Awake once more.—Where are we?—The giant cliff.—Out to Sea.—Anchoring and Drifting.—The Harbor.—The Search.—No Answer.—Where's Solomon?
Scarce had the streaks of light greeted Captain Corbet's eyes, and given him the grateful prospect of another day, when the boys awaked and hurried up on deck. Their first act was to take a hurried look all around. The same gloomy and dismal prospect appeared—black water and thick, impenetrable fog.
"Where are we now, Captain?" asked Bruce.
"Wal, a con-siderable distance down the bay."
"What are you going to do?"
"Wal—I've about made up my mind whar to go."
"Where?"
"I'm thinkin of puttin into Quaco."
"Quaco?"
"Yes."
"How far is it from here?"
"Not very fur, 'cordin to my calc'lations. My idee is, that the boat may have drifted down along here and got ashore. Ef so, he may have made for Quaco, an its jest possible that we may hear about him."
"Is this the most likely place for a boat to go ashore?"
"Wal, all things considered, a boat is more likely to go ashore on the New Brunswick side, driftin from Petticoat Jack; but at the same time 'tain't at all certain. Thar's ony a ghost of a chance, mind. I don't feel over certain about it."
"Will we get to Quaco this tide?"
"Scacely."
"Do you intend to anchor again?"
"Wal, I rayther think I'll hev to do it. But we'd ought to get to Quaco by noon, I calc'late. I'm a thinkin—Hello! Good gracious!"
The captain's sudden exclamation interrupted his words, and made all turn to look at the object that had called it forth. One glance showed an object which might well have elicited even a stronger expression of amazement and alarm.
Immediately in front of them arose a vast cliff,—black, rocky, frowning,—that ascended straight up from the deep water, its summit lost in the thick fog, its base white with the foaming waves that thundered there. A hoarse roar came up from those breaking waves, which blended fearfully with the whistle of the wind through the rigging, and seemed like the warning sound of some dark, drear fate. The cliff was close by, and the schooner had been steering straight towards it. So near was it that it seemed as though one could have easily tossed a biscuit ashore.
But though surprised, Captain Corbet was not in the least confused, and did not lose his presence of mind for a moment. Putting the helm hard up, he issued the necessary commands in a cool, quiet manner; the vessel went round, and in a few moments the danger was passed. Yet so close were they, that in wearing round it seemed as though one could almost have jumped from the stern upon the rocky shelves which appeared in the face of the lofty cliff.
Captain Corbet drew a long breath.
"That's about the nighest scratch I remember ever havin had," was his remark, as the Antelope went away from the land. "Cur'ous, too; I don't see how it happened. I lost my reckonin a little. I'm a mile further down than I calc'lated on bein."
"Do you know that place?" asked Bart.
"Course I know it."
"It's lucky for us we didn't go there at night."
"Yes, it is rayther lucky; but then there wan't any danger o' that, cos, you see, I kep the vessel off by night, an the danger couldn't hev riz. I thought we were a mile further up the bay; we've been a doin better than I thought for."
"Shall we be able to get into Quaco any sooner?"
"Wal, not much."
"I thought from what you said that we were a mile nearer."
"So we air, but that don't make any very great difference."
"Why, we ought to get in all the sooner, I should think."
"No; not much."
"Why not? I don't understand that."
"Wal, you see it's low tide now."
"The tides again!"
"Yes; it's allus the tides that you must consider here. Wal, it's low tide now, an the tide's already on the turn, an risin. We've got to anchor."
"Anchor!"
"Yes."
"What, again?"
"Yes, agin. Even so. Ef we didn't anchor we'd only be drifted up again, ever so far, an lose all that we've ben a gainin. We're not more'n a mile above Quaco Harbor, but we can't fetch it with wind an tide agin us; so we've got to put out some distance an anchor. It's my firm belief that we'll be in Quaco by noon. The next fallin tide will carry us thar as slick as a whistle, an then we can pursue our investigations."
The schooner now held on her course for about a mile away from the shore, and then came to anchor. The boys had for a moment lost sight of this unpleasant necessity, and had forgotten that they had been using up the hours of the ebb tide while asleep. There was no help for it, however, and they found, to their disgust, another day of fog, and of inaction.
Time passed, and breakfast came. Solomon now had the satisfaction of seeing them eat more, and gave manifest signs of that satisfaction by the twinkle of his eye and the lustre of his ebony brow. After this the time passed on slowly and heavily; but at length eleven o'clock came, and passed, and in a short time they were once more under way.
"We're going to Quaco now—arn't we?" asked Phil.
"Yes; right straight on into Quaco Harbor, fair an squar."
"I don't see how it's possible for you to know so perfectly where you are."
"Young sir, there ain't a nook, nor a corner, nor a hole, nor a stun, in all the outlinin an configoortion of this here bay but what's mapped out an laid down all c'rect in this here brain. I'd undertake to navigate these waters from year's end to year's end, ef I was never to see the sun at all, an even ef I was to be perpetooly surrounded by all the fogs that ever riz. Yea, verily, and moreover, not only this here bay, but the hull coast all along to Bosting. Why, I'm at home here on the rollin biller. I'm the man for Mount Desert, an Quoddy Head, an Grand Manan, an all other places that air ticklish to the ginrality of seafarin men. Why, young sir, you see before you, in the humble an unassumin person of the aged Corbet, a livin, muvin, and sea-goin edition of Blunt's Coast Pilot, revised and improved to a precious sight better condition than it's ever possible for them fellers in Bosting to get out. By Blunt's Coast Pilot, young sir, I allude to a celebrated book, as big as a pork bar'l, that every skipper has in his locker, to guide him on his wanderin way—ony me. I don't have no call to use sech, being myself a edition of useful information techin all coastin matters."
