Rowing ashore.—Nearer they come.—The Fog dispels.—Strangely familiar.—A Man advances towards them.—Wild Shouts from Bart and Tom.—Wilder Shouts from the other Boys.—Confused Rejoicings.—A hearty Welcome.—Explanations.—The receding Tide.—A Visit to the Antelope.—Mournful Remembrances.—The Speech of Captain Corbet.THE sight of land a cry of joy burst forth from all in the boat, and Bart and Torn bent to their oars with all their force. As they drew nearer, they saw, to their intense delight, that this strange land was no wilderness, no desolate shore, but an inhabited place, with cultivated fields, and pasture land, and groves. One by one, new features in the landscape revealed themselves. There was a long beach, with a grand sweep that curved itself away on either side, till it joined steep or precipitous shores. Behind this were fields, all green with verdure, and a scattered settlement, whose white houses, of simple, yet neat construction, looked most invitingly to these shipwrecked wanderers. At one end of the winding beach rose the fabric of a large ship in process of construction.
Nearer they came, and yet nearer. The tide was high on the beach, and the waters almost touched the green fields that fringed the shore with alder bushes. Here a boat was drawn up, and beyond this stood a neat farm-house. On a fence nets were hanging, showing that the occupant of this house united the two callings of farmer and fisher. Beyond the settlement, the land rose into high hills, which were covered with forest trees, and from these had been wafted that aromatic breeze which had first made known to them the neighborhood of land.
All this time the breeze had been slightly increasing, and the fog had been steadily diminishing. Now the shores appeared in fuller outline. Looking back over their course, they could see the masts of the Antelope, where they projected above the water. They could see that they had drifted into a bay, and the Antelope had sunk into its shallowest part.
There was something in this scene which appeared to them strangely and most unaccountably familiar. All had the same feeling, yet not one of them expressed it. Each imagined that it was his own fancy; and so disturbed had their minds been for the past few days, that they felt unwilling now to indulge this fancy. Yet every moment the fancy grew stronger, and brought fresh wonder with it. In this way they rowed along, and every moment brought the boat nearer and nearer to the shore.
At length they saw a man come forth from the house before them, and advance towards the beach. His face was turned towards them; he was staring at them most intently. As the boat advanced, he advanced; and thus the two parties approached. Every moment revealed more and more of the opposite party to each.
Bart and Tom were rowing, and thus had their backs turned to the shore and their faces towards the sea outside. Here the fog was fast dispelling, and as it fled, there opened up mile after mile of the coast, and the sea horizon. There, on that horizon, there came forth out of the fog to their eyes a solitary object, that appeared to float upon the sea. It revealed itself more and more; and first, magnified and distorted by the mist, it seemed like a lofty table land of cloud, then like a giant rock, but at length resolved itself into a wooded island with precipitous sides. There it lay full before them.
As it thus revealed itself, Tom uttered a wild shout. Bart instantly uttered another.
“Boys! Boys! Look! Look! Hurrah! Hur-ra-a-a-a-a-a-ah! Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!”
But at that very instant there arose a wild outcry—a clamor worse than theirs—from all the others in the boat. Solomon gave a yell, Captain Corbet started up, and ceased to stroke his legs Bruce, Arthur, Phil, and Pat, with one wild cry, started erect to their feet, regardless of the swaying and rocking of the boat. And “Hurrah!” they cried. “Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!! Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!”
“Scott’s Bay! Ile Haute!” cried Tom and Bart.
“Scott’s Bay! Benny Grigg!” cried all the others.
“Scott’s—Grigg.”
“Benny-Haute.”
“Ile-Bay.”
“Benny-Bay.”
“Ile-Grigg.”
“Scott’s Haute.”
Such was the medley of cries that arose from all, shouting and yelling at once. While all the time there stood on the shore the man that had come down to meet them; who first had started and stared with amazement,—and who then, recognizing them all, and seeing the masts of the sunken schooner beyond, understood the whole situation, and rejoiced over it accordingly—showing his joy, indeed, in a less noisy and demonstrative manner than theirs, but in a way which was thoroughly characteristic.
For Benny suddenly turned, and started off to the house on a full run. Then he disappeared.
