and, on reaching it, found that it was spacious enough to afford room for them all.
Here Pat proceeded to possess himself of a line which ran through a block close by, after which he began to tie himself to the mast.
“What are you up to, Pat?” asked Bart, in some wonder.
“Sure it’s tying meself to the mast, I am, so it is.”
“Tying yourself to the mast?” repeated Bart, in amazement. “What in the world is that for?”
“What is it for?” said Pat. “Sure and what else is it that people always do in shipwrecks? It’s the reg’lar thing, so it is.”
“Well, for my part,” said Bart, “I’d rather have my hands free. If this mast should go over, I’d rather not be fastened to it as tight as that. You’d better not.”
“Sure an won’t I float ashore on it without any trouble?”
“Yes; only the trouble may be to keep your head above water. Don’t do it, Pat.”
But Pat was deaf to argument. Slowly, but pertinaciously and securely, he wound the rope round and round the mast, binding himself to it tighter at every turn.
“Ye’d best follow my lade,” said Pat. “There’s enough left in this bit of a line to tie ye’s all fast and firrum, so there is.”
But the others refused. They preferred liberty of action, and did not like the idea of swathing themselves up like mummies. They wished to be able occasionally, if possible, to lie down, or sit down, and not remain all night on their feet.
Thus there they stood in the mizzen-top. And the night came down, and the darkness gathered deeper and deeper around them. And the storm rose to its height, and night, and storm, and darkness, in all their terrific power, environed them as they stood in their giddy perch.
Night, and Storm, and Darkness.—The giddy Perch.—The trembling Ship.—The quivering Masts.—A Time of Terror.—Silence and Despair.—A Ray of Hope.—Subsidence of Wind ami Wave.—Descent of the Boys.—Sufferings of Pat.—In the Mizzen-top.—Vigil of Bart.—The Sound of the Surf.—The Rift in the Cloud.—Land near.—The white Line of Breakers.—The black Face of Solomon.—All explained.—The Boat and the Oars.—The friendly Cove.—Land at last.
NIGHT, and storm, and darkness! There, in their giddy perch in the mizzen-top, stood that despairing little band. Gradually all the scene was lost to view in thick darkness. But beneath, the ship tossed and pitched wildly, groaning and creaking as before, and the big waves beat in fury on her bows, or fell in thunder on her quarter-deck. Looking down, they saw the phosphorescent gleam of the boiling waters, which made all the extent of the ship luminous with a baleful lustre, and wide over the seas extended the same glow. Well it was for them that they had sought this place of retreat, or rather that this place of retreat had been left open to them, for clinging to the rigging would have exhausted their strength, and through those long hours more than one might have fallen into the sea. But as it was they could have something like rest, and, by changing their positions, find relief for their wearied frames.
Yet this place had its own terrors, which were fully equal to any others. The wind howled fearfully through the rigging, and as the ship pitched and tossed, the mast strained and quivered in unison. Often and often it seemed to them that the strained mast would suddenly snap and go over the side, or, if not, that in its violent jerks it might hurl them all over to destruction. More than once they thought of guarding against this last danger by following Pat’s example, and binding themselves to the rigging; but they were deterred from this by the fear of the mast falling, in which case they, too, would be helpless. Fortunate it was for them that there were no sails. These had long since been rent away; but had they been here now, or had the wind taken any stronger hold of the masts, they must have gone by the board.
Often and often, as some larger wave than usual struck the ship, the feeling came that all was over, and that now, at last, her break-up was beginning; often and often, as she sank far down, and the waters rolled over her quarter, and held her there, the fear came to them that at last her hour had come—that she was sinking; and with this fear they looked down, expecting to see the waters rise to where they were standing. And then, in every one of these moments of deadly fear, they raised, as before, their cries to Him who is able to save.
So passed away hour after hour, until the duration of time seemed endless, and it was to all of them as though they had spent days in their place of peril, instead of hours only.
At length they became sensible of a diminution in the power of the wind. At first they hardly dared to believe it, but after a time it became fully evident that such was the case. The cessation of the wind at once relieved the ship very materially, though the sea was still high, and the waters below relaxed but little from their rage. But the cessation of the wind filled them all with hope, and they now awaited, with something like firmness, the subsidence of the waves.
That subsidence did come, and was gradually evident. It was slow, yet it was perceptible. They first became aware that those giant waves no longer fell in thunder upon the quarter-deck, and that the ship no longer seemed to be dragged down into those deep, watery abysses into which they had formerly seemed to be descending.
“There’s no mistake about it, boys,” said Bruce at length, in tones that were tremulous with fervent joy; “the storm is going down.”
This was the first word that had been spoken for hours, and the sound of these spoken words itself brought joy to all hearts. The spell was broken. The horror vanished utterly from their souls.
“Yes,” cried Bart, in tones as tremulous as those of Bruce, and from the same cause,—“yes, the worst is over!”
“I don’t mind this pitching,” said Tom; “it seems familiar. I think to-night has been equal to my night in the Bay of Fundy—only it hasn’t been so long, and it’s seemed better to have you fellows with me than being alone.”
“I had a hard time in the woods,” said Phil, “but this has been quite equal to it.”
“Pat,” said Arthur, “you’ve been doing the mummy long enough. You’d better untie now, and lie down.”
“Sure an it’s meself that’ll be the proud lad to do that same,” said Pat, “for it’s fairly achin I am all over, so it is.”
With these words Pat tried to unbind himself. But this was not so easy. He had been leaning his whole weight against the ropes, and his hands were quite numb. The other boys had to help him. This was a work of some difficulty, but it was accomplished at last, and poor Pat sank down groaning, and he never ceased to sigh and groan till morning.
Several hours now passed. The sea subsided steadily, until at length its motion was comparatively trifling, not more than enough to cause a perpendicular pitch to the ship of a few feet, and to send a few waves occasionally over the deck. Wearied and worn out, the boys determined to descend to the quarter-deck, so as to lie down. Pat was unable to make the descent; so Bart remained with him, and curled himself up alongside of him on the mizzen-top. The other boys went down, and Solomon also.
Everything there was wet, but as the boys also were saturated, it made but little difference. They flung themselves down anywhere, and soon were fast asleep.
But in the main-top Pat was groaning in his pain. The blood was rushing back into his benumbed limbs, and causing exquisite suffering. Bart tried to soothe him, and rubbed and chafed his arms and hands and feet and legs for hours.
At last Pat grew easier, though still suffering somewhat from pricking sensations in his arms and legs, and Bart was allowed to rest from his labors.
And now, as Bart leaned back, he became aware of a very peculiar sound, which excited all his attention.
It was a droning sound, with a deep, swelling cadence, and not long in duration; but it rose, and pealed forth, and died away, to be followed by other sounds precisely similar—regular, recurrent, and sounding all abroad. It was nothing like the roar of the waves, nor the singing of the wind through the rigging; it was something different from these, yet in this darkness, and to this listener, not less terrible.
Bart knew it. The sound was familiar to his ears. There was only one sound in Nature of that character, nor could it be imitated by any other. It was the long sound of the surf falling upon the shore.
The surf!
What did that mean?
It meant that land was near. And what land?
There was only one land that this could tell of—it was that land which they had been approaching for days; the land which they had watched so closely all the previous day, and to which at evening they had been drawn so near. The name of the land he could not know, but he had seen it, and he remembered its drear and desolate aspect, its iron-bound shores, its desert forests. It was upon this shore that the surf was beating which now he heard, and the loudness of that sound told him how near it must be.
It seemed to him that it could not be more than half a mile away at the farthest.
And the ship was drifting on!
This first discovery was a renewal of his despair. He could only find comfort in the thought that the sea had subsided so greatly. What ought he now to do?
Ought he to awake the boys and tell them? He hesitated.
Pat had by this time fallen asleep, worn out with weariness and pain. Bart had not the heart to wake him just yet.
Suddenly there was an opening in the sky overhead, and through a rift in the clouds the moon beamed forth. Bart started up and looked all around. The morn disclosed the scene.
The sea had grown much calmer, and the waves that now tossed about their spray over its surface were as nothing compared to those which had beat upon the ship during the night. This was probably due, as Bart thought, to the shelter of some headland which acted as a breakwater. For as he looked he saw the land now full before him. He had conjectured rightly from the sound of the surf, and he now saw that this land could not be much more than a half mile away.
This confirmation of his worst fears overcame him. He started to his feet, and stood clinging to the rigging, and looking at the land.
How near! how fearfully near! And every moment was drawing the ship nearer. And what sort of a shore was that? Was it all rocky, or was it smooth sand? The waves were high enough there to create a tremendous surf. Did that surf fall on breakers, or did it fall on some gentle beach? This he could not tell. In vain he strained his eyes. He could see the white line of foaming surf, and beyond this the dark hills, or cliffs, but more than this he could make out nothing definite. But the shore was so near that their fate could not be very long delayed, and he determined to wake the boys at once, leaving Pat to sleep a little longer.
With this intention he prepared to descend. But scarce had he put one foot over, when he saw a shadowy figure close by.
“Mas’r Bart,” said a voice.
It was Solomon.
“I see you a movin about, an I jes thought I’d come up to see how you was a gittin along,” said Solomon.
“Did you see the land?” asked Bart, in agitated tones.
“De lan! Sartin sure—seen it dese four hours. Ben a watchin it ebber so long.”
“What! Why didn’t you wake us before?”
“Wake you? Not me. What de use ob dat ar? I ben kine o’ watchin, an kine o’ canterin round all de time, seein dat de tings are all straight; an I got de galley stove in prime order, an if youns don’t get de bes breakfas you ebber eat, den I’m a useless ole nigga. Sho, now; go away. Leab tings to me, I tell you.”
“Breakfast!” cried Bart, in amazement. “Why, we’ll drift ashore in a few minutes. Don’t you see how near we are? What shall we do? Is the boat gone?”
Solomon put his head back for a few minutes, and chuckled to himself in a kind of ecstasy.
“De boat? O, yes, de boat’s all right. Held on tight as a drum—de boat an de galley stove.”
“O, then,” said Bart, “come, let’s wake the boys, and get her out at once. It isn’t too rough for her here. We must get some pieces of wood for paddles.”
“O, dere’s lashins ob time; neber you mind,” said Solomon. “You jes lie down an finish your nap, an leab de res to me.”
“But we’re drifting ashore. In a quarter of an hour we’ll be among the breakers.”
“O, no, Mas’r Bart; not in a good many quarter ob an hours.”
“But the shore’s only half a mile away.”
“I know it,” said Solomon; “an it’s ben jes dat, ar distums off for de las four hour an more.”
“What!”
“Dat’s so. I ben a watchin. Hadn’t I tole you dat ar?”
“But the ship’s afloat. She isn’t aground. She must be drifting in.”
“Dat ar conclusium don’t foller as a nessary suc-cumstance,” said Solomon, with dignity.
“Why, what prevents her from drifting?” asked Bart, in a puzzle..
“De simplest ting in de world,” said Solomon—“her anchor.”
“Her anchor! O,” cried Bart, as a flood of light burst in upon his mind, and dispelled all the darkness of his despair; “her anchor! O, I begin to understand.”
“Tell you what,” said Solomon; “when I fust heard dat ar surf I was in a quandary, mind I tell you. Gib all up. Was jes about to rouse youns. But fust an foremost I went to see about de boat. Found dat all right an tight. Den I got a belayum pin an tored off some strips ob wood for paddles. Den I waited to see how we was a goin. Well, arter waitin for ebber so long, de surf didn’t get any nearer. Tell you what; dat ar succumstance puzzled dis old nigga’s head considdable. Sudden a idee popped into me. I ran forad, an sure enough I found de ship’s head off from de sho, an felt de anchor chain standin out stiff. Den I knew de anchor had caught, and had fetched her up all right in dis yer identicull place an po—sitium; an so, Mas’r Bart, here we air, anchored hard an fast, de boat all right an tight, de paddles ready, de galley stove ready too, an de prospek afore all ob us ob a fus’-rate breakfas to ward us for all de per’ls an clamties ob de night.”
Some further inquiries followed from Bart, which served to assure him still more of Solomon’s vigilance; and the result was, that after a time he resumed his place beside Pat in the mizzen-top, and, curling himself up, was soon sound asleep. It was not a very luxurious sleeping-place, but it was at least as soft as the deck below, where the boys had flung themselves, and it was also a trifle dryer.
