The enterprising Voyageurs.—A Parliament—Where shall we go next?—The Islands of the Sea.—Captain Corbet’s Confession.—Once more, upon the Waters.—The lonely Isle.—The strange Schooner.—Ashore.—A new Acquaintance.—A Disciple of Progress.—Railroads and Telegraphs for the Magdalen Islands.
THE Antelope had traversed all the waters of the Baie de Chaleur, and the enterprising voyageurs on board had met with many adventures by sea and land; and at length all these were exhausted, and, as the time drew near for their departure, the question arose where next to go, which question was discussed in full council assembled upon the deck; present Bruce, Arthur, Bart, Tom, Phil, Pat, Captain Corbet, Wade, and Solomon, Bruce being in the chair—that is to say, on the taffrail. “All you that are in favor of going home, say ‘Ay’,” said Bruce.
There was a dead silence. Not one spoke.
“That’s not the way to go about it,” said Bart. “It isn’t parliamentary. Let’s do business regularly. Come. I rise, Mr. President, to make a motion. I move that the B. O. W. C. continue their wanderings as long as the holidays last.”
“I second that motion,” cried Phil.
“Gentlemen,” said Bruce, “it has been moved and seconded that the B. O. W. C. continue their wanderings as long as the holidays last. All that are in favor of this motion will please manifest it by saying, ‘Ay.’”
At this there was a universal chorus of “Ay.”
“Contrary minds, ‘No.’”
Silence followed.
“It’s a vote,” said Bruce; “and now all that remains to do is to decide upon the direction to be taken.”
Upon this Captain Corbet smiled benignly, and a glance of approval beamed from his venerable eye. Old Solomon grinned violently, but checked himself in a moment; his grin was drowned in a low chuckle, and he exclaimed, “De sakes now, chil’en alive, how you do go on! Mos’ make dis ole nigga bust hisself to see dese yer mynouvrins.”.
“Look here, boys,” cried Bart, suddenly dropping altogether the “parliamentary” style in which he had last spoken; “what do you say to a cruise around the gulf? Let’s visit the islands; there are ever so many; some of them are uninhabited, too. It’ll be glorious!”
“Glorious—will it?” cried Tom. “Wait, my boy, till you know as much about uninhabited islands as I do. You don’t catch me putting my foot ashore on anything of that sort.”
“O, well, we needn’t be particular about the inhabitants,” said Arthur. “I go in for islands, head over heels.”
“So do I,” said Phil.
“Be the powers,” said Pat, “but it’s meself that howlds up both hands to that same.”
“Suppose we go to the Magdalen Islands,” said Bruce. “They’re right in the middle of the gulf, and it’s a very queer place, they say.”
“No, no,” said Bart; “if we go anywhere, let’s go to Anticosti. For my part, I’ve always been wild to go to Anticosti. I don’t believe there’s another island in all the world that’s equal to it. It’s cold, bleak, gloomy, uninhabited, and full of ghosts.”
“Full of fiddlesticks!” exclaimed Arthur. “What do you want of ghosts?”
“Well,” said Bart, placidly, “for my part, I think there is something uncommonly interesting in a haunted island.”
“A haunted island!” repeated Arthur. “Well, my boy, all I’ve got to say is, that if you want anything of that sort, you’ll find the best specimen on Sable Island; so I propose that we go there at once.”
“Sable Island? Why, man alive, that’s ever so far away!” said Tom. “We’d better wait till we’re on our way home, and leave that for the last; though, for my part, I think we’d better give it a wide berth. I go in for some of the gulf islands—St. Paul, for instance, or St. Peter.”
“Well, boys,” said Phil, “since you’re all so crazy about islands, why can’t we go to the Bay of Islands at once? We can have our fill of them there, I should think. For my part I’m indifferent. I’m like Tom; I’ve had my turn at a desert island, and have found out the vanity of Robinson Crusoe.”
“Sure, thin,” said Pat, “and whin we’re about it, we’d betther take the biggist island we can find about here, and that same is Newfoundland. Wouldn’t it be betther to begin with that, thin?”
“The fact is, boys,” said Bruce, with the air of a judge or an umpire, “we’ll have to make up our minds to visit all these islands. Each one has his preference, and each one shall be gratified. You, Bart, may see Anticosti; you, Arthur, may see Sable Island; you, Tom, may visit St. Paul and St. Peter; you, Phil, may visit the Bay of Islands; and at the same time you, Pat, may see Newfoundland. Of course, then, I hope to go to the Magdalen Islands. Now, as we are going to visit all these places, and the Magdalen Islands happen to be nearest, we will take them first, while we may visit in turn Anticosti and the others, winding up with Sable Island, which may be postponed to the last, since it is the farthest off. We may make up our minds, boys, to no end of adventures. We’re all in first-rate training; we are hardened by adventures on sea and on shore; we can live on next to nothing; and I’m only sorry that we’re not a little nearer to the North Pole, so that we might set out now as we are to settle the question forever about the open Polar Sea.”
The extravagant notion with which Bruce closed his address was received with shouts of laughter and applause. Then followed a confused conversation. At length they all gathered around Captain Corbet, who had thus far been a listener, and began to question him about the various places which they proposed to visit. The answer of the venerable navigator was not very satisfactory.
“Wal, boys,” said he, “you put me down in any part of old Fundy, an I’m to hum; anywhar’s between the head of old Fundy an Bosting, I know it all be heart; an I engage to feel my way in fog or in darkness, or in snow-storms, backard an forard, year on an year on; but jest about here I’m all agog. In these here parts I’m a pilgerrim an a stranger, an ain’t particularly to be trusted. But I can navigate the Antelope all the same, an fool round in these waters as long as you like. I ain’t got any chart, terrew; but I’ve got an old map of Canady, an kin scrape along with that, especially this season of the year. I kin git a ginral leadin idee of the position of places, an work along the old Antelope wharever you want to go. I’m an old man myself, an don’t mind this kerrewsing a bit; in fact, it’s rayther agree’ble. The best of it is, we’re allus sure to fetch up some-whar.”
This frank announcement of Captain Corbet’s ignorance of these seas might have excited disquietude in the bosoms of less enterprising lads; but the cruisers of the Antelope had seen and known, and felt and suffered, too much to be easily disturbed. Of Captain Corbet’s confession they thought nothing whatever, nor indeed did it really matter very much to them whether he was acquainted with these waters or not. After all, they were not particular about any destination; any mistakes which he might make would not create any inconvenience to them; and even if, in seeking to reach Newfoundland, he should land them at Cape Cod, they would not much care. Under these circumstances they listened to his words with indifference, and if they felt any disappointment, it was because they were unable to gain from him any information whatever about the places which they proposed to visit.
Since they could gain no information, they did not waste much more time in conversation, but concluded to set out without delay. And so in a little while the Antelope spread her white wings, and began to walk the waters in her usual style, like a thing of life, and all that. In process of time she reached the entrance of the bay, and then passed out into the gulf.
It was a glorious day. The wind was fair. The Antelope did her best. The sun went down that evening behind the high hills, and before them lay a wide expanse of water. On the following morning they saw land ahead. The land was an island, or a cluster of islands, and all the boys felt certain that it was the Magdalen Islands.
In spite of Captain Corbet’s ignorance of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, he had chosen his course very accurately, for this was indeed their destination. As the schooner drew nearer and nearer, the boys looked with curious eyes upon this remote and isolated spot, situated in the midst of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and shut out during all the winter months from the rest of the world of man by ice, and storms, and solitude.
The wind died away after sunrise, and hours passed before they came near enough to think of landing. At length the anchor was dropped, and the boat was made ready to go ashore. From this point they could see this new land to the best advantage. They saw before them an island rising high out of the water, with its green slopes covered with grass, and crowned with trees, and dotted with white houses. Before them there were a cove and a sandy beach, upon which boats were drawn up. The other islands of the group were shut out from view by this one. Not far away—in fact, not farther than a stone’s throw—there lay another schooner at anchor. Very different was this other schooner from the Antelope. The Antelope, in spite of its many admirable and amiable qualities, was not particularly distinguished either for size, or strength, or speed, or beauty. In every one of these particulars the other schooner was the exact opposite. It was large; it was evidently new; its lines were sharp and delicate, indicating great speed; its spread of canvas was immense; it was a model of naval architecture; while the freshness of its paint, and the extreme neatness which appeared in every part, indicated a far greater care on the part of its master than any which the good and gracious Corbet was ever disposed to exhibit towards his beloved Antelope. On high floated the Stars and Stripes, exhibiting the nationality of the stranger. On her stern the boys could read her name and nation. They saw there, in white letters underneath a gold eagle, the words,—
FAWN-GLOUCESTER.
“On land,” said Bruce, gravely, as he looked at the strange craft, “the Antelope and the Fawn are somewhat alike; but on the sea it strikes me that there is a slight difference.”
The other boys said nothing, but there arose involuntarily in the mind of each a feeling not exactly of envy, but at least a fervent wish that the resemblance which Bruce spoke of should exist on the water as well as on the land.
“I suppose it’s a yacht,” said Bart.
“Or a cruiser,” said Arthur.
“Nothin of the kind,” said Captain Corbet. “That thar craft ain’t anythin more than a Gloucester fishing schewner.”
“A fishing schooner?”
“Course; an why not? Why, them Gloucester skippers make themselves comfortable; they know how to do it, tew, an this chap is jest like the rest. He makes himself comfortable, keeps his schewner like a palace or a parlor, an don’t let even so much as the scale of a red herrin be seen about.”
The boys went ashore in the boat. Bruce then returned for Captain Corbet, who was touched by this small attention. As Bart and the rest waited on the beach, they noticed a small, neat, freshly-painted boat drawn up not far away, which needed not the name of Fawn on the stern to assure them that it could belong to nothing else than the smart schooner. While they were looking at it and admiring it, a man advanced towards them, who regarded them with a puzzled and curious expression.
He was a man of middle age and medium stature, with clean-shaven face, close-cut hair, and keen gray eye. He wore a dark-blue frock coat and wide-awake hat, and did not seem at all like a seaman; yet somehow the boys could not help feeling that this very neatly-dressed man must have something to do with the Fawn. He came up to them, and looked at them with a smile.
“Who in thunder are you, anyhow?” he exclaimed, at length. “I can’t make you out at all. You belong to that queer-looking tub out there, I see; but who you are and what you are after is beyond me.”
This style of address struck the boys as being rather uncivil; but the good-natured expression of the stranger’s face showed that no incivility was meant, and won their hearts at once.
“O, well,” said Bart, with a laugh, “you must never judge by appearances, you know. We’re not a fishing vessel. In fact, we’re a sort of chartered yacht, though we’re a very unpretending sort of yacht, and we don’t go in for show. We’re a schooner, cruising about in a plain, off-hand, homely manner for pleasure, and all that sort of thing.”
At this the stranger burst into a shout of laughter, which was so cheery, and so hearty, and so good-natured, that the boys found it impossible to resist its contagion, and at length they all joined in also, though why they were laughing, or what they were laughing at, they had not the smallest idea in the world.
“Look here, boys,” exclaimed the stranger, at length, as soon as he had recovered from his laughter; “excuse me, but I can’t help it. I’ll knock under. I cave in. I don’t understand it at all. Have you a looking-glass aboard your tub out there? Has any one of you any idea what he looks like? Or have you ever examined one another?”
At this the boys could not help looking at one another, and at themselves, and at this survey they began to perceive what they had not at all suspected—that they were one and all a most disreputable-looking crowd. Their clothes were torn and stained with mud, and gave signs in every seam and fibre of long scrambles through wood and water, and long struggles with the elements. But, in fact, no one of them had thought of this until this moment, when they found themselves confronted and laughed at by this well-dressed stranger.
“It ain’t the shabbiness,” cried the stranger, “that upsets me, but it’s the contrast—such faces looking at me out of such clothes! Do your mothers know you are out? or, in other words, boys, do your parents know the particular way in which you are moving about the world?”
“O, well,” said Bart, “we’re not a vain vessel, you know. We’re only a plain, simple, matter-of-fact potato schooner, out for a holiday, and on the lookout for a little fun. We’re not proud, and so, perhaps, being a potato schooner, it’s just as well not to be too particular about clothes. We’ve always been told not to think too much about dress; and besides, this sort of thing is ever so much more convenient for roughing it, you know.”
“Well, boys,” said the stranger, “I dare say you looked very well when you started; and after all, clothes are not the most important thing. At any rate, I’m glad to meet you! How d’ye do, all? I’m glad to see you! How d’ye do? I’d like to know you. My name’s Ferguson, Tobias Ferguson, and I’m skipper of that there craft, the Fawn.”
Saying this, he shook hands with every one of the boys in succession, asked their names, their ages, their place of abode, the names, occupations, and ages of their parents, and then proceeded to inquire about their adventures thus far, and their intentions in the future. By this time Bruce had returned from the vessel with Captain Corbet, to whom Ferguson at once made himself known; and thus in a short time he had come to be on intimate terms with all the party.
“I just dropped in here to Magdalen,” said he, frankly, “to fix up the Fawn a bit. ’Tain’t much of a place, any ways. The people air a lot of beggarly, frog-eating Frenchmen, that follow fashions as old as Adam. When Adam delved and Eve span, as the old verse says, they had a plough and a spindle, and that thar identical plough and spindle air still in use here among these here French. You can’t make em use anythin else. Why, I’ve been here dozens of times, and I’ve tried, to get em to give up their old-fashioned ways, and be up to the age. I’ve showed em our way of doin things. No go. Not a mite of use. Might as well talk to a stone wall. They’ll never get out of the old rut. And see what they’re doin here! Why, only look around you! Magdalen Islands! Why, this locality is one of the most favored on this green earth. In the middle of this gulf, right in the track of ships, it is in a position to enter upon a career of progress that might make this place one of the most flourishing in the world. They might control the whole fish trade; they might originate new modes of fishing. Why, look at me! I’ve tried to get em to start factories, build railroads, steamboats, common schools, hotels, newspapers, electric telegraphs, and other concomitants of our nineteenth century civilization. And what’s the result? Why, nothing. I might as well talk to the wind. Railroads! electric telegraphs! Why, you might as well ask them to build a bridge to the moon! Well, all I can say is, that these here Magdalen Islands won’t ever be anythin till they fall in with the sperrit of the age. Them’s my sentiments.”
“Railroads!” cried Bart. “Why, what could they do with a railroad?”
“Do?” exclaimed Ferguson. “Why, develop their resources, promote trade, facilitate intercourse, and keep themselves abreast with the age.”
“But there are not more than a couple of thousand people on the islands,” said Bart.
“Well, what’s the odds? So much the more reason for them to be up and doin,” retorted Ferguson, with some warmth. “They’re all as poor as rats; and a railroad is the only thing that can save them from eventooly dyin out.”
The boys looked at the stranger in some perplexity, for they did not know whether he’ could really be in earnest or not. But from Ferguson’s face and manner they could gather nothing whatever. He seemed perfectly serious, and altogether in earnest.
“Yes, sir,” he repeated, emphatically, “these here Magdalen Islands’ll never be wuth anythin till they get a railroad. Them’s my sentiments.”
A new Acquaintance,—The Islands of the Sea,—Making Friends,—The Natives,—A Festival,—Efforts at Conversation in an unknown Tongue, —Corbet’s Baby Talk,—Experiments of Bart and Tim,—Pat comes to Grief.—Overthrow of the French,—Arrival of the Skipper on the Scene, —He means Business.
FINDING that their new acquaintance was so very friendly, and communicative, and all that, the boys thought that it would be a good thing to find out from him something about the various islands which they proposed visiting. Ferguson declared that he knew as much about the Gulf of St. Lawrence as any man living, and could tell them all they wanted to know.
“What sort of a place is St. Paul’s Island,” asked Arthur.
The skipper shook his head in silence. “Is St. Pierre worth visiting?”
“Well—scarcely,” said the other.
“What sort of a place is Anticosti?” asked Bruce.
“Well, you’d best not go within fifty miles of that thar island.”
“What sort of a place is Sable Island?” asked Bart.
“Sable Island!” exclaimed the skipper, staring at them in astonishment.
“Yes, Sable Island.”
“You mean Cape Sable Island.”
“No; we mean Sable Island.”
The skipper looked at them all with a solemn face.
“Well, boys,” said he, “as to visiting Sable Island, all I’ve got to say is, I hope you’ll never begin to try it on Sable Island. Why, Sable Island’s one of the places that seafarin’ men try never to visit, and pray never to get nearer than a hundred miles to. Sable Island! Boys,” he continued, after a pause, “don’t ever speak of that again; don’t even think of it. Give it up at once and forever. I only hope that you won’t be brought to pay a visit there in spite of yourselves, a thing which I’m afraid you’re very likely to do if you go cruisin’ about in an old tub like that much longer. Not but what Sable Island mightn’t be improved—that is, if the inhabitants only had any enterprise, and the government that owns it was alive to the wants of the age.”
“‘Inhabitants!” said Bart; “why, there’s only the keeper and his family.”
The skipper waved his hand.
“Grant all that,” said he. “Very well. They’re a nucleus, at any rate, and can give tone and character to the future Sable Islanders. Now, what your government ought to do with Sable Island is this. They’d ought to make a good breakwater, first and foremost, so as to have decent harbor accommodation for passing vessels. Then they’d ought to connect it with the main land with a submarine cable, so that the place needn’t be quite so isolated, and have regular lines of steamers runnin’ backard and forard. Well, then they ought to get up a judicious emigration scheme, and that thar island would begin to go ahead in a style that would make you fairly open your eyes. Why, in ten years, if this plan was carried out, they’d be building a railroad,—a thing that is needed there more than most anywheres, the island bein so uncommon long and narrow,—and that bein done, why, Sable Island would begin to come abreast of the nineteenth century, instead of hanging back in the middle ages.”
