A miserable Day.—Keeping their Courage up.—Solomon unmoved.—The Cook triumphs over the Man.—A big Wave.—A Shower-bath.—Helter-skelter.—All in a Heap.—Flight.—The Rigging.—Solomon ventures his Life for a Ham Bone.—Remarks.—Flight farther up.—The Mizzen-top.—The Fugitives.—Pat ties himself to the Mast.—Remonstrances.—Pat is obdurate.—Night, and Storm, and Darkness.ALL through that day the sea continued as rough as at first, and the wind blew as strongly. In the afternoon the wind came up more fiercely, and far surpassed anything they had experienced since they had boarded the Petrel. It sang and roared through the rigging, and so great was its power, that there was a perceptible list in the ship in spite of the tremendous weight of her cargo and water-logged hull. Soon the increasing wind stirred up the sea to greater fury, and the ship began to labor most fearfully. Every hour made it worse; and at length the whole ship forward seemed to be perpetually submerged, for nothing could be seen of its deck, and the foaming waves rolled backward and forward, and boiled, and seethed, and swept resistlessly to and fro. Sometimes a dozen huge waves in succession broke in thunder on the helpless ship which lay beneath them, and received these mountain torrents, quivering and groaning in every plank and beam.
By this time the boys had certainly become accustomed to the creaking and groaning of the straining ship, but this surpassed all that they had yet seen, and filled them with awe. They stood there looking at the scene; the land was now forgotten. It had lost its interest. The feeling began to arise that perhaps they might never reach those shores, and if they did turn a glance any longer in that direction, it was solely in order to measure the intervening distance, and try whether it might be possible for the ship to reach the shore before going to pieces.
Solomon alone stood unmoved. Faithful to the last, with his one idea, the performance of his duty, Solomon prepared the evening meal. The cook triumphed over the man, and professional feeling rose superior to the frailties of humanity. It was ham that they would have, and biscuit, and butter. They should have cheese, too, and sardines. Pickles and mustard should not be wanting. And Solomon laid these on the skylight, one by one, solemnly and in silence, as though the consciousness was present in his breast that this meal might be the last on board. Never before had he arranged a repast more deliberately and more thoughtfully. The table was set under circumstances which, indeed, required deliberation and thought. The pitching of the ship was so violent, that it required the most careful management to induce the things to lie in their places; and it was only by covering the biscuit with bits of board, that he succeeded in keeping them to their places. With the ham he had a long struggle, but finally tied it with rope-yarn to the skylight. As to the smaller articles, he had to leave them in the chest.
Solomon was just returning for the last time, carrying a piece of cheese and a box of sardines; the boys were seated on the edge of the skylight, waiting for the preparations to be completed, when suddenly the stern of the ship went down, down, down, very much farther than they had ever known it to descend before. An awful thought seized upon all: the ship was sinking! Every one started wildly up, clutching at anything that happened to be nearest, without knowing what they were doing, and looking fearfully through the opening at the end of their shelter.
It was a terrific sight that appeared in that direction.
There rose a wall of water, black, towering high in wrathful menace, with its crest boiling in white foam. For a few moments that great mass hung poised above them; and then, with terrific fury, and with resistless might, it descended in thunder upon them. For a few moments all was the blackness of darkness, and the boys struggled despairingly with the rolling, overwhelming, foaming waters, which swept them helplessly about. The thought, and the only thought in every mind, was, that the ship was going down, and with this conviction that the last hour of life had come, there rose from each a short prayer, gasped out in that moment of agony.
It seemed ages; but at length the ship slowly struggled up, and the waters rolled away. For a few moments they all lay where they had been thrown, heaped up together; and then they struggled to their feet, and each began to call after the others. To their great joy they found that they all were there, and that, except a few bruises more or less severe, no evil had been incurred. But the tarpaulins had been torn from the fastenings, and blown away by the fury of the wind, and the boys had been saved from a similar fate only by the quarter-deck rail, against which they had been flung. To this rail they clung as they rose to their feet, and for a short time stood clinging there, not knowing what to do.
But from this stupor they were roused by the voice of Solomon.
“Chilen,” said he, “de suppa am ’sposed of, an you got to go widout it dis bressed night. No use settin de table agin. Don’t pay in dis yer weather. Anybody dat wants anytin to eat, had bes go to de barl or de trunk an fish for hisself. Dere all full ob salt water, and dem dat’s fond ob salt junk can get deir fill.”
None of the boys, however, showed any disposition to eat. This last wave had destroyed all appetite. It had showed them how the wind had increased. They had hoped all along that the quarter-deck would be spared, and that they would be safe there; but now this hope was lost: where one wave had come, others were sure to follow, and the prospects for the night were dark and dismal indeed. For the night was before them. The sun was already going down; the sky looked lowering, and dark, and menacing; the wind had grown to a gale, and all around the waters seemed waiting to ingulf them. Once they had wondered why the captain and crew had fled from the ship; now they understood but too well the reason of that flight. The idea of salvage seemed now to all of them a miserable mockery. What would they not have given to have escaped from this ship to any place of safety? Even the days of famine on board the Antelope seemed less terrible than the fate that now frowned wrathfully upon them out of the lowering night.
“It won’t do to stay here,” said Bruce. “Another wave’ll follow. Let’s get higher up, out of the way.”