The boat drew nearer, Benny appeared once more.
The boat touched the beach.
At that very instant Benny touched the beach also, and, plunging into the water, began shaking hands with every one of them, in the most violent and vehement manner.
“Come along! Come along! Come right up! Come along! Don’t mind the boat. I’ll see to that. Come along to the house. Blowed if I ever see the likes o’ this in all my born days! Come along!”
Such was the welcome of Benny Grigg.
And in this way Benny dragged them all up to his house. Here he gave them another welcome, characterized by a lavish hospitality, and a warmhearted friendliness that was truly delightful to his guests; in all of which he was seconded by Mrs. Benny. The table that was spread before them was loaded down with everything that the house could furnish, and the shipwrecked guests ate with an appetite such as is only known to those who have labored hard and fasted long.
After which Benny questioned them all closely, and made them tell him how it was that they had come here. Great was his astonishment, but greater still his amusement. Though it had so nearly been a tragedy, to hear it seemed like a comedy. There is but one step between the sublime and the ridiculous—the terrible and the grotesque—tragedy and comedy. Benny chose to regard it all from the lighter point of view, and accordingly he laughed with unrestrained hilarity, and made merry with exceeding mirth.
But after the story was all told, he grew more serious, and, producing a well-worn chart, he explained to them his theory as to their wanderings. He pointed out to them the probable place where the Antelope had struck, described the character of the tides and currents, and showed how it was that, with such a wind, and under such circumstances, they, very naturally, had drifted into this particular part of the Bay of Fundy. Benny’s explanation was indeed so very lucid, and so satisfactory, that they all expressed their regrets at not having known this before, in which case they would have been saved from much anxiety.
When they arrived at Scott’s Bay it was high tide, but by the time that they had finished their story and the conversation that had been caused by it, the tide was far down on the ebb. On going forth they could see that the deck of the Antelope had been uncovered by the retreating waters. In two or three hours more the tide would be at the lowest ebb, and they could see that it would be possible for them to visit the sunken schooner. It lay about a mile away from the beach, between which and her there extended long mud flats, which could easily be traversed at low water.
They waited till the tide was low, and then they all walked down to her.
There she lay—the Antelope—the vessel that had carried them so far, through strange seas, amid so many dangers and perils—the vessel associated with so many memories. They climbed on board. They saw that her hold was still full of water; for, though the crevices were numerous, and wide enough to let in the sea, they could not let it out with sufficient rapidity to keep pace with the fall of the tide. Still, the water streamed out in small jets, or trickled out, drop by drop, in a hundred places, affording them a very impressive sight of the true condition of the Antelope, and of the danger against which they had struggled so long and so laboriously.
“If the water’d ony get out of her,” said Captain Corbet, in a melancholy voice, “she might float ashore.”
“Yes,” said Benny, “she might float, perhaps, as far as the shore, but no farther. ’Tain’t no manner of uthly use a tryin to repair that thar craft, cos she’s ben an gone an got done for. She’s wore out, the wustest kind. That thar vessel ain’t wuth a tryin to repair her. It’s a mussy she held out so long, an didn’t go to pieces all of a suddent, some-whars in the middle of the sea.”
To this Captain Corbet made no reply. He felt keenly the truth of the remark, and could see that the Antelope was indeed beyond the reach of human aid.
The boys all climbed on board of the beloved, though battered old craft, to take a last look and a last farewell. It was with unconcealed sadness that they looked around. They could not go down into the cabin, or the hold, for the water was there; yet the deck was enough to remind them of that eventful past which they had experienced here. This was the schooner that had borne them on their cruise around Minas Bay; which had taken them around the Bay of Fundy when Tom was lost; which had afterwards taken them to the Bay de Chaleur. This was the schooner for whose appearance they had so watched and waited on board the water-logged Petrel, and which had lately borne them over so many miles of watery sea, through so many leagues of fog. And this was the end.
Captain Corbet it was that first broke the solemn silence.