The Antelope now proceeded quickly on her way. Several miles were traversed.
"Now, boys, look sharp," said the captain; "you'll soon see the settlement."
They looked sharp.
For a few moments they went onward through the water, and at length there was visible just before them what seemed like a dark cloud extending all along. A few minutes further progress made the dark cloud still darker, and, advancing further, the dark cloud finally disclosed itself as a line of coast. It was close by them, and, even while they were recognizing it as land, they saw before them the outline of a wharf.
"Good agin!" cried the captain. "I didn't come to the wharf I wanted, but this here'll do as well as any other, an I don't know but what it'll do better. Here we air, boys. Stand by thar, mate, to let fall the jib."
On they went, and in a few minutes more the Antelope wore round, and her side just grazed the wharf. The mate jumped ashore, lines were secured, and the Antelope lay in safety.
"An now, boys, we may all go ashore, an see if we can hear anything about the boat."
With these words Captain Corbet stepped upon the wharf, followed by all the boys, and they all went up together, till they found themselves on a road. There they saw a shop, and into this they entered. No time was to be lost; the captain at once told his story, and asked his question.
The answer was soon made.
Nothing whatever was known there about any boat. Two or three schooners had arrived within two days, and the shopkeeper had seen the skippers, but they had not mentioned any boat. No boat had drifted ashore anywhere near, nor had any strange lad arrived at the settlement.
This intelligence depressed them all.
"Wal, wal," said the captain, "I didn't have much hopes; it's jest as I feared; but, at the same time, I'll ask further. An first and foremost I'll go an see them schooners."
He then went off with the boys in search of the schooners just mentioned. These were found without difficulty. One had come from up the bay, another from St. John, and a third from Eastport. None of them had encountered anything like a drilling boat. The one from up the bay afforded them the greatest puzzle. She must have come down the very night of Tom's accident. If he did drift down the bay in his boat, he must have been not very far from the schooner. In clear weather he could not have escaped notice; but the skipper had seen nothing, and heard nothing. He had to beat down against the wind, and anchor when the tide was rising; but, though he thus traversed so great an extent of water, nothing whatever attracted his attention.
"This sets me thinkin," said the captain, "that, perhaps, he mayn't have drifted down at all. He may have run ashore up thar. Thar's a chance of it, an we must all try to think of that, and cheer up, as long as we can."
Leaving the schooners, the captain now went through the settlement, and made a few inquiries, with no further result. Nothing had been heard by any one about any drifting boat, and they were at last compelled to see that in Quaco there was no further hope of gaining any information whatever about Tom.
After this, the captain informed the boys that he was going back to the schooner to sleep.
"I haven't slep a wink," said he, "sence we left Grand Pre, and that's more'n human natur can ginrally stand; so now I'm bound to have my sleep out, an prepare for the next trip. You boys had better emply yourselves in inspectin this here village."
"When shall we leave Quaco?"
"Wal, I'll think that over. I haven't yet made up my mind as to what's best to be done next. One thing seems certain. There ain't no use goin out in this fog, an I've half a mind to wait here till to-morrow."
"To-morrow!"
"Yes,—an then go down to St. John."
"But what'll poor Tom be doing?"
"It's my firm belief that he's all right," said Captain Corbet, confidently. "At any rate, you'd better walk about now, an I'll try an git some sleep."
As there was nothing better to be done, the boys did as he proposed, and wandered about the village. It was about two miles long, with houses scattered at intervals along the single street of which it was composed, with here, and there a ship-yard. At one end was a long, projecting ledge, with a light-house; at the other there was a romantic valley, through which a stream ran into the bay. On the other side of this stream were cliffs of sandstone rocks, in which were deep, cavernous hollows, worn by the waves; beyond this, again, was a long line of a precipitous shore, in whose sides were curious shelves, along which it was possible to walk for a great distance, with the sea thundering on the rocks beneath. At any other time they would have taken an intense enjoyment in a place like this, where there were so many varied scenes; but now their sense of enjoyment was blunted, for they carried in their minds a perpetual anxiety. None the less, however, did they wander about, penetrating up the valley, exploring the caverns, and traversing the cliffs.
They did not return to the schooner till dusk. It would not be high tide till midnight, and so they prolonged their excursion purposely, so as to use up the time. On reaching the schooner they were welcomed by Captain Corbet.
"I declar, boys," said he, "I'm getting to be a leetle the biggest old fool that ever lived. It's all this accident. It's onmanned me. I had a nap for two or three hours, but waked at six, an ever sence I've been a worretin an a frettin about youns. Sence that thar accident, I can't bar to have you out of my sight, for I fear all the time that you ar gettin into mischief. An now I've been skeart for two mortal hours, a fancyin you all tumblin down from the cliffs, or a strugglin in the waters."
"O, we can take care of ourselves, captain," said Bart
"No, you can't—not you. I wouldn't trust one of you. I'm getting to be a feeble creetur too,—so don't go away agin."
"Well, I don't think we'll have a chance in Quaco. Arn't we going to leave to-night?"
"Wal, that thar is jest the pint that I've been moosin on. You see it's thick; the fog's as bad as ever. What's the use of going out to-night? Now, ef we wait till to-morrow, it may be clear, an then we can decide what to do."
