Bart off on an Expedition.—The Search after Solomon.—The aged Toiler.—The Flaming Fury.—The brandished Broomstick.—Collapse of Solomon.—Extinction of the Flaming Fury.—Solomon vanishes.—Terrible Tidings.—An anxious Search.—Despair.MEANWHILE Bart had started off, as we have seen, on his expedition after old Solomon. The place in which he proposed to seek after him was distinguished by the euphonious and historical name of Loch Lomond, which name originated from the existence of a small but very pretty lake in that locality, which was in the neighborhood of a hill. Now, this lake and this hill bore a fanciful resemblance to the famous Scottish lake and hill, and the names were applied to these by some enthusiastic Scotchman. The lake was one of a chain, all of which were small and rather pretty, and the whole region round about went by the name that properly belonged to the lake.
Two or three miles away from this lake there was what is called a “colored settlement,” which, of course, means a settlement inhabited by people of color. This was also called the “black settlement,” and also the “nigger settlement.” Solomon had informed Bart that he intended visiting this place, and Bart thought of this as the only place where he could be heard of.
The colored settlement was founded by some slaves, brought away from the Southern States by the British during the war of 1812. They had been presented with land here, and had been told to chop down the trees, clear the land, and become farmers. The settlement had not been a very great success, however, and it was generally admitted that the genius of these people did not lie in colonizing new countries.
It was a beautiful morning, and though Bart saw high fog banks piled up to the skies in the harbor and in the bay, yet he soon left behind him all thought of this, and entered the country. The scenery was attractive, the air was clear and exhilarating, the horse was fast, and everything conspired to fill him with joyous feeling. His mind reverted to Bruce’s letter, and he passed most of his time during the drive in speculating about the coming excursion, and in rejoicing over the happy accident that had taken Captain Corbet to Prince Edward Island, and brought him within sight of Bruce before he had engaged about the oats. Amid such pleasant thoughts as these his mind busied itself, and at length he reached the colored settlement.
He stopped at a rude log hut, which had a roof of poles and mud, from which a flour barrel projected, and served as a chimney. Here some squalid children were playing on the turf, and an elderly colored lady was engaged in washing. Her Bart accosted with a polite inquiry about Solomon.
“Solomon!” said she. “Wha dat ar? What? dat ar ole man? Mrs. Franklin’s ole man?”
Bart didn’t know anything about Mrs. Franklin, but he gave a description of Solomon, which was sufficiently accurate for this lady to recognize it.
“Dem’s um,” she said, in a positive tone. “Wal—dat ar ole man’s libben at Mrs. Franklin’s—”
“And where is Mrs. Franklin’s?”
“Jes you go ahead till you come to de meetin’ house, an it’s de sebent house after you get to de meetin-house.”
Bart drove on, and in due process of time reached the meeting-house, and then began to count the houses. He found a little difficulty about this, as he could hardly distinguish between what might be a house and what might also be a barn, and was stopping at a place in the road opposite a hut like the one at which he had first stopped, when his attention was arrested by the sight of a man in the field on the other side of the way. The man’s back was turned towards him, and he was toiling with all his might over a stone and a crowbar, occasionally straightening himself up and rubbing his back, and uttering groans which reached Bart’s ears even at that distance, and smote upon his heart.
That aged figure,—aged it was,—could that indeed be Solomon? and was this the way he enjoyed himself while on a visit to his friends? With a crowbar, prying up granite boulders? What a thought!
In a moment Bart was out of the wagon, and was running over the fields towards the old man. He came up close just as the old man was rubbing his back. He caught him by the arm. The old man gave a wild leap, and turned round with an expression of awful fear.
But the object of his fear resolved itself into the pleasant face of Bart, and all the terror fled, and a smile of joy illumed the venerable, yet dusky face. Tears started to his eyes, and, reaching out both hands, he dropped the crowbar; then, coming forward with a low moan of happiness, he exclaimed,—
“You! Mas’r Bart. You, Mas’r Bart—you—you—Mas’r Bart—”
Yes, it was Solomon.
Full of wonder and pity, Bart seized the hands of his old friend, and began asking him a thousand questions. What was he doing here? What did he mean by keeping away? And then, without waiting for an answer, he went on to tell about Bruce’s letter, and their proposed expedition, and the necessity which there was for him to accompany them. Finally he urged him to get ready as soon as possible.
To all this Solomon listened in silence, without saying a word. He stood with his hands clasped together, with his eyes fixed at times on Bart, and at times half closed, while his lips kept muttering low, inaudible words. At length, however, his face and manner underwent a change. He started back, his eyes were fixed on something in the distance, and that same expression of terror came over his face which Bart had seen upon it when he first accosted him.
At this Bart turned instinctively to see what it was that inspired such terror in the mind of Solomon.
He saw a colored lady—tall, gaunt, with a turban on her brow of flaming red, with a look of fury on her face, and a broom in her hand, which she was brandishing wildly. She came with great strides at a run, and was evidently coming towards them. Bart’s first idea was, that she might be a mad woman, and he had a vague impulse to run; but the next instant his mind connected this woman with Solomon, and suggested her as the cause of his fear. As for Solomon, he was now quite beside himself with terror. His hands fell nerveless by his sides, his jaw dropped, his head shook as with a palsy, his knees knocked together, he seemed scarce able to stand erect, and could not utter one single word; all the while his eyes were fixed on the advancing Fury with the flaming turban, and his look was the look of one who expected instant annihilation.
