Corbet at the Helm.—Visions by Night.—The Vis-ion of sudden Wealth.— Over the Waters.—The Ocean Isles.—A startling and unwelcome Sight.—Landing of Corbet.—Corbet among the Moun-seers.—Unpleasant Intelligence.—An unwelcome Visitor.—A sharp Inquisition.—Corbet in a Corner.—Answers of Guile and Simplicity.—Perplexity of Cross examiner.THUS the Antelope passed away from the eyes of the boys, and vanished into the shades of night. The breeze was light, and Corbet stood at the helm, shaping his course for the Magdalen Islands. The first feeling of uneasiness which he had experienced on leaving ‘the boys in so very peculiar, perhaps dangerous, a situation, had passed away with the boys themselves, and his thoughts now turned on other things. He was virtually alone. Wade indeed, was on board, but the captain had sent him below to sleep, so that he might be able to relieve him and take his turn at midnight.
Thus alone at the helm, Captain Corbet looked out over the silent sea, and up into the starry sky, and lost himself in peaceful meditations. But his thoughts were not concerned with sea or sky. Other and dearer subjects gave them occupation. It was his “babby” that occupied his mind; that babby for whose sake he had deserted the boys, and left them alone in mid ocean. He was going to make a fortune for his son. He was going to take measures for securing the wrecked ship, so as to bring her into some port, sell her, and divide the proceeds.
Night, and solitude, and silence are ever the best promoters of meditation, and Captain Corbet’s fancy was stimulated and quickened by his present surroundings. In thought he went all over the Petrel. He examined her hull; he considered her cargo; he made light of her injuries—He concluded that a very small sum might make her once more seaworthy, and he thought that fifteen thousand pounds might be easily obtained for her. Then as to her cargo; that he knew must be perfectly free from injury. He tried to estimate the number of tons; then he multiplied these by the price per ton, so as to get at the value of the entire cargo. Then he added this to the value of the ship, and allowed his mind to play freely around the aggregate. It was a sum of dazzling proportions—a sum far greater than he had been able to make after the hard toil and persevering efforts of many laborious years! And all this he was now about to achieve by one stroke. It was to be the work of a few days. It was to be for the good of the “babby.”
Here another theme attracted the thoughts of the good captain,—the fondest of all themes,—his infant son. That son would now have something that would approximate to wealth. All his future would take tone and flavor from this adventure. The father’s best feelings were roused, and in fancy he traced the future of his beloved infant. He saw him pass from long clothes into short clothes, from frocks into jackets, and from jackets into coats. He followed him in thought from his mother’s arms to his own legs; from his home to the school; from the school to the college. He watched him consume the midnight oil for years, until he at length reached the brilliant end of his educational goal. Then he portrayed before his mind the form of his son in the future,—now at the bar pleading, or on the bench judging; now at the bedside of the sick; now in the pulpit preaching. He listened to the sermon of the imaginary preacher, and found himself moved to tears.
“Dear, dear!” he murmured to himself; “I’d no idee the little feller’d be so eliquint. It doos beat all, railly.”
Captain Corbet was really like one who had taken intoxicating liquor, or opium; and, in fact, he was intoxicated, but the stimulus was no drink or drug; it was merely his fancy, which had become heated by the extravagant dream of sudden wealth. Gold produces its own fevers and deliriums; and the good captain had been seized by one of these. Yet, after all, let it be remembered that his avarice was not for himself, but for his child. And as the lone navigator stood at his post under the midnight sky, in solitude and darkness, heaping up those bright fancies, out of which he was rearing so stupendous a castle in the air, he was building, all the while, not for himself, but for another.
Had he left the boys under any other circumstances,—that is, supposing that he had been capable of so leaving them,—there is no doubt that he would have been a prey to the most harassing anxiety on their account, and would have passed a wakeful night, full of mental distress. But now these new thoughts so occupied him that there was no place for anxiety, and he went on towards the accomplishment of his purpose as resolutely as though he had left them all in the safest and pleasantest place in the world.
Yet the situation in which they were left was one which might have created anxiety in the breast of even a more unfeeling man than Captain Corbet—on board a wrecked ship, that lay there in mid sea, with no means of saving themselves in the event of disaster. It was calm now, but how long would the calm continue? This breeze, that was wafting him along so gently and pleasantly, might stiffen, and strengthen, and intensify itself into a gale; and how would the gale act upon a ship that was virtually under water? Where could the boys betake themselves for refuge? How could they avoid the sweep of the surges that a rising storm would pour over her decks? Where could they find security from the downfall of the masts, which, in the writhing and twisting ship, must inevitably fall. A storm might change their foothold into a waste of boiling foam, and make the masts above as dangerous as the sea below. Even a moderate wind and a very ordinary rising of the sea might make their situation one of peril. Of this the boys, in their inexperience, had taken no thought; but this was the very thing that Captain Corbet ought to have thought of, and this was the thing that he was destined to think of afterwards with anguish of soul. But, for the present, not a thought of this sort came to him. His mind was altogether given up to the sway of those exciting and alluring fancies which beckoned him away to imaginary wealth.
Captain Corbet had arranged to call Wade at midnight; but so excited was he by his dreams and speculations that he took no note of time, and was at length startled by the coming of the dawn. Then he hurried away, sent Wade to the helm, and flung himself into his berth.
After a long and profound sleep, which was the natural consequence of the excitement of the previous night, he awaked. To his surprise he found that it was about eleven o’clock.
He cast a hasty look around.