At this proposal, the boys were silent for a time. The experience which they had formed of the bay and its fogs showed them how useless would be any search by night, and the prospect of a clear day, and, possibly, a more favorable wind on the morrow, was very attractive. The question was debated by all, and considered in all its bearings, and the discussion went on until late, when it was finally decided that it would be, on the whole, the wisest course to wait until the following day. Not the least influential of the many considerations that occurred was their regard for Captain Corbet. They saw that he was utterly worn out for want of sleep, and perceived how much he needed one night's rest. This finally decided them.
Early on the following morning they were all up, and eager to see if there was any change in the weather. The first glance around elicited a cry of admiration from all of them. Above, all was clear and bright. The sun was shining with dazzling lustre; the sky was of a deep blue, and without a cloud on its whole expanse; while the wide extent of the bay spread out before them, blue like the sky above, which it mirrored, and throwing up its waves to catch the sunlight. A fresh north wind was blowing, and all the air and all the sea was full of light and joy.
The scene around was in every respect magnificent. The tide was low, and the broad beach, which now was uncovered by the waters, spread afar to the right and left in a long crescent that extended for miles. On its lower extremity it was terminated by a ledge of black rocks, with the light-house before spoken of, while its upper end was bounded by cavernous cliffs of red sandstone, which were crowned with tufted trees. Behind them were the white houses of the village, straggling irregularly on the borders of the long road, with here and there the unfinished fabric of some huge ship; while in the background were wooded hills and green sloping fields. Out on the bay a grander scene appeared. Far down arose a white wall, which marked the place where the fog clouds were sullenly retreating; immediately opposite, and forty miles away over the water, arose the long line of the Nova Scotia coast, which bounded the horizon; while far up arose Cape Chignecto, and beside it towered up the dark form of a lonely island, which they knew, in spite of the evident distortion of its shape, to be no other than Ile Haute.
The wondrous effects which can be produced by the atmosphere were never more visible to their eyes than now. The coast of Nova Scotia rose high in the air, dark in color, apparently only half its actual distance away, while the summit of that coast seemed as level as a table. It seemed like some vast structure which had been raised out of the water during the night by some magic power. Ile Haute arose to an extraordinary height, its summit perfectly level, its sides perfectly perpendicular, and its color a dark purple hue. Nor was Cape Chignecto less changed. The rugged cliff arose with magnified proportions to a majestic height, and took upon itself the same sombre color, which pervaded the whole of the opposite coast.
Another discussion was now begun as to their best plan of action. After talking it all over, it was finally decided to go to St. John. There they would have a better opportunity of hearing about Tom; and there, too, if they did hear, they could send messages to him, or receive them from him. So it was decided to leave at about eleven o'clock, without waiting for high tide; for, as the wind was fair, they could go on without difficulty. After coming to this conclusion, and learning that the tide would not be high enough to float the schooner until eleven, they all took breakfast, and stimulated by the exhilarating atmosphere and the bright sunshine, they dispersed down the village towards the light-house.
By ten o'clock they were back again. The tide was not yet up, and they waited patiently.
"By the way, captain," asked Bart, "what's become of Solomon?"
"Solomon? O, he took a basket an went off on a kine o' foragin tower."
"Foraging?"
"Yes. He said he'd go along the shore, and hunt for lobsters."
"The shore? What shore?"
"Why, away up thar," said the captain, pointing towards the headland at the upper end of the village.
"How long since?"
"Wal, jest arter breakfast. It must hev ben afore seven."
"It's strange that he hasn't got back."
"Yes; he'd ought to be back by this time."
"He can't get any lobsters now; the tide is too high."
"That's a fact."
They waited half an hour. The rising tide already touched the Antelope's keel.
"Solomon ought to be back," cried Bart, starting up.
"That's so," said Captain Corbet.
"I'm afraid something's happened. He's been gone too long. Two hours were enough."
The boys all looked at one another with anxious faces.
"If he went up that shore," said Bart, "he may have got caught by the tide. It's a very dangerous place for anybody—let alone an old man like him."
"Wal, he did go up thar; he said partic'lar that he wanted to find somethin of a relish, an would hunt up thar. He said, too, he'd be back by nine."
"I'm certain something's happened," cried Bart, more anxiously than before. "If he's gone up there, he's been caught by the tide."
Captain Corbet stared, and looked uneasy.
"Wal, I must say, that thar's not onlikely. It's a bad place, a dreadful bad place,—an him an old man,—a dreadful bad place. He'd be down here by this time, ef he was alive."
"I won't wait any longer," cried Bart. "I must go and see. Come along, boys. Don't let's leave poor old Solomon in danger. Depend upon it, he's caught up there somewhere."
"Wal, I think you're right," said Captain Corbet, "an I'll go too. But ef we do go, we'd better go with some preparations."
"Preparations? What kind of preparations?"
"O, ony a rope or two," said Captain Corbet; and taking a coil of rope over his arm, he stepped ashore, and all the boys hurried after him.
"I feel kine o' safer with a kile o' rope,—bein a seafarin man," he remarked. "Give a seafarin man a rope, an he'll go anywhar an do anythin. He's like a spider onto a web."
Tom ashore.—Storm at Night.—Up in the Morning.—The Cliffs and the Beach.—A startling Discovery.—A desert Island.—A desperate Effort.—Afloat again.