The Fury of the flaming turban drew nearer. Her course showed that she had emerged from the house on the opposite side of the road. As she rushed on, and as she brandished her broom, she howled out the most terrible threats against somebody, which somebody Bart now supposed must be Solomon, and at once, full of pity, determined to defend the old man from her fury. He therefore stood in front of Solomon, and was just about to call to his servant to come and help him, when the idea struck him that the Flaming Fury seemed strangely familiar to him; and as she came yet nearer, he recognized her perfectly. To his utter bewilderment and unbounded amazement, the Flaming Fury turned out to be no other than one who, for the last few years, had been quite a visitor at his father’s kitchen, and a dependant on his father’s bounty. “Black Betsy” was the name by which she was known. A silvery voice, a truly humble and grateful mind, a meek and quiet spirit, a winning demeanor, a smile that always charmed every one upon whom it beamed,—such was the Black Betsy that was known and loved in the Damer kitchen. But what was this? What had happened?
This Black Betsy? This Virago, this Terror, this Flaming Fury? This! Impossible. Yet there was the astounding fact. There was only one explanation. Black Betsy was mad!
No, Bart, she was not mad; she was only drunk;—mad drunk, if you like, but not what is generally called mad.
And thus, mad drunk, the Flaming Fury came bounding up, howling and brandishing her broom. The moment that he recognized her, Bart felt not the slightest fear of her. He stood in front of Solomon. He looked at her fixedly, and raised his hand with a quiet frown.
It is just possible that, if Bart had been a stranger, the Flaming Fury would have swept him away with her broom, as she would have swept a straw. But seeing him, and recognizing him, produced an effect instantaneous and most astonishing. She stopped, still staring at him. The broom for a few moments remained poised in her hands, and then slowly sank towards the ground; while, at the same time, the hard ferocity of her face died out utterly, and was succeeded by a smile so gentle, so amiable, and so motherly, that Bart looked at her in fresh amazement.
“Why, ef it ain’t de dear chicken! Ef it ain’t de dear little Mas’r Bart, his bressed sef. De sakes, now!”
This exclamation was uttered in the softest, and most silvery, and most winning of those tones which Bart had always associated with Black Betsy. This additional proof of the identity of this amiable being with the Flaming Fury only increased his wonder.
“An how is dat ar bressed angel, your mudder, Mas’r Bart? Clar ef dese yer ole eyes ain’t farly achin to see her agin.”
“She’s very well, thanks,” said Bart, slowly.
“Dat’s good; dat’s lubly. Clar ef it don’t go clean to my ole heart! An so you dribe out to see de ole man! Wal, I allus sez, dat ar Mas’r Bart, I ses, ef he ain’t de ’stror’nest, ’fecsh’nest chicken! All heart, I sez, he is; all clar lub—no mistake. An what is dis life wurf widout lub? Why, it’s notin but de soundin brasses an templin simplum. Clar ef it ain’t!”
While this conversation had been going on, Solomon had regained consciousness; and seeing the change that had come over the woman, and that the Flaming Fury had subsided into the gentlest of beings, he began to gather together his scattered senses. Bart’s back was turned to him, and so he did not see him. But Solomon did not care for that. His one idea now was to save himself for the time, at least.
So, first of all, he edged away a little, very slowly and very cautiously. No notice was taken of this, and he ventured to retreat still farther. Still Black Betsy went on talking in her silvery voice, and with her winning smile. So Solomon retreated still farther. Black Betsy saw all this movement, and once she raised the broom and held it in the air. But her face was wreathed with smiles, and her soft, gentle accents flowed on in a mellifluous strain; and so it was, that the upraised broom, instead of calling Solomon back, only hastened his retreat. He thereupon turned abruptly, and making his way as rapidly as possible to the nearest woods, he soon disappeared.
Black Betsy still went on, mellifluous and voluble. The warmth of her nature seemed boundless. Tears stood in her eyes as she told Bart how she loved his mother. Finally she stopped with a sob, overcome with emotion, as she related the kindness she had received from his father, and began to cry.
At this Bart, who had been trying in vain to understand her, finally gave it up, and thought of Solomon. He turned around to speak to him.
To his amazement Solomon was not there.
And now this completed his bewilderment. He drew a long breath, and gave up altogether every effort to understand anything at all.
“Why, where has Solomon gone?” he asked.
“Berryin,” said Black Betsy, gently—“berryin. De ole man dreadful fond o’ berries.”
“Berries? Well, that’s odd. Why, I want to see him.”
“He tink he gib you pleasant ’prise—go pick berries for de dear chicken,” said Black Betsy, in a tender voice.
“But I want him,” said Bart. “I want him now. Where did he go?”
“Don-no, Mas’r Bart—no mor’n a chile. You call out real loud,—you got to call loud fore dat ar ole man’ll har you. He’s got dreadful deaf an hard o’ hearin o’ late—dese times.”
Bart now shouted over and over again, but there was no response. He asked his servant if he had noticed Solomon. The servant had noticed him, and told him about the retreat to the woods. Bart did not know what to make of it all. The apparition of the Flaming Fury had gradually lost its force, and he thought only of the gentle, silvery voice of Black Betsy. The retreat of Solomon, therefore, did not seem to arise from fear of so gentle a being, but from something else—and what could that be?
“De ole man tinks you gwine to spen de day,” said Black Betsy. “He gone olf to dig sassy-prilla to make beer. You wait and he come back soon.”
So Bart waited a little while, hoping that Solomon would return.
But Solomon did not return.
