Solomon surpasses himself.—A Period of Joy is generally followed by a Time of Sorrow.—Gloomy Forebodings.—The Legend of Petticoat Jack.—Captain Corbet discourses of the Dangers of the Deep, and puts in Practice a new and original Mode of Navigation.
This interruption put an end to their attempts at fishing, and was succeeded by another interruption of a more pleasing character, in the shape of dinner, which was now loudly announced by Solomon. For some time a savory steam had been issuing from the lower regions, and had been wafted to their nostrils in successive puffs, until at last their impatient appetite had been roused to the keenest point, and the enticing fragrance had suggested all sorts of dishes. When at length the summons came, and they went below, they found the dinner in every way worthy of the occasion. Solomon's skill never was manifested more conspicuously than on this occasion; and whether the repast was judged of by the quantity or the quality of the dishes, it equally deserved to be considered as one of the masterpieces of the distinguished artist who had prepared it.
"Dar, chil'en," he exclaimed, as they took their places, "dar, cap'en, jes tas dem ar trout, to begin on, an see if you ever saw anythin to beat 'em in all your born days. Den try de stew, den de meat pie, den de calf's head; but dat ar pie down dar mustn't be touched, nor eben so much as looked at, till de las ob all."
And with these words Solomon stepped back, leaning both hands on his hips, and surveyed the banquet and the company with a smile of serene and ineffable complacency.
"All right, Solomon, my son," said Bart. "Your dinner is like yourself—unequalled and unapproachable."
"Bless you, bless you, my friend," murmured Bruce, in the intervals of eating; "if there is any contrast between this present voyage and former ones, it is all due to our unequalled caterer."
"How did you get the trout, Solomon?" said Phil.
"De trout? O, I picked 'em up last night down in de village," said Solomon. "Met little boy from Gaspereaux, an got 'em from him."
"What's this?" cried Tom, opening a dish—"not lobster!"
"Lobster!" exclaimed Phil.
"So it is."
"Why, Solomon, where did you get lobster?"
"Is this the season for them?"
"Think of the words of the poet, boys," said Bart, warningly,—
"In the months without the R,Clams and lobsters pison are."
Solomon meanwhile stood apart, grinning from ear to ear, with his little black beads of eyes twinkling with merriment.
"Halo, Solomon! What do you say to lobsters in July?"
Solomon's head wagged up and down, as though he were indulging in some quiet, unobtrusive laughter, and it was some time before he replied.
"O, neber you fear, chil'en," he said; "ef you're only goin to get sick from lobsters, you'll live a long day. You may go in for clams, an lobsters, an oysters any time ob de yeah you like,—ony dey mus be cooked up proper."
"I'm gratified to hear that," said Bruce, gravely, "but at the same time puzzled. For Mrs. Pratt says the exact opposite; and so here we have two great authorities in direct opposition. So what are we to think?"
"O, there's no difficulty," said Arthur, "for the doctors are not of equal authority. Mrs. Pratt is a quack, but Solomon is a professional—a regular, natural, artistic, and scientific cook, which at sea is the same as doctor."
The dinner was prolonged to an extent commensurate with its own inherent excellence and the capacity of the boys to appreciate it; but at length, like all things mortal, it came to a termination, and the company went up once more to the deck. On looking round it was evident to all that a change had taken place.
Four miles away lay Ile Haute, and eight or ten miles beyond this lay the long line of Nova Scotia. It was now about four o'clock, and the tide had been rising for three hours, and was flowing up rapidly, and in a full, strong current. As yet there was no wind, and the broad surface of the bay was quite smooth and unruffled. In the distance and far down the bay, where its waters joined the horizon, there was a kind of haze, that rendered the line of separation between sea and sky very indistinct. The coast of Nova Scotia was at once enlarged and obscured. It seemed now elevated to an unusual height above the sea line, as though it had been suddenly brought several miles nearer, and yet, instead of being more distinct, was actually more obscure. Even Ile Haute, though so near, did not escape. Four miles of distance were not sufficient to give it that grand indistinctness which was now flung over the Nova Scotia coast; yet much of the mysterious effect of the haze had gathered about the island; its lofty cliffs seemed to tower on high more majestically, and to lean over more frowningly; its fringe of black sea-weed below seemed blacker, while the general hue of the island had changed from a reddish color to one of a dull slaty blue.
"I don't like this," said Captain Corbet, looking down the bay and twisting up his face as he looked.
"Why not?"
Captain Corbet shook his head.
"What's the matter?"
"Bad, bad, bad!" said the captain.
"Is there going to be a storm?"
"Wuss!"
"Worse? What?"
"Fog."
"Fog?"
"Yes, hot an heavy, thick as puddin, an no mistake. I tell you what it is, boys: judgin from what I see, they've got a bran-new steam injine into that thar fog mill at Grand Manan; an the way they're goin to grind out the fog this here night is a caution to mariners."
Saying this, he took off his hat, and holding it in one hand, he scratched his venerable head long and thoughtfully with the other.
"But I don't see any fog as yet," said Bart.
"Don't see it? Wal, what d'ye call all that?" said the captain, giving a grand comprehensive sweep with his arm, so as to take in the entire scene.
"Why, it's clear enough."
"Clear? Then let me tell you that when you see a atmosphere like this here, then you may expect to see it any moment changed into deep, thick fog. Any moment—five minutes 'll be enough to snatch everything from sight, and bury us all in the middle of a unyversal fog bank."
"What'll we do?"
"Dew? That's jest the question."
"Can we go on?"
"Wal—without wind—I don't exactly see how. In a fog a wind is not without its advantages. That's one of the times when the old Antelope likes to have her sails up; but as we hain't got no wind, I don't think we'll do much."
