A miserable Night.—No one shrinks.—Their Efforts lessen.—Morning comes.—Four Feet of Water in the Hold.—Take to the Boat!—Come along, Captain!—The Dignity of Corbet.—The Folly of Pat.—The Insanity of Solomon.—The Imbecility of Wade.—The Perplexity of the Boys.—Dat ar ole Woman!—An Agony of Impatience.—Four on board tempting Fate.NIGHT came—a miserable—miserable night! On the previous night, the boys had slept; but this night, sleep was not thought of by any one of them. Exhausted though they all were by hard work, they yet felt the position of the Antelope to be too perilous to think of sleep. It was a time for vigilance. It was a time when each one had to keep himself wide awake, and hold himself prepared to rush to the boat at a moment’s warning. The boat floated astern, as usual, and in it were all the stores that might be necessary for a lengthened row; but they wished to postpone any recourse to this boat to the latest possible moment. And all the time the Antelope held on her course, impelled by a fair, yet moderate breeze, that blew directly astern.
Exhausted though they were, yet none of them shrunk from his task. All took turns. Corbet and Wade, Wade and Solomon, Corbet and Solomon; then the boys, two by two, at the pump; each couple laboring strenuously and conscientiously, yet showing the same result. For, whoever it was that worked, or whatever was the amount of labor expended, the result seemed in each case a failure and a defeat. They were struggling against a common enemy; but the enemy was gaining. In spite of their efforts, the waters continued to rise, and there was no way by which they could bring any additional labor to bear. Had there been another pump, they would have been in a better position. At about midnight they undertook a second time to supplement the pumping with baling, but again desisted on account of the utter exhaustion which followed such severe toil. It only lessened their power of working at the pump. So once more they gave it up.
From that time on their efforts grew less and less. The long toil had told upon every one of them, more particularly upon the boys. The labors of Captain Corbet, of Solomon, and of Wade, were less vigorous certainly; yet still, they were even and well sustained; but those of the boys grew more and more fitful, irregular, and feeble.
Each time that any two of them came to take their turn, they felt as though this must be the last. And so the hours and the labors of that dreary night dragged on.
Morning came.
All the boys felt that their capacity for work was well nigh exhausted. Morning came, and brought the fog. No land appeared. No ship was in sight. They sounded a blast on the fog horn, but no reply came.
Morning came, and brought, worse than all, the sight of four feet of water in the Antelope’s hold,—an amount so great that further pumping was useless, and at the best could only delay for a very short time a doom that was inevitable.
Morning came, then, and brought this sight; and the four feet of water in the Antelope’s hold at once forced a change in the decision of those on board.
They saw that if they continued pumping they might delay the decisive moment somewhat, but that it must come; and if it came with all of them on board, they must sink with the sinking schooner. And that the end was near, they could see. There was no time for delay. Already the signs which met their view told them that the end was near.
Take to the boat!
This was now their thought. To the boat,—before it was too late! On board the boat were all the stores necessary for a protracted voyage; and they all began to feel that this boat was now a better place than the sinking Antelope. The boat was a place of rest; a place more restricted-, yet still, one which promised comparative peace and safety. To that boat, therefore, they must go, before it was too late; while yet they could embark in peace, and move away from the doomed Antelope.
Nor was a resort to the boat so hopeless an undertaking as it might appear to have been. At the worst, they were in a part of the world where ships are frequent; and some of them thought that land was near enough to be seen in some direction if only the fog should be dispelled. The stores in the boat were sufficient to sustain life for a considerable time, and they would be free from the necessity of incessant and most exhaustive labor.
There was now no time for any delay or any hesitation. They all felt this. The sight of the Antelope’s hold decided them.
They must take to the boat.
“Come along, captain,” said Bart. “We mustn’t stay any longer. The Antelope’ll go down before half an hour. If we pump any longer we’ll all be used up, and won’t delay her sinking more than five minutes. Come along.”
“Goin doun!” said Captain Corbet, dreamily. “Only think of the Antelope goin doun!”
“Come, captain,” said Bruce, taking his arm. “The boat’s all ready.”
“O, yes,” said the captain; “and the Antelope’s goin doun! Dear me! Only think of it!”
“Captain Corbet,” said Arthur, solemnly, “we’re all ready. Come, go aboard the boat.”
“Well—well—well,” said the captain. “Very well. O, all right. O, yes. You jest git into the boat. Git along. Never mind me. I’ll wait a while, you know. You go ahead. I’ll jest meander around here while you’re gettin into the boat. All right.”
At this the boys went off to the boat, and dropped in one after the other. Bruce, and Arthur, and Tom, and Phil, and Bart. Pat lingered behind. Those who had got into the boat expected that the others would follow at once, and now looked eagerly towards them.
They were afloat astern; and there, at the stern of the Antelope, stood Captain Corbet, surveying them with a melancholy air.
“Come along, captain,” said Bart.
“O, all right. Wait till the rest go,” said he. “Tain’t right for me to clar out jest yet. The captain must allers be the last to quit the sinkin ship.”