Black Betsy entertained him with remarks in her usual strains, chiefly of an affectionate and endearing character; but Bart was so disappointed that he paid but little attention to her. He had come out to get Solomon’s consent to go with him, and had not been able to do so. What was the reason? Could it be possible that Solomon did not want to go, but did not like to refuse, and so had taken this way of getting out of the difficulty? It seemed very much like it.
Bart waited an hour or so, and then drove away to an inn on the borders of the lake. Here he dined. Then he drove back again to see Solomon. To his deep disappointment he learned that Solomon had not made his appearance since. He therefore left a message to the effect that he would drive out again on the following day, or, if it was stormy, on the first fine day. This was all he could do; and so, mastering his disappointment as well as he could, he drove home again.
It was evening when he reached home. Here a fresh surprise awaited him; for on asking after Phil and Pat, he learned that they left the house after breakfast, and had not been seen since. He wondered at this, as he could not imagine what would take them away, particularly on an occasion like this, when they ought to be naturally anxious to learn the result of so important a thing as his search after Solomon. He concluded, however, that they had gone off on some long walk, or out in the harbor in a boat, and had been detained.
After a time, as he was wandering about, the servant who had driven him to Loch Lomond met him, and told him that there was a report of some accident that had occurred at the Falls that morning.
In a moment Bart’s most anxious excitement was aroused, and he asked about the accident. The servant did not know anything in particular. He had only heard that a boat had been upset in the Falls with two men. Some said they were boys. People had seen them swept under the suspension bridge. It was said that they were drowned.
At the mention of this, Bart felt for a few moments as though he were turned to stone. He could not move or speak. In those few moments there flashed across his mind the remembrance of what Pat and Phil had said about a visit to the islands, together with mysterious hints and casual remarks that he had heard afterwards, to which at the time he had paid no attention, but which now all came back to his memory with fearful distinctness and accuracy. From all this there arose within him the fear that Pat and Phil had made the attempt against which he had warned them, taking advantage of his absence, and that the boat that had been upset was no other than theirs.
What was to be done?
He did not know what. By this time his father was home, and he at once went to him and told him all about it. At this story Mr. Darner’s anxiety was equal to that of Bart. He himself had heard, in the course of the day, about the accident, but had never imagined that it so nearly affected him. The moment that he learned this from Bart, he at once went forth to make further inquiries, to see what could be done, and to commence a search in any possible way in which a search might be made.
He went first of all to the suspension bridge, and made inquiries of the toll-keeper. That functionary was able to tell him all that could be told. It amounted to very little. He had heard shouts on the bridge, over which two or three people were passing, and had gone out to see what was the matter. He had just got out in time to see two men—or two boys, he did not know which—swept by the current under the bridge. There was a boat also, bottom upwards. He and all the rest stood staring in horror without doing anything. To do anything was in fact impossible. The bridge was far above the water, precipices intervened, and the current was running so fast that the figures were swept away before they could fairly understand what had happened.
Were they alive, or dead?
This was the question which Bart asked in intense anxiety and dread.
The toll-keeper could not say, but his impression at the time was, that they were alive; he also had an idea that one of them was clinging to a bit of wood. But he would not be sure.
“Could he make out their clothes—what they were like?”
No; for only their heads were above water. They had no hats. They uttered no cry, and made no noise whatever, but he did not think that they were dead. Still they did not seem to be swimming, and the whole thing was a puzzle.
Unable to get any more satisfaction from the toll-keeper, Mr. Darner next went to the town, and made inquiries among the boatmen and fishermen. There was but one reply from all of them, and that was, that they had seen nothing. They informed him that there had been a thick fog in the harbor all day, and a boat might drift out to sea without being noticed. All of them thought it very unlikely that any men, after being upset in the Falls, could avoid drowning, although, at the same time, they were willing to allow that it was just possible. But if so, the only chance that they could have was to be picked up while in the harbor. If any men were to drift down the harbor, in the fog, without being observed, out into the bay, there did not seem any chance of their being saved.
Such was the opinion of those who knew most about it. Full of anxiety, and almost despair, Bart and his father then went elsewhere on their hopeless errand. They visited the tug-boat men, the ferry-boat men; they questioned many of the scow men and rafts-men; but though most of these men had heard about the accident, none of them had either seen or heard of any men, or of any boat, drifting down the harbor.
This took away from Bart and his father almost their last hope. Yet still they were not willing to give up their search, but continued until late into the night their now apparently hopeless task.
At the Mercy of the Tide.—Ears deafened.—Eyes blinded.—A fresh Struggle for Life.—The Roar of the Steam Whistle.—Where are we?—Pat explores.—A desolate Abode.—The falling Tides.—Without Food and Shelter.WHERE is Pat?
Such was the terrible question that came to the mind of Phil, as, clinging to the oar, he felt himself swept onward by the resistless current. Far on high was the suspension bridge; on either side were dark, savage precipices, and the sweep of the tide hurried him along helplessly between these.
Where is Pat?
At that dread question his heart sank within him. The remembrance of his recent plunge beneath the furious billows where he had been hurled down, and whirled round, and thrown out again, was still most vivid. He thought of Pat as being engulfed beneath them still. His own escape seemed little short of miraculous, and he could not hope that both of them were safe. Such an escape was astonishing for one, but for two it was too much to hope for. He did not dare to look back. He was afraid to know the worst, and that look back, he thought, would show him only the dark water. For a time he felt as though he would rather fear the worst, than actually know it; and so, despairingly, he was swept on, and passed under the bridge in the same attitude in which he had emerged from the Falls.