His first feeling was one of satisfaction. There, immediately in front of him, were the Magdalen Islands. His course had been sufficiently accurate to bring him to his destination. He was near enough now to cast anchor, and Wade was already moving forward with that intent.
But in that first look that he had given he noticed another thing, for which he was not prepared, and which detracted somewhat from the satisfaction that had been caused by the sight of the islands.
He saw a schooner at anchor.
The beautiful outline, the slender, tapering masts, the white spars, and the immaculate neatness that characterized this schooner, all told him plainly what she was, and he needed no closer inspection to feel sure that it was the Fawn.
Now, the sight of the Fawn disturbed the mind of the venerable captain.
He dreaded a meeting with her skipper, Captain Tobias Ferguson.
The Petrel was a prize for those who might be her salvors. To that fortunate situation he did not wish to admit any others. He wished merely to procure sails, and then navigate her somehow with the help that he already had. He knew well, and he dreaded, the keen inquisitiveness and the active, restless energy of Captain Tobias Ferguson.
He did not want to meet with him at all. In fact, the very last person in all the world that he would have chosen to meet with at this particular time was this very man.
So great was his dread of a meeting, which might ruin all his plans, that his first impulse was to fly. He cast a hasty look all around. Upon the beach he saw the boat of the Fawn. Evidently the skipper was ashore. Upon this discovery he at once acted, and determined to move farther away. Hastily checking Wade, who was in the act of dropping the anchor, Captain Corbet wore round, and continued on his former course for a mile or so. Then, rounding the extremity of the island, he kept on his way along the shore, anxiously considering what was best to be done.
There were other islands in the group, but this was the one which he wished to visit, for here only could he hope to find anything like sails. He had come here for this purpose, and to go away without accomplishing it was not to be thought of. It now seemed to him that the best thing for him to do, under the circumstances, would be to land here, and pursue his investigations in a quiet way about the island, managing so as to avoid all contact with Captain Ferguson. He therefore dropped anchor here, and, taking Wade with him, he went ashore.
Once on shore, he went about his search with the utmost diligence, going from house to house, and making inquiries about sails. But from the first his task was a roost discouraging one. Every one assured him that there were no spare sails on the island; all the schooners were away, and whatever stock any one had he generally kept in his schooner, and took it with him. This was the information that he got from every one to whom he applied.
For hour after hour Captain Corbet kept up his fruitless search, dodging about cautiously, so as to avoid being seen by Captain Ferguson, in case he might be ashore, and keeping a wary lookout. At length he had visited every house on the island of any consequence. The only thing that they could suggest was for him to go to Miramichi, where he would be likely to obtain what he wanted.
Captain Corbet, in deep dejection, now retraced his steps to the boat. He thought for a time of applying to Ferguson. But a moment’s reflection made him give up that idea. He knew that Ferguson would be full of curiosity; that he would ask him all about the boys; and he feared that if he got the slightest hint of the facts of the case, he might start off instantly for the wreck, and thereby forestall him. It does not follow that Ferguson would really have done this; but this was Captain Corbet’s belief, and it influenced him, of course, precisely as if the belief had been well founded.
Having thus dismissed the idea of appealing to Ferguson, it remained for him to decide what next to do. He did not think of going back. Better to take Ferguson into his confidence at once. He still clung to his first hope and his first plan, and, since Miramichi was the nearest place where he could rely upon finding sails, he began to think about going there. True, this would take up two or three days more, and the boys would be left to themselves all that time; but, as he had already accustomed himself to think of them in their present position as quite safe, he was able to entertain the thought of leaving them this way still, longer. He had committed himself too deeply to his plan, he had gone too far towards its execution, and he had built too largely upon its successful accomplishment, to be willing to give it up just yet.
And so by the time he reached the boat he had about made up his mind to start off for Miramichi at once. With this resolve he went back to the schooner.
The moment that he stepped on deck he was astonished at detecting in the atmosphere the smell of cigar smoke; and while he was yet standing, with open mouth and expanded nostrils, inhaling the unwelcome odor, he was still more unpleasantly surprised at seeing a figure emerge from the cabin, in whom at one glance he recognized the well-known and particularly dreaded lineaments of Captain Tobias Ferguson.
His unwelcome visitor held out his hand, and wrung that of Captain Corbet with affectionate cordiality.
“Didn’t expect to see you back again in these parts so soon. You must have made a fine run of it, too. How far did you go? Not to the Bay of Islands—hey? Why, there’s been a reg’lar old-fashioned calm about here, and this here wind ain’t much to speak of. And how are my young friends, the ragamuffins?”
“Wal—pooty tol’able,” said Captain Corbet, in a faint voice.
“Hm—glad to hear it. And where was it, did you say, that you went to?”
“O—a—kine o’—genral sort o’ kerrews, like.”
“Hm—and so you left them in the Bay of Islands?”
“Wal—n—n—no—, ’twan’t exactly thereabouts.”
“O—not Anticosti?”
“Wal—n—no,” said Captain Corbet, with an increasing sense of discomfort.
“Ah, St. Pierre?”
“N—n—n—not exactly.”
“St. Paul’s, then?”
“Wal—‘twan’t St. Paul’s, nuther.”
“O, a kind o’ general cruise, I see; young adventurers, and all that. But I’m glad you took my advice, and didn’t go to Anticosti. A bad place. And how do they like Newfoundland?”
“Wal—they—didn’t—quite git to Newfoundland, nuther,” said Captain Corbet, in a low, faint, hesitating, confused way.
“No, of course not,” said Ferguson, briskly. “Too far away; I said so. You concluded to go to Gaspe, of course.”