At this the boys called to the others,—to Pat, who had lingered behind, to Solomon, and to Wade.
Pat was standing by the mainmast, To their amazement, they saw that he was busily engaged in binding himself to it with ropes.
“Pat,” cried Bart, “why don’t you hurry up?”
Pat made no reply, but went on as before, solemnly and methodically.
“Pat,” cried Tom, “what in the world are you waiting for? Hurry up! What are you doing?”
“Sure it’s tyin meself to the mast, I am,” said Pat.
“What,” cried Bruce, “tying yourself to the mast! What nonsense! What do you mean?”
“Sure it’s the right thing to do,” said Pat. “It’s what they allers does, so it is, wheniver a ship gits wracked. Sure I know; and I advise you to do the same.”
“He’s tying himself to the mast!” cried Phil. “He’s mad. He’s insane. Some of us’ll have to drag him on board.”
“Pat,” cried Barty, “come along. Are you crazy? The Antelope’s sinking! What do you mean? Stop that. If you tie yourself to the mast, you’ll go down with her. What nonsense! Drop that rope, and come with us.”
“Sure it’s safer here,” said Pat, calmly, “than on that bit of a boat, so it is.”
“But the Antelope’s sinking.”
“Sure, don’t I know it? Meself does.”
“But you’ll go down in her, if you do that.”
“Arrah, what are you talking about? In shipwracks, doesn’t everybody tie themselves to the mast?”
“What in the world shall we do?” cried Bart, in despair. “He’s crazy. I never saw anything like it. He’s got a craze about tying himself to the mast. Don’t you remember how he did the very same on board the Petrel?”
“We’ll have to go and untie him,” said Bruce.
“Only see how he’s fastening and knotting the rope,” said Tom.
“We’ll have to seize him, and bring him here by main force,” said Arthur.
But from these thoughts they were now diverted by the appearance of Solomon. He had been very busy for about a quarter of an hour, and was now pulling away at a rope, as though the salvation of the whole party depended upon the successful accomplishment of his design.
“Solomon,” cried Bart, “hurry, hurry! Come along! Hurry! The Antelope’s going down fast! Hurry, and bring Pat along with you. The captain’s waiting till you leave the Antelope. Hurry!
“I’se jest a histin up dis yer cookin-stove,” said he. “Ben tyin de ropes roun it ebery which way, an jes got her ready to be put into de boat.”
“The what!” cried Arthur.
“De cookin-stove,” said Solomon, gravely.
“He’s mad!” cried Bruce. “He’s gone crazy. Pat and Solomon have both gone mad with excitement or terror.”
“You jes gib a left here, an help dis ole man put dis yer cookin-stove aboard de boat, an den you ’ll be all right.”
“Solomon! Solomon!” cried Bart, “what horrible nonsense! What do you mean by talking about putting a cooking-stove on board the boat? Come along. Be quick.”
“Tell you what,” said Solomon, “dis yer stove am a nessary succumstance. How you s’pose you get you meals cooked? Mus hab a cookin-stove. Mus so. You got water to bile, and things to cook.”
“Nonsense;” cried Bart. “Can’t you see that it’ll sink the boat?”
“But what’ll you do?” said Solomon. “You’ll suffer if you don’t take it. You mus hab a cookin-stove. Mus so!”
At this obstinate persistence in such unaccountable folly the boys were in despair. The schooner was sinking, lower and lower every minute, and there were those on board of her, wasting precious time and chattering nonsense. What could be the meaning of this? Had terror deprived them of their senses? It seemed so. There was Captain Corbet, absorbed in his own thoughts, evidently quite forgetful of the present danger, and unconscious of the scene around him. There was Wade, with his heavy face gaping from the windlass, where he had seated himself. There was Pat, still tying himself to the mast; and there was Solomon, toiling away at the cooking-stove. It was like a small floating lunatic asylum. They might well feel puzzled and bewildered.
But suddenly one part of this very difficult problem was solved of its own accord. Solomon had not been very careful in the selection of his hoisting apparatus. He had picked up some bits of rope, and fastened them around the cooking-stove for slings, and into this he had passed the hook from the schooner’s tackle. He pulled and labored away, hoisting the heavy stove, and succeeded in raising it about half way above the hatches. A few more pulls, and it would have been on the deck. But there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip; and so it was destined to prove in this case. For at the very moment when the stove hung thus suspended, the slings suddenly gave way, and with a rush the heavy mass descended, falling with a loud crash to the bottom, and with a force that seemed sufficient to break through the Antelope’s bottom. There it lay—a ruin!
Solomon stood and stared in silence at the scene. At length, drawing a long breath, he raised his head and looked at the boys.
“Dar,” said he; “dat ar’s allus de way; troubles neber comes single. Dis yer shows dat de end am come. Smash goes de cookin-stove, an shows dat dis yer scursium’s a goin to tumminate in clamty. Dar ain’t a goin to be no more eatin in dis yer party; dat’s all done up.”