Suddenly from behind him there sounded a cry,—
“Hooray!”
A thrill of joy passed through Phil. It was Pat’s voice. In an instant his terror fled, and he looked back. There, to his amazement, close behind him, he saw Pat, drifting along, with his face above water fully revealed, and showing, even at that dread moment, the calm self-reliance and good-natured ease that always distinguished him. Phil was so overcome with joy, that he could not say a word.
“Sure an it’s rather wet, so it is,” said Pat, in as natural a tone as though he were walking along the road in a rain shower.
Phil made no answer.
Again they drifted on in silence.
Now, as for Pat, at the moment when the boat hung hovering on the edge of the fall, he had stood, keen, watchful, observant, with every one of his wits about him, and had shouted out to Phil.
Phil had jumped first, but Pat followed immediately. His experience was like that of Phil, with this difference—that he was under water a little longer. On emerging, he saw Phil a little in front of him, and so he felt at ease on that score. His first thought now was about the boat. He looked back, and saw it not more than six feet behind him, bottom upwards. Upon this he was seized with a very strong desire to gain the boat once more; and so he floated on for a time, thinking what to do. At length he made an effort to swim back towards it. The progress that he made was scarce perceptible, and he could hardly have gained the boat by his own efforts; but, fortunately, the river current favored him, for the boat reached a place where it was whirled round so that its stern came close to him. A vigorous effort enabled him to seize it, and it was his joy at this which had elicited the cry that had first given to Phil the knowledge of his safety. The other remark, about the wetness of the place, was merely owing to the same exultation, and was intended to convey to Phil something of the same cheerful confidence that filled his own mind.
The boat was bottom upwards, but that was rather an advantage; for a boat can bear a heavier weight under those circumstances than if it is filled with water in its natural position. Pat knew this very well, and proceeded at once to avail himself of this knowledge. He did so by climbing upon it—a task which required some effort, but in which he at length succeeded. In doing so, he was compelled to let go his oar. This, however, did not trouble him, for the boat was better than any oar could be, and so he straddled upon the bottom, and began to think how he could get Phil into the same comparatively easy position.
At last he hit upon a plan.
“Phil!” he cried.
Phil looked round, and saw the boat, and Pat seated on it.
“Shove us yer oar, darlint,” said Pat. “Can ye shove us up your oar, jewel?”
Pat spoke in a coaxing tone, just as though he was asking some favor from Phil.
At this request Phil pushed the oar along the surface of the water with one hand, using the other to keep himself afloat. The boat was near enough for him to reach it, and Pat, stooping down, grasped it. Then pulling at it, he drew Phil towards him, until at length he also was able to grasp the boat.
“Now,” said Pat, “I’ll take the oar, and you jist climb up here.”
He took the oar in one hand, and reached out his other to assist Phil. Pat’s help was of great value in such a difficult task, and by means of it Phil was at length able to clamber up, and straddle upon the boat behind his friend. They found, to their delight, that the boat supported both of them with the greatest ease. Now, had it been filled with water in its ordinary position, right side up, it could scarcely have given assistance to one of them; but as it was, it gave the most perfect support to both of them. The reason is easy to explain. When a boat is turned completely over, bottom upwards, so suddenly as this was, there always remains a certain amount of air confined inside. This gives it an immense amount of buoyancy, and until that air all escapes that buoyancy continues. Of course, after a time the air will all escape, and then the boat must sink beneath the weight imposed upon it. But if the boat is tight, the air will be retained, and consequently the buoyancy will remain for a long time. Now, fortunately for Phil and Pat, the boat that they had was new, and well calked, and as tight as possible; and so there was no immediate danger. Fortunately also for them, they had thus far suffered nothing from cold; for it was the end of July, and the water was rather warm, and the air was warm also. And so, though they had experienced such a plunge into the water, and such a prolonged immersion, and though they now sat thus in their wet clothes, yet, after all, they suffered nothing whatever from either damp or chill, but, on the whole, were rather comfortable than otherwise.
Thus far they had uttered no cry for help, nor had they heard any call of any human voice that might indicate the neighborhood of any human sympathy. They had passed under the suspension bridge. They had swept past shores that were crowded on either side with wharves, houses, and steam saw-mills, but as yet had seen no efforts to assist them. In fact, as it afterwards proved, no one had noticed them. Whether it was that every one was busy, or that they had been carelessly regarded as an ordinary boat in its ordinary position, could not be known; certain it was that no one offered to assist them. Thus, then, they swept along, until at length they reached the place where the river enters the harbor. Just here, the boat, in its drift, came near to the oar which Pat had dropped when he clambered into it. He grasped Phil’s oar, and reaching out, he drew it towards him and regained possession of it.
“There’s no knowin,” said he, “what use this may be. It’s best to take it whin it comes to us handy.”
Saying this, he gave Phil one oar, and keeping the other himself, he waited for some chance of escape.
But their troubles were far from ending as yet, and soon the prospect of escape was removed still farther from them. For as they reached the place where the river enters the harbor, just as they saw a man on the beach, and began to shout to him to try and attract his attention, they drifted on, and plunged into a thick, dense cloud of fog.