"Will you stay here at anchor?"
"At anchor? Course not. No, sir. Moment the tide falls again, I'll drift down so as to clear that pint there,—Cape Chignecto,—then anchor; then hold on till tide rises; and then drift up. Mebbe before that the wind 'll spring up, an give us a lift somehow up the bay."
"How long before the tide will turn?"
"Wal, it'll be high tide at about a quarter to eight this evenin, I calc'late."
"You'll drift in the night, I suppose."
"Why not?"
"O, I didn't know but what the fog and the night together might be too much for you."
"Too much? Not a bit of it. Fog, and night, and snow-storms, an tide dead agin me, an a lee shore, are circumstances that the Antelope has met over an over, an fit down. As to foggy nights, when it's as calm as this, why, they're not wuth considerin."
Captain Corbet's prognostication as to the fog proved to be correct. It was only for a short time that they were allowed to stare at the magnified proportions of the Nova Scotia coast and Ile Haute. Then a change took place which attracted all their attention.
The change was first perceptible down the bay. It was first made manifest by the rapid appearance of a thin gray cloud along the horizon, which seemed to take in both sea and sky, and absorbed into itself the outlines of both. At the same time, the coast of Nova Scotia grew more obscure, though it lost none of its magnified proportions, while the slaty blue of Ile Haute changed to a grayer shade.
This change was rapid, and was followed by other changes. The thin gray cloud, along the south-west horizon, down the bay, gradually enlarged itself; till it grew to larger and loftier proportions. In a quarter of an hour it had risen to the dimensions of the Nova Scotia coast. In a half an hour it was towering to double that height. In an hour its lofty crest had ascended far up into the sky.
"It's a comin," said Captain Corbet. "I knowed it. Grind away, you old fog mill! Pile on the steam, you Grand Mananers!"
"Is there any wind down there?"
"Not a hooter."
"Is the fog coming up without any wind?"
"Course it is. What does the fog want of wind?"
"I thought it was the wind that brought it along."
"Bless your heart, the fog takes care of itself. The wind isn't a bit necessary. It kine o' pervades the hull atmosphere, an rolls itself on an on till all creation is overspread. Why, I've seen everything changed from bright sunshine to the thickest kind of fog in fifteen minutes,—yea, more,—and in five minutes."
Even while they were speaking the fog rolled on, the vast accumulation of mist rose higher and yet higher, and appeared to draw nearer with immense rapidity. It seemed as though the whole atmosphere was gradually becoming condensed, and precipitating its invisible watery vapor so as to make it visible in far-extending fog banks. It was not wind, therefore, that brought on the clouds, for the surface of the water was smooth and unruffled, but it was the character of the atmosphere itself from which this change was wrought. And still, as they looked at the approaching mist, the sky overhead was blue, and the sun shone bright. But the gathering clouds seemed now to have gained a greater headway, and came on more rapidly. In a few minutes the whole outline of the Nova Scotia coast faded from view, and in its place there appeared a lofty wall of dim gray cloud, which rose high in the air, fading away into the faintest outline. Overhead, the blue sky became rapidly more obscured; Ile Haute changed again from its grayish blue to a lighter shade, and then became blended with the impenetrable fog that was fast enclosing all things; and finally the clouds grew nearer, till the land nearest them was snatched from view, and all around was alike shrouded under the universal veil; nothing whatever was visible. For a hundred yards, or so, around them, they could see the surface of the water; but beyond this narrow circle, nothing more could be discerned.
"It's a very pooty fog," said Captain Corbet, "an I only wonder that there ain't any wind. If it should come, it'll be all right."
"You intend, then, to go on just the same."
"Jest the same as ef the sky was clear. I will up anchor as the tide begins to fall, an git a good piece down, so as to dodge Cape Chegnecto, an there wait for the rising tide, an jest the same as ef the sun was shinin. But we can't start till eight o'clock this evenin. Anyhow, you needn't trouble yourselves a mite. You may all go to sleep, an dream that the silver moon is guidin the traveller on the briny deep."
The scene now was too monotonous to attract attention, and the boys once more sought for some mode of passing the time. Nothing appeared so enticing as their former occupation of fishing, and to this they again turned their attention. In this employment the time passed away rapidly until the summons was given for tea. Around the festive board, which was again prepared by Solomon with his usual success, they lingered long, and at length, when they arose, the tide was high. It was now about eight o'clock in the evening, and Captain Corbet was all ready to start. As the tide was now beginning to turn, and was on the ebb, the anchor was raised, and the schooner, yielding to the pressure of the current, moved away from her anchorage ground. It was still thick, and darkness also was coming on. Not a thing could be discerned, and by looking at the water, which moved with the schooner, it did not seem as though any motion was made.
"That's all your blindness," said the captain, as they mentioned it to him. "You can't see anything but the water, an as it is movin with us, it doesn't seem as though we were movin. But we air, notwithstandin, an pooty quick too. I'll take two hours' drift before stoppin, so as to make sure. I calc'late about that time to get to a place whar I can hit the current that'll take me, with the risin tide, up to old Petticoat Jack."
"By the way, captain," said Phil, "what do you seafaring men believe about the origin of that name—Petitcodiac? Is it Indian or French?"
"'Tain't neither," said Captain Corbet, decidedly. "It's good English; it's 'Petticoat Jack;' an I've hearn tell a hundred times about its original deryvation. You see, in the old French war, there was an English spy among the French, that dressed hisself up as a woman, an was familiarly known, among the British generals an others that emply'd him, as 'Petticoat Jack.' He did much to contriboot to the defeat of the French; an arter they were licked, the first settlers that went up thar called the place, in honor of their benefacture, 'Petticoat Jack;' an it's bore that name ever sence. An people that think it's French, or Injine, or Greek, or Hebrew, or any other outlandish tongue, don't know what they're talkin about. Now, I KNOW, an I assure you what I've ben a sayin's the gospel terewth, for I had it of an old seafarin man that's sailed this bay for more'n forty year, an if he ain't good authority, then I'd like to know who is—that's all."