“Wal—n—n—n—no, we didn’t quite get—off—in that thar—de—rection,” replied Captain Corbet, who was utterly at a loss how to fight off this eager and inquisitive questioner. Had the good captain been capable of telling a lie, his task would have been easier; but he was a truthful man, and in this case he hardly knew what to do.
“Well, come now,” said Ferguson, “where did you go?”
Captain Corbet started at this point blank question, and was perfectly dumb.
Ferguson looked at him with keen scrutiny, and then said,—
“You don’t answer. What’s the matter? Has anything happened? Where are the boys?”
Again the unfortunate Corbet was unable to answer.
“It’s a plain question enough,” said Ferguson, “and you’vegotto answer it somehow—for I’m going down Nova Scotia way, and may see some of their parents. So, own up, old man. What have you done with the boys?”
At this moment a happy thought occurred to the bewildered Corbet. It came like a ray of light in deep darkness.
“Wal,” said he, “you see, capting—you know—them thar youngsters, you know—they—they’ve—got up a kine o’ secret society—you know—they told you—themselves—you know—and they’re all together—you know—and it’s a matter—of importance—to them—and to me—to—to—to—to keep the secret, you know. O, I do assure you it’s all right—they’re all safe an sound—an enjyin life; good quarters, plenty to eat an drink, an ole Solomon a doin of the cookin—but it’s a great secret, you know—and so—you see—capting—the fact is—I’d aleetlerayther not let on where they air jest now.”
Captain Corbet spoke this in a confused way, and in a mild, deprecatory manner. Ferguson listened attentively to his words, and then stood looking at him for some time with an air of dissatisfaction.
“Well—old man,” said he, “I do remember some nonsense of theirs about a secret society; but you haven’t answered my question; you evade it; and what their secret society has to do with their present situation I don’t quite begin to make out. The fact is, I don’t consider you a fit guardian for such boys as they are, and my opinion all along has been that they’ll all get into mischief. I’m afraid that they’re in some fix at this particular moment, and that you have left them at the very time that you ought to be standin by them. If you don’t choose to tell me, I can’t make you—only I warn you, if the boys air in a fix it’s best to let me know, for I can go and help them sooner and better than you can.”
“O, but railly, now—now—railly, capting,” said Corbet, with great earnestness, “I do assure you, honest and honor bright, there ain’t no difficulty about the boys. They’re all rail happy—tip-top, an no mistake; as lively as crickets; lots to eat an drink, comfortable beds, good cookery—all in good spirits and a enjyin of themselves in a way that would do your heart good to see.”
“Well—but where are they?” persisted Ferguson.
“Wal—now—railly—you know,” said Captain Corbet, “it’s a kine o’ secret—an I’d very much rather not tell—that is—notjestnow; now railly—don’t ask me.”
Ferguson looked at him for a few moments with the same scrutinizing look that he had already turned upon him.
“Where are you going now?” he asked at length; “back to the boys?”
“Wal—notjestyet,” answered Corbet, after a pause. “The fact is, I was thinkin a little of takin a turn over Miramichi way—on business. I won’t belong, and they’ll be all right till I get back from Miramichi.”
“O, the boys’ll have to wait for you, in the place where they now are, till you get back from Miramichi—so that’s it.”
Ferguson spoke these words slowly and deliberately, with his eyes fixed on Captain Corbet. The latter looked somewhat uncomfortable, and for a while said nothing; but at length he murmured,—
“Wal—I s’pose—that’s—about—it.”
The Baffled Inquisitor.—Corbet’s Flight by Night.—Dead Beckoning.—His Purpose accomplished.—Once more an unwelcome Visitor.—The warning Words.—Corbet confident.—“Right straight back”—The stormy Water.—The gloomy Night and the gloomier Day.—Where is the Petrel?—Despair of Corbet.FINDING that Captain Corbet was obstinate in his refusal to tell him about the boys, Ferguson at length desisted from his inquiries, and departed from the Antelope, much to the relief of the commander of that vessel. But, though he had left the Antelope, he had by no means given up his investigations into the cause of her present voyage. He at once rowed to the shore, with the intention of finding out from the people there what had been Corbet’s business among them.
This he had no difficulty whatever in finding out. Corbet had come there with only one purpose, and this he had made known to every one with whom he came in contact, as best he could.
He had picked up a man who spoke English, and this man had accompanied him in his rounds as interpreter. This very man fell into Ferguson’s way, and from him Ferguson was able to learn that Captain Corbet’s sole aim in visiting the Magdalen Islands was to obtain some sails. He learned that the sails, could not be obtained, and also that they had recommended him to go to Miramichi for them. By this he understood the reason why Captain Corbet was going to that place.
Now, Ferguson had taken a great fancy to the boys; but the opinion which he had formed of Captain Corbet and the Antelope was of a very different kind. That opinion he had been at no pains to conceal. He had, in fact, expressed it freely and frequently. He had called Captain Corbet an “old woman,” and the Antelope “a tub.” This opinion he still cherished. Moreover, he had prophesied solemnly that the boys were more likely than not to land at the bottom of the sea before their voyage was over, and this prophecy he still believed in. In fact, the strong regard that he had conceived for these boys made him feel uneasy about them, and he did not like to think of them sailing about these seas with such a vessel and such a commander. The sudden appearance of the Antelope had excited his apprehensions. He had seen her come in while he was ashore. He had noticed her manoeuvres. He had watched her as she rounded to and then stood off again. He had then gone in his boat to watch her, and had seen her anchor. He had seen Captain Corbet go ashore with Wade. He had then rowed to her, boarded her, and examined her. The result of this examination was anything but satisfactory. He could not see any signs of the boys. All their luggage was gone. What had become of them was his first thought, and he had waited for the return of Captain Corbet in deep uneasiness.’ That uneasiness had only been increased when the captain returned and answered his questions in so evasive a manner.