That fog was no common fog. It was the advance guard of a fog that covered the bay, and seemed to be thrown forward into the harbor to take possession and hold it until the main army should be ready to advance. It was dense, damp, and obscure. Through this they passed, trying to peer through the gloom, and find out where they might be going. Several times they shouted, but soon found out the uselessness of this. For the noise and riot all around showed them that shouting was simply absurd. Around them they heard the yell of steam whistles from tug-boats, from ferry-boats, and from what seemed to be a thousand other places. For it was now about midday, and that is the time when all the steam whistles of all the steam saw-mills of the city let off one simultaneous blast. The yells seemed to arise in every conceivable direction. Amid such an uproar, their loudest cries were feeble, and could not be heard; so they soon became convinced of the uselessness of this, and remained silent, but watchful. Watchfulness, however, was equally useless; for if it is in vain that one shouts amid the yells of steam whistles, so it is equally in vain that one tries to keep up a watch in the midst of a dense fog. Watching could reveal nothing but that obscurity which surrounded them.
In this way, then, they drifted down the harbor, while the steam whistles were yelling around them so as to stifle all their cries for help, and while the fog was gathering round them in its dense folds so as to obscure their sight. But the boat bore them well, and it was at least a subject of rejoicing to them that they were thus seated in comparative comfort on that boat, instead of floating tip to their chins in the water, clinging to their oars.
Neither of them spoke a word as they thus drifted. Both of them were anxiously on the lookout for some means of escape. But no way of escape presented itself. They drifted on. The time seemed long indeed as they thus drifted, though how long it really was they had no means of knowing, and could only conjecture. On they went, and still on, and no help appeared, and no way of escape was visible.
At length Pat began to make use of his oar by putting it over the boat into the water, and working it in the way called sculling; in such a way, however, as to give the boat as strong an inclination as possible to the right. It was not easy to scull, for there was no socket in which to insert the oar; but Pat did the best he could, and by holding one foot he managed to keep the oar in a steady enough position by holding it between his foot and the keel. Phil watched him in silence for some time, and Pat went on working at the oar with all his might.
“What are you doing, Pat?” he asked at last.
“Well,” said Pat, without stopping, “there’s jist a ghost of a chance for us. We’re dhriftin out to sea, an ef we sit still we’ll be miles out before we know it. Now there’s Partridge Island afore us yet, an it’ll be on our right as we’re dhriftin out, an I’m strivin to see if I can give a twisht to the boat, so as to draw her in nearer to the shore.”
“Can’t I help?” said Phil.
“I suppose ye may as well thry,” said Pat.
Upon this Phil took his oar, and began to use it in the same way as Pat. The efforts of the boys were directed, not towards resisting the current, but towards effecting a movement of the boat to the right, and drawing it away from the middle of the stream to within reach of Partridge Island. This place was now their last hope.
“Ef we can only get out of the sthraim,” said Pat, “we’ll get to the island. The boat’s hard to move this way, but we may do something.”
No more was said, but they both worked silently and vigorously. Soon the water grew somewhat rough, and waves began to rise. These were not of any size, but the boat was so low down that even the little wavelets broke over them as they sat there. After a time these wavelets grew larger, and at length they encountered several in succession that were worthy of being considered as waves. After this the water continued rougher, and their drift was by no means so quiet and uneventful as it had been. The fog, too, remained as thick as ever. Around them was still the sound of whistles and fog horns, and high and loud and clear above all the din arose one far-penetrating yell.
“That’s the island whistle,” said Pat—“the fog whistle, so it is. We’re comin nearer.”
After a time this whistle seemed to be no nearer, but to have changed its direction.
“Where in the wide wurruld are we dhjiftin to?” said Pat, trying in vain to peer through the fog.
“We must have passed the island,” said Phil, uneasily.
Pat shook his head in silence.
But now new anxiety came to the two castaways, and the faint hopes that had arisen began to subside. The wind was blowing somewhat fresh, the waves were growing larger and more aggressive every moment. They appeared to have been carried beyond the island, and if so, they had no hope of any escape, unless they should come upon some vessel. But in that dense fog such a hope was faint indeed. Even in broad day their situation would have been dangerous, but now it was nothing less than desperate. These thoughts now came to each of them, and they said nothing, but they still worked, as if mechanically, at the oars.
Suddenly something dark loomed immediately before them through the fog, and in a few seconds, as the swift tide bore them nearer, they saw rocks and sea-weed.
“Hurrah!” cried Pat. “It’s the island, afther all.”
But at that moment the great fog whistle sent forth its blast, which sounded far away over the waters.
“‘Tain’t the island, ayther, sure enough,” said Pat. “I wondher if it’s the shore.”
By this time they were close up to the rocks, and Pat leaped off. It was not deeper than his waist. Phil followed, and they pulled the boat forward. It was a shelving ledge of rock, covered with sea-weed; and drawing the boat as far up on this as they could, they stood still, and rested, and looked around.
But little could be seen, for the fog was thick, and shut out all except what was within their immediate vicinity. Nothing but rocks and seaweed appeared. The rocks were rude and jagged crags, upheaved in wild disorder, with huge boulders lying in the interstices and hollows. Over all these was a vast accumulation of sea-weed.
“It’s ashore somewhere that we must be,” said Pat; “but where it is I don’t know at all, at all, so I don’t; somewhere on the Carleton shore, so it is. The island’s over there, and this ought to be the baich. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You stay here by the boat, and I’ll go off and see if I can make out anything.”
Saying this, Pat started off to explore the rocks and see the country. Phil sat down on the wet sea-weed, holding the painter. His heart was full of fervent gratitude for his astonishing escape, and as his memory brought back the terrible events that had happened since he left the island, a prayer of thankfulness was breathed forth from his inmost soul to the One who had preserved him.