At this explanation of the etymology of the disputed term, the boys were silent, and exchanged glances of admiration.
It was some minutes after eight when they left their anchorage, and began to drift once more. There was no moon, and the night would have been dark in any case, but now the fog rendered all things still more obscure. It had also grown much thicker than it had been. At first it was composed of light vapors, which surrounded them on all sides, it is true, but yet did not have that dampness which might have been expected. It was a light, dry fog, and for two or three hours the deck, and rigging, and the clothes of those on board remained quite dry. But now, as the darkness increased, the fog became denser, and was more surcharged with heavy vapors. Soon the deck looked as though it had received a shower of rain, and the clothes of those on board began to be penetrated with the chill damp.
"It's very dark, captain," said Bruce, at last, as the boys stood near the stern.
"Dradful dark," said the captain, thoughtfully.
"Have you really a good idea of where we are?"
"An idee? Why, if I had a chart,—which I haven't, cos I've got it all mapped out in my head,—but if I had one, I could take my finger an pint the exact spot where we are a driftin this blessed minute."
"You're going straight down the bay, I suppose."
"Right—yea, I am; I'm goin straight down; but I hope an trust, an what's more, I believe, I am taking a kine o' cant over nigher the New Brunswick shore."
"How long will we drift?"
"Wal, for about two hours—darsn't drift longer; an besides, don't want to."
"Why not?"
"Darsn't. Thar's a place down thar that every vessel on this here bay steers clear of, an every navigator feels dreadful shy of."
"What place is that?"
"Quaco Ledge," said Captain Corbet, in a solemn tone. "We'll get as near it as is safe this night, an p'aps a leetle nearer; but, then, the water's so calm and still, that it won't make any difference—in fact, it wouldn't matter a great deal if we came up close to it."
"Quaco Ledge?" said Bruce. "I've heard of that."
"Heard of it? I should rayther hope you had. Who hasn't? It's the one great, gen'ral, an standin terror of this dangerous and iron-bound bay. There's no jokin, no nonsense about Quaco Ledge; mind I tell you."
"Where does it lie?" asked Phil, after a pause.
"Wal, do you know whar Quaco settlement is?"
"Yes."
"Wal, Quaco Ledge is nigh about half way between Quaco settlement and Ile Haute, bein a'most in the middle of the bay, an in a terrible dangerous place for coasters, especially in a fog, or in a snow-storm. Many's the vessel that's gone an never heard of, that Quaco Ledge could tell all about, if it could speak. You take a good snowstorm in this Bay of Fundy, an let a schooner get lost in it, an not know whar she is, an if Quaco Ledge don't bring her up all standin, then I'm a Injine."
"Is it a large place?"
"Considerably too large for comfort," said the captain. "They've sounded it, an found the whole shoal about three an a half mile long, an a half a mile broad. It's all kivered over with water at high tide, but at half tide it begins to show its nose, an at low tide you see as pooty a shoal for shipwrecking as you may want; rayther low with pleasant jagged rocks at the nothe-east side, an about a hundred yards or so in extent. I've been nigh on to it in clear weather, but don't want to be within five miles of it in a fog or in a storm. In a thick night like this, I'll pull up before I get close."
"You've never met with any accident there, I suppose."
"Me? No, not me. I always calc'late to give Quaco Ledge the widest kine o' berth. An I hope you'll never know anythin more about that same place than what I'm tellin you now. The knowlege which one has about that place, an places ginrally of that kine, comes better by hearsay than from actool observation."
Time passed on, and they still drifted, and at length ten o'clock came; but before that time the boys had gone below, and retired for the night. Shortly after, the rattle of the chains waked them all, and informed them that the Antelope had anchored once more.
After this they all fell asleep.
In Clouds and Darkness.—A terrible Warning.—Nearly run down.—A lively Place.—Bart encounters an old Acquaintance.—Launched into the Deep.—Through the Country.—The Swift Tide.—The lost Boy.
The boys had not been asleep for more than two hours, when they were awakened by an uproar on deck, and rousing themselves from sleep, they heard the rattle of the chains and the crank of the windlass. As their night attire was singularly simple, and consisted largely of the dress which they wore by day, being the same, in fact, with the exception of the hat, it was not long before they were up on deck, and making inquiries as to the unusual noise. That the anchor was being hoisted they already knew, but why it was they did not.
"Wal," said Captain Corbet, "thar's a good sou-wester started up, an as I had a few winks o' sleep, I jest thought I'd try to push on up the bay, an get as far as I could. If I'd ben in any other place than this, I wouldn't hev minded, but I'd hev taken my snooze out; but I'm too near Quaco Ledge by a good sight, an would rayther get further off. The sou-wester'll take us up a considerable distance, an if it holds on till arter the tide turns, I ask no more."
Soon the anchor was up, and the Antelope spread her sails, and catching the sou-wester, dashed through the water like a thing of life.
"We're going along at a great rate, captain," said Bart.
"Beggin your pardon, young sir, we're not doin much. The tide here runs four knots agin us—dead, an the wind can't take us more'n six, which leaves a balance to our favor of two knots an hour, an that is our present rate of progression. You see, at that rate we won't gain more'n four or five miles before the turn o' tide. After that, we'll go faster without any wind than we do now with a wind. O, there's nothin like navigatin the Bay o' Fundy to make a man feel contempt for the wind. Give me tides an anchors, I say, an I'll push along."