“Where can we go?” asked Tom.
“Up in the rigging,” said Bruce. “Come.” Saying this, he climbed up the mizzen shrouds for a little distance on the windward side. The others followed. Last of all came Solomon, who took up his station below them all as though to guard them.
0006
There they all clung, and watched with awful eyes the scene below. It seemed for some time as though they had been premature in deserting the quarter-deck, for no wave followed that mountain billow which had precipitated itself upon them. But the recollection of that one wave was enough; and though its successor came not for some time, still they all confidently expected it. They knew that it would come before long, followed by many others, for the sea grew higher every minute, and the wrath of its waters grew more wild. Forward all was a sea of foam, and the quarter-deck appeared beneath them like a raft over which they hung as they clung to the shrouds.
They did not climb far up. They were not more than ten feet above the deck, having rested at this point, so that they might be out of the reach of the waves and no more. About their lost repast they did not think for one moment. That wave which had swept away their supper, had carried with it all thoughts and all desires concerning it. The only one who gave it a thought was Solomon, who, even now, was still true to his professional duties; and seeing the boiled ham lying against the quarter-deck railing, in the very place where it had been flung, he leaped down, at the peril of his life, hastily seized it, pitched it into the trunk, and then clambered back again.
“Boun to skewer dat ar ham dis yer time,” said he, in a soliloquizing tone. “No use lettin de win an de sea hab it all deir own way, nohow. Dat ar ham’s too precious to be lost, an I’se boun to’ serve it up yet for breakfus to-morrow, when de storm goes down. Lucky we didn’t try to hist up dat ar cabin stove. Jerusalem! wouldn’t it hab spun overboard? Would so. But it’s down deep ’nough now in de water, for de cabin’s chock full. Don’t ebber ’member bein so ’sturbed before in all my cookin ’sperience; an watebbers goin to be de suit ob it all’s more’n I can tell. Beats all; an dese yer chilen’s all boun to catch deir deff ob cold.”
At this Solomon raised his head, and looked at each one of the boys in succession. He saw them all wet to the skin, with the water dripping from their clothes, and their hands clutching fast the rigging. It was a painful sight, too painful: he turned away his face, and drops of brine ran down his face which did not come from the sea.
Suddenly a thunderous sound arose, which made every one look in terror towards the place from which it came. It was forward. In an instant they saw it all. Several great waves had fallen there in swift succession, striking amidships full upon a round-house which stood there, and was used for the reception of deck cargoes. The force of these blows was resistless; the structure yielded with a crash, and gave way utterly. For a moment it was brought up against the ship’s bulwarks, but the waters poured in underneath, floated it far upward, and tumbled it over into the sea. There it floated at the mercy of the waves, farther and farther away, while the raging billows, like hungry wolves, éncompassed it on every side.
The boys had already felt sufficiently awed by the scene around to be. hushed into silence, but about this last event there was something so appalling that they all uttered an involuntary cry, and clung more closely to the rigging, each one looking at his neighbor with a face of despair. For the only thought now present to each one was, that the ship was breaking up, and that utter ruin and destruction was imminent. The crash of the wave, as it struck the massive structure and tore it away, was so tremendous that the boys might well have dreaded the worst; and the sight of it now, as it tossed and tumbled in the boiling floods, had in it something so terribly suggestive of their own fate, that they shuddered and turned their eyes away.
But suddenly Solomon’s voice broke the silence.
“Dar,” said he; “dar’s how I knowed it was goin for to be. I bet high on de cook’s galley. Dem dar round-houses only built for show; dey got no rail strenf. Now de cook’s galley down dar ain’t goin to gib way dat fashium; she’s boun to stan, jes like de rock ob Gibberalter, an de stove too,—dat’s so.”
There was something in Solomon’s tone which was so cool and matter-of-fact that the others felt a little reassured, and recovered a little of their former coolness. They saw that the ship was still holding together, and as the waves rolled back, they saw the smooth firm deck where the roundhouse had stood, and learned from this that the round-house did not constitute a portion of the ship, but was merely an erection on that deck, and therefore to some extent a movable.
But Solomon’s confidence in the cook’s galley was by no means warranted by facts. Thus far it had been protected to some extent from the sweep of the waves by the round-house, and the loss of this barrier left it all exposed to the full fury of the waters. For some time it bore up gallantly, and as each wave rolled over it, Solomon cheered exultantly, to see it come forth erect from the rolling torrents. At length, however, Solomon’s exultant cries grew fainter, and finally ceased altogether. For the galley was shaking, and quivering, and yielding. At length one side started, and was beaten out; the rest soon followed, until all was crushed to fragments, and its separate portion hurled out upon the angry sea.
“Anyhow,” said Solomon, “dat ar galley held out pooty tough, mind I tell you; an dar’s de stove yet, as large as life, an it’s goin to take a good many waves afore they’ll be able to start her. Yes, dat ar stove’s goin to hold on, mind I tell you; an I’se a goin to bile a kittle ob water on her yet, you see. Will so.”
Whether Solomon really meant what he said, is an open question. He may have really believed it all, or, as is most probable, he may have expressed himself in this way merely for the purpose of giving courage and confidence to the boys, and preventing them from sinking into despair. Certain it is that his words had this effect; and seeing that the loss of the round-house and galley had made no material difference in the ship herself, they clung to hope, and tried to believe that the stout hull, with its firm cargo, would ride out the storm.