After some further conversation of a similar character, the skipper proposed to show the boys about the country, and introduce them to some of the “aristocracy.”
“And there,” said he, “is one of them, now. It’s the priest—and a precious fine fellow he is, any how, and no mistake. He is priest, governor general, magistrate, constable, policeman, Sunday school teacher, town clerk, schoolmaster, newspaper, lawyer, doctor, notary public, census taker, and fifty other things all rolled into one. He is the factotum of the Magdalen Islands. They come to him for everything: to baptize their infants, to marry their young couples, and to bury their dead. They go to mass on Sundays, and on week days they go to him for advice and assistance in everything. He visits the sick, and administers medicine as doctor, or extreme unction as priest. He settles all their quarrels better than any judge or jury, and there never ain’t any appeal thought of from his decision. Now, all this is what I call a species of despotism,—it’s one man power, but it suits these poor benighted frog-eatin heathen,—and, besides, it’s no more a despotism than the father of a family exercises. It’s patriarchal—that’s what it is. It’s wonderful, too, how much honor the young people hereabouts pay to their fathers, and grandfathers, and elders genrally. I never knowed anythin like it in all my born days. Well, now, boys, mind you, all this is goin to be upset. Some day they’ll be appointin magistrates here, and doctors will come, and lawyers; then this little community will all be sot by the ears, and—and they’ll enter upon a career of boundless progress. They’ll get the ballot-box, and the newspaper, and all the concomitants of modern civilization; the present patriarchal system’ll be played out, and the spirit of the age will reign and rule over them.”
By the time the skipper had given utterance to this, they had approached the priest. He was a mild, venerable man, with a meek face and a genial smile. He spoke English very well, shook hands with all, and listened to the skipper’s explanations about their present visit.
“And now, boys, I’ll leave you for the present,” said the skipper, “to the care of Father Leblanc, who will do the honors of the island. I’ve got to go aboard the Fawn to fix up a few things. We’ll meet again in the course of the day.”
With these words he went down to the beach. The shabbiness of the costume of the boys had already excited the remarks of the skipper, but the good Father Leblanc soon saw that in spite of this they were clever and intelligent.
“We do not often have,” said he, “at this place visitors above the rank of fishermen, and we have never before had any visitors like you. I can assure you a welcome, dear boys, from all the good people here. There is to be a f锚te to-day in honor of the marriage of two of my flock. Would you like to go? If so, I invite you most cordially, and assure you of a welcome.”
This unexpected invitation, thus kindly given, was accepted with undisguised eagerness; and thereupon the boys accompanied the priest, who first of all went to his own home, where he offered them some simple refreshments. The priest’s home was a small cottage of very unpretending exterior, and very similar to all the other cottages; but inside there were marks of refined taste and scholarly pursuits. A few Latin and Greek classics were on a small book-shelf. There was an harmonium, with some volumes of sacred music, and here and there were some volumes which were of a theological character. The entertainment of the priest consisted of some coffee, which the boys were surprised to find, and which they afterwards unanimously pronounced to be “perfectly delicious,” and some fresh eggs, with immaculate bread and butter.
After chatting with the boys for about an hour, the priest announced that it was time to start, as their destination was on the opposite side of the island. They accordingly set out at once, and walked along the slope of a hill. There was no road, but only a footpath, which served all the purposes of the Magdalen Islanders, in spite of the skipper’s theories about a railway. On the way the priest entertained them with stories of his life on these secluded islands, of the storms of winter, of the ice blockade, of the perils of the sea, of the vast solitude of the surrounding gulf, where in winter no ship ever ventures. Yet in spite of the loneliness, he affirmed that no one here had any sense of desolation, for it seemed to all of the inhabitants, just as it seems to the inhabitants of other countries, that this home of theirs was the centre of the universe, and all other lands strange, and drear, and unattractive.
At length they reached their destination. It was a cottage of rather larger size than usual, and it seemed as if the whole population of the island had gathered here. Tables were spread in the open air, and a barrel of cider was on tap. As they drew near they heard the sound of a fiddle, and saw figures moving about in a lively dance. Old men, young men, women, girls, and children were all laughing, talking, dancing, or playing. It was a scene full of a curious attractiveness, and exhibited in a striking way the irrepressible gayety that characterizes the French wherever they go.
At their approach the laughter and the dance ceased for a time, and the company welcomed the good priest with smiles and kindly words. The boys also came in for a share of the hospitable welcome, and as soon as the priest had explained who they were, they were at once received as most welcome and honored guests. Unfortunately the boys could not speak a word of French, and the people could not speak a word of English, so that there was not that freedom of intercourse between the two parties which might have been desirable; but the priest did much to bring about this interchange of feelings by acting as interpreter, and the boys also by gestures or by smiles endeavored, not without some success, to make known their feelings for themselves.
The boys soon distributed themselves about at random, and the good people never ceased to pay delicate little attentions to them by offering them coffee or cakes, by uttering a few words in the hope that they might be understood, or, if words were wanting, they took refuge in smiles. But words were not wanting, and different members of the party made violent efforts to break through the restraints which a foreign language imposed, and express their feelings more directly.
Thus Captain Corbet, who had accompanied the party, finding himself hospitably entertained by a smiling old Frenchman, endeavored to make known the joy of his heart.
“Coffee,” said he, tapping his cup and grinning.
“Oui, oui,” said the Frenchman.
“Coffee dood—pooty—nicey—O, velly nicey picey.”
Captain Corbet evidently was falling back upon his “baby talk,” under the impression that it would be more intelligible to a foreigner. But this foreigner did not quite understand him. He only shrugged his shoulders.
“Cooky—cakey—nicey,” continued Captain Corbet, in, an amiable tone. “All dood—all nicey—velly.”
And he again paused and smiled.
“Plait-il?” said the Frenchman, politely.
“Plate? O, no, no plate for me, an thank you kindly all the same.”
The Frenchman looked at him in a bewildered way, but still smiled.
“Vouley vous du pain?” he asked, at length.
“Pan?” said Captain Corbet; “pan? Course not. What’d I do with a pan?—but thankin you all the same, course.”
The Frenchman relapsed into silence.
“It was a pooty ’itile tottage,” said Captain Corbet, resuming his baby talk, “an a pooty tompany, an it was all dood—pooty—nicey.”
But the Frenchman didn’t understand a word, and so at length Captain Corbet, with a sigh, gave up the attempt.
Meanwhile the others were making similar endeavors. Tom had got hold of a French boy about his own age.
“Parley vous Fran莽ais,” said Tom, solemnly.
“Oui,” said the French boy.
“Oui, moosoo,” said Tom.
The French boy smiled.
“Merci, madame,” continued Tom, boldly.
The boy stared.
“Nong—tong—paw,” proceeded Tom, in a business-like manner.
Of this the boy could evidently make nothing.
But here Tom seemed to have reached the limit of his knowledge of French, and the conversation came to a sudden and lamentable end.
Bart had carried on for some time an interesting conversation with smiles and gestures, when he too ventured into audible words.
“Bon!” said he, in an impressive manner; and then touching the breast of the boy to whom he was speaking, he continued, “You—tu—you know—you’re bon;” then, laying his hand on his heart, he said, “me bon;” then, pointing to the cup, “coffee bon;” then sweeping his hand around, he added, “and all bon—house bon, company bon, people bon.”
“Ah, oui,” cried the boy. “Oui, je vous comprends. Aha, oui, la bonne compagnie, le bon peuple—”
“Bon company, bon people, bon company, bon people,” cried Bart, delighted at his success in getting up a conversation; “bon coffee, too; I tell you what, it’s the bonnest coffee that I’ve tasted for many a long day.”
At this the boy looked blank.
“Parley vous Fran莽ais?” asked Bart, in an anxious tone.
“Oui,” said the boy.
“Well, then, I don’t,” said Bart; “but the moment I get home I intend to study it.”
And at this stage Bart’s conversation broke down.
Pat chose another mode of accomplishing the same end. Captain Corbet had been acting on the theory that foreigners were like babies, and could understand baby talk. Pat, in addition to this, acted on the theory that they were deaf, and had to be addressed accordingly. So, as he was refreshing himself with coffee and cakes, he drew a little nearer to the old woman who had poured it out for him, and bent down his head. The old woman was at that moment intent upon her coffeepot, and did not notice Pat. Suddenly Pat, with his mouth close to her ear, shouted out with a perfect yell,—
“Bully for you! and thank you kindly, marm!”
With a shriek of terror the startled old woman sprang up and fell backward. The chair on which she had been sitting, a rather rickety affair, gave way and went down. The old lady fell with the chair upon the ground, and lay for a moment motionless. Pat, horror-struck, stood confounded, and stared in silence at the ruin he had wrought. The bystanders, alarmed at the shout and shriek, crowded around, and for a moment there was universal confusion. Among the bystanders was the priest. To him Pat turned in his despair, and tried to explain. The priest listened, and then went to see about the old woman. Fortunately she had fallen on the soft turf, and was not at all hurt. She was soon on her feet, and another chair was procured, in which she seated herself. The priest then explained the whole affair. Pat was fully forgiven, and the harmony of the festival was perfectly restored. But Pat’s laudable efforts at maintaining a conversation had received so severe a check that he did not open his mouth for the rest of the day.
The festival went on. Fun and hilarity prevailed all around. The dancing grew more and more vigorous. At length the contagion spread to the elder ones of the party, and the boys were astonished to see old men stepping forth to skip and dance about the green; then old women came forward to take a part, until, at length, all were dancing. The boys stood as spectators, until at length Bart determined to throw himself into the spirit of the scene. He therefore found a partner, and plunged into the dance. The others followed. Captain Corbet alone remained, seated near a table, viewing the scene with his usual benevolent glance.
In the midst of this festive scene the skipper approached. He walked with rapid steps, and, without hesitating an instant, seized a partner and flung himself, with all the energy of his race, into the mazy dance.
“I don’t often dance, boys,” he remarked, afterwards, “but when I do, I mean business.”
It was evident that on this occasion the skipper did mean business. He danced more vigorously than any. He jumped higher; he whirled his partner round faster; he danced with more partners than any other, for he went through the whole assemblage, and led out every female there, from the oldest woman down to the smallest girl.
Most of the time he chatted volubly, and flung out remarks which excited roars of laughter. He won all hearts. He was, in fact, an immense success. The boys wondered, for they had not imagined that he could speak French.
He alluded to this afterwards.
“We have a natral affinity with the French down in New England,” said he. “When America was first colonized, our forefathers had to fight the French all the time. The two races were thus brought into connection. Our forefathers thus caught from the French that nasal twang with which the uneducated still speak English. You find that twang among the uneducated classes all over the British provinces and New England. It’s French—that’s what it is. Corbet and I are both uneducated men, and we both speak English with the French twang. I speak French first rate; and Corbet there could speak it first rate also, if he only knew the language perfectly.”
These remarks the boys did not quite know how to take. The skipper seemed to have a bantering way with him, and spoke so oddly that it was impossible for them to make out half of the time whether he was in earnest or only in jest.
Friendly Advice and dismal Forebodings.—Once more upon the Waters, yet once more.—Due North.—A Calm.—The Calm continues.—A terrible Disclosure.—Despair of Corbet.—Solomon finds his Occupation gone.—Taking Stock.—Short Allowance.
ANOTHER day was passed very pleasantly at the Magdalen Islands, and then the boys concluded that they had seen about all that there was to be seen in this place. As the question where next to go arose, they Concluded to ask the skipper.
“Well, boys,” said he, “in the first place, let me ask you if you’ve ever heard of Anticosti?”
“Of course we have,” said Bart.
“Well, don’t go there; don’t go near it; don’t go within fifty mile of it; don’t speak of it; don’t think of it; and don’t dream of it. It’s a place of horror, a howling wilderness, the abomination of desolation, a haunted island, a graveyard of unfortunate sailors. Its shores are lined with their bones. Don’t you go and add your young bones to the lot. You can do far better with them.”
“Well, where do you advise us to go?” asked Arthur.
The skipper thought for a few moments without answering.
“Well,” said he, “you know Sable Island.”
“Yes,” said Bart, in some surprise.
“Well,” said the skipper, impressively, “don’t go there; don’t go within a hundred miles of it; don’t speak of it; don’t think of it; don’t dream of it.”
“But you’ve said all that to us before,” said Bruce. “We want to know where we are to go, not where we are not to go.”
“Well,” said the skipper, “I am aware that I’ve said all this before, and I say it a second time, deliberately, for the simple purpose of impressing it upon your minds. There’s nothin like repetition to impress a thing on the memory; and so, if you ever come to grief on Anticosti, or on Sable Island, you’ll remember my warnin, and you’ll never feel like blamin me.”
“But where ought we to go?” asked Bruce.
“Well, that’s the next point. Now, I’ve been thinkin’ all about it, and to my mind there ain’t any place in all this here region that comes up to the Bay of Islands, Newfoundland.”
“The Bay of Islands?”
“Yes, the Bay of Islands, on the west coast of Newfoundland. It’s a great place. I’ve been there over and over, and I know it like a book. Thousands of vessels go there every season. It’s one of the best harbors in the gulf. It’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. The air is bracing, the climate salubrious, the scenery inviting; and it only needs a first-class hotel with all the modern improvements in order to become a number one waterin-place. Yes, by ginger!” he continued, “you plant a first-class hotel there, and let that there place become known, and there’s nothin to prevent it from goin ahead of Long Branch or Newport, or any other place you can mention.
“Then,” continued the skipper, “if you wanted to go any further, you might go up the Straits of Belle Isle, and round Newfoundland. If you had time, you might take a run over to Greenland; it’s gettin to be quite a place, a fashionable resort in the hot summer; but perhaps you won’t have time, and won’t care about doin more than cruisin round Newfoundland, and then home.”
Once more the skipper’s tone seemed somewhat extravagant to the boys, and they did not know how to take it.
“O, well,” said Bart, “we don’t want to go to Greenland this season. When we do go there, we shall probably go for good; but just now, we want to confine ourselves to the gulf. If you can really recommend the Bay of Islands, perhaps we had better go there; that is,” added Bart, “unless you think we had better go to Iceland.”
The skipper looked at Bart for a few moments in silence, and a smile gradually passed over his face.
“Well,” said he, after a pause, “that’s the identical place that I was just going to recommend, when you took the words out of my mouth. The fact is, boys, with that old tub of yours you might as well go to Iceland as anywhere else. Every time I look at it I am thunderstruck. What were your fathers and mothers thinkin of when they let you come away up here in such an old rattle-trap?—an old tub that isn’t worth being condemned! Do you think you’ll ever get home again in her? Not you. Do you know where that old tub’s bound to go before the end of this season? Down to the bottom of the sea; and if you don’t go in her, you may bless your lucky stars. I only wish I wasn’t otherwise engaged. I’d make you all clear out at once, and come aboard the Fawn.”
Captain Corbet was not present, and did not hear these insulting reflections upon his beloved Antelope, and therefore was spared the pain which they would have caused to his aged bosom; but the boys were not the ones to listen to such insinuations in silence. The Antelope was dear to them from past associations, and they all began at once to vindicate her character. They talked long and eloquently about her. They spoke of her speed, soundness, and beauty. They told of her performances thus far.
At all of which the skipper only grinned.
“Mark my words, boys,” said he; “that there tub is goin to the bottom.”
“Well, if she does, she’ll get up again,” said Bart.
The opinions of the two parties were so different that any further debate was useless. The skipper believed that they were bound for the bottom of the sea; the boys on the contrary had faith in the Antelope. The end of it all was, that they concluded to take the skipper’s advice in part, and sail for the Bay of Islands. This place was one which they all were desirous of visiting, and they thought that when they had gone that far, they could then decide best where next to go.
They were to leave the next morning. That evening they took leave of the friendly skipper.
“Boys,” said he, “I’m afraid we’ll never meet again; but if you do get back safe from this perilous adventure of yours, and if any of you ever happen to be at Gloucester, Massachusetts, I do wish you’d look me up, and let me know. I’d give anything to see any one of you again.”
With these words the skipper shook hands with each one of them heartily, and so took his leave.
Early on the following morning the Antelope spread her sails and began once more to traverse the seas, heading towards the north. The wind was fair, and all that day they moved farther and farther away from the Magdalen Islands, until at length towards evening they were lost to view in distance and darkness.
On the next day they were all up early. They saw all around a boundless expanse of water. No land was anywhere visible, and not a sail was in sight. This was a novelty to the boys, for never yet had any of them had this experience in the Antelope. Some of them had been out of sight of land, it is true; but then they were in large ships, or ocean steamers. Being in such a situation in a craft like the Antelope, was a far different thing. Yet none of them felt anything like anxiety, nor had the slurs of the skipper produced any effect upon their affectionate trust in their gallant bark, and in their beloved Captain Corbet.
Certainly on the present occasion there was little enough cause for anxiety about the sea-worthiness of the Antelope. The sea was as smooth as a mirror, and its glassy surface extended far and wide around them. There was not a breath of air stirring. They learned from Wade that the wind had gradually died away between sundown and midnight, until it had ceased altogether. They were now in a dead calm.
None of the party was very well pleased at this. They all wished to be moving. They disliked calms, and would have much preferred a moderate gale of wind. The Antelope, however, was here, and there was no help for it. She was far away from land. She lay gently rising and falling, as the long ocean rollers raised her up and let her down; and her sails flapped idly in the still air, at the motion of the vessel. The boys did the best they could under the circumstances, and tried to pass away the time in various ways. Some of them tried to sleep; others extemporized a checker-board, and played till they were tired; others walked up and down, or lounged about. All of them, however, found their chief employment in one occupation, and that was eating. Ever since they had been on the water their appetites had been sharpened; and now that they had nothing else to do, the occupation of eating became more important and engrossing. To prolong the repast while it was before them as far as possible, and then to anticipate the next, were important aids towards killing the time.