The wind was blowing fresh, and the sea was rising, yet the fog seemed thicker than ever. The boys thought that the wind might blow the fog away, and hinted this to the captain.
His only response was a long and emphatic whistle.
"Whe-e-e-ew! what! Blow the fog away? This wind? Why, this wind brings the fog. The sou-wester is the one wind that seafarin men dread in the Bay of Fundy. About the wust kine of a storm is that thar very identical wind blowin in these here very identical waters."
Captain Corbet's words were confirmed by the appearance of sea and sky. Outside was the very blackness of darkness. Nothing whatever was visible. Sea and sky were alike hidden from view. The waves were rising, and though they were not yet of any size, still they made noise enough to suggest the idea of a considerable storm, and the wind, as it whistled through the rigging, carried in its sound a menace which would have been altogether wanting in a bright night. The boys all felt convinced that a storm was rising, and looked forward to a dismal experience of the pangs of seasickness. To fight this off now became their chief aim, and with this intention they all hurried below once more to their beds.
But the water was not rough, the motion of the schooner was gentle, and though there was much noise above, yet they did not notice any approach of the dreaded sea-sickness, and so in a short time they all fell asleep once more.
But they were destined to have further interruptions. The interruption came this time in a loud cry from Solomon, which waked them all at once.
"Get up, chil'en! get up! It's all over!"
"What, what!" cried the boys; "what's the matter?" and springing up in the first moment of alarm, they stood listening.
As they stood, there came to their ears the roaring of the wind through the rigging, the flapping of the sails, the dashing and roaring of the waters, in the midst of which there came also a shrill, penetrating sound, which seemed almost overhead—the sound of some steam whistle.
"Dar, dar!" cried Solomon, in a tone of deadly fear. "It's a comin! I knowed it. We're all lost an gone. It's a steamer. We're all run down an drownded."
Without a word of response, the boys once more clambered on deck. All was as dark as before, the fog as thick, the scene around as impenetrable, the wind as strong. From a distance there came over the water, as they listened, the rapid beat of a steamboat's paddles, and soon there arose again the long, shrill yell of the steam whistle. They looked all around, but saw no sign of any steamer; nor could they tell exactly in which direction the sound arose. One thought it came from one side, another thought it came from the opposite quarter, while the others differed from these. As for Captain Corbet, he said nothing, while the boys were expressing their opinions loudly and confidently.
At last Bart appealed to Captain Corbet.
"Where is the steamer?"
"Down thar," said the captain, waving his hand over the stern.
"What steamer is it? the revenue steamer?"
"Not her. That revenoo steamer is up to Windsor by this time. No; this is the St. John steamer coming up the bay, an I ony wish she'd take us an give us a tow up."
"She seems to be close by."
"She is close by."
"Isn't there some danger that we'll be run down?"
As those words were spoken, another yell, louder, shriller, and nearer than before, burst upon their ears. It seemed to be close astern. The beat of the paddles was also near them.
"Pooty close!" said the captain.
"Isn't there some danger that we'll be run down?"
To this question, thus anxiously repeated, the captain answered slowly,—
"Wal, thar may be, an then again thar mayn't. Ef a man tries to dodge every possible danger in life, he'll have a precious hard time of it. Why, men air killed in walkin the streets, or knocked over by sun-strokes, as well as run down at sea. So what air we to do? Do? Why, I jest do what I've allus ben a doin; I jest keep right straight on my own course, and mind my own biz. Ten chances to one they'll never come nigh us. I've heard steamers howlin round me like all possessed, but I've never ben run down yet, an I ain't goin to be at my time o' life. I don't blieve you'll see a sign o' that thar steamer. You'll only hear her yellin—that's all."
As he spoke another yell sounded.
"She's a passin us, over thar," said the captain, waving his hand over the side. "Her whistle'll contenoo fainter till it stops. So you better go below and take your sleep out."
The boys waited a little longer, and hearing the next whistle sounding fainter, as Captain Corbet said, they followed his advice, and were soon asleep, as before.
This time there was no further interruption, and they did not wake till about eight in the morning, when they were summoned to breakfast by Solomon.
On reaching the deck and looking around, a cry of joy went forth from all. The fog was no longer to be seen, no longer did there extend around them the wall of gloomy gray, shutting out all things with its misty folds. No longer was the broad bay visible. They found themselves now in a wide river, whose muddy waters bore them slowly along. On one side was a shore, close by them, well wooded in some places, and in others well cultivated, while on the other side was another shore, equally fertile, extending far along.
"Here we air," cried Captain Corbet. "That wind served us well. We've had a fust-rate run. I calc'lated we'd be three or four days, but instead of that we've walked over in twenty-four hours. Good agin!"
"Will we be able to land at Moncton soon?"
"Wal, no; not till the next tide."
"Why not?"
"Wal, this tide won't last long enough to carry us up thar, an so we'll have to wait here. This is the best place thar is."
"What place is this?"
"Hillsborough."
"Hillsborough?"
"Yes. Do you see that thar pint?" and Captain Corbet waved his arm towards a high, well-wooded promontory that jutted out into the river.
"Yes."
"Wal, I'm goin in behind that, and I'll wait thar till the tide turns. We'll get up to Moncton some time before evenin."
In a few minutes the Antelope was heading towards the promontory; and soon she passed it, and advanced towards the shore. On passing the promontory a sight appeared which at once attracted the whole attention of the boys.
Immediately in front of them, in the sheltered place which was formed by the promontory, was a little settlement, and on the bank of the river was a ship-yard. Here there arose the stately outline of a large ship. Her lower masts were in, she was decorated with flags and streamers, and a large crowd was assembled in the yard around her.