He had not been prepared for this; the evasive answers of Captain Corbet irritated him, and awakened his suspicions. The secrecy which he threw around the movements of the boys was in the highest degree annoying. He had come hoping to find them on board. Their absence had filled him with uneasiness. In this state of uneasiness he had waited on board for hours, fidgeting and fuming; and the end of it all was, that when Captain Corbet did appear, he refused to answer the simplest questions.
There were several things that troubled and perplexed him to an unusual and a most unpleasant degree.
First. What had become of the boys? Captain Corbet would not say. He had asked about every place in which it was possible that they could be, and had been told, most positively, that they were not there. Anticosti, Bay of Islands, Newfoundland, St. Pierre, St. Paul’s, Gaspe, all the coasts surrounding the gulf he had asked after, and he had been told that they were in none of them. Where, then, could they be? Such secrecy puzzled and irritated him. Captain Corbet’s story about the secret society did not deceive him for one instant. He saw through it all. He saw that Captain Corbet, though incapable of telling a falsehood, was yet willing to mislead, or to put him on a false track; but, for his part, he was not the man who could be easily misled or baffled.
Then came the discovery which he had made of the purpose which Captain Corbet had in visiting the Magdalen Islands. He had come for sails. Sails! What did he want of sails? What absurd project had he formed? And what had his search for sails to do with the absence of the boys? Yet, so great was Captain Corbet’s desire to obtain sails, that he was going to Miramichi for that very purpose.
Then, again, Ferguson could not forget the way in which Captain Corbet had come to the Magdalen Islands. He had come—he had appeared for a moment, as if about to anchor, but then had turned away, and sailed elsewhere. The whole manoeuvre had looked exactly like a wish to avoid the Fawn, and it might have been successful, had he not pursued so closely. Captain Corbet’s appearance also, when he first came on the deck of the Antelope, and found himself confronted by his visitor, his start, his look of surprise, his confusion, his hesitation,—all these things made him seem the more open to suspicion.
Suspicion!
And of what?
Now, Ferguson did not for a moment believe Captain Corbet capable of wrong. In fact, he looked upon him as an imbecile. Yet, even from that point of view, his uneasiness about the boys was none the less. These boys, under the care of an imbecile, seemed to him to be in as great peril as though their guardian had been a criminal. Where were they now? Had the folly or the imbecility of their captain drawn them into some position of danger? They were innocent and inexperienced; he was an imbecile; all were alike unprepared to encounter the dangers that might befall them; and from all these causes combined, the boys might now be in a position of very serious danger, while this incapable guardian was idly roaming the seas.
The more he thought of all these things, the more uneasy he felt; until, at length, his fears about the safety of the boys, who had so suddenly awakened his interest, grew so strong, that he determined to keep Captain Corbet in sight. Believing that they were in some situation of possible danger, into which they had been drawn by their own ignorance and Captain Corbet’s imbecility, and in which they were now left, Ferguson felt an intolerable anxiety, and so at length came to the conclusion to follow the Antelope, until some light should be thrown upon this mystery.
Meanwhile, Captain Corbet, having got rid of his troublesome visitor, waited patiently until the boat had rounded the projecting promontory of the island, and then proceeded to continue his voyage. He had already made up his mind to go to Mirami-chi, and this visit of Ferguson, together with his sharp inquiries, far from changing his purpose, had only served to intensify it. He only waited until the boat which contained his dreaded visitor was out of sight, in order to hurry his departure. Accordingly the anchor was weighed in the utmost haste, the sails hoisted, and soon the Antelope set forth on a fresh cruise. The wind was still light, yet sufficient for his purpose; and he directed his course around the island, so as to avoid, as far as possible, being seen by Ferguson. His knowledge of these waters was not very minute, yet it was sufficient to give him a general idea of his destination, and he steered the Antelope accordingly.
Evening came, and the Antelope continued on her course. All night long she traversed the waters, and on the following day approached the New Brunswick coast. Here Captain Corbet recognized the entrance to the Bay de Chaleur, and, turning southward, he sailed along the coast towards the Miramichi River. As he went on, he noticed a sail some miles away; but to this he paid no attention. It was a common enough thing in these waters, and there was no reason why he should notice it particularly. The sail remained in sight all that day; and at length, as he entered the Miramichi River and sailed up it, the fact that this stranger was following did not excite any attention on his part.
Three large towns lie on the Miramichi River,—Chatham, Douglastown, and Newcastle. Of these, two are a few miles from the mouth, on opposite sides of the stream—Chatham and Douglastown; and the three towns form together the centre of a great trade in ship-building, and in the exportation of deals and timber. Here may be found all that appertains to the outfit of a ship, and here Captain Corbet expected to procure what he wanted.
It was evening when the Antelope dropped anchor in the river opposite Chatham. It was then too late to do anything; so Captain Corbet had to postpone his business until the following day. Pleased with his prosperous voyage, and pleased still more with the easy way in which he had got rid of Ferguson, full of hope also in the successful completion of his business, he retired to bed that night, and slept placidly and profoundly. The wind that night arose, and blew hard; but the venerable captain, sunk in slumber, and surrounded by the river shores, heard nothing of the noise of the storm. Had he been out at sea, he would doubtless have thought of the boys in the distant ship; but here in the placid river there was nothing to mar his repose.