In a short time Pat returned. He looked disappointed, vexed, and somewhat puzzled.
“We’re not on the baich at all,” said he, in a tone of vextion.
“Where are we—on an island?”
“Niver an island,” said Pat. “It’s a rock that we’re on. It’s what they call a rafe. But what it is I don’t know. It’s big enough, and runs over iver so far. Anyhow, we’re not far from the harbor, or from the island. If I ony knowed how far we were from the shore, I’d like it better. But I can’t see anything, or hear anything of it.”
“Perhaps we’re close by the shore,” said Phil.
“No; I’ll tell you where it is. I have it. I knowed it,” cried Pat. “I was sure of it, ony I couldn’t get hold of it. Ye know that rafe lying off the Carleton shore—Shad Rocks?”
“Yes,” said Phil.
“Well, it’s that same that this place is; and we’re standin here now, so we are, as sure as you’re alive.”
“Shad Rocks!” cried Phil. “Shad Rocks!”
“Shad Rocks it is,” said Pat, “an no other place. An now I undherstan it all. Out there is the say,” said Pat, turning and facing where he supposed the sea to be. “Up there on the lift is Partridge Island, where ye hear the staim whistle, and back there’s the Carleton shore.”
This discovery cheered them both greatly; and the moment that Pat suggested this, everything confirmed it. The sounds of whistles in various directions could now be identified with various steamboats with which they were acquainted, while the lowing of cattle and the reports of guns in other directions showed where the land was.
They now looked forward with perfect calmness towards escaping. Before very long the tide had retreated far enough to leave the boat exposed. The first thing that they did was to turn her over and set her right. They then put inside her the oars, which had saved their lives in the falls, and which they had fortunately brought with them all the time of their drift on the bottom of the boat. This gave them the means of effecting their escape.
All that they now had to do was to wait till the boat could float again. As near as they could calculate, the tide would not be back again sufficiently to float the boat until eight o’clock in the evening. They had therefore nothing to do but to wait as patiently as possible. They were wet and hungry; but in that midsummer day, the wet did not make them at all cold, and in the course of time their clothes dried upon them; and as to hunger, they were too much overjoyed at their escape to make any allusions to such a trivial thing. They amused themselves by hunting after shrimps in the interstices of the rocks and in the water pools that lay about.
Thus the time passed, and at length the tide rose high enough to float the boat. Fortunately for them also, the fog lessened somewhat, and thus they were able to direct their course much more easily. Soon they were on the waters again, rowing along, assisted now by the rising tide, and thus finally succeeded in reaching their destination.
On arriving at the house, they learned about the search of Bart and his father. They had not yet got home. Servants were at once sent to tell them the news, and it was at the very lowest point of their despondency that the tidings came that the lost were found.
Flight of Solomon.—In Hiding.—Solomon is himself again.—Up the River.—Through the Country.—A long Drive.—An Indian Village.—An Indian Guide.—Preparing for the Expedition.THE joy which Pat and Phil had felt over their safety was certainly not greater than that of Bart, as the lost ones were at length restored. His intense anxiety was followed by a happiness as intense, and his excited feelings resulted in a somewhat sleepless night. But in the wakeful hours of that night his mind was taken up by other things than the affairs of Phil and Pat, and his thoughts reverted to the earlier events of that day, to Loch Lomond, and to Solomon. He still wondered at Solomon’s precipitate and mysterious retreat, and obstinate staying away from the house. It looked as though Solomon did not want to go on the expedition; yet he felt in his own heart, that without Solomon the expedition would lose its chief charm. Consequently Solomon must go. But how could he overcome his objections? It would be necessary to see him at once, to drive out to Loch Lomond as early as possible the next morning.
The next morning he was up early in spite of his sleepless night, and swallowing a few hasty mouthfuls, he hurried to the barn to see about harnessing the horse. The harness was put on, the horse was already standing between the shafts, Bart was watching the preparations impatiently, standing in the doorway of the barn, when, suddenly, he felt his shoulder touched.
He turned at once.
He stood thunderstruck!
For there, close beside him, full before him, was no other than the actual real bodily presence of Solomon himself.
Bart was so amazed, that for some time he could not utter one single word.
“Solomon!” he exclaimed at last.
At this, Solomon held up both hands with a warning gesture and a face full of fearful apprehension. The look and gesture would have been in every way appropriate to some criminal hiding from the law, and fearful of discovery; but it was utterly out of place in one so virtuous and so honored as the venerable Solomon. This incongruity was felt by Bart, and only added to his amazement.
“When did you come?”
Solomon retreated behind the door, dragging Bart after him.
“Last night,” he answered.
“Last night? How?”
“I walked ebery step—I did.”
“Walked?”
“Yes, ebery step. I rund away, you know.”
“Ran away? What do you mean?”
Solomon’s eyes rolled wildly; he looked all around.
“Drefful doins out dar. Drefful place. An dar’s no noins what would hab ebber become ob me ef you didn’t hab come yesterday. I’d been a pinin an a whinin in Gypsum bondage, but couldn’t get away. She kept tight hole ob me,—mine, I tell you,—an she’ll be arter me to-day, mighty quick,—ony you keep me hid, Mas’r Bart. Don’t gib me up; don’t let her take me.”
“She? Her?” replied Bart, to whom all this was quite unintelligible. “What do you mean? What woman are you speaking of?”
“Black Betsy,” said Solomon, with a groan and another fearful roll of the eyes.