Tom slept soundly for a long time in the spot where he had flung himself. The sense of security came to the assistance of his wearied limbs, and lulled him into profounder slumbers. There was nothing here that might rudely awaken him—no sudden boat shocks, no tossings and heavings of waves, no hoarse, menacing thunders of wrathful surges from rocky shores; nor were there distressing dreams to harass him, or any anxieties carried from his waking hours into the land of slumbers to annoy and to arouse. From Monday night until this time on Thursday, he had known but little sleep, and much fatigue and sorrow. Now the fatigue and the sorrow were all forgotten, and the sleep was all his own. Not a thought had he given to the land which he had reached so strangely. It was enough for him that he felt the solid ground beneath his feet.
For hours he slept there, lying there like a log, wrapped in the old sail, moving not a limb, but given up altogether to his refreshing slumber. At length he waked, and, uncovering his head, looked around. At first he thought that he was in the boat, then he grew bewildered, and it was only after a persistent effort of memory that he could recollect his position.
He looked all around, but nothing was visible. There was nothing around him but darkness, intense and utter. It was like the impenetrable veil that had enshrouded him during the night of his memorable voyage. He could not see where his boat was. A vague idea which he had of examining its fastening was dismissed. He felt hungry, and found the biscuit box lying under one corner of the sail. A few of these were sufficient to gratify his hunger. Nothing more could be done, and he saw plainly that it would be necessary for him to wait there patiently until morning. Once more, therefore, he rolled himself up in the sail, and tried to go to sleep. But at first his efforts were vain. The first fatigue had passed away, and now that he had been refreshed by sleep, his mind was too much occupied by thoughts of his past voyage to be readily lulled to sleep again. He could not help wondering what Captain Corbet and the boys were doing. That they were searching for him everywhere he well knew, but which direction they had chosen he could not tell. And what was the place whither he had drifted? He felt confident that it was the mouth of the Petitcodiac, and could not help wondering at the accuracy of his course; yet, while wondering, he modestly refrained from taking the credit of it to himself, and rather chose to attribute it to the wind and tide. It was by committing himself so completely to their guidance, he thought, that he had done so well.
In the midst of such thoughts as these, Tom became aware of the howling of the wind and the dash of the waters. Putting forth his head, he found that there was quite a storm arising; and this only added to his contentment. No fear had he now, on this solid ground, of rising wind or swelling wave. Even the fog had lost its terrors. It was with feelings like these that he once more covered up his head from the night blast; and not long after he was once more asleep.
When he next awaked, it was day. Starting to his feet, he looked around him, and shouted for joy. The sky was clear. The sun was rising, and its rays, coming from over the distant hills, were glittering over the surface of the water. The wind had changed. The fog had dispersed.
No sooner had he seen this than he was filled with curiosity to know where he was. This did not look much like the mouth of the Petitcodiac. He stared around with a very strange sensation.
Immediately beside him, where he was standing, the easy slope went back for a hundred yards or so, covered with short, wild grass, with here and there a stunted tree. Turning round, he saw the land rising by a steep acclivity towards the heights which bordered on the sea in such tremendous cliffs. Over the heights, and along the crest of those cliffs, were flying great flocks of sea-gulls, which kept up one incessant chorus of harsh, discordant screams. In front of him spread out a broad sheet of water, on the opposite side of which arose a lofty line of coast. Into this there penetrated a long strait, beyond which he could see broad waters and distant shores—a bay within a bay, approached by this strait. On each side of the strait were lofty, towering cliffs; and on one side, in particular, the cliffs were perpendicular, and ran on in a long and unbroken wall. The extremity of the cliff nearest him was marked by a gigantic mass of broken rock, detached from the main land, and standing alone in awful grandeur.
What place was this? Was this the mouth of the Petitcodiac? Was that broad bay a river? Was he still dreaming, or what did it all mean? And that gigantic fragment severed from a cliff, which thus stood guard at the entrance of a long strait, what was that? Could it be possible? Was there indeed any other broken cape, or could it be possible that this was Cape Split?
He hurried up the slope, and on reaching the top, saw that it descended on the other side towards the water. This water was a broad sheet, which extended for seven or eight miles, and was terminated by a lofty coast that extended down the bay as far as the eye could reach. One comprehensive glance was sufficient. He saw it all, and understood it all. It was not the mouth of the Petitcodiac River. It was the entrance to the Basin of Minas that lay before him. There lay the great landmarks, seen under new aspects, it is true, yet now sufficiently distinguishable. There was the Nova Scotia coast. In yonder hollow was Scott's Bay. That giant rock was Cape Split. The long channel was the Strait of Minas, and the cliffs opposite were Cape d'Or and Cape Chignecto.
And now the recognition of all these places brought to him a great and sudden shock.
For what was this place on which he stood? Was it any part of the main land?
It was not.
He looked around.
It was an island.
He saw its lofty cliffs, its wooded crest, its flocks of sea-gulls, its sloping east end, where he stood, running down to a low point. He had seen them all at a distance before; and now that he stood here, he recognized all.
He was on Ile Haute!
The moment that he recognized this startling fact, he thought of his boat. He hurried to the beach. The tide was very low. To his immense relief he found the fastening of the boat secure, and he turned away at once, without any further examination, to think over his situation, and consider the best plan for reaching the main land. Making a comfortable seat for himself on the sail, he sat down, and drawing out the box, he took some biscuit. Then feeling thirsty, he went off in search of fresh water. Before he had walked many paces he found a brook.
The brook was a small one, which ran from the lofty west end of the island to the low land of the east, and thence into the bay. The water was good, and Tom satisfied his thirst by a long draught.