On the following morning Captain Corbet went ashore at Chatham, and began a search after the sails. The search took up some time, but at length he succeeded in finding what he wanted. He found some sails and rigging that had been taken from a condemned ship, and were held for sale. They had not been considered good enough for a ship’s outfit, and had not only been torn and rent by storms, but also, from having been kept in a damp warehouse, they were somewhat mildewed. Still they served Captain Corbet’s purpose as well as brand new ones could have done, and, in fact, even better, for their damaged condition enabled him to obtain them at a price which was commensurate with his means. It took some time to get these all stowed away properly in the Antelope; but at length the work was satisfactorily accomplished, and Captain Corbet emerged from the hold, and ascended upon deck, with a smile of serene satisfaction, and the peaceful consciousness that this had been a well-spent, day.
Thus, with this smile of serenity and this tranquil breast did our good Captain Corbet emerge from the hold and ascend to the deck of the Antelope. Scarcely, however, had he set foot thereon, scarcely had he taken one look around, than the smile on his face faded away utterly, and the tranquillity of his soul was abruptly ended.
For there, full before him, seated calmly on the rail, with a piece of soft pine stick in one hand, and a keen jackknife in the other, with a cigar in his mouth, and a pleasant glance in his eye,—there sat the dreaded Ferguson, the very man whom Captain Corbet most feared to see, and whom he believed to be far away at the Magdalen Islands.
Captain Corbet stood rooted to the spot. His jaw dropped. He was paralyzed.
0149
“You made a nice run,” said Ferguson. “A snug place this.”
Captain Corbet did not answer. He was too confused.
“I see you got your sails. I s’pose you didn’t have any trouble.”
These words increased the dismay of Captain Corbet. He thought that this would be a profound secret. Ferguson now showed that he knew it. He must have found out about this at the Magdalen Islands. Whether he knew any more or not, was a troublesome problem. Captain Corbet did not see how he could possibly know any more, and yet Ferguson had such a knowing look, that he would not have been surprised at learning that he knew all.
“I see you’ve got your sails,” said Ferguson, as Captain Corbet did not answer.
“Yes,” said the other, in a melancholy tone, and with a resigned look.
“It’s pretty difficult to get hold of things of that sort in these parts, and you were lucky enough to get them so easy. They’ll do for your purpose, I s’pose.”
“O, yes,” said Captain Corbet, “they’ll do—well enough—considerin; just as well as if they was new.”
“I s’pose you’re going right back from this?”
“Right back?” repeated Captain Corbet.
“Yes; you don’t intend to go dawdling about any longer—do you?”
“O, no.”
“And you’re going right straight back?”
“O, yes.”
“And when I say right straight back,” continued Ferguson, “I mean, of course, right straight back to the boys. It’s only the boys I consider. I feel anxious about them. I consider myself in some sort, just now, as responsible for their rescue, or, at any rate, for their safety; and, old man, let me warn you solemnly to be careful what you’re about. Don’t you go flitting about any longer in this style. Go you right straight back to where those boys are; if you don’t, there’ll be trouble.”
The tone of Ferguson was earnest and anxious. Captain Corbet looked distressed.
“O, railly, now,” he said: “see here now; railly I do assure you, sir, the boys are all right, and all happy—plenty to eat, good quarters, and old Solomon to cook for them and make their beds. Why, you don’t suppose I’m made of iron, or that I’d have the heart to leave them in any place except where they would be safe?”
“I don’t believe you’d leave them in any place that you might think dangerous, of course; but the trouble is you might leave them somewhere, not knowing it to be dangerous, while all the time it would be very dangerous indeed. Have you sailed much about these waters?”
“Wal—n—no, not to say much.”
“Well, I have; and let me tell you, it won’t do to trust to your judgment where such precious things are concerned as the lives of those boys. I felt afraid, when I first saw the Antelope without the boys, that they had fallen into some difficulty through your ignorance or carelessness, and the moment I spoke to you about it, I felt convinced of it. It has worried me ever since. I took for granted that you were going back from the Magdalen Islands, and had no idea that you would venture so far away from them as this. When I learned your object, and saw where you were heading, I followed you on purpose to say what I now say; and that is, Go back, go back, old man, go back to the boys. I feel sure that they are in danger.”
“But ain’t I going to go back?” cried Captain Corbet, with as much vexation in his tone as could be showed by one of so amiable a nature.
“I don’t know.”
“Wal, I am, then,—thar.”
“Now?”
“Yes; right away.”
“That’s right,” said Ferguson, standing up and getting over the side of the Antelope into his own boat; “and one word more: don’t you delay. Pile on all the sail this old tub’ll carry, and get back to those boys as soon as you can.”
“O, you needn’t be a mite afeard,” said Captain Corbet, in a confident tone. “Them thar boys are jest as safe as you and me. They’re not only safe, but comfortable; yes, comfortable, and jolly, and lively, and happy, and safe, and sound. All right.”
“Well, well; I only hope it may turn out so,” said Ferguson; and with these words he rowed away.
Captain Corbet had spoken these last words in a very confident tone; but, in spite of this, he was by no means so confident as he seemed. In spite of himself, the warning words of Ferguson had sunk deep into his soul, and roused very deep anxiety. Now, too, that the great purpose of his voyage had been achieved, and the sails were actually lying stowed away in the hold, he had leisure to think of those boys, and of the situation in which he had left them. He had left them far longer than he had intended. He had been gone now three days. It might take two days to get back, and in case of a calm, it might take far longer. The thought of this filled him with uneasiness.