“Black Betsy? Why, what has she to do with you?” asked Bart, in wonder.
“Why, she my wife, you know.”
“Your wife? Your what? Your wife?” cried Bart. “What! Black Betsy! You married to Black Betsy! What in the world do you mean by this? When were you married? Last week?”
“Ben mar’d ober twenty year,” said Solomon, dolefully.
This was a period of remote antiquity with which Bart had no connection, and he could only listen in amazement to Solomon’s strange and startling disclosure. He had never heard of this before. He had no idea that Solomon had a wife, or that Black Betsy had a husband. But this thing required examination, and meanwhile the horse was all ready. As for the horse, he could only give orders to have him taken out, and then he was able to bestow his undivided attention upon Solomon.
“Ben mar’d mor’n twenty year,” replied Solomon, dolefully. “An you nebber see sech a strorny creetur in all your born days. Fight? Why, dat ar woman did nuffin but fight from morn to night, all de year roun. An drunk? Why, she nebber sober, night or day; an de life she led me! Beat? Why, she beat me black and blue; so I rund off to sea, and a bressed ting it was, for I ben dead an gone long ago. Den I heerd she gone off Boston way, an I come back yer, an den went to de Cadmy. Well, I got a mar’d darter out Loch Lomon way, an I come yer dis time to see her and de chil’en; an dar was Betsy. She nabbed me. She beat my life out, made me a slabe, and I done nuffin but grub about ebber since I come yar. Beat? Why, ebery day she pound me to a jelly. Clar if she didn’t! An de way she did lay dat ar big broomstick ober dis ole head. De sakes, ony to tink ob it.”
From all of which Bart learned that Black Betsy was the wife of Solomon; that her character, according to his showing, was by no means that gentle, and affectionate, and motherly one which he had supposed it to he; that her life was disorderly, and her conduct outrageous; that she was in the habit of getting drunk; that Solomon had to run away from her years ago, and become an exile and a wanderer; that it was only his yearning after his daughter that had drawn him back; that, on meeting his daughter, he had found himself, to his horror, once more in the presence of his merciless wife, who had at once seized him, appropriated him, beaten him, and reduced him to a state of abject slavery. From this slavery he had just escaped. He now appeared before Bart in the attitude of a fugitive slave, dreading discovery and capture, imploring Bart’s sympathy and assistance, and eager, above all things, to fly far away, and follow the fortunes of the boys on a new expedition; once more to join the ranks of the B. O. W. C.; once more to officiate as Grand Panjandrum; once more to furnish forth the banquet; once more to sail under the orders of Captain Corbet.
Solomon’s position was a truly painful one, and excited Bart’s profoundest sympathy; but there were other things in his position which were not altogether painful. In the first place, he was delighted to find that, whatever the reason might be, Solomon’s eagerness to set forth upon the expedition was equal to his own, if not greater. In the second place, Solomon wished to remain in hiding, and implored Bart to conceal him and keep his secret. So Bart found himself suddenly called on to become the benefactor and protector of a cherished friend, and also the depositary of a tremendous secret, which he had to guard like his heart’s blood. It was a secret which must be communicated to none, not even to Phil and Pat, not to his father or mother, in fact, not to any living soul. Fortunately, the servant had not seen Solomon, for that wary old party had discovered himself to Bart so cautiously, and had drawn him back into the barn to talk to him so carefully, that he had not been seen.
So Bart undertook the task. He found a safe place for Solomon behind the hay, and at regular intervals through the day he brought him food and drink. These regular intervals occurred so frequently, that Bart spent the greater part of that day in vibrating like a pendulum between the house and barn. Had Solomon remained in this hiding-place for any length of time, it is certain that Bart’s assiduous attentions and air of mystery would have led to a discovery; but as it happened, the concealment was not needed for any longer time.
All that day, while Bart had been thus performing the part of a faithful friend, he had also been forwarding to the utmost the preparations for the coming journey. These preparations consisted chiefly in fishing-tackle of various kinds. One day was quite sufficient for this, and so, on the day after, the whole party left. Their departure took place at sunrise. Solomon had left before them, and had gone in the early morning twilight to the steamer in which they were to embark, where he had concealed himself behind a row of flour barrels. At seven o’clock the boat started. The boys walked forward, and there, to the utter amazement of Phil and Pat, the first object that met their eyes was Solomon. They had only heard Bart’s account of his unsuccessful visit, and had given him up. But now he appeared, radiant, joyous, ecstatic; and though a large, white smouch was over his right cheek, caused by his lying down with his face pressed against a flour barrel, yet that white spot did not at all detract from the exultant and triumphant expression that overspread his face. His little black beads of eyes twinkled with delight; his legs went hopping up from the deck in all directions; and he would certainly then and there have indulged in a real, original, genuine, plantation break-down, had not rheumatiz gently reminded him that there were limits to the exercise of his muscular powers.
The route which they took to the Bay de Chaleur was apparently a roundabout one; but in reality it was the shortest way to get to their destination. First they went up the river St. John, and after a time they intended to turn off into the country.