“It air gone,” he said; “the derream hev bust! The berright derream of fortin, of wealth, an of perosperity. Gone, tew, air the ole Antelope—companion of my toils, my feelins, an my fame. Boys, you hev ben the confidants of my feelins towards this here Antelope, an knows how I loved her, yea, even as the apple of my aged eye! I stood here, not long sence, by yon rudder, fixed firm an solemn; resolved to perish with her; ready to sink into the deep blue sea. From that fate I was spared; yet still my feelins air the same; the heart’s the same—‘twill ne’er grow cold. An now I feel to mourn. I feel that I am indeed a growin old. The days of my navigatin air brought to an end. Henceforth the briny deep will be traversed by the aged Corbet no more forever. From this time I retire from the heavin biller, an take refooge in my own vine an fig tree. My navigatin arter this’ll be, with my belessed babby in my arms, up an down the room. The only storms that await me now, an the only squalls, air to be of a sterictly domestic characture. Weak human natur, boys, might be tempted to repine, an to indulge in vain lamintations over this here; but the time hev passed. I’ve made my lamintation, an that’s enough. I’ll lament no more. Peace to her ashes. Let her lie, an may no rude hand go a disturbin of the beloved Antelope in her last restin-place. Let her lie buried here beneath the ocean. Let the billowy main sound her requem, an chant her foon’ral dirge. An now, farwell! an may you be happy! Good by, Antelope—ole friend—an receive, as your last legacy an benediction, the belessin of the mournful Corbet!”
He ceased. Silence followed, and in that silence they all retired from the Antelope, and returned to the shore.
Discussing the Situation.—By Land or by Sea.—Conferences with Bennie.—The Offer of Bennie.—The last Meal at Scoffs Bay.—The Boat is on the Shore, and the Bark is on the Sea.—Last Words of Solomon, and Farewell Speech of the Ancient Mariner.ON reaching the shore they found it necessary to take into consideration the course of action that was now most advisable.
“We’ve got a few weeks yet of vacation, boys,” said Bart, “and if we want to enjoy ourselves, we’d better get out of this as fast as possible.”
“We ought, at any rate, to write to our fathers and mothers,” said Phil; “I don’t know what they’ll think.”
“Write!” said Bruce; “we’d better hurry off home our own selves, and not send letters. For my part, I’m ready to start off this evening for Grand Pré.”
“Grand Pré? But why Grand Pré?” asked Arthur. “O, I don’t know,” said Bruce: “what other way is there to go? We’ll have to get away from this, of course; and it seems most natural to cross the mountain to Grand Pré, and then go on by stage. Bart could leave us at Windsor, and take the steamer for St. John.”
“Sure an the stage goes the other way altogether,” said Pat.
“How’s that?”
“Why, down the valley to Annapolis; an the steamer starts from that to St. John, so it does; an’ it’s twice as near, so it is.”
“No, it isn’t.”.
“Yes, it is. St. John is only sixty mile from Annapolis, and it’s more’n a hundred an twinty from Windsor.”
“But Annapolis is seventy or eighty miles from this place, and Windsor’s only thirty.”
“At any rate, it’s easier goin by the way of Annapolis.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is; you go down the valley, so you do, an the other way you have to go up.”
“Pooh! nonsense! The Annapolis valley isn’t a hill. The fact is, from here to St. John it’s easier to go by the way of Windsor.”
“It’s further thin—.”
“Yes,” said Phil, “it’s a hundred and fifty miles by the way of Windsor, and only a hundred and forty-seven by the way of Annapolis.”
“For my part,” said Bart, “I don’t fancy either way. What’s the use of talking about a hundred and fifty miles, when you need only go half that distance?”
“Half that distance? How?”
“Why, across the bay.”
“Across the bay? O! Why, that completely alters the case,” said Bruce.
“Of course.”
“Sure, but how can we go on fut across the bay? or by stage?” objected Pat.
“There don’t seem to be any schooner here,” said Arthur, looking all around.
All the others did the same, searching narrowly the whole line of coast. Nothing, however, was visible of the nature of a vessel. Boats there were, however, in plenty, quite commodious too, but none of them sufficiently large to take them so far as St. John.
“I’m afraid, Bart, your idea of getting to St. John by water won’t do,” said Bruce. “You’d better make up your mind to come along with us.”