But by this time the sun had set; and now, in addition to their other troubles, there was added the dismal prospect of the coming night. Dark, indeed, would that night be to all of them. Fearful enough was their position already; but when, in addition to this, they would find the light of day cut off, and the horror of great darkness all around, what support could they find for their sinking souls, or what hope of escape? Already the land was fading out of sight, lost in the gathering shadows of evening. By the dim twilight they could see that they had drawn much nearer, and their distance seemed now but a few miles. Thus far they had regarded the land only with pleasure; now, however, as the night came down, and the darkness deepened, and the storm increased, they began to experience other feelings with regard to this dreary shore. That it was rocky and forbidding they had already seen, nor had they hitherto been able to detect any part of the coast here which was at all inviting or favorable to a landing. If in such a storm the ship should be driven upon such a shore, what could save her from being shattered to pieces? If in such a darkness they were driven upon those rocks, what could save them from destruction? Yet towards that unknown shore they were every moment drawing nearer, and wind and tide seemed alike to urge them onward towards it.
It was not yet dark, when suddenly a giant wave rose high from underneath the stern, and hung suspended over the quarter-deck. It was the counterpart of that wave which had struck them an hour before. For a few moments it hung, poised and quivering, and then it fell, in thunder, down. It poured all over the barrels of biscuit that were lashed to the mizzen-mast, it swept down through the skylight into the cabin, it rolled in a flood over the deck, and rushed forward, pouring down, and blending its waters with those that boiled and foamed amidships.
The ship now seemed unable to rise. She seemed to have sunk into some vortex, and being without anything like buoyancy, the waters held her fast. Wave after wave rolled in, and poured over the quarter-deck. The whole ship, from stem to stern, seemed to be one mass of foam. The hull was lost to sight. They seemed supported by masts that rose out of the sea. Destruction appeared close at hand. Clinging to the rigging with death-like tenacity, they could only murmur their prayers of despair to that mighty unseen Being who holds the waters in the hollow of his hand.
At length, shuddering, and groaning, and trembling in every fibre, like some living thing, the ship struggled up out of the mass of waters, and freed herself for a time. The boys could see the quarter-deck. They could see the barrels lashed to the mizzen-mast still secure. They breathed more freely. It seemed as though they had received a reprieve,—as though their despairing cries had been heard and answered.
“Boys,” said Bruce, “we can’t hang here all night. We’ll fall off. Lets go up higher. There’s room for all of us, I think, in the mizzen-top. Come.”
With these words he started upward. The rest followed. Solomon went up last. They all reached the mizzen-top in safety, and, on reaching it, found that it was spacious enough to afford room for them all.
Here Pat proceeded to possess himself of a line which ran through a block close by, after which he began to tie himself to the mast.
“What are you up to, Pat?” asked Bart, in some wonder.
“Sure it’s tying meself to the mast, I am, so it is.”
“Tying yourself to the mast?” repeated Bart, in amazement. “What in the world is that for?”
“What is it for?” said Pat. “Sure and what else is it that people always do in shipwrecks? It’s the reg’lar thing, so it is.”
“Well, for my part,” said Bart, “I’d rather have my hands free. If this mast should go over, I’d rather not be fastened to it as tight as that. You’d better not.”
“Sure an won’t I float ashore on it without any trouble?”
“Yes; only the trouble may be to keep your head above water. Don’t do it, Pat.”
But Pat was deaf to argument. Slowly, but pertinaciously and securely, he wound the rope round and round the mast, binding himself to it tighter at every turn.
“Ye’d best follow my lade,” said Pat. “There’s enough left in this bit of a line to tie ye’s all fast and firrum, so there is.”
But the others refused. They preferred liberty of action, and did not like the idea of swathing themselves up like mummies. They wished to be able occasionally, if possible, to lie down, or sit down, and not remain all night on their feet.
Thus there they stood in the mizzen-top. And the night came down, and the darkness gathered deeper and deeper around them. And the storm rose to its height, and night, and storm, and darkness, in all their terrific power, environed them as they stood in their giddy perch.
Night, and Storm, and Darkness.—The giddy Perch.—The trembling Ship.—The quivering Masts.—A Time of Terror.—Silence and Despair.—A Ray of Hope.—Subsidence of Wind ami Wave.—Descent of the Boys.—Sufferings of Pat.—In the Mizzen-top.—Vigil of Bart.—The Sound of the Surf.—The Rift in the Cloud.—Land near.—The white Line of Breakers.—The black Face of Solomon.—All explained.—The Boat and the Oars.—The friendly Cove.—Land at last.NIGHT, and storm, and darkness! There, in their giddy perch in the mizzen-top, stood that despairing little band. Gradually all the scene was lost to view in thick darkness. But beneath, the ship tossed and pitched wildly, groaning and creaking as before, and the big waves beat in fury on her bows, or fell in thunder on her quarter-deck. Looking down, they saw the phosphorescent gleam of the boiling waters, which made all the extent of the ship luminous with a baleful lustre, and wide over the seas extended the same glow. Well it was for them that they had sought this place of retreat, or rather that this place of retreat had been left open to them, for clinging to the rigging would have exhausted their strength, and through those long hours more than one might have fallen into the sea. But as it was they could have something like rest, and, by changing their positions, find relief for their wearied frames.