When Bart awoke it was broad day. Pat was gone. He had awaked, and, finding himself all right again, and seeing the land close by, he had descended to the deck to talk to Solomon. For his first thought had been a very natural one, namely, that the ship was going ashore; and seeing Solomon placidly moving about below, he had gone down to find out what it all meant. Of course his fears were soon dispelled.
The rest of the boys waked at about the same time that Bart did, and he soon rejoined them below. The smell of broiled ham was wafted over the ship. Great was the wonder of Bruce, Arthur, Tom, and Phil at their present situation, and even greater was their wonder at seeing the repast which Solomon had already spread out upon the quarter-deck.
For Solomon had been working like a beaver.
He had forced open the cabin door, and let out all the water. He had then obtained some coal, which, though wet, burned merrily in the galley stove, and had found the cooking utensils, which he had fortunately conveyed to the cabin when he had first been driven from the galley.
The biscuit were, of course, soaked and saturated with salt water; but Solomon declared that they were made to be soaked before cooking, and that the salt water was “jes as good as fresh—ebry mite.” So he fried these in butter, and sprinkled over them some pepper, which was in the sea-chest, and which, with all the other contents of the chest, had not been injured. Ham, and toasted cheese, and potted meats, and tea and coffee, together with other articles too numerous to mention, formed the breakfast; and it is scarce necessary to say that the boys did full justice to it.
After breakfast they began to consider what next they should do. The land was close by, about half a mile away. The line of coast extended far away towards the left, but on the right it ended in a headland. The sea was very quiet, but on the shore before them there was a heavy surf, the result of the past storm. They saw farther away to the left a smooth beach, where a landing might be easily effected, and another place towards the right where there was very little surf. This last seemed the best place for attempting a landing.
The shore was not very attractive. In some places rocky cliffs arose, crowned at the summit with spruce and birch; in other places there were slopes covered with the same sort of trees. There was no sign whatever of any house, or of any cultivation, or of any pasture land, or of any clearing. The forest seemed unbroken.
The boys were now as ignorant of the country as they had been when they first saw it. Each still held the same opinion which he had announced before.
Phil thought that it was Newfoundland.
Tom, that it was Prince Edward’s Island.
Bart, that it was some part of Nova Scotia, or Cape Breton.
Pat, that it was the Magdalen Islands.
Bruce, that it was the coast of New Brunswick, somewhere near the Miramichi.
And Arthur, that it was Gasp茅, not far from the Bay de Chaleur.
Thus, although this particular spot seemed desolate enough, no one gave any thought to that, for they all supposed that inhabitants could be found within no very great distance. .
After some deliberation, it was at length concluded to go ashore. The strips of wood which Solomon had already, with wise forethought, procured, were easily shaped into very respectable paddles by means of a hatchet and a knife.
They then determined to secure themselves from want while ashore, and this they did by putting into the boat one of the barrels of biscuit and the chest of provisions.
Then they all embarked and pulled away. They paddled along without difficulty towards the beach on the right, where the surf seemed less. On approaching this, they found a cove formed by a gully among the hills, and at one end there were grassy banks, near which a stream of fresh water flowed into the sea.
Here they landed.
The Lookout over the Sea.—The missing Ship.—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—An elaborate Calculation.—Dragging the Anchor.—A Chart on the Cabin Table.—Writ in Water.—Hope.—The Antelope sails ‘North by East.—Corbet watches the Horizon.—Midday.—Despair.—Corbet crushed!
Captain Corbet had arrived at the place where he supposed he had left the Petrel, and on looking about saw no signs of her, he was filled with despair. The wind had been blowing all night long, and the sea had been rising to an extent that might have justified the deepest anxiety; he had been upheld only by the thought that he was bringing relief to the boys; and this solitary consolation was taken from him by the first glance that he cast around.
This was the fifth day since he had left them. He had gone, proposing and expecting to be back in two days, or in three at farthest. But he had gone much farther than he had at first intended, and hence had left them longer than he had said.
And where were they now?
In vain he strained his eyes. The only sail on the water was that schooner: possibly some fisherman cruising about in this direction.
Where were the boys?
Where were the boys that had been committed to his care,—the boys who had been intrusted to him,—the boys who had confided in him,—the boys who had placed their young lives in his keeping?
Where were the boys?
Where were the boys whom he had left; whom he had promised to return for so promptly?
He had led them into difficulty, and left them there!
He had led them into starvation—that was his first fault. How they had suffered during those days of calm! He had led them to that waterlogged vessel! He had gone on board with them; he had caused them to put a confidence in that wrecked ship which was not justifiable.
Worst of all, he had left them!
And now that he thought of it, what was that ship? She might have been not water-logged—but sinking! The thought filled him with horror. A sinking ship! and he had left them there!
No; she was not a sinking ship—he knew that.
He remembered the length of time that he had seen her from a distance. He recalled the time he had been on board, and all the observations which he had made. Water-logged she certainly was, but not sinking—no, not sinking. Timber ships never sink. They cannot sink. A timber ship is like a solid wooden ship low down in the water, but absolutely unsinkable.
This thought brought some consolation to him in his despair.
But as he looked out over the sea, as he saw the swelling waves, as he felt the Antelope toss, and leap, and plunge about, and as he recalled the long night that had passed, with its storms and billows, he trembled for the boys in the water-logged ship.
And again the old question came back,—
Where were the boys?
Where were the boys whom he had left in the water-logged ship? He himself had anchored that ship in these waters, hard and fast; but now, as he looked about far over the seas, he saw no sign of any ship, or of any floating thing save that distant fishing schooner. What did this mean?
Again and again he asked this question, and again and again he shrank back from the answer that suggested itself.
He tried to console himself by thinking of the buoyancy of wood in general, and of timber ships in particular. Alas! these efforts were all in vain. For he remembered how rough the sea had been; and he saw all around him even now the swelling waves. That ship had already been torn and shattered by storms. That ship had been forsaken by captain and crew. They had believed that she was about to founder. Was this belief, then, so far wrong as he had supposed? She was like a raft, torn and dislocated, which any fresh movement of the water might shatter to pieces. Perhaps in the storm that had fallen upon her in his absence the waves had wrought their will upon her. Perhaps they had torn her to pieces in their wrath, and scattered all her timbers afar over the surface of the deep. Perhaps the only vestige of the Petrel which his eyes might ever see, might be some floating timbers drifting past, and bearing to him the only message which could ever come to the land of the living from the lost boys.
Where were the boys?
Where, O, where were the boys whom he had led into danger, and then madly deserted?—doubly deserted, in fact; first, when he sailed away, leaving them on board the wrecked ship, and secondly, in that worse desertion, when he had gone away so thoughtlessly, so wickedly, and so madly, from the Magdalen Islands to the Miramichi River? How could he have ever thought of it? What could have so infatuated him as to lead him so far away from those helpless boys in their desperate position?
Where were the boys?
O, where were the boys? And what had they thought of him? What misery had they not suffered! What despair! How often must they have watched for his return! And day had succeeded to day, and night to night, but he had never come! While they were watching for his appearance, he was calmly sailing away, or was loitering in distant ports, leaving them to their terrific fate!
Where were the boys?
What was their fate?
What had become of that ship?
She had been anchored fast. She was gone now. Gone! Gone were those boys, for whom he would have laid down his life; but whom, nevertheless, he had deserted and betrayed. And he—what could he do? Where could he go? Where could he search for them? Over what seas could he sail? With what hope? Was there any hope? Hope! Alas! what hope could he form when he looked out over these foaming waves, and felt the Antelope quiver beneath the force of their assault?
These, or something very much like these, were the thoughts that filled the soul of the unhappy, the despairing Corbet, as he rolled his venerable eyes over the wide waste of waters, and saw that the Petrel was gone. It was a moment full of deeper misery and keener anguish than any which the good captain had ever known in the whole course of his life, though that life had by no means been without its sufferings. Yet among all the sufferings and sorrows of a life full of vicissitudes, it had never fallen to his lot to experience such a misfortune as this,—to reproach himself so keenly, so severely, and yet so justly. Whatever the fate of the boys might have been, he knew perfectly well that he, and he alone, was the cause; nor could he plead, even to his own conscience, the excuse that his motives were right. For his motives were not right, and he knew it. His motives had been nothing better than wild desires for sudden wealth. True, he had only wished that wealth for his “babby;” but that did not in the least mitigate his offence. At the very least, he had been guilty of carelessness so gross that it was hardly inferior to downright, deliberate crime.
So the poor captain’s anguish of soul was extreme, and utter, as well it might be. So keen, indeed, was his suffering, that his hair might have turned white from its severity,—a circumstance not unusual,—but in the captain’s case it was not possible, since, as is well known, his hair was already as gray as it well could be, and therefore the good Captain Corbet could only suffer in secret, and occasionally wipe away the tears that dropped from his eyes with the sleeve of his venerable coat.
At length the thought occurred to him that perhaps he had not come to the right place.
To his mind, the thought was well nigh inconceivable; yet, after all, it was barely possible, and in his despair he caught at this straw. After all, navigation by dead reckoning is not the most accurate way in the world of working one’s way along; and Captain Corbet felt this in an obscure and shadowy sort of way; so it need not be wondered at if he sought relief in the thought that he had possibly gone astray.
So he called upon Wade to take the helm, while he went below to make some elaborate calculations.
He did it in this way.
He first got a mug of water.
Then he seated himself by the cabin table.
Then he dipped the fore finger of his right hand in the water.
Then, with this finger, he traced certain mysterious marks upon the table.
Now, these mysterious marks were designed by this ancient mariner to represent nothing less than the coasts surrounding the Gulf of St. Lawrence. To an unprejudiced observer, this idea would never have suggested itself; but to the mind of the venerable Corbet, these marks were as plain and as intelligible as the finest outlines of the Admiralty charts engraved in steel, and bristling with names of places. In his mind’s eye he could see everything. He could see Prince Edward’s Island, Cape Breton, Newfoundland, Gasp茅, the Bay de Chaleur, Miramichi, and the Magdalen Islands. There, too, full and fair, in the centre of the scene, a big wet spot, made most emphatically with his thumb, showed him the spot where he had left the Petrel.
And this was Captain Corbet’s chart, and this was his mode of navigating, and this was the scientific method which he adopted in order to work his way out of a difficulty. Quadrant, sextant, and other instruments of that character he did not need; he trusted to his own head, and to his finger.
It must be confessed that, on this occasion, these resources rather failed him. The puzzle seemed insoluble. In vain he obliterated the wet spot where he first stationed the Petrel. In vain he made another dab with his thumb in a second place. He could not arrive at any conclusion which was entirely satisfactory. He placed the mug of water on the table, leaned his aged head in both hands, and sat watching his chart in profound thought. A sudden sea struck the Antelope. The good vessel leaped, as was natural, at such rough treatment. As was natural, also, the mug of water leaped. Moreover, it upset. The contents poured forth, and inundated the fable. The chart was all obliterated.
At this casualty Captain Corbet rose. He betrayed no excitement, no passion. He did not swear, as some wrecked sea captains have done. He did not even utter an exclamation. He simply took his aged coat tail and wiped the water off the table very carefully, and then with his other aged coat tail he dried it, and even polished it most elaborately. The table had not been so clean for ever so long. It seemed to be astonished at itself. Captain Corbet, meanwhile, remained mild and patient. Sir Isaac Newton himself, after the burning of his Principia by his immortal little dog Diamond, was not more placid. Without a word, our captain went to the bucket, replenished the mug, returned to the table, resumed his seat, and, holding the mug in his left hand, under the table, to prevent a recurrence of this mishap, he dipped the fore finger of his right hand into the water, and proceeded to retrace upon the table the outline of his chart. In a little while there appeared before his eyes, as plain as before, the Gulf of St. Lawrence, with all the surrounding coasts—Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Gasp茅, Newfoundland, the Magdalen Islands, and plain in the middle the dab of his venerable thumb representing the spot where he had left the Petrel.