“Solomon! Solomon!” cried Bart, “hurry up!” “Solomon! Pat! Wade! Captain Corbet! Come! Quick! Hurry up! Quick!”
Such were the cries that now burst from those in the boat. They were floating close by the schooner, so as to be convenient for those who were yet on board. They had seen the destruction of the unfortunate cooking-stove, and were now eager to get away before the schooner should sink. But their patience was destined to be still further taxed, for Solomon continued to make observations on the fallen stove; and Pat went on winding the rope about himself and the mast; and Wade sat motionless on the windlass; and Captain Corbet stood in the same attitude as before,—in the attitude habitual with him, his hands mechanically grasping the tiller, and his mild eyes fixed before him, as though he was still steering the Antelope, and watching some shore ahead. But before him there was only fog; and what he might have seen was not visible to the material eye.
“No use,” said Solomon. “Dese yer may go, but I’se boun to stay. De captain may go; an mas’r Wade, he may go; an Pat mus frow away dem ropes. But for me, I’se goin to stick to de ole Antelope.”
“But she’s sinking, and sinking fast,” cried Bart, with feverish impatience.
“Dar’s no odds to dis ole man. Ef I can’t stick to de Antelope, I don’t want to go no whars else. Dar’s somebody a waitin for me, an I ain’t a goin to ’spose mysef to her, no how.”
“But you’ll be drowned; you’ll be drowned. O, Solomon!” cried Bart, “cut Pat’s ropes, and make him come; and hurry.”
“Come, come, captain. Make haste. Cut Pat’s ropes, Solomon. Come, Wade. The schooner’ll go down in five minutes!”
“Don’t care!” said Solomon; “don’t care a mite. I’se dreadful fraid ob dat ar ole woman. I’d rader be drowned here dis yar way, dan be hammered to def wid a red-hot poker. Dat’s so; mind I tell you.”
The boys were now in an agony of impatience and anxiety. The waters were high in the hold of the Antelope. They could see, from where they stood in the boat, the dark gleam of the rising flood, and knew that any moment might now witness the last plunge of the schooner into the depths below. And so they shouted, and screamed, and called upon every one in succession of those who still so madly lingered behind. But their cries were unheeded; for those four on the deck of the Antelope made not the slightest movement in response.
When the boys had left the Antelope, the water in her hold was about four feet in depth. All the time since then it had been increasing; yet, after all, though the time seemed long to the anxious boys, not over a quarter of an hour had elapsed in reality.
The Waters rise.—The Boys try Force.—Attach on Pat.—He is overpowered.—My Name’s Wade.—An Irish Howl.—Solomon immovable.—The Ancient Mariner at his Post.—The Boys fly.—Flight of Solomon.—“Drefful Times.”—Captain Corbet sings his Death Song.—A Rhapsody on the Antelope.—The rising Waters.—The doomed Schooner.—The rolling Seas.—The Antelope sinking.—The Form of Corbet slowly disappearing beneath the raging Seas.THE waters continued to rise in the hold of the Antelope, and inch by inch the doomed schooner settled slowly down into the depths beneath. On the deck stood those four who still held aloof from the boat, and seemed to be animated by some insane or unintelligible motive. By the side of the schooner floated the boat, in which were Bruce, Arthur, Tom, Phil, and Bart. They were all standing up, and holding the Antelope’s rail, and shouting, bawling, yelling, entreating, threatening, and using every possible means to save their unfortunate companions.
Suddenly Bart drew his knife.
“Boys!” said he, “we’ll have to drag them off. Bruce and Arthur, come along. Tom and Phil, you mind the boat.”
With these words he jumped on board the Antelope, with his open knife in his hand. Bruce and Arthur leaped on board after him.
The sight of Bart, with his open knife, thus bounding on board the Antelope, astonished the other boys, who began to think that Bart, like the others, had also lost his senses; but they did as he said—Tom and Phil holding the boat to the side of the Antelope, and watching, while Bruce and Arthur followed Bart.
Bart first rushed to Pat.
“We’re not going to stand this. You’re ruining us all. If you don’t go aboard the boat, we’ll throw you overboard, and you’ll be glad to do it then. Bruce and Arthur, catch hold, and pitch Pat overboard if he don’t go to the boat.”
Speaking these words with breathless rapidity, Bart cut the rope with which Pat had bound himself, giving long slashes up and down. Bruce and Arthur seized him at the same moment, and as soon as the rope was severed, dragged him to where the boat was, ordering him on board, and threatening to throw him into the water if he refused. Pat was powerless. A few words of remonstrance were offered, but he was sternly silenced. He was thus overpowered, and so, yielding to necessity, he got on board the boat. There he seated himself in the stern, and, bowing his head, began a long, low, wailing Irish “keen,” which is a species of lamentation in the presence of death.