Yet this place had its own terrors, which were fully equal to any others. The wind howled fearfully through the rigging, and as the ship pitched and tossed, the mast strained and quivered in unison. Often and often it seemed to them that the strained mast would suddenly snap and go over the side, or, if not, that in its violent jerks it might hurl them all over to destruction. More than once they thought of guarding against this last danger by following Pat’s example, and binding themselves to the rigging; but they were deterred from this by the fear of the mast falling, in which case they, too, would be helpless. Fortunate it was for them that there were no sails. These had long since been rent away; but had they been here now, or had the wind taken any stronger hold of the masts, they must have gone by the board.
Often and often, as some larger wave than usual struck the ship, the feeling came that all was over, and that now, at last, her break-up was beginning; often and often, as she sank far down, and the waters rolled over her quarter, and held her there, the fear came to them that at last her hour had come—that she was sinking; and with this fear they looked down, expecting to see the waters rise to where they were standing. And then, in every one of these moments of deadly fear, they raised, as before, their cries to Him who is able to save.
So passed away hour after hour, until the duration of time seemed endless, and it was to all of them as though they had spent days in their place of peril, instead of hours only.
At length they became sensible of a diminution in the power of the wind. At first they hardly dared to believe it, but after a time it became fully evident that such was the case. The cessation of the wind at once relieved the ship very materially, though the sea was still high, and the waters below relaxed but little from their rage. But the cessation of the wind filled them all with hope, and they now awaited, with something like firmness, the subsidence of the waves.
That subsidence did come, and was gradually evident. It was slow, yet it was perceptible. They first became aware that those giant waves no longer fell in thunder upon the quarter-deck, and that the ship no longer seemed to be dragged down into those deep, watery abysses into which they had formerly seemed to be descending.
“There’s no mistake about it, boys,” said Bruce at length, in tones that were tremulous with fervent joy; “the storm is going down.”
This was the first word that had been spoken for hours, and the sound of these spoken words itself brought joy to all hearts. The spell was broken. The horror vanished utterly from their souls.
“Yes,” cried Bart, in tones as tremulous as those of Bruce, and from the same cause,—“yes, the worst is over!”
“I don’t mind this pitching,” said Tom; “it seems familiar. I think to-night has been equal to my night in the Bay of Fundy—only it hasn’t been so long, and it’s seemed better to have you fellows with me than being alone.”
“I had a hard time in the woods,” said Phil, “but this has been quite equal to it.”
“Pat,” said Arthur, “you’ve been doing the mummy long enough. You’d better untie now, and lie down.”
“Sure an it’s meself that’ll be the proud lad to do that same,” said Pat, “for it’s fairly achin I am all over, so it is.”
With these words Pat tried to unbind himself. But this was not so easy. He had been leaning his whole weight against the ropes, and his hands were quite numb. The other boys had to help him. This was a work of some difficulty, but it was accomplished at last, and poor Pat sank down groaning, and he never ceased to sigh and groan till morning.
Several hours now passed. The sea subsided steadily, until at length its motion was comparatively trifling, not more than enough to cause a perpendicular pitch to the ship of a few feet, and to send a few waves occasionally over the deck. Wearied and worn out, the boys determined to descend to the quarter-deck, so as to lie down. Pat was unable to make the descent; so Bart remained with him, and curled himself up alongside of him on the mizzen-top. The other boys went down, and Solomon also.
Everything there was wet, but as the boys also were saturated, it made but little difference. They flung themselves down anywhere, and soon were fast asleep.
But in the main-top Pat was groaning in his pain. The blood was rushing back into his benumbed limbs, and causing exquisite suffering. Bart tried to soothe him, and rubbed and chafed his arms and hands and feet and legs for hours.
At last Pat grew easier, though still suffering somewhat from pricking sensations in his arms and legs, and Bart was allowed to rest from his labors.
And now, as Bart leaned back, he became aware of a very peculiar sound, which excited all his attention.
It was a droning sound, with a deep, swelling cadence, and not long in duration; but it rose, and pealed forth, and died away, to be followed by other sounds precisely similar—regular, recurrent, and sounding all abroad. It was nothing like the roar of the waves, nor the singing of the wind through the rigging; it was something different from these, yet in this darkness, and to this listener, not less terrible.
Bart knew it. The sound was familiar to his ears. There was only one sound in Nature of that character, nor could it be imitated by any other. It was the long sound of the surf falling upon the shore.
The surf!
What did that mean?
It meant that land was near. And what land?
There was only one land that this could tell of—it was that land which they had been approaching for days; the land which they had watched so closely all the previous day, and to which at evening they had been drawn so near. The name of the land he could not know, but he had seen it, and he remembered its drear and desolate aspect, its iron-bound shores, its desert forests. It was upon this shore that the surf was beating which now he heard, and the loudness of that sound told him how near it must be.
It seemed to him that it could not be more than half a mile away at the farthest.
And the ship was drifting on!
This first discovery was a renewal of his despair. He could only find comfort in the thought that the sea had subsided so greatly. What ought he now to do?