"There's going to be a launch!" cried Bart, to whom a scene like this was familiar.
"A launch!" cried Bruce. "Hurrah! We'll be able to see it. I've never seen one in my life. Now's the time."
"Can't we get ashore?" said Arthur.
"Of course," said Phil; "and perhaps they'll let us go on board and be launched in her."
The very mention of such a thing increased the general excitement. Captain Corbet was at once appealed to.
"O, thar's lots of time," said he. "Tain't quite high tide yet. You'll have time to get ashore before she moves. Hullo, Wade! Whar's that oar?"
The boys were all full of the wildest excitement, in the midst of which Solomon appeared with the announcement that breakfast was waiting.
To which Bart replied,—
"O, bother breakfast!"
"I don't want any," said Bruce.
"I have no appetite," said Arthur.
"Nor I," said Pat.
"I want to be on board that ship," said Phil.
"We can easily eat breakfast afterwards," said Tom.
At this manifest neglect of his cooking, poor Solomon looked quite heart-broken; but Captain Corbet told him that he might bring the things ashore, and this in some measure assuaged his grief.
It did not take long to get ready. The oar was flung on board the boat, which had thus far been floating behind the schooner; and though the boat had a little too much water on board to be comfortable, yet no complaints were made, and in a few minutes they were landed.
"How much time have we yet?" asked Bart, "before high tide?"
"O, you've got fifteen or twenty minutes," said Captain Corbet.
"Hurrah, boys! Come along," said Bart; and leading the way, he went straight to the office.
As he approached it he uttered suddenly a cry of joy.
"What's the matter, Bart?"
Bart said nothing, but hurried forward, and the astonished boys saw him shaking hands very vigorously with a gentleman who seemed like the chief man on the place. He was an old acquaintance, evidently. In a few minutes all was explained. As the boys came up, Bart introduced them as his friends, and they were all warmly greeted; after which the gentleman said,—
"Why, what a crowd of you there is! Follow me, now. There's plenty of room for you, I imagine, in a ship of fifteen hundred tons; and you've just come in time."
With these words he hurried off, followed by all the boys. He led the way up an inclined plane which ran up to the bows of the ship, and on reaching this place they went along a staging, and finally, coming to a ladder, they clambered up, and found themselves on the deck of the ship.
"I must leave you now, Bart, my boy," said the gentleman; "you go to the quarter-deck and take care of yourselves. I must go down again."
"Who in the world is he, Bart?" asked the boys, as they all stood on the quarter-deck.
"Was there ever such luck!" cried Bart, joyously. "This is the ship Sylph, and that is Mr. Watson, and he has built this ship for my father. Isn't it odd that we should come to this place at this particular time?"
"Why, it's as good as a play."
"Of course it is. I've known Mr. Watson all my life, and he's one of the best men I ever met with. He was as glad to see me as I was to see him."
But now the boys stopped talking, for the scene around them began to grow exciting. In front of them was the settlement, and in the yard below was a crowd who had assembled to see the launch. Behind them was the broad expanse of the Petitcodiac River, beyond which lay the opposite shore, which went back till it terminated in wooded hills. Overhead arose the masts, adorned with a hundred flags and streamers. The deck showed a steep slope from bow to stern. But the scene around was nothing, compared with the excitement of suspense, and expectation. In a few minutes the hammers were to sound. In a few minutes the mighty fabric on which they were standing would move, and take its plunge into the water.
The suspense made them hold their breath, and wait in perfect silence.
Around them were a few men, who were talking in a commonplace way. They were accustomed to launches, and an incident like this was as nothing in their lives, though to the boys it was sufficient to make their hearts throb violently, and deprive them of the power of speech.
A few minutes passed.
"We ought to start soon," said Bart, in a whisper; for there was something in the scene which made them feel grave and solemn.
The other boys nodded in silence.
A few minutes more passed.
Then there arose a cry.
And then suddenly there came to their excited ears the rattle of a hundred hammers. Stroke after stroke, in quick succession, was dealt upon the wedges, which thus raised the vast structure from her resting-place. For a moment she stood motionless, and then—
Then with a slow motion, at first scarce perceptible, but which every instant grew quicker, she moved down her ways, and plunged like lightning into the water. The stern sank deep, then rose, and then the ship darted through the water across the river. Then suddenly the anchor was let go, and with the loud, sharp rattle of chains, rushed to the bed of the river. With a slight jerk the ship stopped.
The launch was over.
A boat now came from the shore, bringing the builder, Mr. Watson; and at the same time a steamer appeared, rounding a point up the river, and approaching them.
"Do you want to go to St. John, Bart?"
"Not just yet, sir," said Bart.
"Because if you do you can go down in the ship. The steamer is going to take her in tow at once. But if you don't want to go, you may go ashore in the boat. I'm sorry I can't stay here to show you the country, my boy; but I have to go down in the ship, and at once, for we can't lie here in the river, unless we want to be left high and dry at low tide. So good by. Go to the house. Mrs. Watson'll make you comfortable as long as you like; and if you want to take a drive you may consider my horses your own."
With these words he shook hands with all the boys for good by, and after seeing them safely on board the boat, he waited for the steamer which was to tow the Sylph down the bay. The boys then were rowed ashore. By the time they landed, the steamer had reached the ship, a stout cable was passed on board and secured, her anchor was weighed, and then, borne on by steam, and by the tide, too, which had already turned, the Sylph, in tow of the steamer, passed down the river, and was soon out of sight.
Bart then went to see Mrs. Watson, with all the boys. That lady, like her husband, was an old acquaintance, and in the true spirit of hospitality insisted on every one of them taking up their abode with her for an indefinite period. Finding that they could not do this, she prepared for them a bounteous breakfast, and then persuaded them to go off for a drive through the country. This invitation they eagerly accepted.