This scene appeared to produce some effect upon Wade. It roused him from his lethargy. It seemed as though this man was a mere machine; and though in ordinary circumstances he was able of going through certain routine duties, in any extraordinary case he was utterly helpless, and his dull and inert nature became hopelessly imbecile. But now an idea of his situation seemed at last to have penetrated to his brain, and accordingly, rising to his feet, he went to the boat. Then he slowly and solemnly passed over the Antelope’s side, and took his seat near Pat. He looked at the others with a dull stare, and then turning to Pat, he remarked, in a low, confidential tone, “My name’s Wade, an my ole ‘oman’s name’s Gipson; an you’ll not find many o’ that name in this country. No, sir.”
After which he heaved a sigh, and relapsed into himself. As to Pat, he took no notice of this confidence imparted to him, but went on with his Irish lamentation.
“Ow—O-o-o-o-ow—to only think—this bit ov a boat sure—an in the wide an impty say—an me a bindin meself to the only safety; for the ship-wracked sayman must always bind himsilf to a mast. And, O-o-o-b-o-o-o-w, but it was a bitter, crool thing, so it was, to tear a poor boy from his solitary rifuge—an dhrive him here into a bit ov a boat—to sail over the impty say—an from the last rifuge—where safety was, an O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ow! but it’s the croolty ov it that braks me heart!”
The summary treatment with which the boys had disposed of Pat, was not to be applied to Solomon, or to Captain Corbet. They tried to coax these, and persuade them.
Solomon, however, was obdurate.
“My ’vice to you, boys, an you, in tiklar, mas’r Bart,” said he, “is to clar out ob dis yer sinkin schooner, ef yer don want to git a duckin ob de wustest sort. She’s a goin down—you’d betta believe—dat’s so.”
“O, come, come, Solomon; we can’t wait. You’re making us all risk our lives,” said Bart, imploringly, coaxing him as he would coax an insane man. “Come along; don’t keep us here. The schooner’ll sink and drag the boat down, if we don’t keep farther away.”
“Darsn’t,” said Solomon. “Couldn’t, darsn’t—no how.”
“O, come.”
“Darsn’t—fraid ob dat ar ole woman, wid de broomstick, de tongs, de fence-pole, an de red-hot gridiron. Tell you what, it stings—it does, dreadful—it does so—”
“O, come. She shall never trouble you. Never.”
“Who’s to go skewrity for dat ar statement? Nobody can skewer her. No. Better be drown-ded, dan walloped to def with hay-forks. Nobody can skewer dat ar ole woman, dough; gracious sakes, she knows how to skewer me ebery time she lay hand on a pitchfork or a meat-skewer. Yah, yah, yah!”
At this ill-timed levity Bart and the others turned away in despair and disgust.
They hurried aft.
There stood the venerable Corbet. As they drew near he gave a start, and a smile came over his reverend countenance.
“Wal, boys,” said he, in a tone of kindly welcome, “how d’ye do? Pleased to see you.”
He spoke precisely as if he was receiving a call from some favorite guests. The tone pained the boys, and distressed them greatly.
“Captain,” said Bruce, hurriedly, “the Antelope’s sinking. A moment more and you’ll be lost. Come with us in the boat. Come.”
And, laying his hand on the captain’s arm, he sought to drag him away.
But the captain quietly though firmly, disengaged himself.
“Excuse me, young sir,” said the venerable navigator, very politely; “but I’m captain of this here craft; an, being sich, I ain’t got no call to leave her till the last man. You git to your boat, an I’ll retire when the time comes.”
The captain spoke with dignity. He announced a principle which involves the highest duty of every commander of a ship, and the boys knew it. His dignity overawed them.
“But come now, captain,” said Bart, “there isn’t a moment to lose.”
“I ain’t, a goin ever to hev it written on my tume,” said the captain, in a calm voice, “that me—Captain Corbet—ever desarted his post, or forgot his umble dooty as commander of a vessel. No, the Antelope’ll see that, her captain’s jist as much principle an honor as any of them swell navigators that sail in clipper ships over the boosom of the briny deep.”
At this moment there was a long-drawn, bubbling, gurgling sound, that came up from the hold of the Antelope, and startled the boys exceedingly.
“Come, come, captain,” cried Bruce. “She’s sinking now. There isn’t a moment to spare.”
“Wal, boys, you jist hurry off into that thar boat, an don’t mind me. I know my dooty. You can’t expect me to leave this here deck till the last man. It don’t signify argufyin. Hurry off.”
At this moment there was another sound; something between a gasp and a gurgle. It seemed like the death-rattle of the Antelope.
“She’s going down, boys!” cried Bart. Involuntarily they retreated towards the boat. But here they paused yet again, for there was a brief respite, and the Antelope was yet afloat.
“Won’t you come, captain?” cried Bart.
“O, all right,” said Captain Corbet, waving his hand; “all right. You jest get aboard the boat. Don’t you mind me. Remember, I’m the captain, an I’ve got to be the last man.”
This seemed to the boys like a promise to follow them.
“Come along, boys,” said Bart. “He’ll get into the boat if we do. He wants to be last.”
Saying this, the three boys clambered over the Antelope’s side, and it was with a feeling of relief that they found themselves once more in the boat.