All that day the calm continued: on going to bed that night, the boys confidently looked forward to a change of weather on the following day. The night was calm. The following day came. They were all up betimes. To their deep disappointment they found no change whatever. There was the same calm, the same unruffled sea, the same cloudless sky. Not a sail was visible anywhere, and of course there was no sign of land on any quarter.
The second day the time hung more heavily on their hands. Some of them proposed fishing; but they had no hooks, and moreover no bait. Pat proposed fashioning a spike into a hook; fastening it on a line, and fishing for sharks, and worked all day at a rusty spike for this purpose. Unfortunately, he could not get it sharp enough, and so he had at length to give it up.
Captain Corbet was perhaps the most impatient of all; and this seemed singular to the boys, who thus far had known him only as the most patient and the most enduring of men.
On this occasion, however, his patience seemed to have departed. He fidgeted about incessantly. He kept watching the sea, the sky, and the horizon, and occupied himself for hours in all the various ways common among seamen, who indulge in the superstitious practice of trying to “raise the wind.” One mode consisted in standing in one position motionless for half an hour or more, watching the horizon, and whistling: another was a peculiar snapping of the fingers; another was the | burning of some hairs pulled from his own venerable head. These and other similar acts excited intense interest among the boys, and helped to make the time pass less slowly. Unfortunately, not one of these laudable efforts was successful, and the obstinate wind refused to be “raised.”
That day the boys detected something in their meals which seemed like a decline of skill on the part of Solomon. There was a falling off both in the quantity and in the quality of the eatables. Only four potatoes graced the festive board, and a piece of corned beef that was quite inadequate to their wants. The tea was weak, and there was very little sugar. There was only a small supply of butter, and this butter seemed rather unpleasantly dirty.
On the following day all this was explained. Hurrying up on deck at early dawn, they saw the scene unchanged. Above was the cloudless sky, all around the glassy sea, and before them stood Captain Corbet, the picture of despair. By his side stood Solomon, with his hands clasped together, and his head hanging down.
“It’s all my fault, boys,” said Captain Corbet, with something like a groan. “I was to blame: But I declare, I clean forgot. And yet what business had I to forget? my fustest and highest duty bein to remember. And here we air!”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Tom, who, like all the rest was struck by Captain Corbet’s despairing attitude and words.
“I won’t hide it any longer, boys,” said he; “it’s this calm. I didn’t calculate on bein becalmed. I thought only of head winds, and then we could hev put back easy; but a calm! Why, what can you do?”
“Hide it?” Cried Bruce. “Hide what? What do you mean by this? What would you want to put back for?”
Captain Corbet groaned.
“For—for pro—provisions, dear boys,” he said mournfully, and with an effort.
“Provisions!” repeated Bruce, and looked very blank indeed. All the boys exchanged glanced, which were full of unutterable things. There was silence for some time.
Tom was the first to break it.
“Well, what have we?” he, asked, in his usual cheery voice. “Come captain, tell us what there is in the larder.”
“Ask Solomon,” said Captain Corbet, mournfully.
“Well, Solomon, tell us the worst,” said Tom.
But Solomon would not or could not speak. He raised his head, looked wildly around, and then hurried away.
Captain Corbet looked after him, and heaved a heavy sigh.
“Wal, boys,” said he, “the fact is, Solomon and me, we’ve been talkin it all over. You see, he considers himself cook, and cook only, and looks to me for the material. It’s all my fault. I forgot. I thought there was lots till yesterday mornin. Then Solomon told me how it was. I’d ort to have laid in a supply before leavin Bay de Chaleur; but as I said, I forgot. And as for Solomon, why, he’s been calmly a continooin of his cookery, same as if he was chief cook of a fust-class hotel, and all the time he was in a becalmed schewner. He told me all about it yesterday mornin; but I says, ‘Don’t tell the boys; mebbe the wind’ll change, and I’ll sail for the nighest port.’ So he didn’t, except so far as you might have guessed, from the meals which he served up; pooty slim they were too; but he did his best.”
“Well,” said Tom, with unaltered self-possession, “it would have been better for us to have known this yesterday morning; but that can’t be helped. So we have no more provisions?”
“Precious little,” said Captain Corbet, mournfully.
“Have we any?” asked Tom.
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “the tea’s all gone; and the coffee, and all the potted meats, and the apples, and the taters, and the turnips and carrots, and all the vegetables, and the smoked provisions, and you had the last mite of corned beef yesterday.”
“But what is there left?” asked Tom.
“Only two or three papers of corn starch,” said Captain Corbet, with an effort, “and, I believe, a half box of raisins, and a little rice.”
“And nothing else?”
“Not a hooter,” said Captain Corbet, despairingly.
Tom was silent. The boys all looked at one another with anxious faces, and then began to talk over the situation.
The result was, that first of all they made Solomon produce everything in the shape of eatables that remained on board. Solomon ransacked the vessel, and laid everything out on the cabin table.
It was not a very large supply, and the display created additional uneasiness in the minds of the boys.
There were,—
3 papers of corn starch, 1 lb. each.
1 ham bone.
l box raisins.
1 lb. rice.
6 biscuits.
1 bowl soup.
4 carrots.
1 potato, turnip.
2 apples.
1 oz. tea.
This was all—absolutely all on board the Antelope for the sustenance of no less than nine human beings, all of whom were blessed with excellent appetites. Fortunately, there was a sufficient supply of fresh water, so that there was no trouble on that score.
But this supply of food, even when husbanded with the greatest care, could scarcely last more than one day,—and here they were in the middle of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and becalmed!
The circumstances in which they were, excited the deepest anxiety in the minds of all. A grave and earnest discussion followed as to the best course to be pursued. First of all, they all resolved to deny themselves as far as possible, and make their supply of provisions last three days. This could be done by making a very thin soup out of the ham bone with the potato and turnip. The raisins were to be cooked with the corn starch and rice, in one general mess, which was to be carefully divided day by day. The biscuits, carrots, and apples were to be reserved.
After this they decided to try and construct something like oars, and propel the Antelope in that manner.
The provisions were divided and cooked in accordance with this decision. They all went without breakfast, for they had decided to eat but one meal per day. At midday they partook of this important meal, which consumed one third of their whole stock. But little was afforded out of that one meal for each individual, and each one felt able to consume the whole repast, instead of the beggarly ninth part which fell to him. Poor Captain Corbet refused at first to eat, and so did Solomon, for each reproached himself as the cause of the present famine; but the boys put a stop to this by refusing also to eat, and thus compelled Solomon and the captain to take the allotted nourishment.
As to the oars or sweeps, the plan proved a total failure. There was nothing on board which could be used for that purpose. There was but one small oar for the boat, and they could find nothing else that could serve for an oar except the spars of the schooner, and they were not quite prepared to resort to these. Even if they had done so, there was not an axe or a hatchet on board with which to fashion them into the requisite shape. There was, in fact, no tool larger than a pocket knife, except perhaps the table knives, and they were too dull.
The calm continued.
Thus the first day of their famine passed.
They went to bed hungry.
They awaked famished, and found the calm still continuing. There was no breakfast for them. The long hours passed slowly. In vain Captain Corbet whistled for a wind. The wind came not.
Dinner was served at midday. Each one ate his meagre share. Each one felt that this repast only tantalized his appetite, rather than satisfied it. Solomon was in despair. Captain Corbet heaped upon himself never-ending reproaches. Wade sat stolid and starving on the deck. The boys stared, with hungry eyes, around the horizon.
There was not a sign of land; there was not a sail to be seen.
So the second day passed away.
The third Day.—A strange Sail.—Below the Horizon.—Making Signals.—No Answer.—Weary Waiting.—Starvation stares them in the Face.—A long Day.—Hope dying out.—A long Discussion upon the Situation.—The last Meal.—Bruce and Bart come to a desperate Determination.—The secret Resolve.
THE third day came.
The boys slept soundly during the night, and were up early. As they took their first look all around, their feelings were those of deep despondency; for far and wide, as before, there was nothing visible but the smooth sea and the cloudless sky. The calm continued, and all the east was glowing with the fiery rays of the rising sun.
Suddenly there was a cry from Phil.
“A ship! A ship!”
“Where? Where?” asked all the others.
“There! There!” cried Phil, in intense excitement, pointing towards the east, where the fiery sky rose over the glowing water. Looking in the direction where he pointed, they all saw it plainly. It was indeed as he said. It was a ship, and it was now plainly visible, though at first, on account of the glare, none of them had noticed it but Phil. As they stood and looked at it, every one of them was filled with such deep emotions of joy and gratitude that not a word was said. Captain Corbet was the first to break the solemn silence.
“Wal, I declar,” said he, “it’s ben so dim all along that I didn’t notice her; and then it kine o’ got so bright that the glare dazzled my eyes; but there she is, sure enough; and now all we’ve got to do is to manage to get into communication with her.”
The boys made no answer, but stood looking in silence. Every minute the glare lessened; then the sun rose, and as it ascended above the horizon, the form of the strange ship became fully revealed.
It was a ship apparently of considerable size; but her hull was low down in the water, and only her masts were visible. She seemed to lie below the horizon, yet was as plain to the eye as though she had been only five miles away.
“Well, boys,” said Bruce, at length, “I don’t know how you feel, but for my part I feel like taking the boat and going off to her at once. I’m sick of this fare, and should like to get a good breakfast. What do you think, captain?”
Captain Corbet shook his head.
“Wal,” said he, “I don’t exactly seem to see my way clear to approvin of you takin a row for such a matter as twenty mile or so. We’d never see you again.”
“Twenty miles!” exclaimed Bruce. “Why, it doesn’t look like more than two.”
The captain smiled.
“Why, you can’t see more of her than her masts,” replied Captain Corbet; “and a ship that’s down below the horizon far enough to hide her hull is a pooty good distance off—twenty mile, at least.”
At this Bruce was silent. Captain Corbet’s remarks were unanswerable, and he did not yet feel prepared to row so great a distance as twenty miles.
At length Bart went to the cabin, and returned with a spy-glass. This instrument did not belong to Captain Corbet, for the venerable navigator was strongly prejudiced against any such instruments, and the dimmer his eyes grew, the stronger grew those prejudices. It belonged, in fact, to Bruce, who had provided himself with it before leaving home. Armed with this, Bart took a long look at the stranger. Then he passed the glass to Bruce, and then all the boys, in turn, took a look.
The strange ship already appeared surprisingly distinct for a vessel that lay below the horizon; and on looking at her through the glass, this distinctness became more startling. Most of her sails were furled, or rather, there appeared to be no sails at all, except the jib. The fore and main-top gallant masts were gone. She appeared, indeed, to have encountered a storm, in which she had lost her spars, and the present calm seemed very little in accordance with her appearance.
The comments which the boys made upon the appearance of the stranger excited Captain Corbet’s curiosity to such a degree that he surmounted his prejudices, and condescended to look through the glass. His astonishment at the result was due rather to his own ignorance of glasses than to anything in the strange ship; but after he had become somewhat more familiar with the instrument, he began to pay attention to the object of his scrutiny.
“The fact is,” said he, after a long and careful search, “it doos railly look jest for all the world as if that thar craft has been in a storm, and lost her spars and sails. Perhaps he’s in distress. Perhaps they’re watching us more anxiously than we’re watching them.”
“I wonder if they can see us?” said Bruce.
“I’m afraid not,” said Bart, “we’re so small.”
“But they’ve got a glass.”
“Yes, and they’d be sweeping the horizon for help.”
“I wish we could get nearer.”
“If they’re hard up, they might row to us.”
“Is it any use to signalize, captain?” asked Tom.
“Not a mite,” said Captain Corbet. “You can’t signalize to a vessel so far away; at least I never heard of such a thing.”
“O, well, captain,” objected Bruce, “you see they have glasses. We could see any signals if they were to hoist them, and they can see us as well as we can see them, of course.”
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, thoughtfully, “perhaps they can; and if so, I’m sure I don’t see why we mayn’t try. So you may as well hist that thar flag o’ yourn, boys. It can’t do any harm, at any rate.”
This proposal was at once acted upon. Several of the boys sprang aft, and seizing the lines, began to lower and elevate, incessantly, the proud, yet somewhat battered banner of the B. O. W. C.—the banner whose pictured face had so often grinned at them through many an adventure, in storm and in calm. It gave them an occupation; it also served to excite hope; and so, for several hours, the flag never ceased to rise and fall,—the boys taking turns at it, and one relieving the other, so as to keep a fresh hand always at the work. This continued till midday; but at length they gave it up in disgust.
They gave it up because it had not produced the slightest result, nor excited the smallest attention; nor had the circumstances of their situation changed in any respect whatever. Far away lay the ship, and no more of her was visible. Nothing but her masts appeared to their eyes; not a particle of her hull could be seen. She seemed somewhat longer now, and some of them accounted for this on the ground that she had changed her position somewhat, and presented her broadside more than she had done in the morning.
The weather had not changed, nor were there any signs whatever of a change. The sky was still as cloudless as ever, and not the faintest fleck disturbed the expanse of blue that hung above them. The sea was unruffled, nor was there any puff of wind to agitate its surface.
Early in the morning, when that strange ship first appeared, they had hoped that a wind might arise before long to bring them together; or, if a wind did not come, that at least the currents of the sea might drift them into closer proximity; but now there began to arise a dark fear that, instead of drifting nearer together, they might be carried farther asunder, and that this strange ship, which had thus been borne so mysteriously to their sight during the darkness, might, on the advent of another day, be borne as mysteriously out of their sight. With anxious eyes they watched her form, testing it in every possible way, to discover whether the intervening space had increased or lessened. Some of the more desponding ones were convinced that they were drifting asunder; others, more hopeful, maintained that they were nearer; while others, again, asserted that their respective positions had not changed. And, in fact, it was evident from the very dispute itself, that the position of the two vessels had not very greatly altered.
Half of the day had passed. Another half remained; and after that, what? Night and darkness, and then how easily could they drift away from this stranger, on which they had been placing such hopes! How could they expect that the rest of the day would be any different from the beginning?
Midday had come, and this was the time for their single daily meal. Moreover, this meal was the last,—the last of the three portions which they had set aside for the consumption of three days.
Here arose a solemn question.
Should they eat up all of this last portion? or should they divide it into two parts, reserving something for the possible emergency of the next day? The moment that this was proposed, they all decided at once to reserve something, and not to devour at once all that was left. They determined to deny themselves for this day for the security of the morrow; and, hungry though they were, they preferred to have a meagre repast with hope, rather than a fuller repast with despair. And so their dinner was divided, and one portion set aside for the next day. Meagre indeed and inadequate was this repast for these long-fasting and ravenous boys; but there was no help for it; and as yet they had not quite reached the worst. They, therefore, all tried most strenuously to look on the bright side, make the best of their situation, and cheer one another with remarks of a hopeful and encouraging character.
Dinner was prolonged as far as possible. Then came the long hours of the afternoon. Gradually the efforts of the boys to keep up their own spirits and encourage one another grew feebler and feebler. From time to time they made faint efforts to find occupation for themselves, by resorting to the flag, and actively lowering and hoisting it. But the greater part of the time was spent in silently and sadly staring at the strange ship, sometimes through the glass, whenever they could get the chance, but generally without it. The remarks grew more and more infrequent. The hoplessness of their situation began to weigh down more and more the spirits of each, and at length they, one and all, relapsed into silence. Solomon kept out of sight. Wade sat, as usual, stolid and passive. Captain Corbet stood at the helm, looking in all directions, at sea and sky, with an unchanged expression of heart-broken melancholy. So the time passed.
The afternoon was far worse than the morning: in every respect. The moral tone of the whole party had declined, and the whole scene around presented no encouraging feature. In the morning they had been inspired by the hope of making communications with the ship, but now this hope died out more and more with every passing moment.
At length the sun went down, and then the shadows of the gloomy night followed slowly and steadily. One by one the shades passed over the distant ship, until at last they stood staring at the place where they had seen her, but where now they could see nothing but darkness. This completed their despondency, and the gloom around was commensurate with that which now fell darkly and desparingly over the soul of each.
For a long time they wandered up and down the deck. No one spoke. Each one was involved in his own gloomy thoughts. At length, one by one, they retired to their beds, with the hope of forgetting their cares in sleep.
Bruce and Bart were left on the deck alone. All the rest had gone below. Around all was dark. Both the boys were pacing up and down restlessly on opposite sides of the deck.
At length Bruce stopped. “Bart,” said he, in a low voice, “is that you?”
“Yes,” said Bart. “Look here. I’ve got something I want to tell you.”
At this Bart came up to him in silence.
“I don’t like this style of thing,” said Bruce.
“Why, what can we do?”
“O, never mind. I’ve got a plan. Do you think we couldn’t have been doing better all this day than staying here, moping our lives out?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, I mean the very thing that I proposed this morning.”
“What, to row to the ship?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“How can you row twenty miles?”
“Stuff and nonsense. She can’t be so far. Captain Corbet’s utterly mistaken.”
“Why, she’s below the horizon.”
“I don’t care. I judge from the looks of her. Do you believe you can see so plainly a ship that’s twenty miles away? Why, man alive, if she had a flag up you could almost make it out. For my part, I feel sure that she isn’t over five miles away at the very farthest. I haven’t the slightest doubt about it. Why, Bart, you and I are both accustomed enough to look at ships out on the water, and you can see for yourself that it’s simply impossible that this one can be so far away as twenty miles, or farther away than I say. All the morning I couldn’t help feeling puzzled, and concluded that it might be something in the atmosphere that magnified the ship, and made her seem so near,—like the mirage, you know; but, afterwards, I gave that up.”
“Well,” said Bart, after some thought, “I don’t know but what you’re about right, Bruce; but what are you going to do?”