“O, I’ll go, of course, along with you; we must stick together as long as we can; but we must settle, first of all, which is the best way to go. You’ll find it most convenient to come to St. John. You can go from there up the bay, and then go over to Prince Edward Island, easier than by any other route.”
“Well, I don’t know but that we can, at least as easy as any other way, and so I’ve no objection; but won’t it be best to go to Windsor, or, if you prefer it, to Annapolis?”
“Well, let’s find out, first of all, whether there is any chance of going by a more direct way. Old Bennie can tell us all about it.”
“Yes, yes,” said Tom, who had thus far taken no part in the discussion, “let’s ask old Bennie; he can tell us what’s best to do.”
With these words the boys walked on faster towards where old Bennie was sauntering about with Captain Corbet and Solomon. At the first mention of their wish Bennie energetically refused to say anything about it.
“You’ve got to stay here, boys—you’ve got to, you know; an thar’s no use talkin, an that’s all about it—thar now.”
This the good Bennie said over and over again, persisting in it most obstinately. At length Bart managed to secure his attention long enough to convey to him an idea of the circumstances in which they were, and especially the regard which they had for their respective parents. At the mention of this Bennie’s obstinacy gave away.
“Wal, thar,” boys, said he, “that thar does knock me, an I give up. The fact is, when I regard you, and think on what you’ve ben a doin on, an how you’ve ben adoin of it, an what sort of a craft you’ve ben a navigatin in, I feel as though the parients an guardins of sech as youns had ort to be pitied.”
In fact, Bennie’s commiseration for these anxious parents was so great that he changed his tactics at once, and instead of trying to keep the boys with him, he exhibited the utmost eagerness to hasten their departure.
“You can’t go straight off to St. John, boys, from this place, for there ain’t a schooner in jest now; but there’s a way of goin that’ll take you to that place faster, mebbe, than you could go if you went direct in a sailin craft. It’s to get off to the nighest place where the steamer touches.”
“What’s that?”
“Parrsboro’.”
“Parrsboro’? and how far is it?”
“O, only a few miles; it’s only jest round thar;” and Bennie swung his arm round over towards the right, indicating a vast extent of the earth’s surface.
“O, we all know Parrsboro’ perfectly well,” said Bart; “but when can we catch the steamer there?”
“Why, to-morrow, some time, at about half tide. The steamer comes up to-night, and goes down tomorrow. So, if you go to Parrsboro’ an take the steamer thar, you’ll be able to be in St. John quicker than if you went any other way.”
This intelligence at once settled the question completely. They all saw that to go by land part of the way would take up much longer time. Parrsboro’ was so near that it needed only to be mentioned for them all to adopt at once this plan. The only question now remaining was how to get there.
“Wal, there ain’t no trouble about that,” said Bennie. “Thar’s my boat—a nice, clean, roomy one; and I’ll engage to put you over in Parrsboro’ quick sticks. ’Tain’t big enough, quite, to take you to St. John; not because she couldn’t go there, for I’d a precious sight sooner cross the bay—yes, or the Atlantic Ocean—in her than in that old Antelope; but because she hain’t got good sleepin accommodations in case we was to be delayed, as would be very probable. She’s ony an open boat—a beautiful one for sailin in by day, an in fine weather, but not overly good for long vyges for reasons above mentioned, as you’ll observe, young gentlemen.”
“And can we get over there to-day?”
“Wal, let me see. The tide’s a leetle agin us, but bein as you’re anxious, I don’t know but what we might do it. There ain’t much wind about, an we may have to pull a bit; but we’ll do what we can, an then, you know, we’ve got all night afore us. Even at the wust we’re sure to get to Parrs-boro’ before the steamer doos; for if the tide’s too much for us we can wait till it turns, and then go up with the flood. An so, if you’re bound to be off, why, here am I, in good order and condition, an at your service.”
Bennie now led the way to his boat, which was drawn up on the beach. It was an open fishing boat of large size, with one mast and sail. It was, as Bennie had said, quite clean and comfortable, and afforded a very pleasant mode of dropping over to the Parrsboro’ shore. Having once seen the boat, the boys were now all eager to be off. Bennie, however, insisted on their taking their dinner before starting. This they all consented to do very readily. The dinner was almost ready, and Bennie prepared for the voyage, which preparation consisted chiefly in moving the boat down over the beach to the water, which was some distance away.