But the problem remained insoluble. He was certain that he had come back to the right spot. Again and again he traced, in a thin line, made by his wet finger-nail, the course which he had taken; first, from the Petrel to the Magdalen Islands, and, secondly, from the Magdalen Islands to Miramichi, and, thirdly, from Miramichi to the place where he now was. In each case his course had, fortunately, been quite straight. Had there been head winds, it might have been different; but, as it was, the straight course which he had kept made the outlines on the table all the more simple, but at the same time they made the problem all the more complex. The ship was missing. He had left her at anchor. She could not sink. What, then, had become of her?
The first answer was the terrible one that she had gone to pieces in the storm. But this was the very one from which he was seeking to escape, and against which he sought refuge in such facts as her strength and the stiffness of a timber cargo.
But what other conclusion was there?
That he had mistaken his way?
Impossible!
On the table before him the marks that he had made confirmed him in the opinion that he was, if not on the identical spot where he had left the Petrel, at least sufficiently near to be able to see her if she still was here.
Yet here she evidently was not.
What, then, had become of her?
To this only one answer remained, and in this he sought to find comfort.
She might have dragged her anchor, and might have thereby drifted, under the pressure of the storm, far enough away to be out of sight.
But in what direction had she drifted?
The wind had been south by east. He knew that well enough. This one fact, then, showed him what course she would have taken when adrift. .
He wet his finger now for the last time. He planted it down upon the place which he had marked as the position of the Petrel, and then drew a line in the direction which he supposed might indicate the course of her drift. Then he stopped to calculate the possible distance which she might have traversed while dragging her anchor, and made a mark to represent what, under this theory, might be her present position.
Then he drew a long breath.
He then rose to his feet, and surveyed his chart for a few moments with a thoughtful face.
And now the time had come for action. He had at last a theory. His mind was made up. He hurried upon deck, and, seizing the tiller, headed the Antelope north by west, in the direction which he conjectured the drifting ship to have taken.
He had allowed between twenty and thirty miles for her drift. He had calculated that a mile an hour would be a fair allowance for a vessel that was dragging her anchor, and he did not think that the wind had been strong enough to make her drag her anchor for more than twenty hours, and certainly, as he thought, not more than thirty, at the farthest. Upon this principle he acted, and when he headed the Antelope north by west, he hoped to catch sight of the lost ship before noon.
For the Antelope, with a fair wind, could make as much as four or five miles an hour; and, after making every allowance for currents, or for leeway, she ought to do twenty miles between six o’clock in the morning and midday. And so, full of confidence in the ability of the Antelope to do her duty, Captain Corbet took his station at the helm.
Now that a gleam of hope had appeared, he was a different man. The gleam became brighter and brighter, until at last it grew to be positive sunshine. He forgot his recent despair. The more he thought of his theory of the Petrel dragging her anchor, the more convinced he was that it was correct, and the more certain he was that he would ultimately catch sight of her.
And so he kept on his course, with his eyes fixed on the horizon before him, anxiously awaiting the time when he would descry the masts of the lost vessel becoming gradually defined against the sky.
Hour after hour passed.
The Antelope sailed on.
Midday came.
The Antelope had traversed the distance which her commander had allotted for the utmost possible drift of the Petrel.
Yet not the slightest sign of the Petrel had appeared.
The hopes upon which Captain Corbet had been relying gradually sank under him. When midday came, and the masts of the Petrel did not appear, hope sank away, and despondency came, and despondency deepened into despair.
All that he had felt at early dawn, when he first looked abroad upon the seas and found her not, now came back to him,—all the self-reproach, all the remorse, all the anguish of soul.
He stood at the helm, and let the Antelope pass onward, but there was no longer any hope in his mind. He was overwhelmed, and now even the possibility of finding her seemed to be taken away.
All this time the wind had gone on increasing in violence, and the sea had risen more and more. For himself and for the Antelope Captain Corbet did not care; but the lowery sky and the stormy sea seemed terrible to him, for they spoke to him of the lost boys, and told a tale of horror.
The venerable but very unfortunate, Corbet—The Antelope lies to.—Emotions of her despairing Commander.—Night and Morning.—The Fishing Schooner,—An old Acquaintance appears, and puts the old, old Question.—Corbet overwhelmed.—He confesses all.—Tremendous Effect on Captain Tobias Ferguson.—His Selfcommand.—Considering the Situation.—Wind and Tide.—Theories as to the Position of the lost Ones.—Up Sail and after.—The last Charge to Captain Corbet.
THE unfortunate Corbet thus found himself in a state of despair. The situation, indeed; could not possibly be worse. The ship was gone; and where? Who could tell? Certainly not he. He had exhausted all his resources. From the cabin table he was unable to elicit any further information, nor could his aged brain furnish forth intellectual power which was at all adequate to the problem before it. He was alone. He had none to help him. With Wade he did not offer to take counsel, feeling, perhaps, that Wade would be about as useful in this emergency as the Antelope’s pump.
Meanwhile the storm increased, and Captain Corbet felt himself unable to contend with it. The tattered old sails of the Antelope were double-reefed, but seemed every moment about to fly into ribbons. There was no object in keeping his present course any longer; and so he decided, in view of the storm and his own indecision, to lie to. And now the Antelope tossed, and pitched, and kicked, and bounded beneath Captain Corbet,
"like a steed That knows its rider,” and Wade went below, and took refuge in sleep; and the good, the brave, yet the unhappy Corbet took up his position upon the windlass, and bestriding it, he sat for hours peering into space. There were no thoughts whatever in his mind. He tried not to speculate, he attempted not to solve the problem; but there was, deep down in his soul, a dark, drear sense of desolation, a woful feeling of remorse and of despair. Nothing attracted his attention on that wide sea or troubled sky; not the waste of foaming waters, not the giant masses of storm clouds, nor yet that fishing schooner, which, only a few miles off was also, like the Antelope, lying to. Captain Corbet did not notice this stranger; he did not speculate upon the cause of her presence; he did not see that she was the identical vessel that he had noticed before, and therefore did not wonder why it was that he had been followed so long and so persistently. So he sat on the windlass, and gazed forth into illimitable space. And the long, long hours passed away. Evening came. Deepening into night. Night, and storm, and darkness came down, and the Antelope tossed, and plunged, and kicked, and jumped; yet the sleepless Corbet remained on deck, occasionally shifting his position, but still overwhelmed by has misery. Towards midnight the storm abated. Corbet waited a few hours longer, and then stole below, hoping to forget his misery and relieve his fatigues by a little sleep. In vain. The air of the cabin seemed to suffocate him. Sleep was impossible. His distressing thoughts seemed to drive him into a fever; he tried hard and for a long time to overcome them, and finally succeeded in getting a short nap. By this time it was dawn, and the good captain rose, and went upon deck, feeling dejected and miserable. He looked out over the waters, and noticed that the strange schooner was bearing down straight towards him. She was coming bows on, so that at first he did not know her from any other vessel; but at length she came up, and hove to close by, disclosing the symmetrical hull, the beautiful lines, the slender, tapering masts, and the swelling, snow-white canvas of the Fawn. At the same moment he saw a boat drop alongside, and into this leaped Captain Tobias Ferguson, who at once pulled to the Antelope, and in a few minutes stood on board. The last time that he had seen Captain Ferguson he had looked upon him in the light of a busybody, a vexatious and too inquisitive spy, a persecutor and a tormentor. But now circumstances had changed so utterly, and Captain Corbet’s sufferings both of mind and body had been so acute, that the once dreaded Ferguson appeared to him almost equal to some Heaven-sent deliverer. His wan face flushed with joy; he could not speak; tears burst from his eyes; and seizing Ferguson’s hand in both of his, he clasped it tight. Ferguson darted over him one swift, keen glance that took in everything, but made no comment upon the emotion that was so visible. “Well,” said he, “we’re bound to meet again. The fact is, I was bound not to lose sight of you. I tell you I got those boys on my brain, and couldn’t get them out no how. I knew you were going to find them, or to try to find them. I believed they were all in danger, and so I up sail and followed. And a precious hard job that following was. Why, it was like making a race-horse follow a snail. I had to turn back every other mile or so, and go away. I saw you lie to yesterday, so I lay to; and here I am this morning, right side up, and ready to repeat my question, Where are the boys? So come, now, old man; no humbug, no shuffling. You’re in a fix. I know it well enough. You’ve lost the boys. Very well. I’ll help you find ’em. So, now, make a clean breast of it, and tell me all about it from the very beginning.” Saying this, Ferguson seated himself on the taffrail, and drawing forth a cigar, lighted it, and waited for Captain Corbet to begin. But for Captain Corbet there was the difficulty. How could he begin? How could he tell the miserable story of his madness and his folly? of the ignorant confidence of the poor boys? of his culpable and guilty negligence, doubly guilty, since he had deserted them not only once in leaving the ship, but a second time in sailing away from the Magdalen Islands? And for what purpose? Even had he reached the ship with the sails, could he really have saved her? Yet here stood his inquisitor, and this time his questions must be answered. “Wal,” began Captain Corbet, in a tremulous voice, “I left em—” “Yes.” “I—I—left—left—em—” “Well?” “I ‘—I—left em, you know.” “So you said three times; but I knew that before. The question is, Where?” “Aboard a ship.” “Aboard a ship?” “Yes.” “What ship? Where? “Somewhar’s about here.” “About here? But what ship?” “She—she—she—was—she—she was—wa-wa-water-logged.” At this Ferguson started to his feet, almost leaping in the air as he did so. For a moment he regarded the unhappy Corbet with an expression of mingled horror and incredulity. “You don’t mean it!” he said, at length. Captain Corbet sighed. “What?” cried Ferguson. “Were you mad? Were they mad? Were you all raving, stark, staring distracted? What were you all thinking of? A water-logged ship! Why, do you mean to stand there in your boots, look me in the face, and tell me that about the boys?” Captain Corbet trembled from head to foot. “A water-logged ship! Why, you might as well tell me you pitched them all overboard and drowned them.” Captain Corbet shuddered, and turned away. Ferguson laid his hand upon his shoulder. “Come,” said he, more quietly, “you couldn’t have been such a fool! You must have considered that the boys had some chance. What sort of a ship was she? What was her cargo?” “Timber,” said the mournful Corbet in a melancholy wail. Ferguson’s face brightened. “You’re sure of that?” “Gospel sure.” “Not deals, now, or laths, or palings, or pickets, or battens, or anything of that sort?” “I saw the timber—white pine.” “Well, that’s better; that gives them a chance. I’ve heard say that a timber ship’ll float for years, if she’s any kind of a ship at all; and so, perhaps, this one is drifting.” Captain Corbet shook his head. “Why not?” asked Ferguson, noticing the movement. “I anchored her.” “Anchored her?” “Yes.” “Anchored what? The timber ship?” “Yes.” “Anchored her? That’s queer! And where?” “Why, somewhars about twenty mile or so back.” “Somewhere about twenty mile or so back!” repeated Ferguson. “Why, the man’s mad! See here, old man; what do you mean by anchoring hereabouts? Did you try soundings?” “Wal, n-n-no.” “Are you aware that the bottom is several miles down below, and that all the chains and ropes of that ship, if they were all tied together in one line, wouldn’t begin to reach half way?” “Wal, now, railly, I hadn’t any idee. I jest kine o’ dropped anchor to hold the ship till I got back.” “Well, old man,” said Ferguson, “I’ve got a very good general idea of your proceedings; but I want a few more particulars, so that I can judge for myself about the poor lads. So I’ll trouble you to make a clean breast of it, and in particular to let me know why you kept so close when I asked you about it before. Close? Why, if you’d been decoying those boys out there on purpose to get rid of them, you couldn’t have fought shyer of my questions than you did.” Upon this Captain Corbet proceeded, as Ferguson called it, to “make a clean breast of it.” He began at the first, told about their failure in provisions, their discovery of the ship, and his project of saving her. He explained all about his reticence on the subject at the Magdalen Islands, and the cause of his voyage to Miramichi. All this was accompanied with frequent interruptions, expressive of self-reproach, exculpation, remorse, misery, and pitiable attempts at excusing his conduct. Ferguson listened to all without expressing any opinion, merely asking a question for information here and there; and at the close of Captain Corbet’s confession, he remained forborne a considerable time buried in profound reflection. “Well,” said he, “the whole story is one that won’t bear criticism. I won’t begin. If I did, you’d hear a little of the tallest swearing