Judging by the position of the sun, it was now about seven o'clock in the morning; and Tom seated himself once more, and began to try to think how it was that he should have come in a direction so entirely different from the one which he had believed himself to be taking. He had fully expected to land at Petitcodiac, and he found himself far away on the other side of the bay. Yet a little reflection showed him how useless it was to try to recall his past voyage, and how impossible it was for him to account for it, ignorant as he was of the true direction of the wind and of the tide. He contented himself with marking a rude outline of his course on his memorandum book, making allowance for the time when he turned on that course; and having summed it all up to his own satisfaction in a crooked line which looked like a slip-knot, he turned his attention to more important matters.
There was one matter of first-rate importance which now pressed itself upon his thoughts, and that was, how to escape from his present situation. As far as he could see, there was no inhabitant on the island, no house, no cultivation, and no domestic animal. If there had been anything of that kind, they would be visible, he knew, from the point where he was standing. But all was deserted; and beyond the open ground in his neighborhood arose the east end, wooded all over its lofty summit. From Captain Corbet's words, and from his own observation, he knew that it was a desert island, and that if he wished to escape he would have to rely altogether upon his own resources.
With this conclusion he once more turned his attention to his surroundings.
Nearest to him was Cape d'Or, about four miles away, and Cape Split, which was some distance farther. Then there was the Nova Scotia shore, which appeared to be seven or eight miles distant. On the beach and within sight was the boat which offered a sure and easy mode of passing over to the main land. But no sooner did he recognize this fact than a difficulty arose. How was he to make the passage? The boat had come ashore at high tide, and was close up to the grassy bank. The tide was far down, and between the boat and the water was a broad beach, covered with cobblestones, and interspersed with granite boulders. It was too heavy a weight for him to move any distance, and to force it down to the water over such a beach was plainly impossible. On the other hand, he might wait until the boat floated at high tide, and then embark. But this, again, would be attended with serious difficulties. The tide, he saw, would turn as soon as he should get fairly afloat, and then he would have to contend with the downward current. True, he might use his sail, and in that case he might gain the Nova Scotia shore; but his experience of the tides had been so terrible a one, that he dreaded the tremendous drift which he would have to encounter, and had no confidence in his power of navigating under such circumstances. Besides, he knew well that although the wind was now from the north, it was liable to change at any moment; so that even if he should be able to guide his boat, he might yet be suddenly enveloped by a fog when but half way over, and exposed once more to all those perils from which he had just escaped. The more he thought of all these dangers, the more deterred he felt from making any such attempt. Rather would he wait, and hope for escape in some other way.
But, as yet, he did not feel himself forced to anything so desperate as that. There was another alternative. At high tide the boat would be afloat, and then, as the tide fell, he could keep her afloat until it was at its lowest. He could then embark, and be carried by the returning water straight on to the Straits of Minas, and up into the basin. He now made a calculation, and concluded that it would be high tide about midday, and low tide about six in the evening. If he were to embark at that time, he would have two hours of daylight in which to run up with the tide. He saw now that his whole plan was perfectly feasible, and it only remained to make preparations for the voyage. As the whole afternoon would be taken up in floating the boat down to low-water mark, the morning would have to be employed in making whatever arrangements might be necessary.
Certain things were needed which required all that time. His hastily extemporized mast and sail had done wonderfully well, but he needed something to steer with. If he could only procure something that would serve the purpose of a rudder, he would feel well prepared for his voyage.
On the search for this he now started. He walked all about the open ground, looking around in all directions, to see if he could find anything, but without any success. Then he ascended the declivity towards the woods, but nothing appeared which was at all adapted to meet his wants. He saw a young tree, which he thought might do, and tried to cut it down with his pocket-knife. After about an hour's hard work he succeeded in bringing it down, and another hour was spent in trimming the branches. The result of all this labor at length lay at his feet in the shape of a rough pole, with jagged splinters sticking out all over it, which promised to be of about as much utility as a spruce bush. In utter disgust he turned away, leaving the pole on the ground, and making up his mind to sail, as he did before, without any rudder. In this mood he descended the declivity, and walked disconsolately towards the shore which was on the side of the island directly opposite to where the boat lay. He had not yet been near enough to see the beach; but now, as he came nearer, a cry of delight escaped him involuntarily; for there, all along the beach, and close up to the bank, lay an immense quantity of drift-wood, which had been brought here by the tide from all the upper waters of the bay. It was a most heterogeneous mixture that lay before him—chips from timber ponds, logs from ship-yards, boards from saw-mills, deals, battens, fence posts, telegraph poles, deal ends, edgings, laths, palings, railway sleepers, treenails, shingles, clapboards, and all the various forms which wood assumes in a country which makes use of it as the chief material of its manufactures. Along the countless streams that flow into the bay, and along its far-winding shores, and along the borders of all its subsidiary bays, and inlets, and basins, the manufacture of wood is carried on—in saw-mills, in ship-yards, and in timber ponds; and the currents that move to and fro are always loaded with the fragments that are snatched away from these places, most of which are borne afar out to sea, but many of which are thrown all along the shores for hundreds of miles. Ile Haute, being directly in the way of some of the swiftest currents, and close by the entrance to a basin which is surrounded by mills and ship-yards, naturally received upon its shores an immense quantity of these scattered and floating fragments. Such was the sight that now met the eyes of Tom, and presented him with a countless number of fragments of wood adapted to his wants, at the very time when he had worked fruitlessly for two hours at fashioning one for himself.
Looking over the heaps of drift-wood, he found many pieces which suited him; and out of these he chose one which was shaped a little like an oar. Securing this prize, he walked over to where the sail was, and deposited it there.