Before starting, they encountered Captain Corbet.
"Don't hurry back, boys," said he, "unless you very pertik'l'ry wish to go up to Moncton by the arternoon tide. Don't mind me. I got several things to occoopy me here."
"What time could we start up river?"
"Not before four."
"O, we'll be back by that time."
"Wal. Ony don't hurry back unless you like. I got to buy some ship-bread, an I got to fix some things about the boat. It'll take some time; so jest do as you like."
Being thus left to their own devices, and feeling quite unlimited with regard to time, the boys started off in two wagons, and took a long drive through the country. The time passed quickly, and they enjoyed themselves so much that they did not get back until dusk.
"It's too late now, boys, to go up," said the captain, as he met them on their return. "We've got to wait till next tide. It's nearly high tide now."
"All right, captain; it'll do just as well to go up river to-night."
"Amen," said the captain.
But now Mrs. Watson insisted on their staying to tea, and so it happened that it was after nine o'clock before they were ready to go on board the Antelope. Going down to the shore, they found the boat ready, with some articles which Captain Corbet had procured.
"I've been fixing the gunwales," said he; "an here's a box of pilot-bread. We were gettin out of provisions, an I've got in a supply, an I've bought a bit of an old sail that'll do for a jib. I'm afeard thar won't be room for all of us. Some of you better stay ashore, an I'll come back."
"I'll wait," said Bart, taking his seat on a stick of timber.
"An I'll wait, too," said Bruce.
The other boys objected in a friendly way, but Bart and Bruce insisted on waiting, and so the boat at length started, leaving them behind.
In a short time it reached the schooner.
Captain Corbet secured the boat's painter to the stem, and threw the oar on board.
"Now, boys, one of you stay in the boat, an pass up them things to me—will you?"
"All right," said Tom. "I'll pass them up."
On this Captain Corbet got on board the schooner, followed by Arthur, and Phil, and Pat. Tom waited in the boat.
"Now," said Captain Corbet, "lift up that thar box of pilot-bread fust. 'Tain't heavy. We'll get these things out afore we go ashore for the others."
"All right," said Tom.
He stooped, and took the box of biscuit in his arms.
At that time the tide was running down very fast, and the boat, caught by the tide, was forced out from the schooner with such a pressure that the rope was stiffened out straight.
Tom made one step forward. The next instant he fell down in the bottom of the boat, and those on board of the schooner who were looking at him saw, to their horror, that the boat was sweeping away with the tide, far down the river.
A Cry of Horror.—What shall we do?—Hard and fast.—Bart and Bruce.—Gloomy Intelligence.—The Promontory.—The Bore of the Petitcodiac.—A Night of Misery.—A mournful Waking.—Taking Counsel.
A cry of horror escaped those on board, and for some time they stood silent in utter dismay.
"The rope wasn't tied," groaned Arthur.
"Yes, it was," said Captain Corbet; "it bruk; catch me not tyin it. It bruk; see here!" and he held up in the dim light the end of the rope which still was fastened to the schooner. "I didn't know it was rotten," he moaned; "'tain't over ten year old, that bit o' rope, an I've had it an used it a thousand times without its ever thinkin o' breakin."
"What can we do?" cried Arthur. "We must do something to save him."
Captain Corbet shook his head.
"We've got no boat," said he.
"Boat! Who wants a boat?"
"What can we do without a boat?"
"Why, up anchor, and go after him with the schooner."
"The schooner's hard and fast," said Captain Corbet, mournfully.
"Hard and fast?"
"Yes; don't you notice how she leans? It's only a little, but that's a sign that her keel's in the mud."
"I don't believe it! I won't believe it!" cried Arthur. "Come, boys, up with the anchor."
As the boys rushed to the windlass, Captain Corbet went there, too, followed by the mate, and they worked at it for some time, until at last the anchor rose to the surface.
But the Antelope did not move. On the contrary, a still greater list to one side, which was now unmistakable, showed that the captain was right, and that she was actually, as he said, hard and fast. This fact had to be recognized, but Arthur would not be satisfied until he had actually seen the anchor, and then he knew that the vessel was really aground.
"Do you mean to say," he cried at last, "that there is nothing to be done?"
"I don't see," said Captain Corbet, "what thar is to be done till the schewner muves."
"When will that be?"
"Not till to-morrow mornin."
"How early?"
"Not before eight o'clock."
"Eight o'clock!" cried Arthur, in horror.
"Yes, eight o'clock. You see we had to come in pooty nigh to the shore, an it'll be eight o'clock before we're floated."
"And what'll become of poor Tom?" groaned Arthur.
"Wal," said the captain, "don't look on the wust. He may get ashore."
"He has no oar. The oar was thrown aboard of the schooner."
"Still he may be carried ashore."
"Is there any chance?"
"Wal, not much, to tell the truth. Thar's no use of buo-oyin of ourselves up with false hopes; not a mite. Thar's a better chance of his bein picked up. That thar's likely now, an not unnatooral. Let's all don't give up. If thar's no fog outside, I'd say his chances air good."
"But it may be foggy."
"Then, in that case, he'll have to drift a while—sure."
"Then there's no hope."
"Hope? Who's a sayin thar's no hope? Why, look here; he's got provisions on board, an needn't starve; so if he does float for a day or two, whar's the harm? He's sure to be picked up eventooally."
At this moment their conversation was interrupted by a loud call from the promontory. It was the voice of Bruce.