that ever came to your ears. No, old man; I’ve got a wicked temper, and I won’t get on that subject. The thing that you and me have got to do is, to see what can be done about those boys, and then to do it right straight off. That’s what we’ve got to do; and when I say we, I mean myself, for you appear to have done about as much mischief as is needful for one lifetime.” Ferguson now began to pace the deck, and kept this up for about half an hour, at the end of which time he resumed his seat on the taffrail. Captain Corbet watched him with wistful eyes, and in deep suspense; yet there was already upon his venerable face somewhat less of grief, for he felt a strange confidence in this eager, energetic, active, strong man, whose pertinacity had been so extraordinary, and whose singular affection for the boys had been so true and so tender. “I’m beginning,” said Ferguson, at length, “I’m beginning to see my way towards action, and that’s something; though whether it’ll result in anything is more than I can begin to say. “In the first place, I go on the theory that this timber ship didn’t sink; that she stood this blow as solid as though she was carved out of a single stick. “In the second place, I scout your idea of anchoring her. That is rank, raving insanity. To anchor a ship in three miles of water! Old man, go home; you have no business on the sea. “So she’s been drifting; yes, drifting. She was drifting when you found her, and drifting when you left her. Where she was you can’t tell, seeing that you can’t take an observation, and didn’t take one. So we’re all astray there, and I can only calculate her probable position from the course you took to the Magdalen Islands, and the time occupied in making the trip by that astonishing old tub of yours, that disgraces and ridicules the respectable name of Antelope. “Very well. Now say she’s afloat, and has been drifting. The question is, Where has she drifted to? She probably was found by you somewhere about here. That was about a week ago. Well, after the calm was over, then came a wind. That wind was a south-easter. It got up at last into a storm, like the blow last night. “Now, there are two things to be considered. “First, the wind. “Second, the current. “First, as to the wind. It was a steady southeaster for nearly a week, ending in a hard blow. That wind has had a tendency to blow her over in that direction—over there, nor’-west. In that direction she must have been steadily pushed, unless there was something to prevent, some ocean currents or other. “And this brings us to the next point—the currents. “Now, over there, about thirty miles south of this, there is a current setting out into the Atlantic from the River St. Lawrence; and up there, thirty miles to the north, there is considerable of a current, that runs up into the Straits of Belle Isle. Just round about here there is a sort of eddy, or a back current, that flows towards the Island of Anticosti. Now, that happens to be the identical place towards which the wind would carry her. So, you see, granting that the Petrel has remained afloat, the wind and the currents must both have acted on her in such a way as to carry her to that desert island, that horrible, howling wilderness, that abomination of desolation, that graveyard of ships and seamen—Anticosti.” At this intelligence, Captain Corbet’s heart once more sank within him. “Anti—Anticosti!” he murmured, in a trembling voice. “Yes, Anticosti. And I ain’t surprised, not a bit surprised,” said Ferguson. “I said so. I prophesied it. I was sure of it. I read it in their faces at Magdalen. When I saw that rotten old tub, and those youngsters, something told me they were going to wind up by getting on Anticosti. When I saw you come back to Magdalen, I was sure of it. I followed you to Miramichi to find out; and ever since I’ve been following you, I’ve had Anticosti in my mind, as the only place I was bound to.” Captain Corbet drew a long breath. “Wal,” said he, “at any rate, it’s better for them than bein—bein—at—at the bottom of the sea.” “’Tain’t any better, if they’ve been smashed against the rocks of Anticosti in last night’s gale,” retorted Ferguson, who was not willing that Captain Corbet should recover from his anxiety too soon. “But mayn’t she—mayn’t she—catch?” “Catch?” “Yes.” “How?” “Why—her—her anchor. It’s been down all the time. That thar anchor had ought to catch hold of somethin.” Ferguson slapped his thighs with both hands with tremendous force. “You’re right! right are you, old man, for once! For the moment, I had forgotten about the anchor. That saves them. That anchor’s bound to catch; for, after all, I don’t think last night’s storm was bad enough to make her drag. At any rate, it gives them a chance, And now—off we go.” With these words, Ferguson jumped into his boat. He turned his head once more. “Old man, mark me—? all you’ve got to do is to follow straight after me.” “But you’ll get away in the night.” “So I will. Well, then, you head straight nothe-west and by nothe. I’ll pick you up some time tomorrow. We’ll cruise along the shore of Anticosti till we find the ship.” With these words, Ferguson seized the oars. A dozen strokes brought him alongside of his own schooner. He leaped on board, and the boat was hauled up astern. In a few moments the Fawn spread her snow-white wings, and headed away “nothe-west and by nothe.” The Antelope followed. Before evening the Fawn was out of sight. But Captain Corbet stood calmly and confidently at the helm, and steered “nothe-west and by nothe.” His despair had subsided, leaving only a mild melancholy that was not unbecoming; but his soul was full of hope, for he had confidence in Ferguson. CHAPTER 19 The Cove.—The grassy Knoll.—The Brook.—A Reconnoitre.—The Bed of the Brook.—Far up into the Country.—A rough Road.—Return.—The Aroma of the strange Dinner.—Solomon again in his Glory.—A great Surprise.—A Resolution.—Drawing of Lots.—The fated Two.—Last Visit to the Petrel.—Final Preparations.—A sound Sleep.—The Embarkation. —The white Sail lost to View.. THE cove into which they pulled seemed to the boys to be the most beautiful place that they had ever seen. Such a thought was natural, after such a passage from the wrecked ship, and from the terrors of the sea to this peaceful and sheltered nook; and, indeed, more unprejudiced observers might have been charmed with such a place. The hills encircled it, covered with trees; the brook babbled over pebbles into the sea; the grassy knoll rose invitingly in front of them; while behind them was the sea, upon which the ship floated low in the water. The boys looked upon this with enthusiastic delight; but Solomon’s face was turned away; he was bowed down low, and staring intently into the water. That water was astonishingly clear and transparent; and Solomon found an attractiveness in the sea bottom which made all other things seem dull and commonplace. He said nothing, however, and the boys were too much taken up with the beauties of the place to notice his attitude. In a few minutes the biscuit and the chest of provisions were put ashore; and Solomon’s first act was to take the former out of the barrel and spread them out over the grass, so that they might dry in the sun. But the boys had other aims. Their first desire was to explore the country; and as they knew well from past experience how easy it was to get lost in the woods, they sought about, first of all, for some sort of a path or trail. Nothing of the kind could be seen. Phil then suggested going up the bed of the brook. His forest experiences had made him far more fruitful in resources than any of them; and the stream occurred to him at once as the readiest way of passing through the impenetrable forest. Accordingly they all set forth by this path. The brook was not very wide, and the trees almost met overhead; the water was only a few inches in depth, chiefly composed of gravel, and occasionally interspersed with larger masses, which offered a succession of stepping-stones. As they went along, they never ceased to look most carefully in all directions for any traces of a path, however faint. The utter absence of anything of the sort excited their surprise, but only led them to continue their journey still farther. The way at length grew more difficult. They came to a rising ground, where the brook had worn a bed for itself. Here the path became rough, and full of mud and clay. Every few steps they came to trees which had fallen across. But they worked their way along bravely, and at length reached the top of the rising ground. Here they found themselves in the forest, with nothing visible on every side but spruce trees of moderate size. They walked on for two or three hours, traversing fallen trees, and rocks, and mud; but at length they came to a place where the brook lost itself in a swampy soil. Here there was a dense and impenetrable underbrush, and no longer even such a pathway as the bed of the brook had afforded. They all saw that it was impossible to proceed any farther, and therefore they concluded to return. Their calculations led them to suppose that they had gone many miles; yet in all that distance they had found no trace whatever of any human beings. They had not come upon even the rudest trail. This fact impressed them all very forcibly. Hitherto, each one had had a different theory as to the country; and no less than five provinces were claimed, in order to support the theory of each. But they all knew that it would be difficult indeed to find a place in any one of those five provinces, where a march could be made for so great a distance, without encountering some signs of humanity, past, if not present. In all of them the woods had been scoured by lumbering parties, or, at least, by hunting parties; and if there were no paths made by lumbermen, there might be found, at least, some trail. Pat, of course, gave up the Magdalen Islands; Bruce gave up Miramichi: Tom, Prince Edward’s Island; and Bart, Cape Breton. There remained, then, the belief of Phil in Newfoundland, and that of Arthur in Gasp茅. Upon these two localities the party divided; and though in the laborious journey back they were too much fatigued to expend their breath in argument, yet, when they did reach their journey’s end, they were all prepared for it. But all argument was postponed for the present by the advent of dinner. It was late when they got back. They had eaten nothing since breakfast. They found Solomon waiting for them most impatiently. He had kindled a fire under a rock, and had taken the trouble to go back to the ship for some pots, kettles, and pans. A pot was even now hanging over the fire, and when they reached the place, there issued from this pot a stream so savory, so aromatic, so odoriferous, and so enticing, that in an instant every other thought vanished from their minds. “O, Solomon,” was the cry, “what is it that you’ve got there?” And they rushed up to the place. But Solomon, brandishing a huge ladle, waved them back with solemn dignity. “You look heah, chilen; don’t you go bodder yer heads bout dis yer; it’s a kine o’ soup dat I ben a concoctin’; an you’ll know when de time comes. Jes now, you’d all bes lie down ober dar, an res yourselves. I ben worritin’ bout you for ten hour an more. You didn’t ought to go for to ’crease de ’ziety ob dis ole man; cos he ain’t able to hole up. But nebber mind; you’re all safe an soun; so now you all jes lay by a few minutes, an I’ll walk dis yer dish off de hook in no time.” The boys respected Solomon’s whim, and fell back. A few dishes, with spoons, were lying on the grass, and towards these they allowed themselves to drift, and then flung their weary frames upon the ground near by. Solomon was true to his word. He did not keep them long waiting. In a short time he took the pot off the fire, and brought it towards them. He then filled each of the dishes in silence. The savory steam rose up; its odor was now unmistakable. Scarce able to believe the evidence of the sense of smell, they hurried to appeal to that of taste. One mouthful was enough. A cry of joy burst from them all, followed by,— “Oysters! Oyster stew! O, glorious! Solomon, where in the world did you find these?” Solomon’s eyes beamed with quiet exultation; he drew a long breath of silent rapture, and gently rubbed his-old hands together. For a few moments his emotions deprived him of the power of utterance; but at length he found voice. “Well, chilen, to tell de troof, I intended it as a great ‘prise, for you. I saw dem dis yer mornin when we landed, and didn’t say nuffin. But dar dey is—dem’s um. De cove is full; nuff heah to feed a ship’s company ten years; an we’s boun to feed on de fat ob de lan so long as we stick to dis yer place. Dat’s so; mind I tell you. Yes, sir.” After such a repast as this, they all felt much more able to grapple with the difficulties of their situation. And now once more arose the question, what land this was upon which they had been thrown. “Of course,” said Arthur, “there’s no use now to talk about the Magdalen Islands, or Prince Edward’s Island, or Cape Breton, or even Miramichi. This coast lies east and west, as we saw while we were drifting towards it. We came from a southeast direction towards it; we can tell now. There’s the west, where the sun is soon going to set, and there’s the south. Now, my idea is, that this must be Gasp茅. Besides, the desolation of the country shows that it must be Gasp茅.” Phil shook his head. “Gasp茅 doesn’t lie east and west,” said he; “and it may just as well be Miramichi as Gasp茅. The fact is, it can’t be either of them. It must be Newfoundland. We’ve drifted up from the south, and have been driven upon these shores. I can’t imagine where it is, but I rather think it may be the south-west corner of the island. If that is right, then settlements ought to be not very far away; only we can’t get to them by land. There’s St. Pierre’s Island east, and there’s the Bay of Islands.” “It’s rather a bad lookout’ for us,” said Tom, “if there isn’t any settlement nearer than St. Pierre or the Bay of Islands. Why, there are hundreds of miles of the roughest coast in the world lying between. We may be on the coast, as you say; somewhere between Cape Ray and Fortune’s Bay; but how we are ever to get to any settlement is a little beyond me.” “There’s the boat,” said Bart. “What can we do with the boat?” said Tom. “We have no oars. I don’t feel inclined to set out on a long journey with paddles like those. They do very well to land a shipwrecked party, but are hardly the things to start off with on a sea voyage. I tried going about with a bit of board once, and didn’t find, that it worked very well.” “O, we can rig up a sail. We can get something on board the Petrel that’ll do—some quilts, or, better yet, some sheets.” “Sheets aren’t big enough,” said Arthur. “Well, we can sew two or three of them together. They’re good, strong sheets, and they’ll do very well for the boat. As for a mast, why, we can find a very good one here in the woods in five minutes.” “But what direction should we take?” “Well, that’s a question that requires a good deal of careful consideration.” “My opinion is,” said Tom, “that it is by far the best to sail east. If we sail west, we could scarce hope to meet with any one till we got to the Bay of Islands; and we’d have to double Cape Bay,—which is altogether too dangerous a thing for a little boat like this. But if we go east, we’ll have more chances of shelter in case of storms, and we’ll be sure to reach some sort of settlement, either St. Pierre or some fishing stations on the main land, or in Fortune’s Bay.” “East, then, is the course,” said Bart. “And now, who of us shall go? We’d better not all go.” “Well, no; I suppose not.” “Of course not,” said Bruce. “The boat isn’t large enough. Two will be plenty. The rest of us can stay here.” “If the boat goes,” said Arthur, “those of us who stay behind won’t be able to go on board the ship.’ Shall we stay aboard or ashore?” “For my part,” said Pat, “I won’t put a fut aboard that ship again as long as I live.” “I’ll stay here, or else go in the boat,” said Phil. “I’m ready to do either.” “I’m quite of Pat’s opinion,” said Arthur. “Well, I’m not anxious to visit the ship again,” said Bart, “not even as a salvor, and I certainly would not stay aboard of her.” “It’s too comfortable here altogether,” said Tom. “And so say I,” said Bruce. “The fact is, boys, we’re all of one mind about the Petrel. Her glory is departed; and after that night in the mizzen-top, we don’t fancy trying any other nights.” “Fortunately,” said Tom, “the wind has changed. It’ll be fair for the boat if she goes east.” “But who are to go?” said Phil. “I think,” said Bruce, “that the best way will be to draw lots. What do you say, boys?” To this proposal they all assented. Bruce thereupon took some bits of grass, and broke them up into different lengths. “Two of these,” said he, “are short; the rest are long. Those who draw the short ones are to go in the boat. Will that do?” “All right.” Upon this Bruce put the pieces of grass in his hat, stirred them about; and then laid the hat in the midst. Each one then shut his eyes and took a piece of grass from the hat. Then they all held them forth. And it was seen that the two shortest pieces had been drawn by Arthur and Tom. Upon this every one of the other boys offered to exchange places with either one of these, and go in his stead. But Arthur and Tom were both firm in their refusal. “What are you going to take with you?” asked Bart. “Well,” said Arthur, “first of all, we’ll need to have a sail. I think we’d better make a raid on the Petrel at once, and hunt up some sheets. Tom and I will go, and you fellows might find a couple of sticks that’ll do for the mast and pole.” “O, by the way,” said Bart, “if you’re going aboard, you’d better bring back some more biscuit. We won’t have enough.” “I’ll go and help you,” said Bruce. “And I too,” said Phil. The boys now pushed off,—Arthur, and Tom, and Bruce, and Phil. In about a quarter of an hour they reached the ship, and boarded her. They noticed now that the change of the wind had caused a corresponding change of position. She had swung round at her anchor, and was very much nearer the headland before spoken of. “It’s my opinion.” said Tom, “that she’s been dragging her anchor a little.” “She’s certainly a good deal nearer the shore,” said Arthur. “She’s so deep down,” said Bruce, “that she’ll touch bottom if she drags much longer,—and a strong breeze might do it too.” “If it does,” said Phil, “then good by forever to her. A timber ship may hold together as long as she keeps in deep water; but these rocks would soon grind her to powder, if she touched them.” “Let her grind,” say I. “Yes. I give up my share of the salvage.” “The best place for her will be the bottom of the sea.” “At any rate, we’ll make one final haul, boys, and take ashore everything that may be needed at all.” The boys now hurried to complete their preparations, for the sun was not more than one half hour above the horizon, and there was no time to spare. Arthur went to secure the sails. He selected a half dozen of the largest sheets, and flung them into the boat. They were the coarsest and strongest which he could find. Tom found some sail needles and sail twine in a drawer in the pantry, where he remembered having seen them before. They then rolled out four barrels of biscuit, and put them on board the boat. After this they put six hams in her, and all the rest of the potted meat, and canned vegetables, and other dainties. Phil looked with longing eyes at the galley stove, but concluded that it was best not to try to convey that ashore. Finally, they took all the blankets, for they were articles that promised to be always useful. With this cargo they returned to the shore. Arthur then went to work at his sail, while Tom went to see about the mast. He found that Bart had already nearly finished one that was very suitable. In smoothing this, in fitting it into the boat, and in shaping a pole, another hour or so was taken up. Meanwhile Arthur had found that three of the sheets were large enough. These he stitched together, and afterwards cut it the right shape. It was then secured to the mast, and the little boat was all ready for her voyage. But they had still more preparations to make. First of all, the spy-glass, which had been brought ashore in the chest, was deposited in the boat. Then, a barrel of the biscuit that Solomon had dried in the sun was put on board, together with a sufficient supply of potted meats. A jug of water was considered sufficient, as they expected to land from time to time, and would be able to replenish it, if it should be necessary. For warmth or shelter, three or four blankets, which the careful forethought of Solomon had dried in front of the blazing fire, were deemed amply sufficient. Before these were completed it was dark. Of course they had no intention of setting off that evening, though Tom was at first of the opinion that they had better start, and take advantage of so fine a night. But the others overruled him, and expressed the opinion that they had better sail by night as little as possible. Solomon kept the fire heaped high with fuel, not for the purposes of warmth, for the air was balmy and pleasant, but more for the sake of cheerfulness. He had found no difficulty in procuring dry wood from the fallen trees in the forest. Brightly the flames leaped up, throwing a pleasant glow over the surrounding scene. The contrast between this evening and the evening of the previous day was thought of and felt by all; and more than once there arose from the warm, grateful hearts of these honest lads a prayer of thankfulness to that Being who had heard their cry in the stormy sea, and had saved them from destruction. Early the next morning they were all awake. Solomon already had breakfast prepared. It was a bright and beautiful morning. The little cove looked charming. But on the sea the Petrel still floated; but they were all sure that she was nearer than ever to the headland. A pleasant breeze was blowing, and all things promised well. Arthur and Tom finished their breakfast, and then, bidding all the rest good by, they embarked, and pushed off. The wind filled the sail, and the little boat moved out of the cove, and away to sea. The boys watched their departing friends in solemn silence, until the white sail disappeared around the headland. CHAPTER 20 Trouble and Consolation.—A fresh Proposal.—The Building of the Camp.—Hard Work.—The triumphant Result.—Blisters and Balsam.—A new Surprise by Solomon.—Illumination.—The rising Wind.—They go forth to explore.—The impending Fate of the Petrel.—Wind and Wave.—A rough Resting-place.—What will be the Fate of the Ship?—The Headland.—The View.—Where are our departed Friends? AFTER the little white sail had disappeared around the headland, the boys stood in silence for some time. The departure of Arthur and Tom had made a perceptible breach in their numbers, and the thought that they had gone on a long, an uncertain, and a perilous expedition seemed to throw an air of gloom over those who remained behind. Bart was the first to rouse himself. “Seventy-four hours, with this wind; ought to do it,” said he. “Do what?” asked Bruce. “Well,” said Bart, “I’ve been making a calculation. I don’t see how St. Pierre can be more than a hundred miles from here at the very farthest. Now, this breeze ought to take them four or five miles an hour, and if they went on without stopping, they certainly ought to reach St. Pierre by this time to-morrow, even if they don’t find any settlements or any fishing vessels on the way.” “Yes; but they won’t find it so easy to get back,” said Bruce. “O, yes, they will,” said Bart. “They won’t have to work their own way back. They’ll get a schooner, and have no trouble.”
"“Well,” said Bruce, “we’ll have to allow a week, at least.”
“Certainly,” said Phil. “It won’t do for us to tie them down to two days. If we do, we’ll be all the time in a fever, and watch for them day and night. I’m determined not to expect them at all this time.”
“Sure an that’s the wisest risolution we can make, so it is,” said Pat, sedately; “and, be the same token, it’s a month I’m goin to allow, so it is; an, what’s more, I’m thinkin we’ll betther be afther buildin a bit of a house, or tint, or camp.”
“A camp!” cried Bart. “Hurrah! that’s the very thing.”
“Yes,” cried Phil; “just like the camp in the woods behind the hill at Grand Pr茅.”
“The very best thing we could think of,” said Bruce. “It’ll give us all something to do, and at the same time it’s a positive necessity.”
“It’s a pity we hadn’t some of that spare lumber on board the Petrel,” said Bart.
“Well,” said Phil, “I think we’ll have it all before another day; for, from present appearances, she’ll be on the rocks soon; and if so, there’ll be a general free delivery of her cargo all along the beach. But we needn’t wait for that.”
“Sure an there’s nothin betther,” said Pat, “thin good honist spruce. We can get sticks enough all around us, an have a camp that’ll be as warrum, and as dhry, and as whowlsome as iver was, so we will.”
There was a hatchet which had been brought ashore in the chest, and had already done good service in making the masts for the boat. This was now made use of for the purpose of getting the necessary supply of poles and brush for the camp. As there was only one hatchet, they could not of course cut the brush quite so fast as was desirable; but Bruce cut pretty quickly, and kept two of them well employed in carrying the poles and brush to the grassy knoll. Phil and Pat did this work while Bart occupied himself with the preparation of the ground for the erection of the camp. He first selected a place that seemed suitable, where there was a level space, about twelve feet square. Then he sharpened one of the stakes, and cutting off a portion of it, about three feet long, he hardened the point by burning it in the fire. He then marked out the line of foundation, and made holes in the ground all around the marked space, so that the stakes might be inserted without any delay. Fortunately there were no stones to interfere with his work. The ground was sandy, and he drove his stake in without any difficulty.
In this way they worked until noon, when Solomon called them to dinner. All the boys were amazed at finding that the time had passed so rapidly; and they saw by this a fresh and striking example of the importance of having some pleasant occupation in life. It had been for want of this, to a great extent, that their time had dragged along so slowly, first during the famine on board the Antelope, and afterwards on board the Petrel.
After dinner they examined their work, and concluded that the immense heap of stakes and brushwood ought to suffice for the needs of any ordinary camp; so now they proceeded to the important task of its erection.
Bart had made a double row of holes around four sides, which were intended to enclose the camp. These holes were about a foot apart, and the rows were separated by a space of about three inches.
The next task was to prepare the stakes. These were sharpened, and cut about seven feet long; and as fast as each one was prepared, it was inserted as tightly as possible in one of the holes. Before long all the stakes were set up, and the outline of the camp became dimly visible. Bart and Phil now went off in search of roots, which might serve the purpose of cords, to bind together those portions of the frame which needed securing, leaving Bruce and Pat at work preparing other stakes, the one with his hatchet, and the other with a knife. The roots were found without any difficulty, most of them belonging to a species of dwarf willow, or osier, and they were as flexible and as strong as the stoutest cord.
The next thing was to take four long poles, and bind these along the top of each row of stakes, so as to form the eaves of the camp. When all these were secured, the framework was quite as strong as was necessary.
It now remained to form the roof. This was a matter of some difficulty, but was at length successfully achieved. They had all had so much practice in camp-building, that there was but little hesitation at any stage of the proceedings. The way in which the roof was erected was so ingenious that it deserves to be explained. They procured two stout poles, about fifteen feet long, which they put at each end of the structure, binding each firmly in its place, and leaving at the top a fork, formed from the projecting stump of one of the severed branches. Across these, and resting on these forks, they laid their ridge-pole, and bound this firmly in its place. To make it still stronger, they set up a third support in the middle of the camp, and thus made the ridge-pole firm enough to bear the weight of any of them.
After this they proceeded to lay a row of poles along from the eaves to the ridge-pole, and others again intersecting these. Thus they formed a framework close enough and strong enough to admit of brush being placed upon it, and this they proceeded to lay there after the manner of thatch. The roof was pretty steep, and the spruce brush was so smooth, and was laid on so compactly, that it could have resisted any ordinary rain storm.