Then he ate some biscuit, and, after taking a draught from the cool brook, he rested, and waited, full of hope, for the rising of the tide.
It was now rapidly approaching the boat. Tom watched it for some time, and felt new happiness as he viewed the roll of every little surf. There was not much wind, and nothing but a gentle ripple on the water. All this was in his favor; for, if he wished for anything now, it was a moderate breeze and a light sea. From time to time he turned his attention to the Straits of Minas, and arranged various plans in his mind. At one time he resolved to try and reach Pereau; again he thought that he would be content if he could only get to Parrsboro'; and yet again, he came to the wise conclusion that if he got to any settlement at all he would be content. At another time he half decided to take another course, and try to reach Scott's Bay, where he felt sure of a warm welcome and a plenteous repast. Aiming thus at so many different points, it mattered but little to him in what particular direction the tide might sweep him, so long as it carried him up the bay.
The tide now came nearer, and Tom went down to the beach for a few moments. He paced the distance between the boat and the water. He noticed a few things lying in the boat. In the bow was a coil of rope which Captain Corbet had probably obtained when he was ashore at Petitcodiac. There was also a tin pan, used for baling.
As the tide drew nearer, Tom began to feel more and more impatient. Again and again he paced the intervening space between the boat and the water, and chafed and fretted because it did not lessen more rapidly. If the boat were once fairly afloat, he felt that the time would pass much more rapidly; for then he would be working at some definite task, and not standing idly waiting.
But everything has an end; and so, at length, the end came here. The water rose higher and higher, until, at length, it touched the keel. Tom gave a shout of joy.
He now untied the rope, and tried to shorten his suspense by pushing the boat towards the water; but his strength was insufficient. He could not move it. He would have to wait longer.
Thus far the things which he had taken out had been lying on the grass. It was now time to put them on board. So he carried down the sail, folded it up, and stowed it away neatly at the bottom of the boat. On this he stood the box of biscuit, taking care to put the cover over it, and to spread over that again one fold of the sail.
This took up some time, and he had the gratification of seeing that the water had come up a few feet farther. He now tried once more to force the boat down, using his piece of board as a lever; but the board bent, and almost broke, without moving the boat. He stood for a moment waiting, and suddenly thought of the pole which he had left up in the woods. He determined to get this, and perhaps, with its help, he would be able to accomplish his wishes. So off he started at a run, and in a few minutes reached the place. Hurrying back again, he inserted one end of the pole under the bow, and exerted all his force to press the boat downward into the water. At first it did not move; but shortly after, when the water had risen still higher, he made a new effort. This time he succeeded; the boat moved slightly.
Again.
The boat moved farther.
Once more.
Still farther.
And now he made a final trial. Thrusting the pole again underneath, he exerted all his force for the last time, and pushed the boat down for about a yard.
It was at last afloat.
The tide had not yet fully attained its height, but was close to it. The wind was blowing from the north, as before, and quite moderately. The sea sparkled and glittered in the rays of the sun. The little wavelets tossed their heads on high, and danced far away ever the sea. The air was bright, and stimulating, and exhilarating. All the scene filled Tom's heart with gladness; and the approach of his deliverance deepened and intensified this feeling.
Afloat again.—The rushing Water.—Down to the Bottom.—Desperate Circumstances.—Can they be remedied?—New Hopes and Plans.
The boat was at last afloat before Tom's eyes.
At first he had thought of holding it by the painter, and patiently standing on the beach, but the sight of it now changed his purposes. He thought that it would be a far more sensible plan to get on board, and keep the boat near the beach in that way. His bit of stick, which he had found among the drift-wood, could be used as an oar, and was good enough to enable him to move the boat as much as would be necessary. As he would have to wait for six hours at least, it was a matter of great importance that he should be as little fatigued as possible, especially as he had to look forward to a voyage, after the tide had fallen, attended with the possibility of increased labor and exertion. All these thoughts came rapidly to his mind, but passed in much less time than it takes to tell it, so that Tom had scarcely seen the boat afloat than he rushed through the water, and clambered into it. Then, taking his stick, he stood up and looked around.
The scene around has already been described. Tom kept his stick in the water, so as to have it ready for use. He purposed keeping the boat at a convenient distance from the shore by pushing and paddling. By keeping it within a distance of from three to six yards, he thought he would, for the present at least, be able to keep afloat, and yet avoid the sweep of the tides. He did not expect to remain in this particular spot all the time, but expected to find some place which would be out of the way of the tide, where he could float comfortably without being forced to keep in too close to the land.
But suddenly Tom's thoughts and speculations were rudely interrupted.
It appeared to him that there was a very unusual feeling about the boat. She did not seem as high out of the water as she ought to have been, and her bows seemed to be lower than they had been. There was also a slight vibration in her, which he had never noticed before, and which struck him now as very peculiar. In the midst of this there came to his ears a low, faint, and scarcely perceptible sound, made up of peculiar bubbling and gurgling noises, which sounded from the boat.
One brief examination showed him that the boat was certainly very much deeper in the water than she had been.
Five seconds later her bows had sunk farther.
Two seconds more, and Tom's feet were surrounded by water up to his ankles.
The boat was filling!
Scarce had he made this discovery than the water rose swiftly up, the boat sank quickly down, the sea rolled over her sides, and the boat went to the bottom.