Ought he to awake the boys and tell them? He hesitated.
Pat had by this time fallen asleep, worn out with weariness and pain. Bart had not the heart to wake him just yet.
Suddenly there was an opening in the sky overhead, and through a rift in the clouds the moon beamed forth. Bart started up and looked all around. The morn disclosed the scene.
The sea had grown much calmer, and the waves that now tossed about their spray over its surface were as nothing compared to those which had beat upon the ship during the night. This was probably due, as Bart thought, to the shelter of some headland which acted as a breakwater. For as he looked he saw the land now full before him. He had conjectured rightly from the sound of the surf, and he now saw that this land could not be much more than a half mile away.
This confirmation of his worst fears overcame him. He started to his feet, and stood clinging to the rigging, and looking at the land.
How near! how fearfully near! And every moment was drawing the ship nearer. And what sort of a shore was that? Was it all rocky, or was it smooth sand? The waves were high enough there to create a tremendous surf. Did that surf fall on breakers, or did it fall on some gentle beach? This he could not tell. In vain he strained his eyes. He could see the white line of foaming surf, and beyond this the dark hills, or cliffs, but more than this he could make out nothing definite. But the shore was so near that their fate could not be very long delayed, and he determined to wake the boys at once, leaving Pat to sleep a little longer.
With this intention he prepared to descend. But scarce had he put one foot over, when he saw a shadowy figure close by.
“Mas’r Bart,” said a voice.
It was Solomon.
“I see you a movin about, an I jes thought I’d come up to see how you was a gittin along,” said Solomon.
“Did you see the land?” asked Bart, in agitated tones.
“De lan! Sartin sure—seen it dese four hours. Ben a watchin it ebber so long.”
“What! Why didn’t you wake us before?”
“Wake you? Not me. What de use ob dat ar? I ben kine o’ watchin, an kine o’ canterin round all de time, seein dat de tings are all straight; an I got de galley stove in prime order, an if youns don’t get de bes breakfas you ebber eat, den I’m a useless ole nigga. Sho, now; go away. Leab tings to me, I tell you.”
“Breakfast!” cried Bart, in amazement. “Why, we’ll drift ashore in a few minutes. Don’t you see how near we are? What shall we do? Is the boat gone?”
Solomon put his head back for a few minutes, and chuckled to himself in a kind of ecstasy.
“De boat? O, yes, de boat’s all right. Held on tight as a drum—de boat an de galley stove.”
“O, then,” said Bart, “come, let’s wake the boys, and get her out at once. It isn’t too rough for her here. We must get some pieces of wood for paddles.”
“O, dere’s lashins ob time; neber you mind,” said Solomon. “You jes lie down an finish your nap, an leab de res to me.”
“But we’re drifting ashore. In a quarter of an hour we’ll be among the breakers.”
“O, no, Mas’r Bart; not in a good many quarter ob an hours.”
“But the shore’s only half a mile away.”
“I know it,” said Solomon; “an it’s ben jes dat, ar distums off for de las four hour an more.”
“What!”
“Dat’s so. I ben a watchin. Hadn’t I tole you dat ar?”
“But the ship’s afloat. She isn’t aground. She must be drifting in.”
“Dat ar conclusium don’t foller as a nessary suc-cumstance,” said Solomon, with dignity.
“Why, what prevents her from drifting?” asked Bart, in a puzzle..
“De simplest ting in de world,” said Solomon—“her anchor.”
“Her anchor! O,” cried Bart, as a flood of light burst in upon his mind, and dispelled all the darkness of his despair; “her anchor! O, I begin to understand.”
“Tell you what,” said Solomon; “when I fust heard dat ar surf I was in a quandary, mind I tell you. Gib all up. Was jes about to rouse youns. But fust an foremost I went to see about de boat. Found dat all right an tight. Den I got a belayum pin an tored off some strips ob wood for paddles. Den I waited to see how we was a goin. Well, arter waitin for ebber so long, de surf didn’t get any nearer. Tell you what; dat ar succumstance puzzled dis old nigga’s head considdable. Sudden a idee popped into me. I ran forad, an sure enough I found de ship’s head off from de sho, an felt de anchor chain standin out stiff. Den I knew de anchor had caught, and had fetched her up all right in dis yer identicull place an po—sitium; an so, Mas’r Bart, here we air, anchored hard an fast, de boat all right an tight, de paddles ready, de galley stove ready too, an de prospek afore all ob us ob a fus’-rate breakfas to ward us for all de per’ls an clamties ob de night.”
Some further inquiries followed from Bart, which served to assure him still more of Solomon’s vigilance; and the result was, that after a time he resumed his place beside Pat in the mizzen-top, and, curling himself up, was soon sound asleep. It was not a very luxurious sleeping-place, but it was at least as soft as the deck below, where the boys had flung themselves, and it was also a trifle dryer.
When Bart awoke it was broad day. Pat was gone. He had awaked, and, finding himself all right again, and seeing the land close by, he had descended to the deck to talk to Solomon. For his first thought had been a very natural one, namely, that the ship was going ashore; and seeing Solomon placidly moving about below, he had gone down to find out what it all meant. Of course his fears were soon dispelled.