The remainder of their task was easy enough, the roof and frame having been by far the most troublesome. One side was allotted to each, and the work was interweaving spruce brush along the stakes. The space was twelve feet long by six high. They began from the ground, and went upward; and at length this was finished.
There was still an open space at each gable end, but it was their intention to leave windows here. Poles were fastened in such a way that a square space was left in each gable, which admitted an ample amount of light, and the remainder was filled in with brush, like the sides. The door, of course, had been attended to in the construction of the frame.
It had been hard work, but they were all adepts at the business, and knew exactly how to do each thing. The consequence was, that by sundown their camp was all completed, and only needed a few finishing touches, which could very well be postponed till the following day.
They all sat down to their evening repast with the consciousness that they had passed a well-spent day. Solomon had done his duty, as usual, with a minute conscientiousness, and a painful care of the smallest details, which was evinced by the exquisite flavor of the oyster stew. The chief regret that they had was, that Arthur and Tom were not there to share it.
After tea none of them ventured to move. They were more utterly fagged out than they ever remembered to have been in the whole course of their lives. There had, of course, been times when they had been more exhausted, and Phil could tell a tale of weariness which might have shamed his present feelings; but for the fatigue resulting from sheer hard work, they never knew anything that had equalled this. Their hands were all covered with blisters and balsam, while an additional air of shabbiness had been given to them by new rents and tatters in their clothes.
After sunset they noticed that the wind was stronger and the sea rougher. The Petrel had moved also still farther in to the shore.
“Another night’ll finish her,” said Bruce, “if this wind continues.”
“I hope they’ll land,” said Bart, thinking of Arthur and Tom.
“Well, as to that,” said Bruce, “it seems to me that they won’t feel inclined to sail all night; and they’ll land, if they only can; but the trouble is, they may find themselves off some coast where no landing can be made.”
“I dare say,” said Bart, thoughtfully, “that the coast is rough enough all along, for most of the way; but then, fortunately, this wind is off the land; so they’ll be all right. The danger would be if it was in any other direction. As it is, the closer they keep in to the shore, the safer they’ll be; and, in fact, the safest place for them would be close in under the highest cliffs.”
“Well, that certainly is a consolation,” said Bruce, with a sigh of relief. “I’ve been a good deal bothered all the afternoon, for I noticed that the wind was rising. I rather think you’re in the right of it, Bart, and I’m glad enough that you thought of that.”
“O, they’re all right,” said Phil, “as long as the wind is this way.”
“The throuble is,” said Pat, “they might have to go round some headland, and thin they’d catch it, hot and heavy.”
“O, they wouldn’t try it if it was too rough,” said Bart. “They’d haul up ashore, and wait till the wind went down. The fact is, they’ll do just as any of us would do in the same circumstances. Neither Arthur nor Tom is inclined to run any risks. They know that there’s no hurry, that we’ve got lots of provisions. They’ve got a good supply, too, and so they’ll take it easy. My opinion is, they both landed two or three hours ago, hauled up their boat high and dry, picked up some drift wood, and are at this moment sitting in front of a roaring fire, calmly discussing what had best be done to-morrow.”
This discussion about the fate of their two absent friends made them all feel quite at their ease once more, and soon after they went to bed inside of the camp.
Here they found a pleasant surprise awaiting them, which had been devised by Solomon. He had taken the fat out of some of the jars of potted meat, and put it in two cups. In these he had ingeniously arranged floating wicks, and lighted them. So now, as the boys entered, they were surprised at a cheerful glow inside. At first they were alarmed, and thought the camp was on fire; but a second look showed them the truth.
Their camp now seemed very cheerful indeed. The ground was quite dry, and each one rolled himself up in his blanket, which formed their only preparation for bed. Here, reclining on the soft grass, with the green walls of their camp encircling them, they chatted pleasantly for a short time, and at length, one by one, dropped off into sound and refreshing slumbers.
On awaking they all hurried forth. They found that the wind had increased, and must have been increasing all night. Close in under the shore the water was smooth enough, but a mile outside it began to roughen, and a white line of breakers shone along the base of the headland.
But it was the Petrel that now engaged all their attention. She had been forced in to within a stone’s throw of the shore, and had evidently touched bottom, for she lay a little over on one side. She had reached a place where the sea felt the effect of the wind, and the waves broke over her decks. She rose and fell occasionally, with a slow, heavy movement, at the force of the waves that beat upon her. The shore immediately opposite the place where she had grounded was all white with foam, and it seemed as if the bottom where she touched might be strewn with rough, jagged rocks.
Hard indeed was the resting-place to which the Petrel had come after so long a wandering!
The boys looked on in silence. They did not exactly lament the fate which seemed to impend over her, but, at the same time, they felt as though, in some way, it might be a disaster to themselves. For the Petrel, as long as she had floated, had served, at least, as a sort of signal by which any passing vessel might be attracted; whereas, if she were destroyed, their chance of rescue in that way grew less. They also felt that the large store of provisions and supplies on board might yet be needed; and in case of the unsuccessful return of Arthur and Tom, they might need to visit her once more. But now all hope of this seemed at an end. In this half-developed regret at her fate, there was, however, no thought of salvage; that subject was forgotten.
After breakfast their attention was once more directed to the Petrel. Any further operations in the camp had now to be postponed, for the attractions of the imperilled ship were too engrossing to admit of lesser thoughts.
“I say, boys,” said Bruce, “why can’t we try to get nearer? We can work our way along at the top of the bank, I should think.”
“Of course we can,” said Bart. “At any rate, it’s not very far.”
“It won’t be worse than the upper part of that miserable brook,” said Phil.
“Sure an I’d go on me hands and knees all the way, so I would, to git nearer to her,” said Pat.
The coast that ran along terminated in the headland, between which and the cove it consisted of steep banks, at first wooded, and rough cliffs. The top of the bank all along was covered with trees, and seemed to offer no greater difficulties than any other part of the woods. The headland itself seemed over a mile away, and the Petrel was some distance inside of this.
They thus resolved to go, and set forth at once.
“Be back in time for dinna,” said Solomon, as they climbed up the steep bank to get to the top..
“O, yes,” was the reply, as they vanished into the woods.
It was decidedly rough walking. The ground was uneven, rising into mounds and depressed into hollows. Sometimes fallen trees lay before them; at other times underbrush so dense and so stubborn that a way could only be forced through with the most persevering effort. Besides, it was absolutely necessary to keep as near as possible to the edge of the cliff, for they all knew how easily they might be lost, if they once ventured out of sight of it. So they kept on, close by the brink, even though places occasionally appeared which seemed much easier to traverse.
At length they reached the place immediately opposite the Petrel. She lay within easy stone’s throw. Before them the cliff went down with rough, jagged sides, and the shore at its foot was covered with masses of rock that had fallen there from the precipice. It was not more than sixty or seventy feet down. On this elevation, and at this distance out, they felt the full force of the blast.
The Petrel had certainly grounded, and it was evident to them that the bottom was rough and irregular. She lay over on her side, her stern nearest to the shore. The bows were sunk under to the depth of about a foot, while the stern rose a little. She swayed backward and forward with a regular motion, and there was a dull, gringing, creaking noise, that came from her to their ears, and was plainly discernible through the noise of the surf on the rocks below. The sea at this point was quite heavy, and rolled over and over the doomed ship. The long waves came sweeping up at successive intervals, and at every stroke the Petrel would yield, and then slowly struggle back.
“I wonder how long she can stand this sort of thing,” said Phil.
“Not long, I should think,” said Bart; “but after all, the wind isn’t very strong just yet, and if there are no rocks under her, she may hold out some time.”
“If this wind grows to a gale, she’s done for.”
“But then it may not get any worse, and if it goes down, I’d undertake to swim on board.”
“O, of course, if it gets smooth.”
“What do you say to going out to the point?” said Bruce.
“O, yes, let’s go.”
The point was not far away, and the woods were thinner. They reached it without much difficulty. Standing here an extensive scene came upon their view.
On the left, the coast line ran on for a few miles, rough and rugged cliffs, with a crest of stunted trees. On the right, the coast line was what they had already seen. In front was the boundless sea, covered with foaming waves. At their feet the surf thundered in a line of foam, and tossed its spray high on the air.
“I don’t altogether like the look of things,” said Bruce, after a long and silent gaze upon the sea and the rough coast in the west.
“O, don’t fret,” said Bart. “Look, Bruce, close in to the shore under the cliffs: why, it’s smooth enough there to paddle a raft in. They’ll keep close in to the shore, and land whenever they want to.”
“Only they might try to round a headland like that,” said Bruce, pointing to a cliff which terminated the view towards the left, at the base of which there was a line of white foam; “and if they did,” he added, “I’m afraid neither Arthur nor Tom—”
He stopped abruptly, leaving the sentence unfinished.
The Expedition and the Voyagers.—Speculations.—Dinner followed by a Change of Wind.—A Squall.—Shipping a Sea.—Nearer the Shore.—An iron-bound Coast.—Rounding the Headland.—Startling Sight.—The Column of Smoke.—A Man on the Beach.—The shipwrecked Stranger.—Astonishing Disclosures.—Where are we?—The mournful Truth.—Anticosti!—Arthur contains his Soul.—The Boys and the Boat both hauled up.—The Expedition ends.
ARTHUR and Tom, on rounding the headland, kept on their course, following the line of the shore. The water was smooth, and the breeze continued moderate, yet fair. The sail worked well, the boat glided smoothly through the water, and they slipped on past the shore at a rate which was most gratifying to both of them. They kept away about a mile from the land, a distance which seemed to them to allow of a ready resort there in case of need, while at the same time it was far enough out to get the full benefit of the breeze, and maintain a sufficiently straight course.
The coast was most forbidding. Rugged cliffs arose, or rocky, sterile banks, crested with stunted spruce. Hour after hour passed by, and mile after mile of the coast slipped away behind them, but not the slightest sign appeared of human habitation or of human life; nothing but the same iron-bound shore, and the same unbroken solitude.
From time to time they came in sight of places which were more inviting. Sometimes there were shelving beaches, which appeared to be covered with sand or pebbles; at other times they saw coves, whose aspect was less forbidding than that of the bolder coast line; and on one occasion there was a small harbor, which, in comparison with the rest of the country, was decidedly inviting, and, if their errand had been less pressing, they would certainly have entered it, and explored the surrounding region. But, as it was, they passed on, noticing as they passed that here, as everywhere else, there was not a field, not a pasture, not a clearing; that there were no signs of cattle or of man.
So passed the hours of the morning.
The sun attained its meridian, and the two voyagers thought of dinner. The provident care of Solomon had furnished them with everything that could be desired on such a trip as this, and the repast was not only abundant, but attractive.
“I wonder what speed we have been making,” said Arthur.
“Five miles, I should think,” said Tom, “at least.”
“So should I; but, then, we can’t be certain. There may be currents, or we may be deceived in our estimate. Let’s say four, and then we’ll feel certain. It’s after twelve now; we left at six; that’s six hours.”
“Four miles an hour—little enough,” said Tom. “Well, that’s twenty-four miles. If this sort of thing can only be kept up, we’ll get to St. Pierre in no time.”
“That’s the very thing,” said Arthur,—“if it can only be kept up. But I’m afraid it’s a little too good to last.”
“At any rate,” said Tom, cheerily, “we’ll make the best of it while we can.”
Arthur’s forebodings, though not based upon any ground of alarm, were, however, actually justified by the event, and not very long after. For scarcely had they finished their repast, when they became aware of a very serious increase in the wind. A series of puffs, which almost amounted to squalls, came down, and in a very short time the sea began to rise to a very unpleasant extent.
“We’ll have to keep in closer,” said Arthur.
“Yes,” said Tom, “fortunately the wind’s off the land, and, if we can get in nearer, we’ll be all right.”
But it was not so easy to get in nearer. Tom, however, took a paddle, while Arthur held the boat as close to the wind as possible, and thus, in process of time, they drew her in far enough to get into smoother water. This was not accomplished without some trifling casualties: several waves dashed their spray into the boat, and they shipped one sea which was heavy enough to drench them both, and leave as much as a barrel full of salt water behind. This showed them what they might expect if they dared to keep too far away from the land.