Very fortunate was it for Tom, at that moment, that he had not pushed out farther from the shore. When the boat went down he was not more than three or four yards off, and he did not sink lower than up to his neck. But the shock was a sudden one, and for a moment almost paralyzed him. The next instant, however, he recovered from it; and looking round, he saw the box of biscuit floating within his reach. Making a wild dash at this, he secured it, and waded ashore with it in safety. He then turned mournfully to look after the boat, and found that it was visible, floating on the surface. As he left it, it had floated up, his weight being the only thing that had sent it below. The tide was still coming in, so that it did not float away. Tom flung off his coat and waistcoat, and hurrying into the water, soon caught and dragged it as near as he could to the beach. Then he secured it once more, and waited. Standing there, he looked gloomily at the vessel, wherein such precious hopes had been freighted only to be lost. What had happened? Why could not the boat float? What was the matter with her? These were the wondering questions which occurred to him without his being able to give any answer.
One thing he saw plainly, and that was, that he had lost this tide. The next high tide would be after midnight, and the next would be between one and two on the following day. If he could find out what was the matter with the boat, and fix it, he would have to wait till the next day, unless he chose to watch for his chance after midnight, and make the journey then.
He was not a boy who could be long inactive; so now, after a brief period, in which he gave up to the natural despondency of his soul, he stirred himself up once more, and sought comfort in occupation. The box of biscuit did not seem much injured, it had not floated long enough for the sea-water to penetrate it. Assuring himself of this, he next turned to the boat and took out its contents. These were the old sail, the coil of rope, and the baling dipper.
By this time the tide had reached its height, and after the usual time of delay, began to fall once more. The boat was secured to the shore, and after a time the water began to leave her. Tom sat at a little distance, wondering what could be the matter with her, and deferring his examination until the boat should be left aground. It was a mystery to him how this sudden change had occurred, and why the boat, which had floated so well during his long drift, should now, all of a sudden, begin to leak with such astonishing rapidity. Something must have happened—something serious, too; but what it was, or how it had happened, he could not, for the life of him, conjecture.
As Tom sat there, the tide gradually left the boat; and as the tide left, the water ran out, keeping at just the same level inside as the water outside. This showed, even to his inexperienced eyes, that the leak must be a very large one, since it admitted of such a ready flow of water in and out. The water descended lower and lower as he sat, until, at last, the boat was left by the retreating waves. The water had all run out.
Tom now advanced, and proceeded to examine her. When he was arranging her cargo before, the coil of rope had been in the bows. This had prevented him from detecting anything wrong in the boat. But now, since everything had been taken out, one glance only was quite sufficient to make known to him instantly the whole difficulty. There, in the bows, underneath the very place where the coil of rope had lain, was a huge aperture. The planks had been beaten in, and one side of the bow was destroyed beyond hope of remedy.
The sight of such an irremediable calamity as this renewed for a time the despondency which he had felt at the first sinking of the boat. Full of depression, he turned away, and tried to account for it all. It was on the previous day that he had landed—about twenty-four hours ago. How had he passed the time since then, and what had happened? This he tried to remember.
In the first place, up to the moment of landing the boat was perfectly sound, and far from all injury. It had not been hurt during the drift. It had struck at one place, but the long voyage that had followed showed that no damage had resulted. Finally, it had not been harmed by landing on Quaco Ledge. Since that time he had drifted in safety far across the bay, without meeting with any accident. All this proved clearly that the damage must have been done to the boat since his landing on the island.
He found it very difficult to recall anything that had happened since then. On his first arrival he was worn out and exhausted. He remembered vaguely how he came in sight of the giant cliff, how he dragged the boat along, how he secured it to a tree, and then how he flung himself down on the grass and fell asleep. After that all was obscure to his memory; but he could recall his waking at midnight and listening to the roar of the wind and the dash of the surf. Evidently there must have been a heavier sea on the beach at that time than when he landed, and this was sufficient to account for the accident to the boat. She had been beating on the rough rocks at high tide, exposed to the full sweep of the surf, and her bows had been stove in.
The melancholy spectacle of the ruined boat made Tom see that his stay on the island might be prolonged even beyond the following day. No sooner had this thought occurred to him than he went over to the articles which he had taken out of the boat, and passed them all in review before him, as though he were anxious to know the full extent of his resources. He spread out the wet sail in the sun. He spread out his coat and waistcoat. In the pocket of the latter he found a card of matches, which were a little damp. These he seized eagerly and laid on the top of a stone, exposed to the rays of the sun, so as to dry them. The clothes which he kept on were wet through, of course, but he allowed them to dry on him.
He had been working now pretty industriously all the morning, first at searching after a piece of wood, then in cutting down the pole, then in searching among the drift-wood, and finally at the boat. He felt, at length, hungry; and as he could not yet decide upon what was to be done next, he determined to satisfy his desires, and kill the time by taking his dinner. The repast was a frugal one, consisting as before, of biscuit, which were washed down by cold water; but Tom did not complain. The presence of food of any sort was a cause for thankfulness to one in his position, and it was with a feeling of this sort, in spite of his general depression of spirits, that he ate his meal.
After this he felt much more refreshed, and began to consider what he had better do next. Of course, the centre of interest to him was the boat, and he could not give up that hope of escape without a struggle. As long as there was a hope of making his way from the island by means of that, so long might he keep up his heart; but if the damage that had been done should prove irreparable, how would he be able to endure his situation? Whatever it was, it would be best to know the worst once for all. Perhaps he might stop the leak. He had material around which seemed to be the right sort of thing to stop a leak with. He had the piece of sail, which could be cut up into small pieces, and used to stop the leak. If he had possessed a hatchet and some nails, he would have made an effort to repair the fracture in the planks of the boat; but as he had nothing of that sort, he tried to devise some method by which the water might be kept out. As he thought, there gradually grew up in his mind the rude outline of a plan which promised something, and seemed to him to be certainly worth trying. At any rate, he thought, it will serve to give me an occupation; and any occupation, even if it proves to be of no practical value, is better than sitting here doing nothing at all.