The rest of the boys waked at about the same time that Bart did, and he soon rejoined them below. The smell of broiled ham was wafted over the ship. Great was the wonder of Bruce, Arthur, Tom, and Phil at their present situation, and even greater was their wonder at seeing the repast which Solomon had already spread out upon the quarter-deck.
For Solomon had been working like a beaver.
He had forced open the cabin door, and let out all the water. He had then obtained some coal, which, though wet, burned merrily in the galley stove, and had found the cooking utensils, which he had fortunately conveyed to the cabin when he had first been driven from the galley.
The biscuit were, of course, soaked and saturated with salt water; but Solomon declared that they were made to be soaked before cooking, and that the salt water was “jes as good as fresh—ebry mite.” So he fried these in butter, and sprinkled over them some pepper, which was in the sea-chest, and which, with all the other contents of the chest, had not been injured. Ham, and toasted cheese, and potted meats, and tea and coffee, together with other articles too numerous to mention, formed the breakfast; and it is scarce necessary to say that the boys did full justice to it.
After breakfast they began to consider what next they should do. The land was close by, about half a mile away. The line of coast extended far away towards the left, but on the right it ended in a headland. The sea was very quiet, but on the shore before them there was a heavy surf, the result of the past storm. They saw farther away to the left a smooth beach, where a landing might be easily effected, and another place towards the right where there was very little surf. This last seemed the best place for attempting a landing.
The shore was not very attractive. In some places rocky cliffs arose, crowned at the summit with spruce and birch; in other places there were slopes covered with the same sort of trees. There was no sign whatever of any house, or of any cultivation, or of any pasture land, or of any clearing. The forest seemed unbroken.
The boys were now as ignorant of the country as they had been when they first saw it. Each still held the same opinion which he had announced before.
Phil thought that it was Newfoundland.
Tom, that it was Prince Edward’s Island.
Bart, that it was some part of Nova Scotia, or Cape Breton.
Pat, that it was the Magdalen Islands.
Bruce, that it was the coast of New Brunswick, somewhere near the Miramichi.
And Arthur, that it was Gaspé, not far from the Bay de Chaleur.
Thus, although this particular spot seemed desolate enough, no one gave any thought to that, for they all supposed that inhabitants could be found within no very great distance. .
After some deliberation, it was at length concluded to go ashore. The strips of wood which Solomon had already, with wise forethought, procured, were easily shaped into very respectable paddles by means of a hatchet and a knife.
They then determined to secure themselves from want while ashore, and this they did by putting into the boat one of the barrels of biscuit and the chest of provisions.
Then they all embarked and pulled away. They paddled along without difficulty towards the beach on the right, where the surf seemed less. On approaching this, they found a cove formed by a gully among the hills, and at one end there were grassy banks, near which a stream of fresh water flowed into the sea.
Here they landed.
The Lookout over the Sea.—The missing Ship.—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—An elaborate Calculation.—Dragging the Anchor.—A Chart on the Cabin Table.—Writ in Water.—Hope.—The Antelope sails ‘North by East.—Corbet watches the Horizon.—Midday.—Despair.—Corbet crushed!Captain Corbet had arrived at the place where he supposed he had left the Petrel, and on looking about saw no signs of her, he was filled with despair. The wind had been blowing all night long, and the sea had been rising to an extent that might have justified the deepest anxiety; he had been upheld only by the thought that he was bringing relief to the boys; and this solitary consolation was taken from him by the first glance that he cast around.
This was the fifth day since he had left them. He had gone, proposing and expecting to be back in two days, or in three at farthest. But he had gone much farther than he had at first intended, and hence had left them longer than he had said.
And where were they now?
In vain he strained his eyes. The only sail on the water was that schooner: possibly some fisherman cruising about in this direction.
Where were the boys?
Where were the boys that had been committed to his care,—the boys who had been intrusted to him,—the boys who had confided in him,—the boys who had placed their young lives in his keeping?
Where were the boys?
Where were the boys whom he had left; whom he had promised to return for so promptly?
He had led them into difficulty, and left them there!
He had led them into starvation—that was his first fault. How they had suffered during those days of calm! He had led them to that waterlogged vessel! He had gone on board with them; he had caused them to put a confidence in that wrecked ship which was not justifiable.
Worst of all, he had left them!
And now that he thought of it, what was that ship? She might have been not water-logged—but sinking! The thought filled him with horror. A sinking ship! and he had left them there!
No; she was not a sinking ship—he knew that.
He remembered the length of time that he had seen her from a distance. He recalled the time he had been on board, and all the observations which he had made. Water-logged she certainly was, but not sinking—no, not sinking. Timber ships never sink. They cannot sink. A timber ship is like a solid wooden ship low down in the water, but absolutely unsinkable.
This thought brought some consolation to him in his despair.
But as he looked out over the sea, as he saw the swelling waves, as he felt the Antelope toss, and leap, and plunge about, and as he recalled the long night that had passed, with its storms and billows, he trembled for the boys in the water-logged ship.
And again the old question came back,—
Where were the boys?
Where were the boys whom he had left in the water-logged ship? He himself had anchored that ship in these waters, hard and fast; but now, as he looked about far over the seas, he saw no sign of any ship, or of any floating thing save that distant fishing schooner. What did this mean?
Again and again he asked this question, and again and again he shrank back from the answer that suggested itself.