“Now, captain,” cried Bruce, “hurry up. Come, Solomon. Captain, make Solomon come on board, and then you’ll be the last man.”
Captain Corbet smiled, and made no reply. As for Solomon, he merely muttered something about “dat ar ole woman” and “gridiron.”
The Antelope was low in the water. The deck was near the level of the sea. Instinctively, Tom, who was holding the rail, pushed away, and the boat moved off a little distance. Yet they could not leave those two infatuated men to their fate, though the instinct of self-preservation made them thus move away slightly.
“Captain! Solomon! Captain! Solomon! Make haste! O, make haste!” Such were the cries that now came from those in the boat.
Captain Corbet smiled as before, and nodded, and said,—
“O, it’s all right; all right. Don’t mind me. I’m all right. I know what I’m about.”
At this the Antelope gave a very unpleasant roll, and settled heavily on one side; then her bows sank down, and a big wave rolled over it.
“She’s sinking!” cried Tom, in a voice of horror. The other boys were silent. They seemed petrified.
But the Antelope struggled up, and gradually righted herself. Her deck was nearer the level of the sea than ever. This last incident, however, had been sufficient to shake the nerves of one of those two on board. As she settled on one side, Solomon sprang back, and, as the wave rolled over her bows, he gave one jump over the side and into the sea. He sank under, but a moment afterwards his woolly head emerged, and he struck out for the boat. There a dozen arms were outstretched to save him, and he was finally hauled in.
“Drefful times dese,” said he, as his teeth chattered, either from terror or from cold. “Drefful times. Didn’t ’gage in dis yer vessel to go swim-min about de Atlantic Oceum. Queer way to serve as cook—dis yer way. An dar ain’t a dry stitch ob clothin about—dat’s so; an what ebber I’se a goin to do beats me. S’pose I’se got to set here an shibber de next tree weeks. Catch me ebber a ’barkin aboard sieh a schooner as dis yer. Any ways, I ain’t goin to sail in dis yer Antelope agin. Cotch me at it—dat’s all.”
But the boys heard nothing of this.
All their attention was now taken up with Captain Corbet.
He stood at the stern at his usual post, holding the tiller with both hands. He looked at the boys. “Boys,” said he, “I’m the last aboard.”
“O, Captain Corbet! Come, come. Make haste!” they cried.
He shook his venerable head.
“This here,” said he, “boys, air the act an the doin of Fate. I did hope that the Antelope an me’d grow old, an finally die together, though not on the briny deep. It hev allus ben a favorite idee to me, that the lives of both of us, me and the Antelope, was kine o’ intermingled, an that as we’d ben lovely an pleasant in our lives, in death we’d be not divided. For the Antelope an me’s knowed each other long, an lived, an ben happy together, in fair weather an foul. The Antelope’s allus ben faithful and terew. She’s had all my confidences. She’s alius been gentle an kind, and you’ll never, never find a better friend than the old Antelope. Many’s the time she’s bore me through sleet an snow. Many’s the time she’s borne me through fog an rain. Many’s the time she’s bore me past rocks an reefs. So long as I stuck to old Fundy, so long the Antelope was safe an sound. I used to boast as to how I could navigate old Fundy. I was wrong. ’Twan’t me; it was the Antelope that navigated; for I never had a sexton aboard, nor a quadruped, nor a spy-glass, nor any of them newfangled gimcracks, savin an except a real old-fashioned, apostolic compass, as is mentioned by Paul in the Acts. And why? Why, cos the Antelope was allus able to feel her own way through rain an fog, an frost an snow—past shoals, an flats, an reefs, an was alius faithful. But, in a evil hour, I took her out of her native waters. I led her afar over the deep blue sea, up to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. There our woes began. But even there the Antelope was terew an tender. But it was too much. We come back. She had never ben thar before. She lost her way. Then she found it. We got to Sable Island an Chester. Then we put out agin. An then agin she lost her way. It was my fault, not hern. She lost her way in this fog, an she went aground. She couldn’t help it. In Fundy she never ran aground, ’cept when nessary; an it was me that brought her to this. An now what hev I got to do? I’ve got this to do—that if I’ve led my Antelope to ruin, I won’t survive her. No. We’ve been lovely an pleasant in our lives, an in death we ain’t goin to be divided.”
The boys did not hear one half of this, but interrupted the speaker constantly with their entreaties that he would save himself. Captain Corbet, however, was too much taken up with his own thoughts to notice what they said. He was like one who soliloquizes.