“Well, we’ve got this night before us, and if the wind comes, why, of course we are all right. But suppose that the wind doesn’t come, and we find ourselves to-morrow morning as we did this morning, with that ship so near. Do you feel able to stand here all day, and watch, and wait, and then sit down to our last dinner? I don’t. Or suppose that we find ourselves gradually drifting away from her. No—I can’t stand it. I’ve made up my mind to row out to her. What do you say? Will you come with me?”
“I will,” said Bart, firmly. “I’ll go, even if it is twenty miles. I’d go forty, rather than live this day over again. But when do you propose to start?”
“I’ve been thinking it all over,” said Bruce. “My plan is this: We’ll get all ready to-night; that is, have the oars in the boat, and put in a couple of bottles of fresh water; besides, we can take with us about our share of the food that remains. Well, to-morrow morning, if the calm continues, the moment that we see the ship, we’ll start, and row for her. Why, if we had only done that this morning, by this time we’d have been on board of her, with a boat from the ship back here with provisions. Mind you, don’t think of twenty miles; it isn’t more than five at the very furthest—perhaps not over three or four.”
“All right. I’ll go. Do you intend to tell anybody?”
“No; not a soul. The rest of the fellows would insist on going; and it will be better for us two only to go; it will prevent confusion, and be the best for all concerned.”
“But how can we get away without their knowing it?”
“O, my idea is to push off from the schooner before any one is up, and then watch for the appearance of the ship by daylight. The moment we see her we can pull for her.”
“That seems pretty good,” said Bart, thoughtfully; “but it is a puzzle to me how that ship can be below the horizon, and yet not be farther off than five miles. She certainly did not look farther away than that. For my part, I don’t see how she could be less than ten miles at the least, so as to be so completely hidden. I forget the rule for the disappearance of a ship below the horizon; but there is something in this one that I can’t understand. Yet, as you say, judging by the appearance of her masts, one might imagine her to be not more than three or four miles off. After all, it must be mirage.”
“O, no; mirage doesn’t last all day long, without the slightest change.”
“You don’t know. It may in this case.”
“Well, of course I don’t pretend to understand all the freaks of the atmosphere; but all that I’ve ever read about the mirage shows that it is incessantly shifting and changing, and never lasts over an hour or so, at the furthest. Besides, in our latitudes, these peculiar appearances only take place in the morning.”
“Well, I don’t know,” said Bart. “At any rate, I shall be prepared for a row of at least ten miles.”
“All right. Make up your mind to that, and then you won’t be disappointed.”
“Shall you go to bed to-night, Bruce?”
“Of course.”
“But how can you wake?”
“O, I can wake whenever I like. I’ll wake you.”
“All right. About what time?”
“O, about an hour before daybreak; but come, let’s get things ready now.”
The boys then went about completing their preparations for their adventurous journey. These were but slight. They consisted in simply putting on board the boat, which was floating astern, two bottles of fresh water and a little of the provision which had been put aside for the next day.
After this they both retired.
On the following morning, at about three o’clock? Bruce laid his hand on Bart’s forehead. Bart awoke instantly. The two then went as softly as possible on deck. No one was there. All were below, sound asleep.
Silently, yet quickly, the two boys got into the boat, and then pushed off. There were two oars in the boat. Each took one, and then began to row. But, after a few strokes, Bruce took the oar from Bart, for the boat was too small for two oarsmen. So Bruce pulled very silently out into the darkness over the water, in the direction which they supposed would lead towards the strange ship. After rowing about a hundred yards Bruce stopped. Both boys now waited patiently till it should become light enough for them to see the ship.
Daybreak.—Startling Discovery.—The Boat gone.—Where are Bruce and Bart?—Dismay.—The long Row.—The distant Ship.—Below the Horizon.—Deep in the Water.—The shattered Sails.—Waterlogged!—Boarding the Stranger.—Discoveries of a Kind which are at once exciting and pleasing.
WITH the break of day the boys were all on deck. Their first impulse was to take a look around. They saw the reddening eastern sky and the smooth water all around them, and their hearts sank within them as they perceived that the wearisome calm still continued. They noticed, however, that the ship was still visible, and this was some consolation. It seemed now a little nearer than the day before.
“Captain,” said Tom, “we’ve got nearer to her: don’t you think so?”
The captain made no reply. Tom looked up, and repeated his remark. As he looked up, he saw Captain Corbet standing astern with a puzzled expression, and looking down into the water and all around.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom.
“The boat,” said Captain Corbet.
“What of her?”
“Some one’s been and stole her, or else she’s gone to the bottom, only the rope’s gone, too.”
“What! the boat!” cried Tom. “You don’t mean to say the boat’s gone!”
The other boys were startled at this, and hurried aft to look for themselves.
“I’m glad I wasn’t in her this time, at any rate,” said Tom, and then added in a melancholy voice, “but I suppose it wouldn’t make much difference now.”
The boys stood in silence for some time, not quite knowing how to take this new incident. At length Phil looked all around.
“Where’s Bart?” he asked, “and Bruce?”
“They’re not up,” said Tom. “Don’t wake them. Let them sleep as long as they can.”
“Up? They’re not down, either,” said Phil. “Their berths are empty.”
The boys all stared at each other. A suspicion flashed across their minds.
“Sure and if they’re not up nor down, they must be in the boat, and there you have it,” said Pat, dryly. “And it’s meself,” he added, “that ’ud be proud to be with thim this day.”
“The boat? But what for?” asked Phil.
“They must have started off for the ship,” said Tom, who-now understood all.
At this they all looked with eager eyes over the water in the direction of the ship. All thought that they could see a shadowy spot, but it was too indistinct as yet to be resolved into anything. After a few minutes Phil went below, and returned with the glass, through which he looked long and attentively.
“It’s them,” said he at last, passing the glass to Arthur.
Arthur looked, and then Tom, and then Pat, and then Captain Corbet. It grew brighter and brighter every moment, and at length, as Corbet looked, he saw the boat plainly for an instant; but the next moment the glare of the rising sun drove his eyes away. The sun rose and ascended higher, and still they could see the boys rowing with quick strokes very far away, while beyond lay the strange ship.
It was still as low down as ever, “below the horizon,” as Captain Corbet said, but was very much larger and plainer. Every one of them wondered how she could be in reality so far away as twenty miles. None of them spoke, however, but stood with varying feelings, staring in silence after their companions.
Of them all the most affected was Captain Corbet. At the first mention of the fact he had started, and after having assured himself of its truth with his own eyes, he exhibited every mark of the deepest agitation.
“Wal,” said he, as he stood with his head bowed upon his breast. “I never! Who’d a thought it! Why, its ravin madness. And them, too, thinkin of rowin to a ship that’s below the horizon. Twenty mile in that thar boat, if it’s an inch, and two mile an hour’s the most they can do. Why, it’s temptin fate. It’s flyin in the face of Providence. That’s what it is. That thar ship’s twenty mile away. The wind’ll come up before they get half way. They’ll never get there—never. And stealin off in this way, too! Why didn’t they get me to go with them? Why didn’t they ask my advice? And them, too, a trustin of their two perecious lives in that thar ferrail bark, that hadn’t ought ever to go more’n a mile at the furthest. And here am I, chained to this post, and can’t move, and them a rushin on to utter ruination. O, boys, dear boys,” he concluded, in a kind of wail, “for your sakes I want the wind to rise, but for their sakes I want it to contennew a calm.”
“O, captain, never fear,” said Arthur, cheerfully. “They’ll take care of themselves easy enough; and, in fact, the more I think of it, the better it seems.”
“I only wish I was in the boat,” said Tom, heartily.
“So do I,” said Phil.
“Sure and that same I said meself at the first,” said Pat.
Meanwhile Solomon had stood a little apart from the rest, looking after the boat, but manifesting very different emotions. His occupation being gone, he had come upon deck to see what the prospects might be, and had heard everything. Taking advantage of a moment when the glass was not in requisition, he had given a look towards the receding boat, and had assured himself by actual inspection of the facts of the case. The moment that he had done this he drew a long breath, laid down the glass, and then stood looking after the boys with a gentle smile irradiating his ebony face. From time to time he would close his eyes, sigh gently, and his lips would move as though whispering to himself, while once or twice a half audible chuckle escaped him.
“Tell you what it is,” said he at length; “don’t you go on. Dem yer boys is goin to save der blessed selves and us too. It’s my pinion dey’ll bring us luck, fust rate, too, fust chop, tip-top, prime. Hooray! Dey’ll quaint dem yar seamen ob our difficulties, an dey’ll come back a flyin wid a big boat-load of pro-visium. O, you can’t drown dem blessed chilen. Dey’re boun to tak car ob demselves, and dey’ll work dar way ober de oceum foam, to sabe de libes ob all aboard, and’ll be back to-night to tea. Hooray! Mind, I tell you!”
The gayety and hopefulness of Solomon did not fail to be communicated to all the rest, until at length even Captain Corbet was willing to admit that it was just as well, after all, that they had gone, though he still professed to feel hurt that his advice had not been asked.
To the boys their situation seemed now in every way more endurable. They had at least something to hope for, and the adventure of their companions formed a perpetual subject for thought or conversation. Even the calm was now welcome, for as long as this continued it would be favorable to the boat. On the other hand, should the ‘wind arise, they could up sail and after them. They all thought that Captain Corbet’s estimate of a distance of twenty miles was extravagant; and even if the ship was “below the horizon,” they concluded that at the farthest it could not be more than eight or ten miles away. Allowing two miles an hour for the boat, they thought that Bruce and Bart might reach their destination by nine or ten o’clock in the morning, and thus have the greater part of the day still before them.
As the hours passed away, the boys thus beguiled the time by various speculations about the progress of their companions. The calm continued; and they were not sorry, for they saw in this the best chance for a successful issue to the enterprise. Phil made a sort of chart, with the schooner and the ship in proper position, and marked off ten intervals which he estimated at a mile each. For hour after hour they watched this, and amused themselves by indicating on it the progress of their friends. At length it was ten o’clock, and all the boys felt quite sure that the boat had reached the ship.
Meanwhile the two adventurous boys had been going on their expedition. At a hundred yards from the schooner they had stopped, as we have seen, and looked anxiously around in the direction where they supposed the stranger to lie. For some time they could see nothing; but at length, as it grew lighter, they detected her masts through the gloom, and were overjoyed at finding that she was nearer than on the previous day. They had made a mistake, however, as to the right direction, for the ship lay very much more to one side.
“We’ve drifted nearer together during the night,” said Bruce, “and I don’t believe she’s over three miles away.”
Saying this, he changed the boat’s course, and heading for the ship, pulled with all his might.
“I say, Bruce,” said Bart, “you’d better not pull so hard at first; you’ll tire yourself.”
“O, it’s only till we get further from the schooner. I want to get well out of the reach of hearing before the fellows see us. I’ll take it easy after a time.”
Saying this, he pulled on, watching the schooner, and succeeded in getting so far away, that by the time they came on deck he could only distinguish the moving figures. Then he slackened his efforts somewhat.
“There isn’t a bit of prospect of any wind,” said he. “I tell you what it is, my boy: I’d far rather be here this minute than aboard the Antelope.”
“So would I,” said Bart; “but can you imagine the state of mind that the fellows must be in?”
“O, they’ll be glad after the first excitement’s over.”
“I wonder if they saw us.”
“Of course.”
“They didn’t shout, or anything.”
“We were too far off to hear them.”
“No, we weren’t; but I suppose we were so far off that they thought it would do no good.”
For about half an hour Bruce pulled quite leisurely, for he wished to husband his strength as much as possible, and then Bart took his turn at the oars. Not much was said, partly because the exertion of rowing did not allow of any prolonged conversation, and partly because they were too much filled with their own thoughts, arising out of the suspense of the occasion.
At length, after rowing for another half hour, Bart handed the oars to Bruce, and took his seat in the stern.
The moment he did so he uttered a cry of surprise.
“What’s the matter?” asked Bruce.
“Why, how near we’re getting!” said Bart.
“Of course we are.”
“I haven’t looked since I took the oars, on purpose to see what our progress is. And now—why, really, Bruce, it seems as if we must be half way already.”
“Of course we are,” said Bruce, “and more too.”
“Why, she’s as low in the water as ever.”
“I know; there’s something queer about her.”
“She looks as though she’d been in a heavy gale.”
“She must have been.”
“I don’t see a soul on board.”
“I haven’t seen any one, either.”
“Perhaps no one is up yet. It’s early, you know.”
“I hope it’s that,” said Bruce.
Bart was silent for a few moments. At length he said,—
“I should like to see some signs of life there, I must say.”
“Well, we’ll know all about her by the time you’re through your next pull.”
Bruce now rowed, and Bart sat with his eyes fixed on the ship. She still lay as low in the water as ever, but they could see her bulwarks plainly, and her cabins. Her rigging seemed as disordered as ever, and it was a puzzle to Bart, why, in this calm weather, she should be so neglected. Various unpleasant thoughts arose in his mind, but he kept-them to himself. Thus the time passed, and Bruce rowed, and the boat drew steadily nearer. At length he gave the oars over to Bart, and took his seat in the stern.
By this time they were not more than a mile from the ship. She was certainly very low in the water. At a distance they had supposed that her sails were furled. They could now see that she had no sails at all. There was her jib, and that was all. There was no sign of life aboard, and the disorder in her rigging was more perceptible than ever.
“Bart,” said Bruce in a solemn tone, after he had gazed silently at the ship for full ten minutes.
“Well?”
“Do you know what I think about her?”
“What?”
“It’s my opinion that there’s not a soul on board of her.”
Bart was silent.
“She’s evidently been in a storm; her sails are gone; her rigging is every way. The crew have probably deserted her; and, yes, she is—there’s no doubt about it. I suspected it—I knew it.”
“She’s what?” asked Bart.
“Waterlogged!” said Bruce.
Bart turned his head and looked at her for a long time. He said not a word. At last he turned to Bruce.
“Well,” said he, “at any rate, we must board her. After coming so far, we can’t go back. Besides, we may find something.”
“Find something? Of course we shall,” said Bruce, confidently. “We’ll find lots of things. We’ll find barrels of pork, and beef, and bread, and other things besides, no doubt. When they left her, they would only take enough to last them till they got ashore. They must have left the greater part of their supplies and sea stores behind.”
“Of course,” said Bart; “so here goes.”
And with these words he pulled as vigorously as though he had not yet rowed a stroke.
And now every minute they drew nearer and nearer. Bart rowed without turning his head, but Bruce sat with his eyes fixed upon her, occasionally telling Bart when he got out of his course.
As they drew nearer in this way, every doubt was removed, if there had been any doubts in the mind of either. The ship was evidently deserted. She was also as evidently waterlogged. Now they were able to account for what had puzzled them before; her lying so low in the water, and yet at the same time seeming so near. Her nearness was not apparent, but real; her lowness in the water actual, and not seeming. That she had been deserted by her crew was more and more evident every moment, for as they drew nearer, they could see not a sign of life. Had there been any one on board, he would certainly have made himself visible.
At length Bruce bawled out, “Ship, ahoy!”
Bart stopped rowing and looked around. Both boys listened. They did not expect any answer, nor did any answer come. They waited for about a minute, and then Bart rowed on. In about two minutes they were alongside. The oars were thrown in, the boat secured, and the two boys stepped aboard.
83
There was a mixture of attraction and repulsion in the first sight of the ship, which affected the boys very peculiarly. She lay waterlogged. Her decks were on a level with the sea. But her bulwarks rose six feet high above the water, and the deck itself afforded a spacious area on which to walk. The deck was white with the washing of many waters, and dry in the warm sun, which had shone upon it for some days past. All the boats were gone except one, which hung at the starboard davits, and looked like the captain’s gig. The cook’s galley stood amidships, and astern there was a quarter-deck. The cabin doors were open wide. The forecastle was also open. The main hatchway was open, and the boys, looking in, could see the cargo. It consisted of enormous pine logs.
The sight of this cargo explained all. This was a timber ship, no doubt, from Quebec, which had encountered a storm in the gulf, and sprung aleak. On becoming waterlogged, she had been deserted and left to her fate; yet her cargo, which was of wood, prevented her from sinking, and the huge sticks of timber served to give her stiffness as well as buoyancy, and preserve her from breaking up. To Bart a timber ship was the most familiar thing in the world, for he had been brought up in a timber port; his father sailed timber ships, and the whole situation was one which he perfectly understood at the very first glance.
The boys walked about the decks. To their delight, they saw several water casks lashed behind the mainmast, and a row of barrels that looked as if they contained provisions, for they all bore the eloquent inscription:—
MESS PORK.
Going into the cook’s galley, they saw the cooking-stove in good working order, and the inmost thought and spontaneous expression of each was,—“Won’t Solomon rejoice when he sees this!” They then went aft.
They entered the cabin.
There was a passage-way about three feet wide. On each side there was a door which was open. Looking in, they saw on one side a room full of ropes, and sails, and oakum, while on the other was another room full of ship’s stores.
Passing on, they reached the cabin itself. It was a room about twelve feet wide and sixteen feet long. A door at one end opened into another cabin aft. On the sides of both cabins were doors opening into state-rooms. Two of these were very well furnished, and in the after cabin there was a large and comfortable state-room, which both the boys decided to have been the captain’s. The furniture was all confused. The carpet was damp. It seemed as though the sea had been careering through these cabins and state-rooms. But the upper parts had been spared; and in the pantry where the boys at length found themselves, they saw, with a pleasure that cannot be described, the contents of the upper shelves as dry as when they were first put there.
At this they rejoiced more than at anything else.
Bruce and Bart on board the deserted Ship.—New Discoveries.—The Cook’s Galley.—A sumptuous Repast.—Observations.—A Return baffled.—Back again.—The Antelope.—The Ripple in the Water.—Speculations.—The Sail to the Ship.—Puzzle about the lost Ones.—Nearer and nearer.—Unexpected and astounding Welcome!