While these events had been taking place on board the schooner, Bruce and Bart had been ashore. At first they had waited patiently for the return of the boat, but finally they wondered at her delay. They had called, but the schooner was too far off to hear them. Then they waited for what seemed to them an unreasonably long time, wondering what kept the boat, until at length Bruce determined to try and get nearer. Burt was to stay behind in case the boat should come ashore in his absence. With this in view he had walked down the promontory until he had reached the extreme point, and there he found himself within easy hail of the Antelope.
"Schooner ahoy!" he cried.
"A-ho-o-o-o-y!" cried Captain Corbet.
"Why don't you come and take us off?" he cried.
After this there was silence for some time. At last Captain Corbet shouted out,—
"The boat's lost."
"What!"
"The boat's adrift."
Captain Corbet said nothing about Tom, from a desire to spare him for the present. So Bruce thought that the empty boat had drifted off, and as he had been prepared to hear of some accident, he was not much surprised.
But he was not to remain long in ignorance. In a few moments he heard Arthur's voice.
"Bruce!"
"Hallo!"
"The boat's gone."
"All right."
"TOM'S ADRIFT IN HER!"
"What!" shouted Bruce.
"TOM'S ADRIFT IN HER."
At this appalling intelligence Bruce's heart seemed to stop beating.
"How long?" he dried, after a pause.
"Half an hour," cried Arthur.
"Why don't you go after him?" cried Bruce again.
"We're aground," cried Arthur.
The whole situation was now explained, and Bruce was filled with his own share of that dismay which prevailed on board of the schooner; for a long time nothing more was said. At length Arthur's voice sounded again.
"Bruce!"
"Hallo!"
"Get a boat, and come aboard as soon as you can after the tide turns."
"All right. How early will the tide suit?"
"Eight o'clock."
"Not before?"
"No."
After this nothing more was said. Bruce could see for himself that the tide was falling, and that he would have to wait for the returning tide before a boat could be launched. He waited for some time, full of despair, and hesitating to return to Bart with his mournful intelligence. At length he turned, and walked slowly back to his friend.
"Well, Bruce?" asked Bart, who by this time was sure that some accident had happened.
"The boat's adrift."
"The boat!"
"Yes; and what's worse, poor Tom!"
"Tom!" cried Bart, in a horror of apprehension.
"Yes, Tom's adrift in her."
At this Bart said not a word, but stood for some time staring at Bruce in utter dismay.
A few words served to explain to Bart the situation of the schooner, and the need of getting a boat.
"Well," said Bart, "we'd better see about it at once. It's eleven o'clock, but we'll find some people up; if not, we'll knock them up."
And with these words the two lads walked up from the river bank.
On reaching the houses attached to the shipyard, they found that most of the people were up. There was a good deal of singing and laughter going on, which the boys interpreted to arise from a desire to celebrate the launching of the ship. They went first to Mrs. Watson's house, where they found that good lady up. She listened to their story with undisguised uneasiness, and afterwards called in a number of men, to whom she told the sad news. These men listened to it with very serious faces.
"It's no joke," said one, shaking his head. The others said nothing, but their faces spoke volumes.
"What had we better do?" asked Bruce.
"Of course ye'll be off as soon as ye can get off," said one.
"The lad might have a chance," said another. "The return tide may drift him back, but he may be carried too far down for that."
"He'll be carried below Cape Chignecto unless he gets to the land," said another.
"Isn't there a chance that he'll be picked up?" asked Bart.
The man to whom he spoke shook his head.
"There's a deal of fog in the bay this night," said he.
"Fog? Why, it's clear enough here."
"So it is; but this place and the Bay of Fundy are two different things."
"A regular sou-wester out there," said another man.
"An a pooty heavy sea by this time," said another.
And in this way they all contributed to increase the anxiety of the two boys, until at last scarce a ray of hope was left.
"You'd better prepare yourselves for the worst," said one of the men. "If he had an oar he would be all right; but, as it is—well, I don't care about sayin what I think."
"O, you're all too despondent," said Mrs. Watson. "What is the use of looking on the dark side? Come, Bart, cheer up. I'll look on the bright side. Hope for the best. Set out on the search with hope, and a good heart. I'm confident that he will be safe. You will pick him up yourselves, or else you will hear of his escape somewhere. I remember two men, a few years ago, that went adrift and were saved."
"Ay," said one of the men, "I mind that well. They were Tom Furlong and Jim Spencer. But that there boat was a good-sized fishing boat; an such a boat as that might ride out a gale."
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Watson. "You're all a set of confirmed croakers. Why, Bart, you've read enough shipwreck books to know that little boats have floated in safety for hundreds of miles. So hope for the best; don't be down-hearted. I'll send two or three men down now to get the boat ready for you. You can't do anything till the morning, you know. Won't you stay here? You had better go to bed at once."
But Bart and Bruce could not think of bed.
"Well, come back any time, and a bed will be ready for you," said Mrs. Watson. "If you want to see about the boat now, the men are ready to go with you."
With those words she led the way out to the kitchen, where a couple of men were waiting. Bart and Bruce followed them down to a boat-house on the river bank, and saw the boat there which Mrs. Watson had offered them. This boat could be launched at any time, and as there was nothing more to be done, the boys strolled disconsolately about, and finally went to the end of the promontory, and spent a long time looking out over the water, and conversing sadly about poor Tom's chances.
There they sat late in the night, until midnight came, and so on into the morning. At last the scene before them changed from a sheet of water to a broad expanse of mud. The water had all retired, leaving the bed of the river exposed.
Of all the rivers that flow into the Bay of Fundy none is more remarkable than the Petitcodiac. At high tide it is full—a mighty stream; at low tide it is empty—a channel of mud forty miles long; and the intervening periods are marked by the furious flow of ascending or descending waters.