“O, captain!” cried Bart, with a final effort; “think of your wife—think of your, your, a—baby—”
“My babby!” said Captain Corbet. “My babby! Ah, young sir, when you mention my babby, you don’t know that you tetch a cord in this parentual heart that throbs responsive. That thar is the strongest emotion that inspires this aged breast; but, young sir, dooty air powerfuller than love, an even that pe-recious infant has less claims on me at this moment than my Antelope. For my Antelope has ben the friend that’s ben faithful in thousand perls; that’s ben my refuge an my solace in times of persecution. Yes, young sirs, in the days when a bold an violent woman disturbed my peace, by dash-in a pail full of cold water over my head—at such times the Antelope hav took me to her heart; an can I ever cease to be affectionate an kind to thee, who’s ben so terewly kind to me—my Antelope? No, no; young sirs. Go, an tell my beloved one—my offspring—my inspired babby—that his parent, the aged Corbet, died a marchure’s death; died like a hero, a standin’ at his post; which post was the rudder-post of the Antelope. Tell him that; an tell him, tew, that, though dooty bound the feyther to the Antelope, yet still that feyther’s last thoughts was of his belessed babe.”
At this point the Antelope gave another lurch, and rolled far over. Captain Corbet stopped abruptly, and stiffened his sinews, and clutched the tiller with a tighter grasp. The boys looked on with horror in their faces and in their hearts.
It was a moment of awful expectation.
They had cried, and bawled, and yelled till they were hoarse. They had prayed and entreated Captain Corbet to save himself. All in vain.
But now the time for entreaty had passed.
Suddenly the Antelope rolled back, and then her bows sank. A huge wave rolled over her, followed by others, which foamed from bow to stern. Then all the sea settled itself over the sinking schooner.
The Antelope was going down!
The hull disappeared!
The rail sank under water!
But Captain Corbet stood at his post, erect, rigid, his hands clasping the tiller. Beneath him the Antelope sank down into the sea. Around him the waters rolled.
They rolled about his knees; about his thighs; about his waist. His venerable hair fluttered in the breeze; his eyes were fixed, with a rapt and abstracted air, on vacancy.
The boys looked on in horror. Instinctively they pushed the boat back out of the reach of the waters that ingulfed the Antelope, so as to avoid being carried down into that vortex.
The waters rolled about the form of the aged navigator, and so he descended with his beloved Antelope, till they were above his waist.
The boys could no longer cry to him. They were petrified with horror. They sat, with white faces, awaiting the end.
Watching with pallid Faces.—The Torso of Corbet.—A sudden and unaccountable Break in the Proceedings.—Great Reaction.—Unpleasant Discovery.—Pat and the salt Water.—The Rheu-matiz and kindred Diseases.—Where to go.—Where are we?—Sable Island.—Anticosti, Bermuda, Jamaica, Newfoundland, Cape Cod, or Owld Ireland.—A land Breeze.—Sounding for the Land.—Land ahead.PAINFUL thing it was to see the Antelope thus sinking into the sea; to view the waters thus rolling over her familiar form from bows to stern; to see the boiling foam of the ingulfing billows; but how much more terrible it was to see the sacrifice of a human life; the voluntary self-destruction of a human being, and of one, too, who had been their guide, their revered and beloved friend! They had no cause for self-reproach. They had done all that they could. His own will had brought him to this. Still the spectacle was no less terrible to all of them, and there was no less anguish in their souls as they saw him,—the meek, the gentle, the venerable Corbet,—thus descending, by his own free will, and by his own act, into the dark abyss of this unknown sea.
And so they watched with pallid faces, and with angonized hearts for the end.
The ancient mariner sank down, as has been said, with his sinking schooner, and his feet were overwhelmed by the rushing flood, and his ankles, and his knees, and his thighs, and at length he stood there with the waters about his waist, and his mild eyes fixed upon vacancy.
Another moment, and they expected to see that venerable and beloved form disappear forever from their gaze.
But that venerable form did not, in fact, disappear.
0293
That venerable form remained stationary,—the waters reaching as far as the waist: thus far, but no farther. The lower half had disappeared beneath the sea, but the upper half still remained to bless and cheer their eyes. Corbet still lived! But it was what an artist might call a Torso of Corbet.
Corbet thus had sunk into the unfathomable depth of ocean up to his waist, but after that he sank no more. Higher than that the waters did not rise. He stood in that rigid attitude already described, grasping the tiller, and thus steadying himself,—upright, firm as a rock, and so he stood after the waters had risen to his waist.
The hull of the Antelope had disappeared. But still her masts and rigging rose above the waters, and above the head of Corbet, and these sank no farther, but remained at the same height above the sea.
Astonishment seized upon all of them, Corbet included. What was it that had caused this wonder? Was it because the hull was too buoyant to sink any farther? Was it because there was still some air left inside the hull which prevented the schooner from sinking altogether? This they might have thought had they not been made wiser through their recent experiences. By these they now knew that on these seas there were sand banks and shoals; and, therefore, what was more natural than that, the Antelope had sunk in some place where there happened to be, just beneath her, a convenient shoal which had received her sinking hull? It was certainly a very curious sea,—a sea which seemed to abound in such shoals as these; but whatever might be the character of that sea, this fact remained, that the Antelope had sunk in less than a couple of fathoms of water.
And so it was that the heroic and devoted resolve of the venerable and high-minded captain was baffled, and his descent into the depths of the ocean was arrested. For there lay the Antelope, resting upon some place not far beneath the sea, with her masts still high above water, and with the person of her gifted commander half submerged and half exposed to view; and there stood that venerable commander up to his waist in water, but unable to descend any farther: a singular, a wonderful, an unparalleled spectacle; unaccountable altogether to those whose eyes were fastened upon it.