THE state of mind and body in which Bruce and Bart found themselves was of such a kind that the discovery of a well-stocked pantry and store-room gave them more delight than they had known for a very long time. They themselves were ravenously hungry; for the appetite which had been quickened by their long fast had been sharpened by exercise, and they also could not forget that their friends on board the Antelope were depending upon this expedition as much as themselves. Under such circumstances they looked around upon the well stocked shelves, and as, one after another, they recognized well-known and favorite articles of food, tears of joy started to their eyes.
Tea, and coffee, and sugar, and butter, and potted meats, and hams, and pickles, and many other delicacies of a similar kind, showed that their predecessors had not been indifferent to the pleasures of the table. In taking leave they seemed to have been very modest in their requirements, since they had taken away but little. As they continued their researches, they found other articles which increased their delight. There were a barrel of apples, boxes of raisins, drums of figs, bags of nuts, bottles of raspberry vinegar and of lemon sirup, a demijohn full of lime juice, and a delicious Cheshire cheese. Leaving the pantry and going into another store-room, they saw numerous barrels, some of which contained beef, and others pork. Opening another door, they looked in, and saw a chamber lined with tin and filled with pilot bread.
“I say, Bruce,” said Bart, “let’s postpone any further searches now, and get breakfast.”
“All right. What shall we have?”
“Well, I feel strongly inclined for some tea, broiled bacon, toasted biscuit, and Welsh rarebit.”
“Why don’t you add a few other things?” said Bruce, with a laugh. “How can we cook anything?”
“Why, in the cook’s galley.”
“But there isn’t any fuel.”
“Why, there’s a lot of coal in that front storeroom, and fagots of wood. Didn’t you see them?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“Well, I did, and I’m going to make a fire.”
“Have you any matches?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you make the fire, and I’ll set the table.”
“O, no; don’t set the table here. Let’s eat on the quarter-deck. It’s rather close in here.”
“Very well; I’ll gather the dishes and eatables.” Bart now went about his task. Going into the store-room, he found the fuel, and carrying a supply to the cook’s galley, he succeeded in a few minutes in producing a roaring fire. Then he filled the kettle, and before long the water began to boil.
By that time Bruce was ready with his part of the business. The teapot was brought forward, and the tea set to draw. Then a few slices of very superior ham were placed over the coals and broiled. While Bruce attended to this, Bart soaked some pilot biscuit in water till they were quite soft, after which he fried them in butter on the stove. He then proceeded to try his hand at a Welsh rarebit. He cut up some thin slices of cheese, added butter, and then allowed it all to liquefy over the fire. Having accomplished this, the two adventurers conveyed their things to the quarter-deck, and sat down to breakfast.
Even had they been less hungry they would have enjoyed that breakfast. True, they had no milk in their tea, but they had long since grown accustomed, on board the Antelope, to dispense with that. The tea was of a very superior quality, the fried biscuit was most savory, the broiled ham was a great success, and the Welsh rarebit was pronounced delicious.
Already they had turned occasional glances over the water, and had seen the Antelope, lying apparently three or four miles away, in the same place where they had left her. Now, after they had satisfied their appetites, they began to look at her more closely, and to discuss the time of their return. They felt anxious to go back as soon as possible, but decided that they might as well postpone it until they were thoroughly rested.
It was evident to the boys that the ship which they had boarded had been deserted very hastily, and they thought that her company must have boarded some other ship. In this way only could they account for the numerous things which had been left behind. Among these was a very good spy-glass. Bruce had seen this while preparing breakfast, and had brought it on deck with the other things. As they now sat on the deck after breakfast, they amused themselves for some time with looking at the Antelope. They could see several figures on the deck, but could not distinguish one from another. They tried to tell by watching their movements who each one might be. A solitary figure, that stood motionless at the stern, they were certain was Captain Corbet, while another figure, which indulged in rather eccentric movements, seemed to be Solomon. The rest could not be guessed at.
They had already found out the name of the ship. They saw it in many places, on a row of buckets that hung in front of the cabin, on the captain’s gig, on the cook’s galley; they saw it engraved on a brass plate on the cabin door, on the capstan, and on the spy-glass; and this name, which they thus saw in so many places, was,—
PETREL, LIVERPOOL.
In discussing her fate, they concluded that she had loaded with timber at Quebec, had encountered a severe gale in the gulf and sprung a leak, and that another ship had hove in sight, to which the captain and crew of the Petrel had fled in their boats, without taking anything off their ship. They must have deserted her under the impression that she was going down.
Thus they accounted for the present situation.
They decided to leave at eleven o’clock for the Antelope, and return with the schooner as soon as possible. Nearly an hour still remained, and they thought it would be a good idea to prepare the Petrel for the reception of visitors, so as to afford as cheerful an impression as possible. This could be effected by making the cabin more “shipshape.” It seemed to have been entered by rolling seas, for the furniture was lying confusedly about, and there was some dampness in the air. The bedding also was all wet. They devoted themselves now to this. They opened the skylight, so as to secure ventilation, and the stern-ports. Then they brought all the bedding out, and spread it over the quarter-deck, where the hot sun and dry wind might do their work. Then they swept out the cabin, and arranged the furniture as neatly as possible. At the end of this a great change was produced, and the cabin of the Petrel assumed an appearance not only of comfort, but almost of comparative luxury.
At length eleven o’clock came, and they began to prepare for their return to the Antelope. These preparations consisted simply in filling a bag with pilot bread, and putting this on board the boat; to which they added a ham, with some tea, sugar, and butter. They then embarked, and, pushing off, began to row.
But scarcely had they rowed a dozen strokes when they became sensible of a breeze. It was a gentle breeze, and it was blowing against them. Bart, who was rowing, at once stopped, and Bruce at the same moment uttered a cry which made him look round. It was a joyous sight that they saw—a sight which assured them that they would be spared the long effort of pulling back again, for there, away over the water, they saw the Antelope spreading her white wings to catch the gentle breeze. If that breeze continued, it would bring her up to them in an hour, and though light, it promised to be steady enough.
“I wonder if it’s going to last,” asked Bart thoughtfully.
“O, I think so.”
“Perhaps it may be as well not to pull any farther just yet.”
“Certainly not. This breeze’ll bring the Antelope here faster than we can row towards her, and we will not be gaining enough time to pay for our trouble.”
“But the wind might stop, and in that case it Would be a pity to lose the time.”
“O, it can’t be of much consequence. If the wind does die away, we can start off. We can watch the Antelope all the time.”
“Well,” said Bart, “if you’re agreed, I am, I’m sure; and besides,” he added, “I should like to do a little more to make the Petrel more presentable, and in better order for receiving our visitors.”
“Capital,” said Bruce. “I didn’t think of that. Yes, that will be far better than wasting time in unnecessary rowing.”
“My idea,” said Bart, “is to set the table in the cabin, and cook a sumptuous breakfast to receive the starving Antelopers.”
“Hurrah!” cried Bruce, with enthusiasm; “that’s just the thing.”
“The cabin’s a little damp, but not so bad as it was, and by the time they get here, it’ll be dry enough. They won’t be particular. We’ll set the table regularly, bring out the best china, and cook some ham, trot out some of those potted meats, and have both tea and coffee.”
“And Welsh rarebit.”
“Well, yes, if we have time; but the fact is, I wasn’t altogether satisfied with my last effort, and we can try it again some other time.”
This new project was a most fascinating one to both the boys, who returned to the Petrel, and hauled up their boat on the other side, so that it could not be seen from the Antelope. This was merely to heighten the surprise which they intended to give. They then went to work to prepare the repast with which they wished to welcome their friends; and their only fear now was that the Antelope would reach them before they were ready. Fortunately, this was not the case. The breeze lasted, but it was light, and the progress of the Antelope, though steady, was slow, so that the two boys were able to complete their preparations.
Meanwhile, the time on board the Antelope had passed very slowly. The boys had felt full of hope about the result of the expedition of Bart and Bruce, but they were all ravenously hungry, and hope could not take the place of bread and butter. As the time passed they all felt more and more impatient, and after they had settled for themselves that the boat had reached the ship, they began to look for its return.
But from these thoughts they were all roused by a sudden cry of joy. It burst forth from Captain Corbet. Every one started and turned to see what had happened. They saw an exhilarating sight, which at once roused them from their gloom. There at the stern stood their venerable friend, a smile of exultation on his aged face, tears of joy in his mild eyes, one hand waving his hat in the air, and the other pointing over the water.
“It’s come! It’s come! Hooray!”
This was what he said, and as he said it the boys looked, and saw all over the water a gentle ripple. Then they knew it all. The long-wished-for wind had at last come, and they were freed from their long and irksome imprisonment. In an instant they all rushed to hoist the sails. As they hoisted them they felt the gentle air on their faces, and they saw the sails swelling at its touch. Soon all sail was hoisted, and Captain Corbet, with an exultant smile, stood once more at the helm, and the Antelope began to move through the waters.
“I knowed it,” said he, “I knowed it all along, and I said it, I did. That thar wind was bound to come. I felt it in my bones; yea, down to my butes. I saw how down in the mouth you all felt, and didn’t like to make you too san-goo-wine, but I knowed it, I did, I knowed it, all the same; and here, it has come at last, sure enough.”
The progress of the Antelope was slow, but it was progress, and that was enough. All the boys stood watching the ship, which they were gradually approaching. Solomon stood watching with the rest. Once he suggested the subject of dinner; but though before the wind came they had all been so hungry, they seemed now to have lost their appetites. The excitement of suspense was too strong, and none of them felt able to eat until they had reached the ship, and joined their friends again. And so they moved slowly over the water.
They soon perceived that the ship was not half so far away as they had supposed, and then they discovered, not long after, the truth of her situation. They could see this better than Bart and Bruce had been able to do, for they had been sitting low down in a boat, while these were standing on the deck, or the taffrail of the schooner, and thus could make out the true character of the stranger more easily.
As they came within sight, and learned this, they began to look eagerly about for signs of life. That the ship was waterlogged they could see, but whether there was any one aboard or not they could not see. What had become of the boat? Where were Bruce and Bart? They could see no signs of any boat whatever. But signs of life at length did appear in the shape of smoke from the cook’s galley. Arthur, who was examining the ship through the glass, was the first to detect this, and it was not long before all the boys could see it with the naked eye. Smoke of itself would have indicated human life; but smoke from the cook’s galley indicated something more, and was eloquently suggestive of those joys of the table to which they had too long been strangers. It served to assure them that their difficulties were approaching an end, and that smoke from the cook’s galley was of itself enough to drive away the last vestige of despondency.
But, in the mean while, what had become of Bruce and Bart? That was the question which every one asked himself, without being able to answer. Where was the boat? They could not see it anywhere. Could the boys have gone on board the ship? They must have done so. The water had been too calm to admit of the probability of any evil happening to them. They must have boarded the ship.
But where were Bruce and Bart now?
No one could tell.
The Antelope drew steadily nearer, and all on board watched with indescribable eagerness the strange ship. Now they could see her disordered rigging, her yards bare of sails, her open hatchway. They could see bedding lying on the quarter-deck, and the open skylight. All these things indicated life on board; yet of that life there was no other sign. Where was the captain? Where were the crew? Where was the cook, who kept up such a roaring fire? It was all a puzzle. Above all. where were Bruce and Bart? Who could tell?
Nearer and nearer.
Every moment brought them closer, but disclosed no living being.
Solomon crept up slowly to Arthur, and gently touched his arm.
Arthur started, and turned.
“Hallo, Solomon! what’s the matter with you?”
“Mas’r Atta, I donno bout dis yer craft,” said Solomon, in a tremulous voice, with his eyes rolling wildly.
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Arthur, in surprise.
“Donno; dar’s somethin drefful curous bout dis yer craft,—beats all eber I see,—floatin under water; full ub water, an not sinkin; fire a burnin like de old boy in de cook’s galley, an not a livin man aboard. I don’t like it. Tell you what, now, I don’t like it.”
“Pooh! nonsense,” said Arthur. “Don’t be absurd, Solomon. You’ll take your turn in that cook’s galley, perhaps, before sundown, and make acquaintance with the cook of the ship.”
Solomon shuddered and shook his head.
They were now within a stone’s throw of the ship.
Suddenly Captain Corbet, put both hands to his mouth, holding the tiller between his legs, and shouted, in a loud voice,—
“Ship, ahoy!”
Then came an answer.
At last!
And what an answer!
Out of the cabin bounded two well-known forms. They rushed out dancing, and capering, and flinging their hats in the air. They shouted, and yelled, and hurrahed. They ran up to the quarter-deck, and repeated these actions there. Those on board the Antelope were so astounded that they looked on in dumb bewilderment.
“Haul up alongside!” cried Bruce. “Fetch her round! I’m captain of this craft, and Bart is mate; I’m steward, and he’s cook; I’m boatswain, and he’s the crew. Hurrah! Haul up alongside, and heave us a line, my hearties.”
It was some time before Captain Corbet could recover sufficiently from his bewilderment to be capable of doing anything. Half mechanically he managed to bring the Antelope around, and man-. aged it just in time to cause her to move gently up alongside. Wade, who had all along been perfectly stolid, then proceeded to secure the schooner to the ship in the most matter-of-fact way in the world, just as if he had been securing her to the wharf in Grand Pr茅. But long before he had taken the first turn in the rope, the boys had bounded on board the Petrel, and proceeded to overwhelm Bruce and Bart with countless questions.
All aboard.—A Welcome of the best Kind.—The Invitation.—The Banquet.—Amazement of the Visitors.—The Repast.—Solomon in his Glory.—The Manuscript found in a Bottle.—The Fate of the Petrel.—Captain Corbet has an Idea.—He begins to brood over it.—A Question of Salvage.—How to make one’s Fortune.
GRADUALLY they became acquainted with the whole truth of the situation. They had thought thus far that the ship, though waterlogged, was still in the possession of her captain and crew. Boundless was their astonishment at learning that it was in the possession of Bruce and Bart alone, and the astonishment which they experienced at this amazing discovery for a time drove away all other thoughts. But Nature at length asserted her supremacy, and the pangs of hunger, for some time past kept in abeyance, now awaked in full force.
“Haven’t you found anything to eat?” asked Arthur, in a low voice, tremulous with emotion.
Bruce did not reply, but looked at Bart. The other boys turned pale. For a moment the awful thought occurred that there was nothing; but the next instant there was wafted to their nostrils the savory odor of broiled ham, which overpowered that mournful thought, and drove it away effectually.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Bart, “but that we may manage to scare up something. I suppose you’re not very particular. Come in here, and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
With these words he entered the cabin, and all the others followed.
One by one they entered the cabin, and one by one each, as he entered, stood rooted to the spot, and stared around in dumb amazement. Captain Corbet came last. He took one look, and then exclaimed, in a low, prolonged, and tremulous voice,—
“Good gerracious!”
And indeed there was every reason for surprise. They had come in expecting to enter the ruinous cabin of a half-wrecked ship, with perhaps a few mouldy ship’s biscuit to be divided among the hungry company. Instead of this they saw a table set out to its fullest extent, with a white cloth spread, and on that table a repast which was nothing less than sumptuous. Tea, coffee, biscuit hard and toasted, Welsh rarebit, broiled ham, potted shrimps, game pie, pickled oysters, lobster, potted salmon, tomatoes, potatoes hot, steaming, and mealy, apples, raisins, nuts, figs, raspberry vinegar, lemon sirup, and numerous other dainties which Bart and Bruce had discovered and drawn forth from the rich store that lay accumulated in the pantry of the Petrel. The lavish abundance of everything, as well as the astonishing variety, overwhelmed the hungry new comers, and, except the exclamation of Captain Corbet, not one word was spoken. It was a moment when words were useless.
For an instant or so Bruce and Bart enjoyed the astonishment of their friends, and watched the effect with a triumphant smile. They had been purposely lavish in this first entertainment of theirs, and had succeeded in placing upon the table a specimen of every individual article for food or drink which the ship contained. They had worked hard in anticipation of this moment, and now that it had come, they found it a complete success.
“Come,” said Bruce, at last, “you can’t eat with your eyes, you know. Come, noble captain, do you preside at this festive board. Tom, sit on the captain’s right, Bart on his left. I’ll take the foot of the table, with Phil on my right. Ward, my bold mate, sit next to Bart; Pat and Phil, fall in. Solomon, you go and install yourself in the cook’s galley, where you’ll find as much as you can eat for the rest of the day.”
Upon this they all took their places, and began to eat with appetites such as those only can possess who have fasted for twenty-four hours on the sea. Bart and Bruce had already satisfied their own wants; so while their friends were eating they gave a full, complete, and exhaustive account of their own adventures, and their doings aboard of the Petrel.
The dinner passed off most delightfully, and a far longer time was spent at the table than the boys generally gave to their repast. Ample justice was done to the bountiful and varied supply that graced the board. After the first pangs of hunger were appeased, there were a thousand new questions to be asked and answered, in addition to those which they had already made. Captain Corbet alone said nothing. He sat and ate, and listened, and from time to time leaned back in his chair with a sigh of happiness, and surveyed the company with a smile that spoke of inward peace.
“My dear young ferriends,” said the venerable captain, at length, taking advantage of an opening in the conversation to express his feelings, “it is with feelings of no ordinary deskeription that I now address you. We have sailed over the briny and billowy main far and wide, and have encountered parls and dangers more’n any ordinary people, but never have we been in such a position, or reduced to such extremities, as in these last few days. And now look at us. Here we air. What kind of an abode is this? Is it a ship? Scacely. Is it a island? Not quite. It’s enchanted gerround! Here we air, an we’ve been led by the kind hand of Providence to this secluded spot in the midst of the wide waste of waters. We come here in a state of starvation, with our minds in a kine of despair; we come here, and we found, as it were, a table spread for us in the wilderness. So far, so good; and I know, my dear young Christian ferriends, you all rejice with me, and feel as I do, full of gladness and gerratitood. But secondly, my dear ferriends,” continued the captain, insensibly increasing his tone and manner to a sermonizing intensity, “there air things about this here craft, that begin to occur to my mind, that go beyond the present fleetin moment, and interweave themselves with our footoor destiny. I ain’t a goin to say jest now what these things air, but I want, fust and foremost, to browse round, and inspect, and cogitate, and meditate, till I kin hit on some kind of a plan for workin out what I want. I’ll tell you when I get it all thought out, but for the present I am dumb.”