Having something to do once more quickened Tom's energies anew, and starting to his feet, he prepared to put his plan into execution. First of all, in order to carry out that plan, it was necessary for him to get a number of blocks and boards of different sizes. These, he knew, could easily be found among the driftwood on the beach. Over there he hurried, and after a moderate search he succeeded, at length, in finding bits of wood that seemed suited to the purpose which he had in view. With these he came back to the boat; but as there was a large number of them, he had to make several journeys before the whole collection was brought over.
Then he took his pole, and, putting a block under it, used it as a lever to raise up the boat. By dexterous management he succeeded in doing this, and at the same time he ran a board underneath the bow of the boat as it was slightly raised. This manoeuvre he repeated several times, each time raising his lever higher, by means of a higher fulcrum, and thus constantly raising the bow of the boat; while after each elevation the bow was secured in its new position by running an additional board underneath it, over the other preceding boards. By carefully and perseveringly pursuing this course, he at length succeeded in raising the bow of the boat about a foot in the air. This gave him an opportunity to examine it thoroughly outside as well as inside, and to see the whole extent of the damage that had been done.
It has already been said that the damage was serious. Tom's examination now convinced him that it was in every respect as serious as he had supposed, if not still more so. Even if he did possess a hatchet and nails, or a whole box full of tools, he doubted whether it would be in his power to do anything whatever in the way of repairing it. No less than three of the lower planks of the bows, down to the very keel, were beaten in and broken so badly that they seemed actually crushed and mangled. It must have been a fearful beating, and pounding, and grinding on the rocks which had caused this. The planks, though thus broken, still held together; but it seemed to Tom that with a blow of his fist he could easily beat it all in; and as he looked at it he could not help wondering how it had happened that the work which the rocks had thus so nearly effected had not been completely finished. However, the planks did hold together yet; and now the question was, Could any thing be done?
In answer to this question, Tom thought of the old sail and the coil of rope. Already he had conceived the rude outline of a plan whereby the entrance of the water might be checked. The plan was worth trying, and he determined to set about it at once, and use up the hours before him as long as he could, without any further delay. If by any possibility he could stop that leak, he determined to start off at the next high tide, that very night, and run the risk. It was a daring, even a foolhardy thought; but Tom was desperate, and the only idea which he had was, to escape as soon as possible.
He now made some measurements, after which he went to the old sail, and cut a piece from the end of it. This he divided into smaller pieces, each about a yard square. Each of these pieces he folded up in three folds, so as to make them about a foot wide and eighteen inches long. Others he folded into six folds, making them about half the size of the larger pieces. All this took up much time, for he measured and planned very carefully, and his calculations and measurements had to be done slowly and cautiously. Returning to the boat with these bits of folded canvas, he put one of the larger pieces on the inside, against the bow, right over the broken place. Another large piece was placed carefully over this, and then the smaller pieces were laid against these. In this way he adjusted all the pieces of canvas in such a way as to cover up the whole place where the leak was.
Then he went over to the drift-wood, and spent a long time searching after some bits of wood. He at length found a half dozen pieces of board, about a foot long, and from six to eight inches in width. He also found some bits of scantling, and palings, which were only a foot or so in length. All these he brought back, and laid them down on the beach near the boat.
He now proceeded to place these bits of wood in the bows, in such a way as to keep the canvas in a firm position. His idea was, that the canvas, by being pressed against the opening, might keep out the water, and the wood, by being properly arranged, might keep the canvas secure in its place. The arrangement of the wood required the greatest care. First of all, he took the smallest bits, and stood these up against the canvas, so that they might correspond as nearly as possible with the curve of the bows. A few more pieces were placed in the hollow part of this curve, and outside these the larger pieces were placed. Between the outside pieces and the inner ones he thrust some of the smallest pieces which he could find. After thus arranging all his boards, he found that there lay between the outside board and the first seat of the boat a space of about one foot. Selecting a piece of wood of about that length, he put one end against the board, and the other against the seat, and pressed it into a position where it served to keep the board tight in its place. Then he took other pieces of about the same length, and arranged them in the same way, so that, by being fixed between the board and the seat, they might keep the whole mass of boards and canvas pressed tight against the opening in the bows. After placing as many blocks in position as he conveniently could, his next work was to secure them all. In order to effect this, another journey to the drift-wood was necessary, and another search. This time he selected carefully a number of sticks, not more than half an inch in thickness, some of them being much thinner. He found pieces of paling, and laths, and shingles which suited his ideas. Returning with these to the boat, he proceeded to thrust them, one by one, into the interstices of the boards, using a stone to drive them into their places.
At last the work was finished as far as he could accomplish it, and there remained nothing more to be done. As far as he could see, by shaking, and pulling, and pushing at the collection of sticks and canvas, it was very firm and secure. Every stick seemed to be tight, and the pressure which they maintained against the aperture was so strong that the wood-work now was forced out a little distance beyond the outline of the boat. He examined most carefully all about the bows on the outside, but saw no place which did not seem to be fully protected. It seemed to him now as though that piled-up canvas ought to resist the entrance of the water, or, if not, at least that it ought not to allow it to enter so rapidly but that he could easily keep the boat baled out.
He was not altogether confident, yet he was hopeful, and as determined as ever to make a trial.