But the thought of a shoal or sand bank soon came, and so they began to understand the state of affairs. The Antelope had sunk, not into an unfathomable abyss in mid-ocean, but upon some sand bank. Where or what that sand-bank might be, they did not then take time to consider. Whether it was some part of one of the Banks of Newfoundland, or the slowly declining shore around Sable Island, or some other far different and far removed place, did not at that time enter into the sphere of their calculations. Enough it was for them that the terror had passed; that the grim spectacle of death and destruction before their very eyes had been averted; that Corbet was saved.
Till this moment they had not been aware of the greatness of their anguish. But now the reaction from that anguish made them acquainted with its intensity, and in proportion to their late sufferings was now their joy and rejoicing. At the first movement of the Antelope towards a descent into the sea, they had instinctively and very naturally moved their boat farther away, so as to avoid being sharers of the fate which Captain Corbet seemed to desire; but now, after the first danger was over, and the first emotions of amazement and wonder had subsided, they rowed nearer. They believed that now Captain Corbet would listen to reason, and that, having done so much in obedience to the call of duty, he would be willing to save himself.
And now, as they rowed nearer, the boat floated over the rail of the sunken schooner, and came close up to the half-submerged commander.
“Come, captain,” said Bart, in a voice that was yet tremulous with excitement, “jump in. There’s plenty of room. You—you—don’t—don’t want to be standing in the water this way any longer, of course.”
To this remark Captain Corbet made no reply in words, but he did make a reply in acts, which were far more eloquent. He seized the side of the boat at once, and scrambling in, sank down, wet and shivering, in the stern, alongside of those other obstinate and contumacious ones—Pat, Wade, and Solomon. And so it was that at last, after so much trouble, those four, who had at first been so unmanageable, now were assembled on board the boat into which they had once refused to enter.
The delight of the boys was as great as their grief had been a short time before, and no other thought came into their minds than that of the happy end that had occurred to a scene that had promised such disaster. The fact that their situation was one of doubt and uncertainty, perhaps peril, did not just then occur to them. It was enough joy for them that Captain Corbet had been snatched from a watery grave; and so they now surrounded him with careful attention. Bruce offered him a biscuit; Bart asked about his health; Tom urged him to wring out the water from his trousers; and Phil, who was next to him in the boat, fearing that he might feel faint, pressed upon him a tin dipper full of water.
Captain Corbet took the proffered draught and raised it to his lips. A few swallows, however, satisfied him, and he put it down with some appearance of haste.
“As a general thing,” said he, in a tone of mild remonstrance, “I don’t use sea water for a beverage. I kin take it, but don’t hanker arter it, as the man said when he ate the raw crow on a bet.”
“Sea water!” exclaimed Phil. “Did I?”
He raised the water to his own lips, and found that it was so.
“Then we’ve taken sea water in this keg,” he cried, “and we haven’t any fresh.”
At this dreadful intelligence consternation filled all minds.
“Who filled that keg?” asked Bruce, after a long silence.
“Sure I did,” said Pat.
“You! and how did you happen to make such a mistake?” cried Bart.
“Sure ye said to fill the kegs with wather, an didn’t say what kind; so I jist tuk the say wather, because it was most convaynient.”
At this amazing blunder the boys were dumb, and stared at Pat in silence. Words were useless. The mistake was a fatal one. The fresh water had gone with the Antelope to the bottom. Where or when could they hope to get any more? Who could tell how long a time, or how great a distance, might now separate them from the land? Bad enough their situation already had been, but this opened up before them the prospect of unknown sufferings.
“O, don’t talk to me about water,” said Captain Corbet, in lugubrious tones, squeezing his hands, as he spoke, over his thighs and shins, so as to force the water out of his clothes. “Don’t you go and talk to me about water. I’ve hed enough, an don’t want ever to see any agin. Why, it kem up as high as my waist if it kem a inch. An now what’s to hender me a fallin a helpuless victim to rheuma-tiz. O, I know it. Don’t tell me. I know what’s a goin to come to this ferrail body. Thar’s rheuma-tiz acute and chronic, an thar’s pleurisy, an thar’s lumbago, an thar’s nooralgy, an thar’s fifty other diseases equally agonizin. An dear, dear, dear, dear! But how dreadful wet it did feel, to be sure! dear, dear, dear, dear! An here am I now, with my tendency to rheumatiz, a settin here in my wet clothes, an not a dry stitch to be had for love or money. Wal, I never knowed anythin like this here, an I’ve lived a life full of sturrange vycissitudes—from bad to wuss has ben our fate ever sence we sot foot on this here eventfual vyge; an ef thar’s any lesson to be larned from sech doins an car’ns on as this here, why, I ain’t able to see it. An now what am I to do? What’s a goin to become of me? No dry clothes! No fire to dry myself! Rheumatiz before me! lumbago behind me! pleurisy on each side o’ me! such is the te-rific prospect of the blighted bein that now addresses you.”