After this very mysterious conclusion, Captain Corbet rose and left the cabin. For the remainder of the day he kept by himself. He wandered all over the ship, and inspected every part most carefully. Then he retreated to the quarter-deck, and, seating himself there, lost himself in his own absorbing thoughts. What he was thinking about the boys did not know, nor did any of them inquire; for they were all far too much taken up with the novelty of the situation to pay any attention to him.
Meanwhile Solomon had followed the commands of Bruce, and had taken himself off to the cook’s galley. There, two hours afterwards, on leaving the cabin, the boys found him. He had that expression on his face, and had installed himself in that particular attitude, which might have belonged to one who had lived and labored here for years. He had eaten a huge repast, and was meditating over a roaring fire.
“Hurrah, Solomon,” said Bart, who was the first to visit him. “How goes it, my prince of darkies? This is a little ahead of the Antelope—isn’t it? Now you can begin to live again; and I tell you what, you’ll find enough stuff aft there to give us a first-rate bill of fare every day, and different every time.”
Solomon jumped up with a grin..
“Is de dinna oba, Mas’r Bart?” he asked.
“O, yes.”
“Well, den, I mus go aft an clar away de tings, and spect for myself, to see what we got roun us in dis yer craft. I been a tryin to cogitate an contrive for suppa, but I can’t manage it nohow till I know zacly what I got to put my ole hands un. I s’pose you’ll take all de tings aboard de Antelope right away?
“Aboard the Antelope? Indeed, we don’t intend to do anything of the kind.”
“Why, what are you a goin to do?”
“Do? Why, we’ll stay here for ever so long. It’s a kind of desert island, you know—only it’s ten times better.”
The rest of the boys now came streaming forward, wandering all over the ship. Solomon went to the cabin, while Bart and Bruce proceeded to examine the mattresses. These were very much dryer than they had been, but still were so damp that several of them would require two or three days to become fit to sleep on. Others, however, were already nearly fit for use. Bart noticed that the wet ones came from the port side of the ship, and he remembered that the state-rooms on that side were much damper than those on the other. Water seemed to have penetrated there. He accounted for this on the supposition that this had been the leeward side in a gale, and, when the ship was filling, it had lain low down, and had received the washings of the waves. Fortunately, the storeroom and the pantry were on the other side, and thus their contents had escaped without injury. But the wet mattresses themselves were afterwards taken in hand by Solomon, who opened them, and dried their contents partly in front of the galley stove and partly in the open air. To assist in this process he kindled a roaring fire in the cabin, which served a double purpose, for it not only dried the mattresses but it also dried the cabin itself, and drove away the last vestige of dampness from the state-rooms on the port side.
While busy in one of these, Bart saw a bottle lying on the floor. It was corked. On taking it up, he held it to the light to see what liquid might be inside. To his surprise he saw no liquid, but some folded paper. With a loud cry he rushed forth upon deck, displaying his bottle, and calling upon all the boys to come.
In a few moments the eager boys had all collected around Bart, and even Captain Corbet was roused from his abstraction, and came to the centre of interest.
“Has any one a corkscrew?” asked Bart.
“There’s one in the pantry,” said Bruce.
“I’ll go and get it,” said Phil.
“Pooh!” said Tom; “break the bottle. You’ll never get at the paper if you don’t.”
“Sure enough,” said Bart; and the next instant he struck the bottle against an iron belaying-pin, and shivered it to atoms. The paper fell on the deck.
Bart snatched it up, and opened it. It was a piece of coarse paper, that looked as though it had been hastily torn from some book. On it some writing was hurriedly scrawled with a pencil. It was as follows:—
Ship Petrel, of Liverpool, from Quebec, with timeber. Fog for two weeks, and violent gales. Lost reckoning. Took an observation last in lat. 46掳 5’ 22”, long. 59掳 8’ 2”. Ship waterlogged, on beam-ends, and going to pieces. Taking to boats.
Henry Hall, Master.
There was another scrawl that seemed intended for a date, but the boys could not make it out. It looked like “Tuesday, March,” but it might have been anything else.
Such, then, was the writing. The captain had believed that the ship was actually going to pieces, and had hurried off evidently in the greatest possible haste, and had probably thrown into the boats a few of the barest necessaries of life.
But Bart suggested another theory. It was that the captain had put this writing in the bottle, and had got it all ready to throw over, when perhaps a sail had hove in sight, and thus the bottle had been left in the cabin.
Another theory was, that, in his hurry or panic, he had forgotten all about the bottle, which had floated about in the cabin, and been left in one of the state-rooms by the retreating waves.
It was evident to all that the captain, “Henry Hall,” had lost his head. In his terror he had believed that the ship was “going to pieces;” whereas nothing of the sort was going on. She might possibly have been on her beam-ends, since he said so, but even here his fears might have exaggerated the danger. Captain Corbet thought that she had been struck over on her beam-ends, and held down by her sails, and, when these were torn away, she had eventually righted herself.
“That thar skipper,” said he, sententiously, “was frikened out of his seven senses, and fancied the craft was brakin up. So he rushed to the boats, chucked in a bag of biscuit and a few bottles of water, and rowed away for his life.”
Captain Corbet paused for a moment, and looked at the boys with a very singular expression on his face.
“And now,” said he, “my dear young friends, do you know what you air and what you’ve ben an gone an done?”
“What?” asked Bruce, in some surprise at the captain’s tone and manner.
“Wal, only this—you’re salvors.”
“Salvors!” repeated Bruce, to whom this word conveyed no meaning in particular.
“Salvors!” repeated Captain Corbet, impressively. “Yes, you’ve found this here ship on the broad bosom of the deep, deserted; you’ve took possession—she’s yours.”
“Well, what of that?” said Bruce. “For that matter, she belongs to all of us.”
“She belongs to all them that bear a hand to bring her into port.”
“Into port!” cried Bart, in great surprise.
“Yes, into port,” said Captain Corbet. “That thar was the very fust idee that entered into my head as I sot foot on this here deck. This noble ship, this valable cargo,—is this to be given up, or surrendered to the tender mussies of the pitiless and ragin ocean? Not if I knows it. If we can manage to navigate this here craft into port, she’s ours! We can sell her. We can sell her cargo. It’s a val’able cargo. It’ll give each of us enough, if the proceeds air divided, to set us up for life. For my part, I’m an old man, with one foot in the grave; but I never forget that I am a feyther, and never did the parential heart beat more wildly than it did at the identical moment when this thought came like fire into my brain. That’s so.”
“But how in the world can we get her into port?” cried Bart, in astonishment and excitement.
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “that thar’s the very identical pint that I’ve been a cogitatin over the hull arternoon. I’ve gone about this here craft on all sides, an I’ve sot an surveyed her from a distance. I’ve shot my eyes an meditated her all over. But thar’s one grand and overpeowerin obstacle in the way to a fair navigation, and that is, she hasn’t got a rag of a sail except that jib.”
“‘So what can we do?” said Bruce. “We can’t get her to move an inch without sails.”
“Couldn’t we rig up the sails of the Antelope?” asked Tom.
Captain Corbet shook his head mildly.
“’Tain’t possible,” said he, “no how. Fust an foremost, the spread of canvas on the schewner ain’t over an above sufficient to fetch her along, and on this here ship it wouldn’t be a succumstance. Why, this here ship is a thousand tonner, an more too. Besides,” added the venerable captain, with mild suggestiveness, “the canvas of the Antelope might be stronger.”
This was a statement the truth of which was at once felt and acknowledged by all the boys.
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “there ain’t no use doin things up in a hurry—not a mite. We’ve got to deliberate, cogitate, turn it all over in our minds, and be precious keerful how we decide. There’s a good deal at stake, and this here hour may be a goin to make or mar our fortins. I intend to brood over it this night, an p’aps by mornin I’ll see my way. The only trouble is,” he added, in a pensive tone, “that I don’t quite know how I can ever see my way to navigatin this here vessel without sails.”
“Perhaps we can drift to some place,” suggested Phil.
Captain Corbet looked at Phil for a few moments with mild astonishment.
“Have you ever tried driftin, young sir?” he asked, at length.
“No,” said Phil, “except with you, in the Antelope.”
“Yea, and in the Bay of Fundy. Now, if this was only the Bay of Fundy, I’d feel at home. In that thar bay I’d ventoor to cal’late the exact point to which this here ship would drift. But this ain’t the Bay of Fundy, and, what’s more, I don’t understand the currents of these here waters,—more’s the pity, bein as I’m a pilgerrim an a stranger. As to driftin, why, we’ll drift, course, as long as we’re aboard; but where we may drift to it would take a man with a head as long as a horse to tell. Why, we might drift to Portygal, and that, I think, wouldn’t quite meet the voos of any of us. I’ve knowed, or leastways I’ve heerd tell of ships that’s gone all the way over to Portygal, partly driftin, partly by the wind a blowin of ‘em. But this here ship I want to indooce to go to some home port,—and how to do that is the puzzle that now occoopies this bewildered brain.”
With these words the captain gently passed away from the group of boys, leaving them to think over and to talk over this new and exciting project. It was in conversation about this and about the message in the bottle, that they occupied themselves till bedtime.
That night they concluded to sleep in their old quarters on board the Antelope, as the beds and bedding in the cabin of the Petrel were not dry enough to satisfy the mind of Captain Corbet.
Solomon in his Glory.—The Breakfast a splendid Success.—Out of Starvation and into the Land of Plenty.—Removal of Lodgings.—The Question of Salvage.—An important Debate.—To go or not to go.—Dropping Anchor.—The final Departure.—Corbet bids a fond Farewell.—Alone in the Water-logged Ship.
IT was late on the following morning when they awoke. The effect of fatigue and excitement, together with perfect peace of mind, all conspired to make their sleep sound and refreshing. Solomon alone was up early; but it was nine o’clock before they sat down to the sumptuous breakfast which he had prepared in the cabin of the Petrel.
Solomon had found himself in command of a very well appointed larder, and he showed no inclination to spare it. He seemed to be endeavoring to make amends for his enforced idleness of the past few days by extraordinary activity and fruitfulness of invention in the culinary department. There was no lack of anything which the ship could supply; nay? there was even more than any of the boys had expected, for, to the amazement of all, they saw on the table before them several dishes of hot rolls; for Solomon had discovered among the ship’s stores some barrels of flour, and had at once made a raid upon these. He laid before them coffee, tea, hot rolls, delicious fish-balls, broiled ham, stewed tomatoes, baked potatoes, with a variety of potted meats, prepared in manifold ways by his skilful hand.
The breakfast was a splendid success. It made all of them more delighted than ever with their situation. In fact, about that situation there was now an air of luxury; and the first determination of all of them was to move, bag and baggage, on board the Petrel, and live there. Solomon assured them that before the next evening all the bedding would be so dry that the most delicate invalid might sleep upon any one of the mattresses without fear. The boys, therefore, made their decision at once. They determined to take up their lodgings on board the Petrel, and proceeded to select state-rooms. As there was some difference in these apartments, they decided that the fairest way would be to draw lots. Captain Corbet positively refused to leave the Antelope, and so did Wade; so the boys had it all to themselves. Pat and Phil drew the best room (the captain’s); Bart and Tom drew the next best, which was apparently the mate’s; while Bruce and Arthur had the choice of any one out of the four remaining ones. All, however, were sufficiently comfortable to satisfy the most exacting, and none of the party had any cause to find fault with the result. Then followed the removal of their simple baggage, after which the boys began to “fix up” their respective state-rooms with as much care and labor as though they proposed spending the rest of the summer on board.
These preparations did not take up much time; and before long they were all out on deck inspecting the bedding, and examining how far the various mattresses were prepared for being restored to their places. But it was decided to leave all these for the day, until Solomon should be ready to make the beds.
It was a beautiful day. The sky was without a cloud, blue and glorious. The sun shone down warmly and brilliantly. There was a gentle breeze, which tossed up the water into wavelets without making much motion, a breeze which was sufficient for the tranquil movement of some pleasure yacht, and not strong enough to excite any fear. There was a freshness in the atmosphere which was most exhilarating. The air was clear and transparent. Wide around lay the waste of waters, upon which not a single sail was visible.
Solomon cleared away the table, and then relapsed into the galley. The boys gathered into a little group upon the quarter-deck. To them thus assembled appeared the form of the venerable Corbet, a smile on his lips, a glance of benignity in his eyes.
“It’s all about this here salvage,” he began, somewhat abruptly. “You see, boys, I’ve ben a thinkin an a dreamin, asleep an awake, all night long, an my pinion is more an more that we hadn’t ort, none of us, to lose this present blessed chance, if we can possibly make anythin out of it. I’ve ben a cal’latin the valoo of this here ship an cargo. Now, this here ship must have cost at least fifteen thousand pounds. Of course she ain’t wuth that much now, an I can’t tell what she is wuth till I know what damage she’s received. At any rate, she’s wuth a good deal. As for her cargo, why, that’s jest as good as the day it was put inside of her. Timber ain’t like grain or cotton; it don’t spile. Here, then, we have a couple of thousand tons or so of fust-rate white pine timber, wuth lots of money, and we have this ship, wuth thousands of pounds. Why, boys, at the smallest cal’lation, the proceeds of the sale of this here ship and cargo would amount to over a thousand pounds apiece for every one of us, includin Solomon.
“’Tain’t myself I’m a thinkin on,” resumed the captain, after a pause, in a tone of mild melancholy, and with a pensive sigh; “’tain’t myself at all. I’m old, sere, an yaller. I don’t want money; I got enough for all my needs and pupposes. But it’s the babby, dear boys, the babby. That thar infant is the true cause of my present wanderin life. He drives me to the ocean wave when I might be toastin my shins in front of my own stove. I want to airn somethin to leave to him when I’m dead an gone. I got the house an the farm; but I want somethin more for the infant. All my cares are for him. I don’t want to leave him to the cold world, to sturruggle an to sturrive. I want to give him a eddication, to make a man of him an a scholyer, a joy to his parient, and an honor to his country.
“Wal, now’s the chance. Here we have it thrown into our very hands. We’ve got it, an all we’ve got to do is to make use of it. Here’s this here ship an cargo. If we can only get her into some port, it’ll be wuth over a thousand pounds apiece to every one of us, Solomon included. Each one of you boys’ll have enough, dear knows, to keep you in pocket-money all your born days, or to buy you a fine schewner all to yourself. Solomon’ll have enough to raise him far above the humble attitood of a ship’s cook; an I will have enough to raise the babby above want, an rair him to be a gentleman an a scholyer.”
Partly from the idea of getting plenty of pocket-money, partly to help old Solomon, partly to assist the respected Corbet in acquiring the means of giving an “eddication” to the “babby,” but more than all because they were moved by his earnestness, the boys universally chimed in with his wishes, and urged him most enthusiastically to do all that he could to save the ship. Captain Corbet listened with his usual mildness, and then suggested that perhaps there might be some sails stowed away on board; upon which he at once went off to search for himself.
His search, however, was not successful. One sail was found, but it was quite inadequate to the needs of the ship. It really seemed to be, as the captain asserted, that the Petrel had encountered violent gales, in which her sails had been lost, and all her spare ones made use of only to be lost in turn. Certain it was that, though of other things there was no lack, of sails there was a total want; and the discovery of this reduced Captain Corbet once more to his former meditative mood.
While Captain Corbet thus meditated, the boys talked over the situation. If sails were wanted, it seemed to them that the best thing that could be done would be for some one to go and get them. There was wind enough. The Magdalen Islands were not far away, and no doubt a sufficient supply could be obtained there. Some one might remain on board the Petrel. The question then arose, Who should go and who should stay? As to that there was no doubt. Every one of the boys determined to stick to the Petrel at all hazards, and thus Captain Corbet himself could go in the Antelope.
It was with words to this effect that Bart broke in upon the musings of Captain Corbet.
The captain listened to his remarks, and, though he was evidently struck by them, still there arose in his mind certain scruples, which under the circumstances were very natural.
“O, no! no, no!” said he; “railly, now, you mustn’t try to persuade me.”
“Why not?”
“O, it would never do!”
“Do? Yes, it would.”
“O, I couldn’t bring myself to leave youns! Who could tell what might happen!”
“Nonsense! Are we babies? Can’t we take care of ourselves? Of course we can! We’ve been in far worse situations than this. Think of what we’ve all gone through at different times! Think in particular of Tom and Phil, what they’ve gone through! Are we the fellows that could meet with any harm if you were to leave us?”
“Yes, you air; it’s jest that,” said Captain Corbet. “You’ve all got a natral-born, innate talent for gettin into difficulties. You don’t caitch me lettin you go out of my sight.”
“Nonsense!” said Bart. “See here, now, captain. There isn’t and there can’t be the slightest danger. It’s all safe. We’ll be as safe here as if we were on an island. This ship? can never sink. Why, I know all about these timber ships. My father owned one that got waterlogged just like this, in the middle of winter, in the Atlantic, and in the course of several tremendous gales she was blown over, to Europe. Mind you, she couldn’t sink. She got into Liverpool, and was broken up there, and her cargo was sold for the benefit of the underwriters. Captain Beyea, who commanded her, told me all about it. Of course at this season of the year we’re all right, for there’s no likelihood of any storms; and besides, you’ll only be gone a few days.”