As they sailed up that beautiful river, they gazed with admiration upon the varying scenes that opened upon them every moment. With that river and its features Bart was quite familiar; but the others had never seen it before, and were never tired of looking out upon the surrounding valley. First of all they found themselves in a narrow gorge shut in by precipices. Emerging from this, they entered a broad expanse of water looking like an extensive lake. Traversing this, the river narrowed again, and the sheet of water ran on before their eyes in a straight line for many miles, with high hills, some wooded, some cultivated on either side. Passing on, they left this behind; and now the course of the river was a winding one, leading them on amidst varied scenery of high hills and fertile valleys. Beyond this, again, the high hills departed, and a broad extent of meadow land, dotted with groves and orchards and white farm-houses, and covered over with luxuriant vegetation, spread away on every side as far as the eye could reach. Here the scene was not so varied as it had been at first, but it was rich and glorious, showing to them a favored land, a land flowing with milk and honey. This rich and fertile land continued till the steamer stopped at Fredericton.
Here they passed the night, and hired a carriage to take them to the River Miramichi, a place which lay on the way between Fredericton and the Bay de Chaleur.
On the following morning they crossed the ferry, and after a short drive they reached another river, a branch of the St. John, which rejoices in the name of the Nashwaak. The river was small, but they thought it one of the most beautiful that they had ever seen. High hills covered with forests arose on every side, now coming up close and shutting in the waters, again receding and leaving rich meadow lands, through which the river flowed with many a winding.
At midday they stopped at a pretty little inn by the road-side, and beguiled the time during which they had to wait for dinner by trying their hands at trouting. Bart and Phil caught two small trout apiece; Pat hooked one; while Solomon actually landed a salmon—an event which created intense excitement in the whole party.
In the evening they reached another place, where they stopped for the night. The next day they resumed their journey, and in the afternoon arrived at the village of Chatham, which is situated on the banks of the River Miramichi.
And now the boys made a discovery, which, strangely enough, had not suggested itself before. It was the simple fact that they had started altogether too soon. This was the third of August, but the Rawdons and Tom would not meet them until the fifteenth. There was therefore nearly a fortnight’s time on their hands. No thought of regret, however, arose in the minds of any of them; but the fact that they had so much time to spare, at once set them all to work to contrive some way of enjoying themselves. Various suggestions were made. One was, that they should visit the different, settlements in all the country around; another, that they should go straight to Shippegan, get a schooner or a fishing-boat, and explore the Bay de Chaleur. Both of these plans, however, were rejected, in favor of the superior attractions of a third plan.
This was, to plunge into the woods, wander about, fish, explore, and rough it generally. They could take a little stock of provisions with them, but trust chiefly to the fish which they might catch. They could build camps, and sleep in them, and cook their fish themselves by their own fires. Bart spoke to the landlord about the feasibility of this plan, and that worthy approved of it highly, but told them that they would have to take some Indian guide with them.
Had the guide been English, Irish, Scotch, or American, the boys would probably have felt some objections; but being an Indian, the idea had overpowering fascinations for them. There was a dash of romance about an Indian guide that lent additional attractions to the proposed excursion.
The landlord informed them that there was an Indian settlement opposite, and that if they went over there they might find a guide, and make a bargain with him.
All this was settled on the evening of the day in which they had arrived, and early on the following morning they crossed the river on a visit to the Indian settlement, in search of a guide.
The Indian settlement was not a very extensive one. It consisted of about a dozen wigwams. These camps are constructed of poles set together in a conical shape, and covered over with birch bark, a substance that with them is made to serve a wonderful number of purposes. On entering the settlement, a number of dogs came up and smelt them very deliberately. They saw a number of children, who, at their approach, darted inside the nearest camp. Old squaws were busy cooking. One or two Indians were engaged in making baskets. The whole scene had a peaceful, primitive, and romantic character. It was clean, too; for though an Indian camp has no architectural pretensions, yet it rarely gives forth those overpowering odors which are encountered on approaching many of the houses of the more civilized races.
An Indian advanced to meet the boys.
“Good day, brother,” said Bart; for in this country it is the fashion to address an Indian by this fraternal title.
“Good day, broder,” said the Indian, in a friendly way.
He was rather old, fearfully wrinkled, and his long, coarse hair reached to his shoulders. As Bart looked at him, it struck him that this man would be a most desirable guide; his age made him trustworthy, while, at the same time, his sturdy frame and sinewy limbs showed that he possessed all the powers of endurance that might be desired.
With these thoughts Bart made known to him the object of his visit. As he spoke, the other Indians listened with much interest, and addressed remarks to one another, accompanied with glances at the boys, which seemed to afford them great amusement; for smiles came over their grave faces, and some of the younger squaws giggled, and numbers of little heads were poked out through the doors of several wigwams, and numbers of little sparkling black wild eyes were fixed upon the visitors to the camp.
The Indian whom they had accosted thought for some time over Bart’s question, and then addressed some remarks to the others. Some conversation followed, which, of course, was not intelligible to the boys, since it was carried on in the language of these Indians. At length the one whom Bart was talking with informed him that he would be willing to go himself as guide.
“Me go; me go; takum you troom wood. Me good guide, fus rate; go often. My name Sam.”
At this Bart was overjoyed.
“You wantum shoot?” asked the Indian.
“No,” said Bart, with a feeling of intense regret, “only to fish.”
“Berry well, fishum; all same. Me show all aboutum. When you go?”
Bart said that he wanted to set out that very day, if he could.
“Me all ready,” said Sam. “Go now, or to-morrow; all same.”
Upon this Bart said that they would go back to get their things, and return by noon, when they might all set out together.
They now went back and gathered together the things that they considered necessary. The Indian went over with them. After further conversation with Sam, Bart thought that it would be better to drive for about twenty miles, and then take to the woods. That would save them a long and useless tramp, and bring them at once to the very scene of action.