He tried to console himself by thinking of the buoyancy of wood in general, and of timber ships in particular. Alas! these efforts were all in vain. For he remembered how rough the sea had been; and he saw all around him even now the swelling waves. That ship had already been torn and shattered by storms. That ship had been forsaken by captain and crew. They had believed that she was about to founder. Was this belief, then, so far wrong as he had supposed? She was like a raft, torn and dislocated, which any fresh movement of the water might shatter to pieces. Perhaps in the storm that had fallen upon her in his absence the waves had wrought their will upon her. Perhaps they had torn her to pieces in their wrath, and scattered all her timbers afar over the surface of the deep. Perhaps the only vestige of the Petrel which his eyes might ever see, might be some floating timbers drifting past, and bearing to him the only message which could ever come to the land of the living from the lost boys.
Where were the boys?
Where, O, where were the boys whom he had led into danger, and then madly deserted?—doubly deserted, in fact; first, when he sailed away, leaving them on board the wrecked ship, and secondly, in that worse desertion, when he had gone away so thoughtlessly, so wickedly, and so madly, from the Magdalen Islands to the Miramichi River? How could he have ever thought of it? What could have so infatuated him as to lead him so far away from those helpless boys in their desperate position?
Where were the boys?
O, where were the boys? And what had they thought of him? What misery had they not suffered! What despair! How often must they have watched for his return! And day had succeeded to day, and night to night, but he had never come! While they were watching for his appearance, he was calmly sailing away, or was loitering in distant ports, leaving them to their terrific fate!
Where were the boys?
What was their fate?
What had become of that ship?
She had been anchored fast. She was gone now. Gone! Gone were those boys, for whom he would have laid down his life; but whom, nevertheless, he had deserted and betrayed. And he—what could he do? Where could he go? Where could he search for them? Over what seas could he sail? With what hope? Was there any hope? Hope! Alas! what hope could he form when he looked out over these foaming waves, and felt the Antelope quiver beneath the force of their assault?
These, or something very much like these, were the thoughts that filled the soul of the unhappy, the despairing Corbet, as he rolled his venerable eyes over the wide waste of waters, and saw that the Petrel was gone. It was a moment full of deeper misery and keener anguish than any which the good captain had ever known in the whole course of his life, though that life had by no means been without its sufferings. Yet among all the sufferings and sorrows of a life full of vicissitudes, it had never fallen to his lot to experience such a misfortune as this,—to reproach himself so keenly, so severely, and yet so justly. Whatever the fate of the boys might have been, he knew perfectly well that he, and he alone, was the cause; nor could he plead, even to his own conscience, the excuse that his motives were right. For his motives were not right, and he knew it. His motives had been nothing better than wild desires for sudden wealth. True, he had only wished that wealth for his “babby;” but that did not in the least mitigate his offence. At the very least, he had been guilty of carelessness so gross that it was hardly inferior to downright, deliberate crime.
So the poor captain’s anguish of soul was extreme, and utter, as well it might be. So keen, indeed, was his suffering, that his hair might have turned white from its severity,—a circumstance not unusual,—but in the captain’s case it was not possible, since, as is well known, his hair was already as gray as it well could be, and therefore the good Captain Corbet could only suffer in secret, and occasionally wipe away the tears that dropped from his eyes with the sleeve of his venerable coat.
At length the thought occurred to him that perhaps he had not come to the right place.
To his mind, the thought was well nigh inconceivable; yet, after all, it was barely possible, and in his despair he caught at this straw. After all, navigation by dead reckoning is not the most accurate way in the world of working one’s way along; and Captain Corbet felt this in an obscure and shadowy sort of way; so it need not be wondered at if he sought relief in the thought that he had possibly gone astray.
So he called upon Wade to take the helm, while he went below to make some elaborate calculations.
He did it in this way.
He first got a mug of water.
Then he seated himself by the cabin table.
Then he dipped the fore finger of his right hand in the water.
Then, with this finger, he traced certain mysterious marks upon the table.
Now, these mysterious marks were designed by this ancient mariner to represent nothing less than the coasts surrounding the Gulf of St. Lawrence. To an unprejudiced observer, this idea would never have suggested itself; but to the mind of the venerable Corbet, these marks were as plain and as intelligible as the finest outlines of the Admiralty charts engraved in steel, and bristling with names of places. In his mind’s eye he could see everything. He could see Prince Edward’s Island, Cape Breton, Newfoundland, Gaspé, the Bay de Chaleur, Miramichi, and the Magdalen Islands. There, too, full and fair, in the centre of the scene, a big wet spot, made most emphatically with his thumb, showed him the spot where he had left the Petrel.
And this was Captain Corbet’s chart, and this was his mode of navigating, and this was the scientific method which he adopted in order to work his way out of a difficulty. Quadrant, sextant, and other instruments of that character he did not need; he trusted to his own head, and to his finger.
It must be confessed that, on this occasion, these resources rather failed him. The puzzle seemed insoluble. In vain he obliterated the wet spot where he first stationed the Petrel. In vain he made another dab with his thumb in a second place. He could not arrive at any conclusion which was entirely satisfactory. He placed the mug of water on the table, leaned his aged head in both hands, and sat watching his chart in profound thought. A sudden sea struck the Antelope. The good vessel leaped, as was natural, at such rough treatment. As was natural, also, the mug of water leaped. Moreover, it upset. The contents poured forth, and inundated the fable. The chart was all obliterated.