Captain Corbet did not answer for some time.
“O, boys,” he said, at length, in a hesitating way, “if you only could! If I only dar’d!”
“If we only could?” said Bruce. “Why, captain, you don’t seem to know us! You think that we’re a parcel of helpless children.”
“I only wish,” said Tom, “that I may never have anything worse to do than to stay in a place like this—a floating palace, where we feed on the fat of the land. When I think of Ilee Haute, I consider this a sort of Paradise.”
“I think I have known worse places,” said Phil. “I could tell you of a burning forest, in comparison with which every other situation isn’t worth being mentioned. Why, boys, this is going to be a sort of picnic—a pleasure party.”
“Captain,” said Arthur, “we are all settled here now. Each of us has his state-room. We’ve got plenty of provisions. We’ve made up our minds to spend a couple of weeks here at least. So you may as well knock under. While we’re aboard, it will be much better for you to go off, and try to get some sails, than to wander up and down, moping, day after day, with the Antelope alongside doing nothing.”
“Sure, an it’s meself,” said Pat, “that would be willing to sail off in the Antelope single-handed, if Captain Corbet is afraid, only I’ll want one man to give a hand in navigatin, so I will.”
“O, two could easily sail the Antelope,” said Bruce.
“And what shall Solomon do?” asked Arthur.
“Do?” said Bart. “Why, he’ll stay with us. What could we do without Solomon? We need him here more than anywhere else. Without him our life here would become flat and insipid. I could do the cooking once; but as a general thing, I should beg to be excused. Without Solomon we should not be able to eat.”
‘“Yes, yes,” said Captain Corbet, meditatively. “Thar’s no trouble about me an Wade navigatin the Antelope. We don’t want Solomon. He’ll be best here with youns. If I could only leave you—”
“But that’s already settled,” said Bart, decisively. “You are going to leave us.”
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “here we air, some-whar nigh onto fifty mile north of the Magdalen Islands. I steered doo north; an I don’t think we’ve made much of a muve since the calm began. Now, my idee is, that if we were to drop anchor here, this here craft would stay till I come back, an I know I could find her easy.”
“drop anchor? Of course,” said Bart. “I didn’t think of that. In fact, this was my only trouble—the possibility of drifting from this place. But if we were to drop anchor, why, of course it stands to reason that we shouldn’t move from this place; and so, of course, you could find us again, as you say, without any difficulty.”
“Her anchors air all right,” said Captain Corbet. “I’ve seen em. There’s sixty fathom of chain if there’s an inch.”
“Well, come now. We’d better drop anchor at once,” said Bart.
“You tempt me, boys,” said Captain Corbet, with evident emotion. “You tempt me awful. I feel as though I hadn’t ought to go; but you’ve got a kind of a sort of a way of puttin things that makes it seem all so safe, an pleasant, an easy like that I’ve half a mind to resk it, an go off at all hazards. For there’s so much at stake! My babby! He pulls even now at my paternal heart-strings! His voice, even now, is a soundin in my aged ear! ‘Father,’ he seems to say, ‘go off, an hurry up with them thar sails.’ An then,” continued the captain, after a pause, everything seems favorable. The breeze is fair; the sea is calm; the sky is blue; an I’ll only be gone a couple of days at the farthest. ’Tain’t likely there’ll be another calm. The wind is fair for the Magdalen Islands. There’s provisions enough aboard here for months: An, as you say, there railly ain’t any danger.
“You’re quite right, Bart. This here ship can never sink. Her timber cargo’ll keep her afloat till dumesday, an, what’s more, it’ll hold her together. An I’ve so much at stake! The babby! His fortune may now be made. It needs only one bold stroke, an all is done. Then we have the ship for our own, an the cargo, an we’ll sell em both, an divide the proceeds. It’ll be more’n a thousand pounds apiece, an the babby’ll be independent. He can receive a college eddication; he can grow up to be a gentleman an a scholyer; an he’ll live to bless the memory of the aged parient who now doos violence to his own conscience for the sake of the footor interests of his offspring. Yes, yes, it must be done. An, boys, I rayther guess, on the whole, that p’aps I’d best go, as you say.”
The decision of the captain thus announced was received with acclamation by the boys, and these marks of approval served to drive away the last vestige of hesitation from Captain Corbet’s mind.
“Wal,” said he, “if we’re goin to do it, we’d best do it as soon as possible. So, fust an foremost, we’d best let go the anchor.”
Calling Wade, the captain then went forward, followed by all the boys.
The anchor was let go.
Rattle, rattle, rattle went chain and windlass, and at length the anchor stopped.
“That’ll hold, I guess,” said the captain, “Now you’re hard an fast. Now I’ll know where to find you. You’re no longer aboard a ship. You’re on a fixed and immovable spot,—an island of the sea,—an here you’ll stay patient and quiet till I come back.”
These remarks the boys heard with the utmost placidity, and accepted them as absolute fact.. They had flung themselves headlong into this somewhat dangerous project, and were now more eager than ever for its successful completion.
After letting go the anchor, the next thing was to prepare the Antelope for her trip.
“We’re out of provisions, boys, over there,” said the captain, “as you may, perhaps, be aware, an we’ll have to make a re-qui-sition on you. We don’t want much; none o’ yer potted meats an chicken-fixins; none o’ yer luxoories an sweetmeats. All we want is a modest supply of good honest biscuit, with a little pork, a ham or two, an a pinch of sugar, an a drawin o’ tea. Wade an me, we don’t go in for scientific cookery; we only want somethin to chaw at odd times.”
They now proceeded to transfer to the Antelope a sufficient supply of food. All the boys lent a hand. A dozen hams, a barrel of pork, a barrel of beef, and six barrels of ship bread were put on board the schooner, in spite of the remonstrances of the captain, who assured them that they only wanted a tenth part of all these stores. But the boys would not be balked in their hospitable intentions.
At length the stores were all on board the Antelope, and nothing more remained to be done. The last moment had come. Captain Corbet was deeply affected, and seemed inclined to change his mind, after all, and stay. But the boys were eager in urging him off. So the good captain allowed himself to be persuaded against his better reason, and he and Wade got on board the Antelope, and the lines were cast off.
The sails of the schooner were hoisted, and the breeze filled them, moving the schooner slowly away.
Captain Corbet stood at the stern of the Antelope, holding the tiller. His face was turned towards the boys, who stood in a group on the quarter-deck of the Petrel. He seemed melancholy and miserable.
“Boys,” said he, in a tremulous voice, “dear boys, take care of yourselves.”
“All right,” cried Bart, cheerily.
The Antelope moved farther off.
Captain Corbet stood looking at the ship, and his face had an expression of despair. At times he called out to them; but the Antelope moved farther and farther off every minute, and at length his voice could no longer be heard.
It was evening when the Antelope left. In about an hour she was lost to view.
The boys were alone on the ship.
Corbet at the Helm.—Visions by Night.—The Vis-ion of sudden Wealth.— Over the Waters.—The Ocean Isles.—A startling and unwelcome Sight.—Landing of Corbet.—Corbet among the Moun-seers.—Unpleasant Intelligence.—An unwelcome Visitor.—A sharp Inquisition.—Corbet in a Corner.—Answers of Guile and Simplicity.—Perplexity of Cross examiner.
THUS the Antelope passed away from the eyes of the boys, and vanished into the shades of night. The breeze was light, and Corbet stood at the helm, shaping his course for the Magdalen Islands. The first feeling of uneasiness which he had experienced on leaving ‘the boys in so very peculiar, perhaps dangerous, a situation, had passed away with the boys themselves, and his thoughts now turned on other things. He was virtually alone. Wade indeed, was on board, but the captain had sent him below to sleep, so that he might be able to relieve him and take his turn at midnight.
Thus alone at the helm, Captain Corbet looked out over the silent sea, and up into the starry sky, and lost himself in peaceful meditations. But his thoughts were not concerned with sea or sky. Other and dearer subjects gave them occupation. It was his “babby” that occupied his mind; that babby for whose sake he had deserted the boys, and left them alone in mid ocean. He was going to make a fortune for his son. He was going to take measures for securing the wrecked ship, so as to bring her into some port, sell her, and divide the proceeds.
Night, and solitude, and silence are ever the best promoters of meditation, and Captain Corbet’s fancy was stimulated and quickened by his present surroundings. In thought he went all over the Petrel. He examined her hull; he considered her cargo; he made light of her injuries—He concluded that a very small sum might make her once more seaworthy, and he thought that fifteen thousand pounds might be easily obtained for her. Then as to her cargo; that he knew must be perfectly free from injury. He tried to estimate the number of tons; then he multiplied these by the price per ton, so as to get at the value of the entire cargo. Then he added this to the value of the ship, and allowed his mind to play freely around the aggregate. It was a sum of dazzling proportions—a sum far greater than he had been able to make after the hard toil and persevering efforts of many laborious years! And all this he was now about to achieve by one stroke. It was to be the work of a few days. It was to be for the good of the “babby.”
Here another theme attracted the thoughts of the good captain,—the fondest of all themes,—his infant son. That son would now have something that would approximate to wealth. All his future would take tone and flavor from this adventure. The father’s best feelings were roused, and in fancy he traced the future of his beloved infant. He saw him pass from long clothes into short clothes, from frocks into jackets, and from jackets into coats. He followed him in thought from his mother’s arms to his own legs; from his home to the school; from the school to the college. He watched him consume the midnight oil for years, until he at length reached the brilliant end of his educational goal. Then he portrayed before his mind the form of his son in the future,—now at the bar pleading, or on the bench judging; now at the bedside of the sick; now in the pulpit preaching. He listened to the sermon of the imaginary preacher, and found himself moved to tears.
“Dear, dear!” he murmured to himself; “I’d no idee the little feller’d be so eliquint. It doos beat all, railly.”
Captain Corbet was really like one who had taken intoxicating liquor, or opium; and, in fact, he was intoxicated, but the stimulus was no drink or drug; it was merely his fancy, which had become heated by the extravagant dream of sudden wealth. Gold produces its own fevers and deliriums; and the good captain had been seized by one of these. Yet, after all, let it be remembered that his avarice was not for himself, but for his child. And as the lone navigator stood at his post under the midnight sky, in solitude and darkness, heaping up those bright fancies, out of which he was rearing so stupendous a castle in the air, he was building, all the while, not for himself, but for another.
Had he left the boys under any other circumstances,—that is, supposing that he had been capable of so leaving them,—there is no doubt that he would have been a prey to the most harassing anxiety on their account, and would have passed a wakeful night, full of mental distress. But now these new thoughts so occupied him that there was no place for anxiety, and he went on towards the accomplishment of his purpose as resolutely as though he had left them all in the safest and pleasantest place in the world.
Yet the situation in which they were left was one which might have created anxiety in the breast of even a more unfeeling man than Captain Corbet—on board a wrecked ship, that lay there in mid sea, with no means of saving themselves in the event of disaster. It was calm now, but how long would the calm continue? This breeze, that was wafting him along so gently and pleasantly, might stiffen, and strengthen, and intensify itself into a gale; and how would the gale act upon a ship that was virtually under water? Where could the boys betake themselves for refuge? How could they avoid the sweep of the surges that a rising storm would pour over her decks? Where could they find security from the downfall of the masts, which, in the writhing and twisting ship, must inevitably fall. A storm might change their foothold into a waste of boiling foam, and make the masts above as dangerous as the sea below. Even a moderate wind and a very ordinary rising of the sea might make their situation one of peril. Of this the boys, in their inexperience, had taken no thought; but this was the very thing that Captain Corbet ought to have thought of, and this was the thing that he was destined to think of afterwards with anguish of soul. But, for the present, not a thought of this sort came to him. His mind was altogether given up to the sway of those exciting and alluring fancies which beckoned him away to imaginary wealth.
Captain Corbet had arranged to call Wade at midnight; but so excited was he by his dreams and speculations that he took no note of time, and was at length startled by the coming of the dawn. Then he hurried away, sent Wade to the helm, and flung himself into his berth.
After a long and profound sleep, which was the natural consequence of the excitement of the previous night, he awaked. To his surprise he found that it was about eleven o’clock.
He cast a hasty look around.
His first feeling was one of satisfaction. There, immediately in front of him, were the Magdalen Islands. His course had been sufficiently accurate to bring him to his destination. He was near enough now to cast anchor, and Wade was already moving forward with that intent.
But in that first look that he had given he noticed another thing, for which he was not prepared, and which detracted somewhat from the satisfaction that had been caused by the sight of the islands.
He saw a schooner at anchor.
The beautiful outline, the slender, tapering masts, the white spars, and the immaculate neatness that characterized this schooner, all told him plainly what she was, and he needed no closer inspection to feel sure that it was the Fawn.
Now, the sight of the Fawn disturbed the mind of the venerable captain.
He dreaded a meeting with her skipper, Captain Tobias Ferguson.
The Petrel was a prize for those who might be her salvors. To that fortunate situation he did not wish to admit any others. He wished merely to procure sails, and then navigate her somehow with the help that he already had. He knew well, and he dreaded, the keen inquisitiveness and the active, restless energy of Captain Tobias Ferguson.
He did not want to meet with him at all. In fact, the very last person in all the world that he would have chosen to meet with at this particular time was this very man.
So great was his dread of a meeting, which might ruin all his plans, that his first impulse was to fly. He cast a hasty look all around. Upon the beach he saw the boat of the Fawn. Evidently the skipper was ashore. Upon this discovery he at once acted, and determined to move farther away. Hastily checking Wade, who was in the act of dropping the anchor, Captain Corbet wore round, and continued on his former course for a mile or so. Then, rounding the extremity of the island, he kept on his way along the shore, anxiously considering what was best to be done.
There were other islands in the group, but this was the one which he wished to visit, for here only could he hope to find anything like sails. He had come here for this purpose, and to go away without accomplishing it was not to be thought of. It now seemed to him that the best thing for him to do, under the circumstances, would be to land here, and pursue his investigations in a quiet way about the island, managing so as to avoid all contact with Captain Ferguson. He therefore dropped anchor here, and, taking Wade with him, he went ashore.
Once on shore, he went about his search with the utmost diligence, going from house to house, and making inquiries about sails. But from the first his task was a roost discouraging one. Every one assured him that there were no spare sails on the island; all the schooners were away, and whatever stock any one had he generally kept in his schooner, and took it with him. This was the information that he got from every one to whom he applied.
For hour after hour Captain Corbet kept up his fruitless search, dodging about cautiously, so as to avoid being seen by Captain Ferguson, in case he might be ashore, and keeping a wary lookout. At length he had visited every house on the island of any consequence. The only thing that they could suggest was for him to go to Miramichi, where he would be likely to obtain what he wanted.
Captain Corbet, in deep dejection, now retraced his steps to the boat. He thought for a time of applying to Ferguson. But a moment’s reflection made him give up that idea. He knew that Ferguson would be full of curiosity; that he would ask him all about the boys; and he feared that if he got the slightest hint of the facts of the case, he might start off instantly for the wreck, and thereby forestall him. It does not follow that Ferguson would really have done this; but this was Captain Corbet’s belief, and it influenced him, of course, precisely as if the belief had been well founded.
Having thus dismissed the idea of appealing to Ferguson, it remained for him to decide what next to do. He did not think of going back. Better to take Ferguson into his confidence at once. He still clung to his first hope and his first plan, and, since Miramichi was the nearest place where he could rely upon finding sails, he began to think about going there. True, this would take up two or three days more, and the boys would be left to themselves all that time; but, as he had already accustomed himself to think of them in their present position as quite safe, he was able to entertain the thought of leaving them this way still, longer. He had committed himself too deeply to his plan, he had gone too far towards its execution, and he had built too largely upon its successful accomplishment, to be willing to give it up just yet.
And so by the time he reached the boat he had about made up his mind to start off for Miramichi at once. With this resolve he went back to the schooner.
The moment that he stepped on deck he was astonished at detecting in the atmosphere the smell of cigar smoke; and while he was yet standing, with open mouth and expanded nostrils, inhaling the unwelcome odor, he was still more unpleasantly surprised at seeing a figure emerge from the cabin, in whom at one glance he recognized the well-known and particularly dreaded lineaments of Captain Tobias Ferguson.
His unwelcome visitor held out his hand, and wrung that of Captain Corbet with affectionate cordiality.
“Didn’t expect to see you back again in these parts so soon. You must have made a fine run of it, too. How far did you go? Not to the Bay of Islands—hey? Why, there’s been a reg’lar old-fashioned calm about here, and this here wind ain’t much to speak of. And how are my young friends, the ragamuffins?”
“Wal—pooty tol’able,” said Captain Corbet, in a faint voice.
“Hm—glad to hear it. And where was it, did you say, that you went to?”
“O—a—kine o’—genral sort o’ kerrews, like.”
“Hm—and so you left them in the Bay of Islands?”
“Wal—n—n—no—, ’twan’t exactly thereabouts.”
“O—not Anticosti?”
“Wal—n—no,” said Captain Corbet, with an increasing sense of discomfort.
“Ah, St. Pierre?”
“N—n—n—not exactly.”
“St. Paul’s, then?”
“Wal—‘twan’t St. Paul’s, nuther.”
“O, a kind o’ general cruise, I see; young adventurers, and all that. But I’m glad you took my advice, and didn’t go to Anticosti. A bad place. And how do they like Newfoundland?”
“Wal—they—didn’t—quite git to Newfoundland, nuther,” said Captain Corbet, in a low, faint, hesitating, confused way.
“No, of course not,” said Ferguson, briskly. “Too far away; I said so. You concluded to go to Gaspe, of course.”
“Wal—n—n—n—no, we didn’t quite get—off—in that thar—de—rection,” replied Captain Corbet, who was utterly at a loss how to fight off this eager and inquisitive questioner. Had the good captain been capable of telling a lie, his task would have been easier; but he was a truthful man, and in this case he hardly knew what to do.