Then followed the dinner, which was served up in the usual sumptuous style peculiar to Mrs. Bennie, After this followed a kindly farewell to their motherly hostess, and the boys followed Bennie to the beach, accompanied by the venerable Corbet and the aged Solomon.
It had been no slight task to move the heavy boat from the place where she had been lying all the way down to the water, for the tide was quite low, and the space intervening was considerable; but Bennie had accomplished the task with the help of some of his neighbors, and the boat now lay so that a slight push might suffice to set her afloat; and inside were some provisions prepared by the forethought of Mrs. Bennie, together with some wraps put there with an eye to some sudden assault of the fog. Everything was, therefore, very well ordered to secure the comfort of the travellers.
On the way to the boat the venerable Corbet and the aged Solomon were silent, and appeared overcome with emotion. This silence was first broken by Solomon.
“Tell ye what, chilen,” said he; “it am drefful hard for a ’fectionate ole nigga like me to hab to undergo dis yer operatium. Can’t stan it, no how; an donno what on erf I’se a gwine to do. Here I ben a romin ober the mighty oceam, feelin like de father an garden ob all of youns; and now it ’mos stracts dis yer ole nigga to tar his sef away. Blest if I ain’t like to break down like a chicken; an I ain’t got nuffin else to do. Darsen’t go on wid you, Mas’r Bart—darsen’t, no how. Braid ob dat ar ole woman wid de gridiron. De aged Solomon hab got to become a pilgrin an awander on de face ob de erf. But I ain’t gwine to wander yet a while; I pose to make a bee-line for de Cad’my. I hab a hope dat de ole ’oman hab not got dar; an if so I be safe, an tany rate de doctor’ll take her in hand—he’s de boy—dat ar’s de identical gemman dat kin overhaul her an teach her her ‘p’s’ an ‘q’s.’ But what you’ll do, chilen, widout me to cook, and to carve, an to car for you, am more dan I can magine. Ony I truss we’m boun to meet agin afore long, an jine in de social band; an so you won’t forgit ole Solomon.”
The boys all shook him warmly by the hand, advising him to go by all means back to the Academy, and put himself at once under the protection of the doctor, who would defend him from all possible dangers arising out of his “ole ’oman.”
The mate, Wade, also received their farewells.
Thus far the venerable Corbet had been a mute spectator; his heart was full; his mind seemed preoccupied; he seemed to follow mechanically. At last he saw the moment come which must once more sever him from them, and with a long breath he began to speak.
“It air seldom, young sirs,” said he, “that I am called on to experience a sensation sich as that which this moment swells this aged boosom; an I feel that this is one of the most mournful moments of my checkered career. Thar’s a sadness, an a depression, an a melancholy, sich as I’ve seldom knowed afore. Tain’t altogether the loss of the friend of my youth. That air passed and gone—‘tis o’er. I’ve met that grief an surmounted him. But it was a sore struggle, and the aged Corbet ain’t the man he once was. Consequently, I’m onmanned; I’m all took aback. It’s this here separation, boys dear, comin as it doos, hard an fast on the heels of the great calamity of the loved and lost Antelope. But it’s got to be.”—He paused and sighed heavily. “Yes,” he continued, pensively, “it’s got to be. You ain’t my sons; you’ve got parients an gardens that’s anxious about you an wants to see you, and no doubt hain’t got that confidence in me which they might have in some. But go you, boys dear, and tell all them parients an gardens that there ain’t a pang, an there ain’t a emotion, an there ain’t a anxiety, an there ain’t a grief that they’ve ever had for any of you that I haven’t had for every one of you. Tell them that there ain’t a tear that they’ve shed over you, but I’ve shed too: an there ain’t a sigh they’ve heaved what I haven’t heaved, and ain’t a groan they’ve groaned that I ain’t groaned too. Tell them that Corbet, with all his faults, loves you still, an that if you run into dangers and trials, thar wan’t a moment when he wouldn’t hev shed his heart’s blood to get you off safe and clear. Don’t let em run away with the idee that I’m a stony-hearted monster that’s ben a endangerin of your lives in divers places. I’m ready to be blamed for carless-ness an ignorance, boys dear, but not for lack of affection. You know it, an I know that you know it, an what I want is for you all to make them know it too. For, boys dear, I’m a father, an I know a father’s heart, an I wouldn’t have the heart of any father made bitter against me.”