The boys paid but little attention to Captain Corbet’s wailings. They had other troubles more serious than these prospective ones. They could not help, however, being struck by the thought that it was a little odd for a man who had just been snatched so narrowly from a terrible death to confine all his attention and all his lamentations to such a very ordinary circumstance as wet clothes. He who had announced so firmly, a short time before, his calm and fixed intention of perishing with the Antelope, now seemed to have forgotten all about her, and thought only of himself and his rheumatiz. Could this be, indeed, Captain Corbet? Strange was the change that had come over him; yet this was not the only singular change that had occurred on this eventful day. They had witnessed others quite as wonderful in Solomon and Pat. These two, however, had now resumed their usual characteristics.
There they were, in a boat, all of them, but where? That was the question. The masts of the sunken Antelope rose obliquely out of the water, showing that she was resting on her side at the bottom. But what was that bottom, and where? Was it some lonely rock or reef? Was it some sand-bank or shoal like that upon which they had already gone aground, and where the Antelope had received those injuries which had at length wrought her ruin? None of them could answer this.
And where should they go? In what direction should they turn? This was the question that pressed upon them, and required immediate decision.
“It’s impossible to even guess where we are,” said Bart. “We’ve been going in the dark all along. We may as well be off Sable Island as anywhere else. And if so, all I can say is, I’ve seen worse places.”
“Sure an thin it’s as likely to be Anticosti as Sable Island,” said Pat. “We’ve ben a turrunin around ivery way, so we have, an we may have< fetched up there, so we may, an if that’s so, we may as well dig our graves an lay ourselves down in thim.”
“Well, if you’re going so far as that,” said Bruce, “I’d put in a claim for Bermuda. I don’t see why we mayn’t be off Bermuda as well as Anticosti. If so, we may be sure of good accommodations.”
“Well, while you’re about it,” said Arthur, “why don’t you say Jamaica?”
“At any rate,” said Bruce, “I shouldn’t wonder if it should turn, out to be Newfoundland. This sou’-west wind would take us there.”
“Yes, but there’s been a calm,” said Arthur, “for some time, and we’ve got into some current. I dare say it’s taken us west, and that this is close by Cape Cod.”
“Pooh!” said Phil. “If we’ve been drifting with any current, there’s only one current hereabouts. That’s the Gulf Stream. I tell you what it is, boys; we’ve crossed the Atlantic, and this place is off the coast of Owld Ireland; and there ye have it.”
“Arrah, go way wid yer deludherin talk,” said Pat. “We want a sinsible opinion.”
“The more I think of it,” said Tom, “the more I’m inclined to be of Bart’s opinion. We’ve been tacking and drifting, and going backward and forward, and it seems to me most likely that this is Sable Island. If so, we may be glad that we came here when the water was so calm.”
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, thoughtfully, “I don’t b’lieve that this here air Ireland, nor Iceland, nor Africky, nor Jamaiky, nor any other sech. ’Tain’t unpossible for it to be Sable Island. We drifted there onst, an may heve done it agin. Far be it from me to dispute that thar. But then again it might be Newfoundland. ’Pears to me as ef we’ve got off some land whar thar’s woods, for I got jest now a kine a scent o’ trees, an ’peared to me of spruce an sech. I shouldn’t be s’prised ef the wind was to haul round. It often doos, specially when it’s ben an done its wust, an you don’t care. So now we don’t care what it doos, or which way it blows; an consekently it’s goin to turn an blow away the fog.”
At this moment, and while the ancient mariner was yet speaking, there came a breath of wind, very gentle, yet quite perceptible, and there was in it an unmistakable odor of forest trees—balmy, delicious, most fragrant, bringing with it hope, and joy, and delight.
“The land must be close by,” cried Bart. “Hurrah!”
“Don’t hurrah too soon,” said Tom. “It may be Anticosti.”
“Pooh! Anticosti could never send out such a smell of spruce and pine.”
“Well, it may be Newfoundland, and that won’t help us much.”
“The wind’s going to change,” said Arthur. “I think the fog isn’t so thick as it was.”
“Come, boys, this bottom shoals in some direction. Let’s sound, and row on in the direction where it shoals. That’ll bring us to the shore.” This suggestion, which came from Bruce, was at once acted on. Bart and Tom took the oars. Bruce took a hatchet which had been flung into the boat, and tying a line to it, used this as a sounding lead.
“Row gently,” said he.
The boys did so, following Bruce’s direction, while, holding his sounding-line, he tested the bottom. After a little while he had satisfied himself.
“It shoals in this direction,” said he. “Row straight on a dozen strokes.”
They did so.
Bruce sounded again.
“All right,” said he. “Row on.”
They rowed farther.
Bruce sounded again. The bottom was much shallower.
They rowed farther.
But now no sounding was any longer necessary, for there, straight before them, looming through the now lessening fog, they all descried the welcome sight of land.