Ferguson himself, had he been on board, would have commended the activity with which captain and mate now proceeded to hoist anchor and sail. In a very short time the Antelope was under way.
Captain Corbet’s uneasiness grew greater. The warnings of Ferguson started up in his mind, and joined themselves to his recollections of the ship. He remembered how unwilling he had been to leave them, and how they had overpersuaded him. He began to lament that he had ever gone away. The vision of sudden wealth had lost all its charm, and no longer dazzled his mind.
At length he passed out of the river into the gulf. Ever since he had started, the wind had been blowing more and more, and at length, on reaching the open sea, it was quite a gale. All around the waves tossed up their white caps, and the clouds scudded across the sky. This only increased the anxiety of the captain, and as he looked out upon the waste of waters, he trembled for the safety of those who were so helpless in that half-sunken ship. How would they endure this? For this he had not been prepared. He could not forgive himself.
All that night he sailed on, full of grief and terror. The wind increased; the sea rose higher.
The next day came, and wind and sea were yet high. The progress of the Antelope was very good, and towards evening Captain Corbet reckoned that he must be approaching the place where the Petrel lay.
But the shades of night came down, and nothing was visible. For a few hours Captain Corbet sailed on, and at length lay to. This must be the place, according to his calculations; and on the following morning he hoped to see the tall masts of the wrecked ship.
The next morning came.
All that night Captain Corbet had paced the deck in sleepless misery. With the first beam of dawn his eyes sought the horizon, and as the day grew brighter, he still sought eagerly in all directions.
In vain.
The sun rose. It was broad day.
But upon the face of the waters there was not a sign of the Petrel.
Only one sail was visible, and that was a schooner far away to the west.
Captain Corbet stood terror-struck, and looked all around with a face of despair.
The water-logged Ship.—Alone upon the Waters.—Jolly under creditable Circumstances.—Old Solomon’s queer Fancies.—He dreads his Persecutor.—He prefers the Life of Crusoe.—Follow my Leader.—Swimming in deep Waters.—An important Meeting.—Debates.—Parties formed.—Molassesites and Sugarites.—Desperate Struggle of Phil, and melancholy Result.THE night after Captain Corbet left was spent by the boys without any incident of an unusual character. At first when they felt them-sleves thus cut off from all chance of leaving the vessel, there came over every one a singular sense of loneliness, together with an exhilarating feeling of independence. Their situation seemed to them like that of shipwrecked mariners on a desert island, and they all found the part of Robinson Crusoe a very pleasant one, under the circumstances. Their lodgings were excellent, their provisions varied and abundant; they had a cook who was master of his art; and they looked for the return of the Antelope within twenty-four hours.
Captain Corbet had laid stress upon this; and the only conditions upon which he consented to tear himself away from them had been, that he would not go farther than the Magdalen Islands. For he had fully counted on obtaining there what he needed, and had not made any calculations with reference to a failure.
That first evening, then, the boys were in high spirits, and interchanged many jocular remarks about their situation. Solomon expressed more than usual gratification, and seemed to have a serene self-satisfaction, which was extraordinary in him. As the shades of night descended he began to illuminate the cabin. He had found some oil, and had filled the lamp which hung immediately under the skylight. It was a large one, with four argand burners, and threw a brilliant lustre over the scene. Beneath this bright glow the boys sat at the evening repast, spread by the hands of Solomon, where they found the usual variety of dishes, and also not a few of quite a novel and original character. To play the part of Robinson Crusoe under such circumstances as these was not at all unpleasant.
Among all the boys, then, there prevailed a spirit of joyousness, and old Solomon’s mood was certainly not out of accord with that of his young companions. For Bart found him alone in his solitary galley, rubbing his thighs in front of a roasting fire, and chuckling audibly to himself.
“Tell ye what, Massa Bart,” was his exclamation as he looked up at his smiling visitor, “dis yer am high ole times, an no mistake; dis yer ole nigger habn’t felt so happy an habn’t had sich a strornary feelin of skewrity, ebber since he was your age. Let dat dar Ant’lope keep way’s long ebber she kin. I don want to see her again. I want to take up my bode in dis yer galley, and bid farewell to ebery feah, an wipe my weepin eyes.”
“Well, that’s a curious fancy too,” said Bart, in some surprise. “You don’t mean to say that you’d like to live here.”
“Would so; dat dar’sjestwat I mean, an it’s wat’d zactly suit dis yer ole man, an no mistake now—would so.”
“Well,” said Bart, sympathetically, “it’s not a bad place just now, as long as the weather’s fine, though how it might be in case of a blow, I confess I have my suspicions.”
“O, you nebber mind de blow. Dar’s blows dat are a heap wuss dan de wind. How would you like blows on yer head, an backbone, an ribs, from a broomstick, or a shobbel, or a stick ob cord-wood, or a red-hot iron poker? Dem’s blows as is blows, mind I tell you! Tell you what, when you come to git blows, like dat ar, you’ll begin to hab a realizin sense ob what blows is possible for to be.”
“Why, Solomon, how very feelingly you speak!”
“Feelinly! Ony wait till you’ve felt ober your head an shoulders what she’s giben me.”
“She? Who?”
Solomon gave a groan.
“You know her. You—saw her at Loch—Lomond.”
“What, your wife! O, I understand;” and a light began to dawn upon Bart.
Solomon shuddered. The remembrance was too much for him.
“Dis yer’s de fust time I’ve felt real safe for ebber so long; and here I am real safe. She can’t git at me here no how. She can’t imagine where I am no how.”
“Pooh! nonsense, Solomon! Haven’t you been safe enough ever since you left St. John?”