How long the venerable navigator would have gone on talking, it is impossible to say; indeed, it seemed now as if, after his long silence, his tongue, having once found voice, had become endowed with perpetual motion, and was ready to wag forever. But Bennie Grigg put on a stopper, and abruptly interrupted.
“All right, all right, my hearty,” said he; “I’ll engage that they’ll do all that; but thar ain’t no time to lose; so tumble in, boys, tumble in, and let’s get off so as to round the pint an take the flood tide as it runs up.”
Upon this the boys all shook hands hurriedly with Captain Corbet, one after another, and then each one “tumbled” into the boat. Captain Corbet, thus suddenly silenced, remained silent as he seized each one’s hand. Then Bennie called upon him and Solomon to help him shove off the boat. Then Bennie jumped in and hoisted the sail. Then the boat moved slowly away, bearing the “B. O. W. C.” and their fortunes.
“Good by, boys,” wailed Captain Corbet.
“Good by,” murmured the aged Solomon.
“Good by! Good by!” cried all the boys.
“We’ll meet soon,” said Captain Corbet.
“O, yes—in a few weeks,” cried Tom.
And so with frequent good bys the boat moved slowly from the beach, and slowly passed over the water till the forms of the aged Solomon and the ancient mariner were gradually lost to view.
A hard Pull.—Wind and Tide.—Bennie’s “Idee.”—Jolly under creditable Circumstances.—The Triple Promontory.—The Advance of the Fog.—The Line of Cliff.—The foaming Sea.—The slow Passage of the Hours.—The Strait of Minas.—Land at Last.—Bennie triumphant.THE tide was coming up; some time had elapsed since the Antelope had sunk, and it had sufficed for the ebb of the tide and its return to its flood. The wind also was light, and as they sought to get out of Scott’s Bay, they had the tide against them, and very little wind to favor them. At first they moved rather along the line of the shore than away from it, and though they lost sight of the figures on the beach, they did not therefore make any very great progress.
Scott’s Bay is enclosed in a circle of land formed by the Nova Scotia coast, which here rises high above the Bay of Fundy, and throws out a long, circling arm, terminating in a rugged, storm-beaten, and sea-worn crag, known as Cape Split. It was necessary to double this cape, and then go up the Strait of Minas to Parrsboro’, which place was at the head of the strait, inside Minas Basin, and rig opposite Cape Blomidon. In order to do this, either the wind or the tide ought to favor the navigator; but, unfortunately, on the present occasion, they were not thus favored.
“I had an idee,” said Bennie, after a long silence, “I had an idee that the wind would come up a leetle stronger out here, but it don’t seem to; an now I’ve a notion that it’s goin to turn. If so we’ll be delayed, but still you’ll be landed in Parrsboro’ time enough to catch the steamer. Only you may have to be longer gettin thar than you counted on.”
“O, we don’t care. Only get us there in time for the steamer, and we won’t complain.”
“Wal, it’s best to make up one’s mind for the wust, you know. The wind may change, an then we may be out half the night, or even all night. But, at any rate, I’ll put you through.”
“You needn’t think about any inconvenience to us. We’re only too grateful to you for putting yourself out so much, and none of us would care whether we were out all night or not. We’ve learned to rough it during the last two or three weeks.”
Bennie now diverted his gaze to the surrounding sea, and kept his eyes fixed upon it for a long time in silence, while the boys chatted together in the light-hearted manner peculiar to those who feel quite comfortable, and have no particular aversion even to a moderate amount of discomfort. Yet Bennie did not seem altogether at ease. There was a slight frown on his noble brow, and he did not show that genial disposition which generally distinguished him.