At this casualty Captain Corbet rose. He betrayed no excitement, no passion. He did not swear, as some wrecked sea captains have done. He did not even utter an exclamation. He simply took his aged coat tail and wiped the water off the table very carefully, and then with his other aged coat tail he dried it, and even polished it most elaborately. The table had not been so clean for ever so long. It seemed to be astonished at itself. Captain Corbet, meanwhile, remained mild and patient. Sir Isaac Newton himself, after the burning of his Principia by his immortal little dog Diamond, was not more placid. Without a word, our captain went to the bucket, replenished the mug, returned to the table, resumed his seat, and, holding the mug in his left hand, under the table, to prevent a recurrence of this mishap, he dipped the fore finger of his right hand into the water, and proceeded to retrace upon the table the outline of his chart. In a little while there appeared before his eyes, as plain as before, the Gulf of St. Lawrence, with all the surrounding coasts—Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Gaspé, Newfoundland, the Magdalen Islands, and plain in the middle the dab of his venerable thumb representing the spot where he had left the Petrel.
But the problem remained insoluble. He was certain that he had come back to the right spot. Again and again he traced, in a thin line, made by his wet finger-nail, the course which he had taken; first, from the Petrel to the Magdalen Islands, and, secondly, from the Magdalen Islands to Miramichi, and, thirdly, from Miramichi to the place where he now was. In each case his course had, fortunately, been quite straight. Had there been head winds, it might have been different; but, as it was, the straight course which he had kept made the outlines on the table all the more simple, but at the same time they made the problem all the more complex. The ship was missing. He had left her at anchor. She could not sink. What, then, had become of her?
The first answer was the terrible one that she had gone to pieces in the storm. But this was the very one from which he was seeking to escape, and against which he sought refuge in such facts as her strength and the stiffness of a timber cargo.
But what other conclusion was there?
That he had mistaken his way?
Impossible!
On the table before him the marks that he had made confirmed him in the opinion that he was, if not on the identical spot where he had left the Petrel, at least sufficiently near to be able to see her if she still was here.
Yet here she evidently was not.
What, then, had become of her?
To this only one answer remained, and in this he sought to find comfort.
She might have dragged her anchor, and might have thereby drifted, under the pressure of the storm, far enough away to be out of sight.
But in what direction had she drifted?
The wind had been south by east. He knew that well enough. This one fact, then, showed him what course she would have taken when adrift. .
He wet his finger now for the last time. He planted it down upon the place which he had marked as the position of the Petrel, and then drew a line in the direction which he supposed might indicate the course of her drift. Then he stopped to calculate the possible distance which she might have traversed while dragging her anchor, and made a mark to represent what, under this theory, might be her present position.
Then he drew a long breath.
He then rose to his feet, and surveyed his chart for a few moments with a thoughtful face.
And now the time had come for action. He had at last a theory. His mind was made up. He hurried upon deck, and, seizing the tiller, headed the Antelope north by west, in the direction which he conjectured the drifting ship to have taken.
He had allowed between twenty and thirty miles for her drift. He had calculated that a mile an hour would be a fair allowance for a vessel that was dragging her anchor, and he did not think that the wind had been strong enough to make her drag her anchor for more than twenty hours, and certainly, as he thought, not more than thirty, at the farthest. Upon this principle he acted, and when he headed the Antelope north by west, he hoped to catch sight of the lost ship before noon.
For the Antelope, with a fair wind, could make as much as four or five miles an hour; and, after making every allowance for currents, or for leeway, she ought to do twenty miles between six o’clock in the morning and midday. And so, full of confidence in the ability of the Antelope to do her duty, Captain Corbet took his station at the helm.
Now that a gleam of hope had appeared, he was a different man. The gleam became brighter and brighter, until at last it grew to be positive sunshine. He forgot his recent despair. The more he thought of his theory of the Petrel dragging her anchor, the more convinced he was that it was correct, and the more certain he was that he would ultimately catch sight of her.
And so he kept on his course, with his eyes fixed on the horizon before him, anxiously awaiting the time when he would descry the masts of the lost vessel becoming gradually defined against the sky.
Hour after hour passed.
The Antelope sailed on.
Midday came.
The Antelope had traversed the distance which her commander had allotted for the utmost possible drift of the Petrel.
Yet not the slightest sign of the Petrel had appeared.
The hopes upon which Captain Corbet had been relying gradually sank under him. When midday came, and the masts of the Petrel did not appear, hope sank away, and despondency came, and despondency deepened into despair.
All that he had felt at early dawn, when he first looked abroad upon the seas and found her not, now came back to him,—all the self-reproach, all the remorse, all the anguish of soul.
He stood at the helm, and let the Antelope pass onward, but there was no longer any hope in his mind. He was overwhelmed, and now even the possibility of finding her seemed to be taken away.
All this time the wind had gone on increasing in violence, and the sea had risen more and more. For himself and for the Antelope Captain Corbet did not care; but the lowery sky and the stormy sea seemed terrible to him, for they spoke to him of the lost boys, and told a tale of horror.