They were now close in to the shore, and they proceeded onward slowly, but securely. It was not quite equal to their previous progress, but it was free from danger and inconvenience.
“I’m afraid,” said Tom, “that we’re going to have a turn of luck.”
“O, we’re doing well enough,” said Arthur.
“Yes, but we’ll be sure to come to some headland, and there we’ll stick, for we shan’t be able to round it. This boat can’t stand any sea.”
“Well, we’ll wait till the time comes,” said Arthur, “and not fret till then.”
“It’s lucky for us,” said Tom, “that the wind’s the way it is. If that was a lee shore, we’d be done for.”
“Well, if the wind had been any other way we shouldn’t have started, you know,” said Arthur, “and if it changes we’ll go ashore and haul up—that’s all.”
“We couldn’t find a landing-place just here very easily. I don’t think I ever saw a more rascally place in my life.”
“It’s rather rough, I must confess,” said Arthur, “but we’ll find a better place before long.”
They were within an eighth of a mile from the land. It rose there in high, rocky cliffs, crested, as usual, with stunted trees, and fragments of rock at its base.
“This seems to run on for a long way ahead,” said Tom.
“Yes,” said Arthur, “but I shouldn’t wonder if behind that point ahead the land got better. It stands to reason that these cliffs can’t extend forever. There must be places here and there where gullies occur—places where brooks run down, you know.”
“O, I dare say; but I only hope we may get to some such a place before the wind changes.”
“Why, is the wind going to change?”
“I don’t know. I merely supposed a case.”
“O, I dare say the wind’ll keep in this direction for ever so long yet.”
They sailed along slowly under these cliffs for about a couple of miles, and at length reached the point of which Arthur had spoken. They passed this, full of curiosity as to what lay beyond. They saw that the land here receded for a mile or two,—very gradually, however,—while several miles ahead it projected itself once more into the sea, and was terminated by a precipitous headland. These receding shores showed a different appearance from that of the cliffs which they had just been passing. They were wooded down to the water’s edge, which they approached by a gentle declivity, while about two miles ahead they disclosed a wide area where there were no trees at all.
Whether this was cultivated ground, cleared ground, or pasture, they could not very well make out; but they had not caught sight of it before they saw something which at once riveted their attention.
It was a column of smoke!
“Hurrah!” cried Tom. “We’ve come to a settlement at last. Well, it’s about time. Hurrah! We’re all right now.”
“Yes,” said Arthur, “there must be some life about—though I can’t see any sign of any settlement.”
“O, there must be a settlement somewhere about. We can’t see it yet.”
“There certainly must be people, for there is the smoke.”
“The settlement is farther back; away from the shore.”
“Yes, or perhaps behind that headland. I dare say there’s a harbor there, and a fishing settlement. This may be some solitary house.”
“Solitary or not, it’s all the same to us. It shows us that we have come near to human beings again.”
A straight course towards the place where the smoke arose would have drawn them into rough water; so they hugged the shore, and followed its curve, in order to avoid the danger. For a time the smoke was concealed from view; but at length, as they went on, it came into sight again, and appeared twice as near as when they had first seen it. Here they saw a beach, which ran away for a long distance; and they noticed now that the smoke itself seemed to rise from a point on the beach about a mile away.
“That’s queer,” said Tom. “The smoke can’t be from a house at all.”
“No, some one has been making a fire on the beach. But it’s all the same. It shows that people are living hereabouts, and that’s all we want.”
“Well, we’ll soon know.”
“Tom!”
“What?”
“I should laugh if this place were to turn out to be Gasp茅, after all.”
“O, there’s no doubt about the place. It must be Newfoundland.”
“Hallo!”
This exclamation came from Arthur. He said no more, but pointed in silence, while Tom looked eagerly in that direction.
On the beach, about a quarter of a mile away, they saw a moving figure. It was a man. He was running along with irregular steps, waving his arms in the air in a wild way, and evidently trying to attract their attention.
They at once headed the boat in nearer to the shore, so as to meet him as soon as possible. As they neared the shore the man neared them. The beach was smooth, and his staggering, irregular steps could not have been caused by the rough ground, while his wild gesticulations seemed unaccountable.
“He must be drunk,” said Tom.
Arthur said nothing.
The boat grounded, and the next moment the man reached the spot. No sooner had he come up to them than he fell on his knees, and, grasping the bows of the boat, bowed his head, and sobbed convulsively.
They saw, as he came up, that he was pale and emaciated. He was panting heavily from his exertions. He wore a flannel shirt and canvas trousers. He looked like a common sailor from some ship, and not at all like a fisherman or farmer. The boys stared at him without saying one single word.
At length the man rose and looked at them with a searching and curious gaze.
“A couple o? youngsters,” said he at last, as though speaking to himself. “Queer, too—youngsters! Say, boys, is your ship near by?”
“Not very.”
“Where do you come from?”
“O, from over there,” said Arthur. “The fact is, we got ashore.”
“Got ashore!”
“Yes; and we’ve come here to look up some settlement.”
“Got ashore! settlement!” said the man.
“Yes,” said Arthur. “And we’d like to go, as soon as possible, to the nearest settlement. We want to engage a schooner to go back with us and get our friends.”
At this the man stared at them for a few moments in a wild way, and then burst forth into laughter so strange and so wild that both the boys felt uncomfortable. Tom began to think that he was not drunk, but insane, and felt sorry that they had allowed the boat to touch the shore.
Suddenly the man stopped, and looked at them with a totally different expression. He looked at them fixedly, and there was on his face a certain pity and commiseration which struck them forcibly.
“Boys,” said he at length, in a gentle voice, “you’re on the lookout for a settlement, are you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, look at me. Now look at all this country. Well, I’m the only settler here. I’m the only settler you’ll ever find here, if you sail a hundred years. Do you know where you’ve got to?”
“Why, we thought it was Newfoundland,” said Tom.
“Or Gasp茅,” said Arthur.
The man looked at them with a solemn face for some time, and said not a word.
“Poor boys! poor boys!” he murmured at last; “p’raps they was worse off’n I was. An air you all alone, boys?”
“No; we’ve left our friends some, miles back.”
“O, an you thought you was on Newfoundland coast, or Gasp茅, an you goes off to hunt for help, an you leaves your friends. Well, now, have they got lots to eat?”
“O, yes.”
“Lots?” repeated the man, with some energy. “Lots, now, railly?”
“Plenty—enough to last them for a year.”
The man sighed.
“An so you comes off for help. Why did they let you youngsters go? Why didn’t the men go?”
“O, we’re all boys,” said Tom.
“Well, that’s queer, too.”
“A kind of pleasure party,” said Arthur.
The man shook his head mournfully.
“An so you thinks you’ve got onto Newfoundland or Gasp茅,” he said.
“Yes. Why? Where are we? Can you tell us? And who are you? and what are you doing here?”
Tom said this.
“Me?” said the man. “Look at me. Can’t you see what I be? Do I look like a gentleman farmer? Is this the country for a emigrant? Me!” he repeated, with a bitter laugh. “Poor boys! poor boys! Why, I’m jest like you. I’m ship-wracked—on’y I knows where I be, an that’s more’n you do, it seems.”
“Shipwrecked!” exclaimed Tom.
“Yes, wracked—the worst sort; an this here country—so you think it’s Newfoundland or Gasp茅? Well—it ain’t either.”
“What is it?”
“The worst place in the world—that’s what it is; a place where there ain’t no hope, and there ain’t no life. It’s only death that a man can find here.”
“What do you mean?” asked Tom. “Tell us what place it is.”
The man looked at them both, one after the other, with a solemn face.
“I been ship wracked,” said he, “an I been here more’n a fortnight; an this here place is—Anticosti!”
“Anticosti!” exclaimed both the boys, exchanging glances of horror, while a feeling of despair came over them.
“Yes,” said the man, “this here country’s Anticosti—un woe to the poor wretch that’s cast ashore here. For there ain’t no life here, an there ain’t no hope, an there ain’t no food; an the only thing a man can do is to lie down an die as fast as he can.”
A long silence followed. The boys felt utterly overwhelmed. They had all heard enough about Anticosti to make the name one of dread, and to surround it with the darkest gloom and the most formidable terrors.
“We thought,” said Arthur, at length, to the man, who seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, “we supposed that we were on the coast of Newfoundland, somewhere between Cape Ray and Fortune’s Bay; so we started off to sail along the coast in search of a settlement, and if we couldn’t find any we intended to go to St. Pierre.”
“This is Anticosti,” said the man.
“Very well,” said Arthur, gravely, “we’ll suppose it is. So much the more need for us to help our friends. You appear to have had a hard time of it; but you’re a sailor, and we are not. You can help us. It seems to me that you can do a great deal for us. I think we had better keep to our plan, and try to reach the nearest settlement. If it is St. Pierre, or the Bay of Islands, or any other place, perhaps you can tell us. At any rate, you can sail the boat, and we can’t. We’ve got lots of provisions here; so you’d better come with us, and help us to reach some place where we can get assistance for our friends.”
While Arthur was saying this, the man stared at him most intently.
“Well,” said he at last, as Arthur ceased, “you’re about the pluckiest lot in the way of boys that I’ve come across for some time. All I can say is, you needn’t beat round the bush with me. You’ve saved my life, and so you’ll find that Dick Bailey is yours till death. All you’ve got to do, boys, is to tell what you want done, and I’ll do it—if it can be done. But fust and foremost, let me tell you ’tain’t no use tryin to get any further in that there boat this day, for the wind’s risin, and you’d best come ashore till it blows over. We’ll take the boat up high and dry out of harm’s way, and then we can talk over what we’d best do.”
“Can’t we go any farther to-day?” asked Arthur, in a disappointed tone.
“No,” said Bailey,—“no, you can’t go either for’ard or back’ard, for it’s a head wind one way, and the other way is barred by that there pint. So, as I said afore, you’d better land. We’ll draw the boat up high an dry out of harm’s way, and we’ll wait till to-morrer. By that time there’ll be a change for the better.”
Upon this Arthur and Tom got out, and the three drew the boat up as far as they could upon the beach.
“There,” said Bailey, “she’s out of harm’s way, unless a sou’-wester comes; an if it does, we can move her up further. But there ain’t no chance of that. And now, boys, hain’t you got something to give a poor feller to eat that’s been starvin for a fortnight?”
Upon this appeal Arthur and Tom at once laid open all their stores, producing biscuit, ham, potted meats, and all the other articles of food which comprised their sea stores.
And the shipwrecked Bailey ate ravenously; ate, in fact, as though he would never be satisfied.
“I ain’t had,” said he, as soon as he found time to speak in the intervals of eating,—“I ain’t had not to say a reg’lar meal for three weeks, which accounts for my present ravenosity, an hopin you’ll excuse it, young gents.”
Bailey’s Den.—The Fire.—The blazing Beacon.—Shell Fish.—Bailey begins his Narrative.—Astonishing Disclosure.—Mutual Explanations. —The Story of Bailey.—The Crank Ship.—Springing aleak.—The mutinous Crew.—A Storm.—Taking to the Boats.—The Captain sticks to his Ship.—Driving before the Wind.—Cast ashore.—How to kindle a Fire.—Plans for the Future.—The Evening Repast.—The insatiable Appetite of a half starved Man.—Asleep in Bailey’s Den.
AT length Bailey’s hunger seemed somewhat appeased. “I’m a thinkin,” said he, “as how we’d better take these here victuals to some place where it’ll be more under cover, and handy for us about tea time. If you like, I’ll take them to my den.”
“But can’t we roll it farther up? This barrel’s too heavy to take any distance.”
“Well, I don’ know but what you’re more’n half right. I didn’t think of the bar’l. Leastways, we can put it further up, out of the reach of any surf, and cover it with the sail.”
“We can take with us as much as we may be likely to want,” said Arthur.
“Wal,” said the man, “there ain’t no fear of anybody stealin the things here; and as the wind ain’t likely to turn yet a while, I don’t s’pose there’ll be any danger of surf.”
After a few further precautions, so as to secure the boat and the contents from any possible harm, Bailey set off to show the boys his “den.” They walked along the beach for about half a mile, and then stopped at a place where a high rock jutted out. Behind this there was a recess about twenty feet above the beach, formed by a fissure in the rock. A huge mass overhead shut it in, and formed a sort of roof; while the lower portion had been filled up by crumbled fragments. Over this rough floor Bailey had spread spruce brush, ferns, and mosses, so that it was soft enough to lie down on. The whole recess was about eight feet deep, six feet wide, and six feet high. Immediately outside a fire was burning, and from this came the smoke which had first attracted their attention.