The wind was light and fitful. At first it had been favorable, but before long it changed. It did not grow stronger, indeed; yet still, though it continued light, the fact that it was acting against them made their prospects worse, and justified Bennie’s fears that they might be out all night. The distance was not great, being not more than fifteen miles or so; but their course was in such a direction that the opposition of wind and tide might delay them to a very uncomfortable extent. The spur of the coast line, which terminated in Cape Split, as has been said, and formed the bay, ran for about five miles, and this distance it was necessary to traverse before they could go up the Strait of Minas.
“I think, boys,” said Bennie, at last, “we’d best try the oars, for a while at least. We may save a tide. I don’t know, but at any rate we’d best try an see; for, you see, we’ve got the wind agin us now,—what thar is of it,—an thar’s no knowin how much wuss it may grow. If we could ony git around, that pint afore the tide turned, we might save ourselves from spendin the night aboard. I did hope that the wind might favor us; but it’s changed since we started, an now I see we’d best prepar for the wust.”
“All right!” cried Bruce, cheerily: “we’re in for anything. We can pull as long as you like.”
Upon this the boys took the oars which were in the boat, and began to row. There were four oars. Bennie lowered the sail, and took the stroke oar, Bruce and Arthur took the next oars, and Bart the bow oar. They rowed in this way for about an hour, and then they changed, Arthur taking the stroke oar, Tom and Phil the next oars, and Pat the bow oar. Bruce soon relieved Arthur, and thus they rowed along.
The labor at the oars, far from being unpleasant, served to beguile the time. Those who were not rowing sang songs to enliven the labor of the rowers. Bennie was anxious to row all the time, but after the first hour he was not allowed to row any more, the boys declaring that it was enough for him to come with them, and that it was no more than fair that they should work their own way.
As they went, the wind increased somewhat, and, as the tide was strong, the two powers combined to oppose their progress. They therefore did not make the headway which was desirable, and after one hour of steady pulling they did not find themselves more than half way to Cape Split. Still, they did not become discouraged, but rowed bravely on, making the change above mentioned, and anticipating a turn for the better when once they had doubled the cape.
At length they reached the cape. More than two hours of hard rowing had been required to bring them there, and on reaching this place they saw Bennie’s face still covered with gloom and anxiety. What that might mean, they did not at first know; but they soon found out. At first, however, they were too much taken up with their own thoughts, and the natural pride which they felt at having attained the aim of so long and anxious an endeavor, to notice particularly any expression which Bennie’s face might assume. Besides, there was something in the scene before them which was sufficiently grand to engross all their thoughts.
Among the freaks of nature, so called, few are more extraordinary, and at the same time more impressive and sublime, than that which is afforded by this Cape Split. The whole northern shore of Nova Scotia, which borders on the Bay of Fundy, consists of a high ridge, known as the North Mountain. With one or two great chasms, like that at the entrance into Annapolis Basin, it runs along until it arrives at the Basin of Minas, where it terminates at the sublime promontory of Blomidon. Yet it hardly terminates here. Rather it may be said to turn about and seek once more to invade the water, which, for so many miles, it has defied; and thus turning, it advances for some miles into the Bay of Fundy, forming thus, by this encircling arm, Scott’s Bay, and finally terminating in Cape Split. Here, where the tides are highest, and the rush of the waters strongest, Cape Split arises,—wild, rough, worn by the sea, and scarred by the storm,—a triple series of gigantic peaks that advance into the profoundest depths of the Bav of Fundy, whose waters, at every ebb and flow of their tremendous tides, roll, and foam, and boil, and seethe about the base of the torn promontory. The cliffs of Blomidon rise precipitously, and Blomidon itself is the centre of attraction in the scenery of a vast circuit of country; but Blomidon itself, to a near observer, shows less wildness of outline and less of picturesque grandeur, than that which is revealed in the terrific outline of Cape Split. Taken in connection with all the surrounding landscape as its centre and heart, Blomidon is undoubtedly superior; but taken by itself alone, without any adjuncts save sea and sky, it is Cape Split that the artist would choose to portray upon the canvas, or the lover of the picturesque and the sublime to feast his eyes upon.