“Well, come now,” said Ferguson, “where did you go?”
Captain Corbet started at this point blank question, and was perfectly dumb.
Ferguson looked at him with keen scrutiny, and then said,—
“You don’t answer. What’s the matter? Has anything happened? Where are the boys?”
Again the unfortunate Corbet was unable to answer.
“It’s a plain question enough,” said Ferguson, “and you’ve got to answer it somehow—for I’m going down Nova Scotia way, and may see some of their parents. So, own up, old man. What have you done with the boys?”
At this moment a happy thought occurred to the bewildered Corbet. It came like a ray of light in deep darkness.
“Wal,” said he, “you see, capting—you know—them thar youngsters, you know—they—they’ve—got up a kine o’ secret society—you know—they told you—themselves—you know—and they’re all together—you know—and it’s a matter—of importance—to them—and to me—to—to—to—to keep the secret, you know. O, I do assure you it’s all right—they’re all safe an sound—an enjyin life; good quarters, plenty to eat an drink, an ole Solomon a doin of the cookin—but it’s a great secret, you know—and so—you see—capting—the fact is—I’d a leetle rayther not let on where they air jest now.”
Captain Corbet spoke this in a confused way, and in a mild, deprecatory manner. Ferguson listened attentively to his words, and then stood looking at him for some time with an air of dissatisfaction.
“Well—old man,” said he, “I do remember some nonsense of theirs about a secret society; but you haven’t answered my question; you evade it; and what their secret society has to do with their present situation I don’t quite begin to make out. The fact is, I don’t consider you a fit guardian for such boys as they are, and my opinion all along has been that they’ll all get into mischief. I’m afraid that they’re in some fix at this particular moment, and that you have left them at the very time that you ought to be standin by them. If you don’t choose to tell me, I can’t make you—only I warn you, if the boys air in a fix it’s best to let me know, for I can go and help them sooner and better than you can.”
“O, but railly, now—now—railly, capting,” said Corbet, with great earnestness, “I do assure you, honest and honor bright, there ain’t no difficulty about the boys. They’re all rail happy—tip-top, an no mistake; as lively as crickets; lots to eat an drink, comfortable beds, good cookery—all in good spirits and a enjyin of themselves in a way that would do your heart good to see.”
“Well—but where are they?” persisted Ferguson.
“Wal—now—railly—you know,” said Captain Corbet, “it’s a kine o’ secret—an I’d very much rather not tell—that is—not jest now; now railly—don’t ask me.”
Ferguson looked at him for a few moments with the same scrutinizing look that he had already turned upon him.
“Where are you going now?” he asked at length; “back to the boys?”
“Wal—not jest yet,” answered Corbet, after a pause. “The fact is, I was thinkin a little of takin a turn over Miramichi way—on business. I won’t belong, and they’ll be all right till I get back from Miramichi.”
“O, the boys’ll have to wait for you, in the place where they now are, till you get back from Miramichi—so that’s it.”
Ferguson spoke these words slowly and deliberately, with his eyes fixed on Captain Corbet. The latter looked somewhat uncomfortable, and for a while said nothing; but at length he murmured,—
“Wal—I s’pose—that’s—about—it.”
The Baffled Inquisitor.—Corbet’s Flight by Night.—Dead Beckoning.—His Purpose accomplished.—Once more an unwelcome Visitor.—The warning Words.—Corbet confident.—“Right straight back”—The stormy Water.—The gloomy Night and the gloomier Day.—Where is the Petrel?—Despair of Corbet.
FINDING that Captain Corbet was obstinate in his refusal to tell him about the boys, Ferguson at length desisted from his inquiries, and departed from the Antelope, much to the relief of the commander of that vessel. But, though he had left the Antelope, he had by no means given up his investigations into the cause of her present voyage. He at once rowed to the shore, with the intention of finding out from the people there what had been Corbet’s business among them.
This he had no difficulty whatever in finding out. Corbet had come there with only one purpose, and this he had made known to every one with whom he came in contact, as best he could.
He had picked up a man who spoke English, and this man had accompanied him in his rounds as interpreter. This very man fell into Ferguson’s way, and from him Ferguson was able to learn that Captain Corbet’s sole aim in visiting the Magdalen Islands was to obtain some sails. He learned that the sails, could not be obtained, and also that they had recommended him to go to Miramichi for them. By this he understood the reason why Captain Corbet was going to that place.
Now, Ferguson had taken a great fancy to the boys; but the opinion which he had formed of Captain Corbet and the Antelope was of a very different kind. That opinion he had been at no pains to conceal. He had, in fact, expressed it freely and frequently. He had called Captain Corbet an “old woman,” and the Antelope “a tub.” This opinion he still cherished. Moreover, he had prophesied solemnly that the boys were more likely than not to land at the bottom of the sea before their voyage was over, and this prophecy he still believed in. In fact, the strong regard that he had conceived for these boys made him feel uneasy about them, and he did not like to think of them sailing about these seas with such a vessel and such a commander. The sudden appearance of the Antelope had excited his apprehensions. He had seen her come in while he was ashore. He had noticed her manoeuvres. He had watched her as she rounded to and then stood off again. He had then gone in his boat to watch her, and had seen her anchor. He had seen Captain Corbet go ashore with Wade. He had then rowed to her, boarded her, and examined her. The result of this examination was anything but satisfactory. He could not see any signs of the boys. All their luggage was gone. What had become of them was his first thought, and he had waited for the return of Captain Corbet in deep uneasiness.’ That uneasiness had only been increased when the captain returned and answered his questions in so evasive a manner.
He had not been prepared for this; the evasive answers of Captain Corbet irritated him, and awakened his suspicions. The secrecy which he threw around the movements of the boys was in the highest degree annoying. He had come hoping to find them on board. Their absence had filled him with uneasiness. In this state of uneasiness he had waited on board for hours, fidgeting and fuming; and the end of it all was, that when Captain Corbet did appear, he refused to answer the simplest questions.
There were several things that troubled and perplexed him to an unusual and a most unpleasant degree.
First. What had become of the boys? Captain Corbet would not say. He had asked about every place in which it was possible that they could be, and had been told, most positively, that they were not there. Anticosti, Bay of Islands, Newfoundland, St. Pierre, St. Paul’s, Gaspe, all the coasts surrounding the gulf he had asked after, and he had been told that they were in none of them. Where, then, could they be? Such secrecy puzzled and irritated him. Captain Corbet’s story about the secret society did not deceive him for one instant. He saw through it all. He saw that Captain Corbet, though incapable of telling a falsehood, was yet willing to mislead, or to put him on a false track; but, for his part, he was not the man who could be easily misled or baffled.
Then came the discovery which he had made of the purpose which Captain Corbet had in visiting the Magdalen Islands. He had come for sails. Sails! What did he want of sails? What absurd project had he formed? And what had his search for sails to do with the absence of the boys? Yet, so great was Captain Corbet’s desire to obtain sails, that he was going to Miramichi for that very purpose.
Then, again, Ferguson could not forget the way in which Captain Corbet had come to the Magdalen Islands. He had come—he had appeared for a moment, as if about to anchor, but then had turned away, and sailed elsewhere. The whole manoeuvre had looked exactly like a wish to avoid the Fawn, and it might have been successful, had he not pursued so closely. Captain Corbet’s appearance also, when he first came on the deck of the Antelope, and found himself confronted by his visitor, his start, his look of surprise, his confusion, his hesitation,—all these things made him seem the more open to suspicion.
Suspicion!
And of what?
Now, Ferguson did not for a moment believe Captain Corbet capable of wrong. In fact, he looked upon him as an imbecile. Yet, even from that point of view, his uneasiness about the boys was none the less. These boys, under the care of an imbecile, seemed to him to be in as great peril as though their guardian had been a criminal. Where were they now? Had the folly or the imbecility of their captain drawn them into some position of danger? They were innocent and inexperienced; he was an imbecile; all were alike unprepared to encounter the dangers that might befall them; and from all these causes combined, the boys might now be in a position of very serious danger, while this incapable guardian was idly roaming the seas.
The more he thought of all these things, the more uneasy he felt; until, at length, his fears about the safety of the boys, who had so suddenly awakened his interest, grew so strong, that he determined to keep Captain Corbet in sight. Believing that they were in some situation of possible danger, into which they had been drawn by their own ignorance and Captain Corbet’s imbecility, and in which they were now left, Ferguson felt an intolerable anxiety, and so at length came to the conclusion to follow the Antelope, until some light should be thrown upon this mystery.
Meanwhile, Captain Corbet, having got rid of his troublesome visitor, waited patiently until the boat had rounded the projecting promontory of the island, and then proceeded to continue his voyage. He had already made up his mind to go to Mirami-chi, and this visit of Ferguson, together with his sharp inquiries, far from changing his purpose, had only served to intensify it. He only waited until the boat which contained his dreaded visitor was out of sight, in order to hurry his departure. Accordingly the anchor was weighed in the utmost haste, the sails hoisted, and soon the Antelope set forth on a fresh cruise. The wind was still light, yet sufficient for his purpose; and he directed his course around the island, so as to avoid, as far as possible, being seen by Ferguson. His knowledge of these waters was not very minute, yet it was sufficient to give him a general idea of his destination, and he steered the Antelope accordingly.
Evening came, and the Antelope continued on her course. All night long she traversed the waters, and on the following day approached the New Brunswick coast. Here Captain Corbet recognized the entrance to the Bay de Chaleur, and, turning southward, he sailed along the coast towards the Miramichi River. As he went on, he noticed a sail some miles away; but to this he paid no attention. It was a common enough thing in these waters, and there was no reason why he should notice it particularly. The sail remained in sight all that day; and at length, as he entered the Miramichi River and sailed up it, the fact that this stranger was following did not excite any attention on his part.
Three large towns lie on the Miramichi River,—Chatham, Douglastown, and Newcastle. Of these, two are a few miles from the mouth, on opposite sides of the stream—Chatham and Douglastown; and the three towns form together the centre of a great trade in ship-building, and in the exportation of deals and timber. Here may be found all that appertains to the outfit of a ship, and here Captain Corbet expected to procure what he wanted.
It was evening when the Antelope dropped anchor in the river opposite Chatham. It was then too late to do anything; so Captain Corbet had to postpone his business until the following day. Pleased with his prosperous voyage, and pleased still more with the easy way in which he had got rid of Ferguson, full of hope also in the successful completion of his business, he retired to bed that night, and slept placidly and profoundly. The wind that night arose, and blew hard; but the venerable captain, sunk in slumber, and surrounded by the river shores, heard nothing of the noise of the storm. Had he been out at sea, he would doubtless have thought of the boys in the distant ship; but here in the placid river there was nothing to mar his repose.
On the following morning Captain Corbet went ashore at Chatham, and began a search after the sails. The search took up some time, but at length he succeeded in finding what he wanted. He found some sails and rigging that had been taken from a condemned ship, and were held for sale. They had not been considered good enough for a ship’s outfit, and had not only been torn and rent by storms, but also, from having been kept in a damp warehouse, they were somewhat mildewed. Still they served Captain Corbet’s purpose as well as brand new ones could have done, and, in fact, even better, for their damaged condition enabled him to obtain them at a price which was commensurate with his means. It took some time to get these all stowed away properly in the Antelope; but at length the work was satisfactorily accomplished, and Captain Corbet emerged from the hold, and ascended upon deck, with a smile of serene satisfaction, and the peaceful consciousness that this had been a well-spent, day.
Thus, with this smile of serenity and this tranquil breast did our good Captain Corbet emerge from the hold and ascend to the deck of the Antelope. Scarcely, however, had he set foot thereon, scarcely had he taken one look around, than the smile on his face faded away utterly, and the tranquillity of his soul was abruptly ended.
For there, full before him, seated calmly on the rail, with a piece of soft pine stick in one hand, and a keen jackknife in the other, with a cigar in his mouth, and a pleasant glance in his eye,—there sat the dreaded Ferguson, the very man whom Captain Corbet most feared to see, and whom he believed to be far away at the Magdalen Islands.
Captain Corbet stood rooted to the spot. His jaw dropped. He was paralyzed.
149
“You made a nice run,” said Ferguson. “A snug place this.”
Captain Corbet did not answer. He was too confused.
“I see you got your sails. I s’pose you didn’t have any trouble.”
These words increased the dismay of Captain Corbet. He thought that this would be a profound secret. Ferguson now showed that he knew it. He must have found out about this at the Magdalen Islands. Whether he knew any more or not, was a troublesome problem. Captain Corbet did not see how he could possibly know any more, and yet Ferguson had such a knowing look, that he would not have been surprised at learning that he knew all.
“I see you’ve got your sails,” said Ferguson, as Captain Corbet did not answer.
“Yes,” said the other, in a melancholy tone, and with a resigned look.
“It’s pretty difficult to get hold of things of that sort in these parts, and you were lucky enough to get them so easy. They’ll do for your purpose, I s’pose.”
“O, yes,” said Captain Corbet, “they’ll do—well enough—considerin; just as well as if they was new.”
“I s’pose you’re going right back from this?”
“Right back?” repeated Captain Corbet.
“Yes; you don’t intend to go dawdling about any longer—do you?”
“O, no.”
“And you’re going right straight back?”
“O, yes.”
“And when I say right straight back,” continued Ferguson, “I mean, of course, right straight back to the boys. It’s only the boys I consider. I feel anxious about them. I consider myself in some sort, just now, as responsible for their rescue, or, at any rate, for their safety; and, old man, let me warn you solemnly to be careful what you’re about. Don’t you go flitting about any longer in this style. Go you right straight back to where those boys are; if you don’t, there’ll be trouble.”
The tone of Ferguson was earnest and anxious. Captain Corbet looked distressed.
“O, railly, now,” he said: “see here now; railly I do assure you, sir, the boys are all right, and all happy—plenty to eat, good quarters, and old Solomon to cook for them and make their beds. Why, you don’t suppose I’m made of iron, or that I’d have the heart to leave them in any place except where they would be safe?”
“I don’t believe you’d leave them in any place that you might think dangerous, of course; but the trouble is you might leave them somewhere, not knowing it to be dangerous, while all the time it would be very dangerous indeed. Have you sailed much about these waters?”
“Wal—n—no, not to say much.”
“Well, I have; and let me tell you, it won’t do to trust to your judgment where such precious things are concerned as the lives of those boys. I felt afraid, when I first saw the Antelope without the boys, that they had fallen into some difficulty through your ignorance or carelessness, and the moment I spoke to you about it, I felt convinced of it. It has worried me ever since. I took for granted that you were going back from the Magdalen Islands, and had no idea that you would venture so far away from them as this. When I learned your object, and saw where you were heading, I followed you on purpose to say what I now say; and that is, Go back, go back, old man, go back to the boys. I feel sure that they are in danger.”
“But ain’t I going to go back?” cried Captain Corbet, with as much vexation in his tone as could be showed by one of so amiable a nature.
“I don’t know.”
“Wal, I am, then,—thar.”
“Now?”
“Yes; right away.”
“That’s right,” said Ferguson, standing up and getting over the side of the Antelope into his own boat; “and one word more: don’t you delay. Pile on all the sail this old tub’ll carry, and get back to those boys as soon as you can.”
“O, you needn’t be a mite afeard,” said Captain Corbet, in a confident tone. “Them thar boys are jest as safe as you and me. They’re not only safe, but comfortable; yes, comfortable, and jolly, and lively, and happy, and safe, and sound. All right.”
“Well, well; I only hope it may turn out so,” said Ferguson; and with these words he rowed away.
Captain Corbet had spoken these last words in a very confident tone; but, in spite of this, he was by no means so confident as he seemed. In spite of himself, the warning words of Ferguson had sunk deep into his soul, and roused very deep anxiety. Now, too, that the great purpose of his voyage had been achieved, and the sails were actually lying stowed away in the hold, he had leisure to think of those boys, and of the situation in which he had left them. He had left them far longer than he had intended. He had been gone now three days. It might take two days to get back, and in case of a calm, it might take far longer. The thought of this filled him with uneasiness.
Ferguson himself, had he been on board, would have commended the activity with which captain and mate now proceeded to hoist anchor and sail. In a very short time the Antelope was under way.
Captain Corbet’s uneasiness grew greater. The warnings of Ferguson started up in his mind, and joined themselves to his recollections of the ship. He remembered how unwilling he had been to leave them, and how they had overpersuaded him. He began to lament that he had ever gone away. The vision of sudden wealth had lost all its charm, and no longer dazzled his mind.
At length he passed out of the river into the gulf. Ever since he had started, the wind had been blowing more and more, and at length, on reaching the open sea, it was quite a gale. All around the waves tossed up their white caps, and the clouds scudded across the sky. This only increased the anxiety of the captain, and as he looked out upon the waste of waters, he trembled for the safety of those who were so helpless in that half-sunken ship. How would they endure this? For this he had not been prepared. He could not forgive himself.
All that night he sailed on, full of grief and terror. The wind increased; the sea rose higher.
The next day came, and wind and sea were yet high. The progress of the Antelope was very good, and towards evening Captain Corbet reckoned that he must be approaching the place where the Petrel lay.
But the shades of night came down, and nothing was visible. For a few hours Captain Corbet sailed on, and at length lay to. This must be the place, according to his calculations; and on the following morning he hoped to see the tall masts of the wrecked ship.
The next morning came.
All that night Captain Corbet had paced the deck in sleepless misery. With the first beam of dawn his eyes sought the horizon, and as the day grew brighter, he still sought eagerly in all directions.
In vain.
The sun rose. It was broad day.
But upon the face of the waters there was not a sign of the Petrel.
Only one sail was visible, and that was a schooner far away to the west.
Captain Corbet stood terror-struck, and looked all around with a face of despair.