“I keep that there burnin,” said Bailey, “night and day, an I’ve kept it a burnin for the last fortnight. There’s drift-wood enough along the beach here, though every day I have to go further away to get it. Wal, there’s wood enough on the island, if it comes to that, only ‘tain’t easy gittin it up in the woods.”
The boys looked around with deep interest, and with varied feelings. They saw outside, by the fire, heaps of shells, which seemed to have been burned.
“Thar,” said Bailey, “them’s all I’ve had to eat, every bite, since I landed here. They do to keep body and soul together, but they ain’t much account. I’d give a bushel any day for one good biscuit. What I’ve jest eat seems to have made a man of me.”
The boys were silent for some time, and at length Arthur asked,—
“How did you happen to get here?”
“Wal, I’ll tell you all about it,” said Bailey.
“I’ll begin at the beginnin. Wal, you see, about five weeks ago I shipped aboard the Petrel, at Quebec—”
“The what?” cried Arthur and Tom, in the greatest wonder and excitement.
“The ship Petrel,” said Bailey. “Why, what of her?”
“The Petrel!” cried Arthur. “What, the ship Petrel, of Liverpool-?”
“That there’s the identical craft.”
“And—and—and,” stammered Tom, in his excitement, “was—was her captain’s name Henry Hall? and—and was she loaded with timber?”
“And didn’t she get water-logged?” said Arthur.
“Yes, and didn’t the captain and crew all leave her?”
Bailey stared at the boys with astonishment fully equal to their own.
“You seem to know all about her,” said he, slowly; “and how you larned all that beats me.”
“Why, that’s the very ship that we got wrecked on, too,” said Arthur.
“Yes,” said Tom; “we were sailing about, and found her adrift, and all as comfortable as possible.”
“We tried to be salvors,” said Arthur; “and we were left on board to take care of her while our captain went off in the schooner for help.”
“And he anchored her, and the anchor didn’t hold,” said Tom.
“And we drifted all about the gulf,” continued Arthur, “and were out in the most horrible gales that ever were, till finally we got ashore here.” The boys poured out this information in the most rapid manner possible upon the astounded Bailey, who now seemed fairly struck dumb.
“You—in the Petrel!” he exclaimed, at length, in slow and perplexed tones. “You—you adrift in that water-logged craft! and thrown by that there ship here on Anticosti!”
“Yes,” said Arthur, briskly, “that’s just it.” Bailey raised his hand slowly to his head, and scratched it solemnly, raising his eyes at the same time, and fixing them upon empty space.
“These here two young coves in the Petrel! and hev ashore on Anticosti!” he murmured.
“Yes, yes,” said Arthur; “and now tell us all about how you got here.”
Bailey started, and looked at each of them silently and solemnly; then he looked away, as before.
“Wal,” said he, at last, “this here—doos—beat—my—grandmother! Wal, I’ll tell my story, an then I’ll listen to yourn, an we’ll compare notes, an in that way we’ll grad’ly get the hang of it; for jest now, as things is, I’m dumfounded.
“Wal,” continued Bailey, after a pause, “I’ll start afresh. I shipped then, as I was a sayin, as able seaman, aboard the Petrel. She was loaded down deep with timber, an badly loaded, too, for as she lay in the stream at Quebec, she had a list ever so far over.
“I don’t think I was overly sober when I was took on board, an I don’t think any of the other men was overly sober, neither; at any rate, the first thing I knows, I finds myself thirty mile below Quebec, aboard the Petrel, that had a list to one side that would almost let a man foot it up her masts.
“The first thing we all does, we all begins to kick up a dust. The mate he swears we ain’t goin to sail the ship. Crank? Why, crank ain’t the word! Wal, the captain he tells us we’re gettin up mutiny, and warns us. And we tells him to look at the ship.
“Wal, things goes on somehow, and we gets down the river further, we grumblin all the way and the mate a swearin. One night she drifts nigh to the shore and touches. We gets her off somehow; but she got a bad sprain, and begins to leak.
“Wal, we all growls and grumbles, and won’t touch the pumps; and the captain he threatens, and the mate he rows and swears, and the captain he vows, leak or no leak, he’ll put that there ship across the Atlantic. At last things grows worse, and the mate one day puts a couple of us in the bilboes.
“Wal, that only makes things worse; and by that time we was in the gulf, and rough weather comes on, and none of us would touch a line. So the captain he knocks under, and lets the men go, and promises us a glass of grog all round if we’ll bear a hand at the pumps. But we insists on putting the deck-load overboard first. The captain wouldn’t do it, though, for ever so long; till at last the wind blew a gale, and the cranky vessel plunged under so, and strained and twisted so, that at last he was glad enough to do it of his own accord. So we all goes to work in the midst of that there gale, and puts every stick over. They wasn’t much—only deals, and easy handled. It was timber below, and if it had been timber on deck, we couldn’t have done it nohow.
“Wal, that gale went on, and another followed, and we all pumped away for dear life, but didn’t do much. It had got to be a little too late; and what with the first touch on the rocks, and the straining and twisting afterwards, the leak got to be a little the biggest I ever did see.
“So it went from bad to worse. We all worked at last like the old boy. No need then for the captain to encourage us. We worked for dear life without bein told. But the leak gained steadily, and the storm increased. At last every rag of sail was blown off, and the ship was water-logged, and we all had to take refuge in the riggin. We saw what was comin in time to get the boats up out of harm’s way, for the water was rollin over the deck so that you couldn’t tell which was the ship and which was the sea. We were for puttin off and abandonin of her; but the captain he swore she never could sink, bein timber-laden, and said the storm would soon blow over, and we’d put into Miramichi. So we hung on as long as we could.
“At last the vessel strained so that we all was sure and certain that she was goin to pieces; so we determined to save ourselves; so we got down the long-boat, and managed, one by one, to get into her as she floated to leeward, and then begged the captain and mate to follow. The mate seemed half inclined, but the captain was obstinate. He swore he would stick to the ship, and save her yet. He begged us to come back, and told us she would float till doomsday. But we swore she was break-in up, and told him she couldn’t hang together one day more.
“The worst of it was, all this time we didn’t know where we was. There was fog and heavy-gales, and the captain hadn’t taken no reckonin for weeks. We wanted to git off the wreck before she got onto the rocks. As for the captain and mate, they had the cutter, and a couple of the men staid behind to take off the cutter, and the captain and mate, too, if they should come to their senses, leastways the mate. And what became of them four I hain’t no idee.
“Wal, then we dropped off, and went away in the long-boat. We hadn’t no idee where we was, and couldn’t tell the pints of the compass. We thought the best thing would be to run before the wind, since we didn’t know any better way, and we knew we was somewhere in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and would fetch up at last somewheres. So we let her run, and kept a sharp lookout, or tried to, though ’twan’t no use at night, for what with the darkness and the fog, the nights was that dark you couldn’t see the nose before your face. Well, that’s all. The only thing more that I know is this—that one night I was sound asleep, and was waked up by a tremenjous yell, and found myself in the water. The boat had been thrown on rocks or surf, and had capsized. I struggled, and at last found bottom, and rushed blindly along, I couldn’t see where, till I got to dry ground. And it was this here beach; and afterwards, as I found out how the wind was blowin, and put this an that together, I concluded that this was Anticosti, and now I know it.”
So ended Bailey’s narrative. A long conversation followed. The boys were anxious to know why he felt so sure that it was Anticosti, and Bailey described his theory of the position of the Petrel at the time he left her, and the course which the boat must have taken in such a wind. He also felt sure, from the character of the coast and the country, that it was this place, and no other. Then the boys gave a minute account of their own adventures. Bailey was most struck by the captain’s paper found in the bottle.
“Wal,” said he, “he stood it as long as he could; but I dar say, arter we cleared out, he begun to feel a little shaky. And that thar ship did shake herself up in a way that beat everythin I ever see in all my born days. I was as sure that she was breakin up as I was of my own name. So the captain he thought, no doubt, that it wan’t wuth while to die for the sake of an old timber ship, or p’raps the mate and the sailors pressed him, and so off he goes; or p’raps some passing vessel hove in sight, and took him off. But only think of you youngsters happenin on board, and goin through the same identical fortin that I went through, and then us meetin this way in Anticosti! It doos—beat—my—grandmother! It—doos—railly.”
The question now arose what was best to be done. Of course the fact that this was Anticosti changed the whole state of things.
“You see if this was railly Newfoundland,” said Bailey, “we might sail east, and event’ly git to some settlement; but if we try that now, we’ll have to go all along past the worst coast in the world, and then we’d get to East Pint; and what then? Why, the gulf. So we’ve got to turn about, and go back in the other direction.”
“What? West?”...
“Yes, away west, or sou’-west. I’ve heard tell of some settlement at West Pint, the other end of the island; but I hain’t no idee whether it’s kep up yet or not. At any rate, there’s Gasp茅. ‘Tain’t far off. We can crawl along the shore, and then cut across to Gasp茅, and get help.”
“But we’ll go back first to where we left the boys.”
“Course, that’s the first thing; and then your vyge ends, and we’ve got to arrange a fresh one.”
“Well, can we start to-day?” asked Tom.
“To-day? No, sir! Look at me! Why, I’d give anythin to git away from this here place! Think of me here for two long weeks, livin on shell fish, pacin up and down the beach, and keepin my signal-fire a burnin all the time, and feelin myself every day gradooly growin ravin mad! Think what I’ve ben an suffered here! Yet I wouldn’t leave to-day, ’cos it’s goin to blow harder, and that there cockle-shell don’t do to beat against a wind like this.”
“But can’t we row?”
“You hain’t got no oars.”
“There are those in the boat.”
“Them things! Them’s poles, or paddles; do to push the boat a little way through smooth water, but not with the wind this way. No; we’ve got to wait.”
Arthur and Tom both felt the force of this, and urged the point no longer.
“I don’t see,” said Arthur, “how you managed to light a fire.”
“O, with my jackknife and a bit of flint,” said Bailey. “No trouble to get flint hereabouts. I got some cotton wool out of the paddin of my collar, and some dry moss, and coaxed some sparks into a blaze. O, you give me a knife, and I’ll draw fire out of any stone anywhars. The night I was drove ashore, I crept somewhar under the cliff, and staid there till mornin, and in the mornin the first thing I doos is to kindle a fire. I found the drift-wood, and this seemed to be the best place. Sea shells isn’t the best fare in the world, and sick am I of all sorts and kinds of shell fish; but glad was I when I lit on them that first day, when I walked about nearly starved. If it hadn’t ben for them thar shells it would ha’ ben all over with me. That’s so. And this here den wasn’t a bad place, considerin. In fact, I ben a lucky man in some things, seein that this is Anticosti, and fust and foremost, that I got off with my life; for every one of the rest was drownded, and I’ve never seen even a splinter of the boat since.”
The recollection of this gloomy event reduced Bailey for a time to silence.
The afternoon passed away. The wind increased. The sea grew rougher, and every hour served to increase the impossibility of a return that day. But the boys had already resigned themselves to this, and therefore awaited the evening, and looked forward to the night with calmness and in patience.
At sunset the evening repast was spread out, and Bailey showed his usual ravenous appetite.
“’Pears to me, boys,” said he, apologetically, “jest as if I couldn’t ever git enough to eat again. You’ll have to make allowances for a man as has been starvin for three weeks.”
After tea they made their preparations for the night. First they went to see that the boat was safe, and to make doubly sure, they hauled her farther up the beach. Then they collected a quantity of drift-wood, with which they replenished their fire.
“Thar,” said Bailey, “if so be as any vessel does pass by, they’ll be sure to see this here light, and they’ll know precious well as how some unfortunate coves is shipwrecked here, and is a signalin for help. But, misfortunately, I ben a lookin for-ard every night for help, and it never would come.”
“It was your signal that drew us in,” said Arthur. “It was a success by day, at any rate.”
They talked and meditated for another hour or so, and watched the blazing flames till they were tired.
Then they all spread themselves out in Bailey’s “den,” and fell asleep.