“No, sah! Safe! Why, dar’s not a moment ob de day dat I don’t fancy dat ar woman’s arter me—on my back. I knows it. Tell you what, she’s a comin to fetch me. I knows it. I feel it in my bones, and dat ar’s a feelin dat’s wuss dan de rheumatics. ’Tis so!”
“But what a rdiculous fancy!” said Bart. “Do you really mean to say that you believe she will come after you?”
“Do so. No doubt bout dat ar, Mas’r Bart. She’s a comin jest as shuah’s you’re born. An I habn’t felt real safe’ till now. Here I’m all right.”
“But suppose she does come?”
“Wal, s’pposin.”
“What can she do to you?”
“Do! Lots ob tings. She can come and lib whar I lib, an hamma away all day an all night on my ole head wid broomsticks an pokers.”
“But what makes you let her?”
“Let her? Wat can I do bout it?”
“Why, the law’ll protect you.”
“Be law sakes, chile! Don’t you know de law can’t ’tect husbands agin wives? It’ll only ’tect wives agin husbands. My pinion is, dat de law’s clean in fabor ob de women, an de men hain’t got no chance—not a mite.”
At this new view of the law Bart was somewhat nonplussed.
“O, well,” said he, “I don’t believe she’ll ever trouble you again. You’ll go back to the academy, and Dr. Porter’ll take care of you.”
Solomon shook his head.
“Tell you what,” said he; “fifty millium Docta Porta’s couldn’t do anythin agin dat ar woman if she come to fetch me. De ’cadmy ain’t no place for me. Don’t think you’ll eber catch me back dar. Ise boun to be a rober; an I’ll sail de sea, so as to prebent her from eber a gittin on my track.”
“O, nonsense!” said Bart. “You’ll come with us, and it’ll be all right.”
Solomon shook his head, and relapsed into silence.
And now it became time to prepare for bed. Solomon had already arranged the state-rooms and made the beds. Thanks to their assiduous care, the rooms and the bedding were all quite dry and very inviting.
It was a beautiful night. There was a gentle breeze, which made a slight ripple on the water, but there was not enough to raise a sea. There was a slight motion on the ship, as she slowly rose and fell to the long and gentle undulations; but the motion was scarcely perceptible, and certainly did not interfere in the slightest degree with the comfort of those on board. It was about ten o’clock when they retired for the night. They went to the different rooms which had fallen to their lot. The excitement of the day and of the evening, the long fatigues, together with the exhaustion arising from former privations, all conspired to make their sleep this night very profound as well as very refreshing. Solomon sat till midnight toasting his shins in front of the galley fire, and meditating about the strange vicissitudes of life which had brought across his path that being whom he so justly feared. But Solomon’s thoughts gradually became intermingled with the confused fancies of the land of Nod; and at length awaking with a start, he rubbed his sleepy eyes, and carried his aged frame somewhere “for’ard.” None of the party awoke until late on the following day. Then, on opening their eyes, their nostrils were greeted with savory odors that were wafted from the cabin, which served to show them that Solomon, at least, had not overslept himself, but that he was up and doing, and that he had prepared everything that might be needed to fortify them for the cares and trials of a new day. For the savory odors that were wafted to their nostrils were multifarious, and among them each boy, before he had made up his mind to rise, and while he was still enjoying that luxurious doze that follows the awakening from sleep, could have enumerated, had he felt inclined, the strong, rich aroma of coffee, the pungent odor of broiled ham, the gentler steam of distilling tea, the appetizing atmosphere shed forth from hot rolls, together with a confused medley of others equally attractive, though less definable. .
A rush upon deck to breathe the glorious air, and to look upon the scene around, followed. The view was most enlivening. Far and wide around them extended the deep blue water, whereon not a sail was visible. Overhead hung the azure vault of heaven, with not a cloud in all its wide expanse. The wind was light, and blew at intervals, nor had it increased since the night before. They took their morning bath on deck in the cool, refreshing salt water, dipped out fresh from the sea. Pat improved on this, for he undressed himself again, and plunged into the sea, where he swam about, and called on the others to follow. His example was infectious, and soon the whole party were floundering and gamboling in the water, like a shoal of porpoises, beside the ship.
The bath was a most refreshing one, and added to the zest with which they attacked their breakfast. When, at length, this repast was finished, they once more came forth to the deck like giants refreshed, and began to make plans for passing the time. For their active young natures, filled to overflowing with animal spirits, some lively exercise was needed. This they found in an exploring tour among the rigging. Bart went first, and then the others. Each one tried to venture farther than the others. Thus it soon became a game—the well-known one often played at sea in fine weather called “follow my leader.”
Bart’s training in a seaport town gave him an advantage over the others, even though some of them were stronger, and others more active than he. But he had all through his boyhood been familiar with ships, and had ventured time and again to every part. There was no height so dizzy but that he had sought it out and familiarized himself with it. Bart, therefore, on the present occasion easily surpassed the others in feats of daring, and ventured where none of the others could follow. Singularly enough, it was Phil who came nearest to him. His light, lithe, slender, yet sinewy frame made him as nimble as a kitten in the rigging, and if he had only had Bart’s practice and familiarity, he would have decidedly surpassed him. Phil came near enough to Bart to elicit the admiration and the applause of all. Next to Phil came Pat, who was very sinewy and active. Bruce and Arthur were about equal, while Tom, who, though very strong, was somewhat slow and a little awkward, lingered in the rear. This exciting sport served to occupy several of the hours of that summer morning.