And now, as the boys sat there looking out upon the expanse of mud before them, they became aware of a dull, low, booming sound, that came up from a far distant point, and seemed like the voice of many waters sounding from the storm-vexed bay outside. There was no moon, but the light was sufficient to enable them to see the exposed riverbed, far over to the shadowy outline of the opposite shore. Here, where in the morning a mighty ship had floated, nothing could now float; but the noise that broke upon their ears told them of the return of the waters that now were about to pour onward with resistless might into the empty channel, and send successive waves far along into the heart of the land.
"What is that noise?" asked Bruce. "It grows louder and louder."
"That," said bart, "is the Bore of the Petitcodiac."
"Have you ever seen it?"
"Never. I've heard of it often, but have never seen it."
But their words were interrupted now by the deepening thunder of the approaching waters. Towards the quarter whence the sound arose they turned their heads involuntarily. At first they could see nothing through the gloom of night; but at length, as they strained their eyes looking down the river, they saw in the distance a faint, white, phosphorescent gleam, and as it appeared the roar grew louder, and rounder, and more all-pervading. On it came, carrying with it the hoarse cadence of some vast surf flung ashore from the workings of a distant storm, or the thunder of some mighty cataract tumbling over a rocky precipice.
And now, as they looked, the white, phosphorescent glow grew brighter, and then whiter, like snow; every minute it approached nearer, until at last, full before them and beneath them, there rolled a giant wave, extending across the bed of the river, crescent-shaped, with its convex side advancing forwards, and its ends following after within short distance from the shore. The great wave rolled on, one mass of snow-white foam, behind which gleamed a broad line of phosphorescent lustre from the agitated waters, which, in the gloom of night, had a certain baleful radiance. As it passed on its path, the roar came up more majestically from the foremost wave; and behind that came the roar of other billows that followed in its wake. By daylight the scene would have been grand and impressive; but now, amid the gloom, the grandeur became indescribable. The force of those mighty waters seemed indeed resistless, and it was with a feeling of relief that the boys reflected that the schooner was out of the reach of its sweep. Its passage was swift, and soon it had passed beyond them; and afar up the river, long after it had passed from sight, they heard the distant thunder of its mighty march.
By the time the wave had passed, the boys found themselves excessively weary with their long wakefulness.
"Bart, my boy," said Bruce, "we must get some rest, or we won't be worth anything to-morrow. What do you say? Shall we go back to Mrs. Watson's?"
"It's too late—isn't it?"
"Well, it's pretty late, no doubt. I dare say it's half past two; but that's all the more reason why we should go to bed."
"Well."
"What do you say? Do you think we had better disturb Mrs. Watson, or not?"
"O, no; let's go into the barn, and lie down in the hay."
"Very well. Hay makes a capital bed. For my part, I could sleep on stones."
"So could I."
"I'm determined to hope for the best about Tom," said Bruce, rising and walking off, followed by Bart. "Mrs. Watson was right. There's no use letting ourselves be downcast by a lot of croakers—is there?"
"No," said Bart.
The boys then walked on, and in a few minutes reached the ship-yard.
Here a man came up to them.
"We've been looking for you everywhere," said the man. "Mrs. Watson is anxious about you."
"Mrs. Watson?"
"Yes. She won't go to bed till you get back to the house. There's another man out for you, up the river."
"O, I'm sorry we have given you all so much trouble," said Bart; "but we didn't think that anybody would bother themselves about us."
"Well, you don't know Mrs. Watson that's all," said the man, walking along with them. "She's been a worrytin herself to death about you; and the sooner she sees you, the better for her and for you."
On reaching the house the boys were received by Mrs. Watson. One look at her was enough to show them that the man's account of her was true. Her face was pale, her manner was agitated, and her voice trembled as she spoke to them, and asked them where they had been.
Bart expressed sorrow at having been the cause of so much trouble, and assured her he thought that she had gone to bed.
"No," said she; "I've been too excited and agitated about your friend and about you. But I'm glad that you've been found; and as it's too late to talk now, you had better go to bed, and try to sleep."
With these words she gently urged them to their bedroom; and the boys, utterly worn out, did not attempt to withstand her. They went to bed, and scarcely had their heads touched the pillows before they were fast asleep.
Meanwhile the boys on board the Antelope had been no less anxious; and, unable to sleep, they had talked solemnly with each other over the possible fate of poor Tom. Chafing from their forced inaction, they looked impatiently upon the ebbing water, which was leaving them aground, when they were longing to be floating on its bosom after their friend, and could scarcely endure the thought of the suspense to which they would be condemned while waiting for the following morning.
Captain Corbet also was no less anxious, though much less agitated. He acknowledged, with pain, that it was all his fault, but, appealed to all the boys, one by one, asking them how he should know that the rope was rotten. He informed them that the rope was an old favorite of his, and that he would have willingly risked his life on it. He blamed himself chiefly, however, for not staying in the boat himself, instead of leaving Tom in it. To all his remarks the boys said but little, and contented themselves with putting questions to him about the coast, the tides, the wind, the currents, and the fog.
The boys on board went to sleep about one o'clock, and waked at sunrise. Then they watched the shore wistfully, and wondered why Bart and Bruce did not make their appearance. But Bart and Bruce, worn out by their long watch, did not wake till nearly eight o'clock. Then they hastily dressed themselves, and after a very hurried breakfast they bade good by to good Mrs. Watson.
"I shall be dreadfully anxious about that poor boy," said she, sadly. "Promise me to telegraph as soon as you can about the result."
Bart promised.
Then they hurried down to the beach. The tide was yet a considerable distance out; but a half dozen stout fellows, whose sympathies were fully enlisted in their favor, shoved the boat down over the mud, and launched her.
Then Bart and Bruce took the oars, and soon reached the schooner, where the boys awaited their arrival in mournful silence.