But at length they had exhausted the utmost resources of even so fascinating a game as “follow my leader,” and they once more came down to the common level of every-day life, when they proceeded to debate the great question what next to do. A swim about the ship served to settle this question until dinner time, after which the important subject of dinner remained under discussion long enough to consume a few more hours.
After dinner none of them felt very much inclined to take any active exertion, and they distributed themselves about in various ways. At length Bart suggested a regatta, which was at once adopted. Not having books to read, or anything else in particular to attend to, it was not surprising that they should take with much excitement to a sport which, though perhaps decidedly childish, is yet not without its attractions to the unoccupied mind. The plan was for each boy to make a boat, put it over the side, and see which one of the little fleet would beat. These boats were at first made of paper. But paper was soon found inadequate, and wood was resorted to. These wooden boats were long and sharp, and sailed with a speed which excited the warmest interest. At length Bart proposed a new kind.
Finding a piece of iron hoop, he broke it into short fragments, and sticking this underneath a wooden boat, so that it might act as ballast, keel, and rudder all in one, he produced a little vessel that would sail with the wind abeam, and carry an astonishing amount of canvas. Soon a fleet of these little vessels was formed, and the regatta went on with fresh excitement.
At length a bright thought struck Phil, which, on being suggested to the other boys, at once caused all interest in the regatta to be eclipsed by the stronger attraction of this new idea.
It was nothing less than to make candy.
About this there was a double attraction, for, first, the candy was of value in itself, and secondly, the process of cooking it would, afford an occupation at once charming and exciting.
There was sugar on board, both brown and white, and also molasses. The choice among these was the subject of a prolonged debate; but at length, on being put to the vote, it was found that the Molassesites were, in a triumphant majority. Upon this the White Sugarites and the Brown Sugarites waved their objections, and the vote became a unanimous one.
Another debate took place upon the appointment of a cook, which was terminated by a resolve to ballot for one. The result of the balloting was the unanimous election of Phil to that important and responsible post. This was nothing more than was right, and it was a handsome tribute to Phil for being the originator of the whole scheme. Phil, on being informed of his election, responded in a neat speech, which was greeted with loud applause.
A motion was then made that a deputation be sent to Solomon, requesting him to vacate the cook’s galley for a few hours, so that the new purpose of the assembly might be carried into successful accomplishment. This motion was carried, and the deputation was chosen by ballot. The deputies were Bart, chairman, Bruce, Arthur, Tom, and Pat.
Upon the departure of these on their mission, the whole assemblage consisted of Phil. Though alone, he contrived to represent the assemblage with as much dignity as possible, for he laid himself down flat on the deck, and distributed his arms and legs in all directions, so that he might occupy as much space as possible.
The deputation at length returned, and announced to the assembly that their mission had been successful, and that Solomon had kindly consented to give up to them the cook’s galley for the required time and purpose.
Upon this the assembly moved, seconded, and carried unanimously a resolution that the report of the deputation be adopted.
Upon this an adjournment took placesine die, and the meeting retired to the scene of labor.
About a gallon of molasses was procured. This was poured into an iron pot, and Phil stationed himself at his post in the galley. The fire was supplied with fresh fuel, and soon the liquid began to boil. Phil stirred away like a good fellow, and the liquid began to froth up. Phil tried to keep it down, so that it might not boil over. For some time there was a desperate struggle between Phil and the molasses. The boys stood crowding around, watching that struggle with intense interest and keen excitement. None of them offered to make a suggestion, for it was felt that any offer of advice would be derogatory to the dignity of Phil’s office.
So the struggle went on.
It grew fiercer and fiercer every moment.
Now the molasses rose up in wrath and fury, and seemed about to rush forth from its iron prison.
Now Phil, summoning all his energy, dealt a series of destructive blows at his furious enemy, and laid him low for a time.
So went the struggle. Now the molasses gained, now Phil.
But all the time the molasses was increasing in fury.
The boys stood about. They formed themselves into two parties, one embracing the cause of the molasses, the other that of Phil. Cheer after cheer arose as one or the other saw its cause in the ascendant.
Phil grew weaker and fainter.
At length he tried to make a flank attack, and tore open the stove doors so as to lessen the draught.
The movement failed.
Scarce had he torn open the doors than the molasses, rising in its wrath, rushed forth, streamed over, and poured out in resistless strength, driving Phil himself back from the clouds of hot steam that arose.
Phil fled vanquished from the galley.
The molasses had conquered!
Wild cheers arose from the Molassesites.
At length, when the smoke and steam had subsided, Phil ventured back. There was a boiling, foaming mass still in the pot; but on lifting it off the stove, and allowing it to subside for a moment, it was found that not more than a quart was left.
“Sure, an here’s some lovely flavorin I found,” said Pat, “in the pantry. It’ll make a good flavorin to the candy, so it will.”
He held forth a small vial to Phil, which was labelled,—
Extract of Lemon.
Phil thought it would be an improvement, and so poured the whole contents of the vial into the boiling molasses.
His task was soon over, and the candy was taken off, and poured into dishes to cool. There was only a little, but it was hoped that this might suffice for the present.
At length they ventured to taste it. But the first taste excited one universal cry of execration. The taste was of rancid oil, and not by any means the smooth, sweet, delicious lemon-flavored molasses candy for which they had waited so long. In bitter disappointment and vexation, Phil seized the vial which Pat had handed him. He smelt it; he poured some of the last drops out on his hand, and touched it.
“Boys,” said he, with a rueful look, “the steward of the Petrel must have taken a lemon bottle to keep his hair-oil in.”
And all the boys retired from the cook’s galley with a mournful smile.