This, then, was the point which they had reached, and they saw before them a series of giant rocks towering aloft from the depths of the sea hundreds of feet into the air,—black, rough, without a trace of vegetation, thrusting their sharp pinnacles into the sky, while thousands of sea-gulls screamed about their summits, and myriads of sea-waves beat about their bases. There the tide rolled, and the ocean currents streamed to and fro, and the billows of the sea kept up perpetual war, assailing the flinty rock, and slowly wearing away, as they had been doing through the ages, atom by atom and fragment by fragment, the forms of these mighty bulwarks of the land.
This was the scene upon which they gazed as they reached Cape Split and prepared to enter into the Strait of Minas. But Bennie’s brow was dark, and Bennie’s brow was gloomy, and there were thoughts in Bennie’s mind which had no connection with any grandeur of scenery or beauty of landscape. For Bennie was thinking of the practical, and not of the picturesque; and so it was that the question of reaching Parrsboro’ was of far more importance to him than the glories and the grandeur and all the sublime attractions of Cape Split.
“Tell you what it is, boys,” said he, after a long and thoughtful silence, “we’ve missed it, an we’ve got to look sharp, or else we’ll miss it agen.”
“Missed it? Missed what?”
“What? Why, everything.”
“Everything. What do you mean?”
“Wal, it’s this con-founded tide.”
“What about it?”
“Why, you see,” said Bennie, scratching his grizzled head, “I thought we might git round the cape in time to catch the flood tide, and if so, it would carry us straight up to Parrsboro’; but, un-fort’nately, we’ve jest missed it. We’ve took so much time in gittin here that we’ve lost the flood. The tide’s now on the ebb, an it’s clear agin us. What’s wuss, it runs down tremenjus, an it’ll be a leetle hard for us to git up anyhow; an, what’s wusser, thar’s goin to be a fog.”
“A fog!”
“Yes, a fog, an no mistake. See thar,”—and Bennie pointed down the bay,—“see thar. The wind’s ben a shiftin an’s finally settled into a son-wester, an thar’s the fog a drawin in all round us, an before another half hour we’ll be all shut in, an won’t be able to see the other end of the boat. What’s wuss still, the fog is goin to be a reglar settled fog, an may last a fortnight, an the ony thing that I can see in our favor jest now is, that the wind is fair for us; but, unfortinately, the wind don’t seem to promise to be strong enough to carry us up agin the tide.”
“What! Can’t we get to Parrsboro’ in time for the steamer at all?”
“The steamer? O, yes, no doubt about that. But what I’m afeard on is, that we’ll be all night about it.”
“O, well, that can’t be helped. We can stand it. We’ve had worse things than this to stand of late, and this is mere child’s play.”
“Child’s play? Wal, I don’t know about that altogether,” said Bennie. “For my part, I don’t seem to see how goin’ without sleep’s child’s play, as you call it; but still I’m glad all the same that you look on it in this way; I am railly.”
“O, you needn’t give any thought to us. We’re old stagers. We’ve been shipwrecked and we’ve lived on desert islands. We’ve risked our lives a dozen times in a dozen days. Fellows that have been cast ashore on Anticosti and on Sable Island, can’t be frightened at anything that you can mention.”
“After my life on Ile Haute out there,” said Tom, looking at the dim form of Ile Haute, which was even then being enveloped in the gathering fog, “I think this is mere child’s play.”
“And after my adventures in the woods,” said Phil, “I’m ready for anything.”
“Pat and I,” said Bart, “have known all the bitterness of death, and have felt what it is to be buried alive.”
“An meself,” said Pat, “by the same token, have known what it is to bathe in the leper wather, so I have; an what’s fog to that?”
“Well,” said Arthur, “I’ve had my turn off Anticosti in the boat, Tom and I.”
“And I,” said Bruce, “have had my turn at the Five Islands; so you see you’ve got to do with a lot of fellows that don’t care a rush for fogs and tides, and all that sort of thing.”
“Wal, young fellers,” said Bennie, “I knock under, I cave in. I won’t say anything more. You’re all the right sort, an are ready for anything. So come along; an here goes for Parrsboro’. You’ve got to be up all night; but arter all, you’ve got wraps and rugs, an bread an butter, an pie, an can keep yourselves warm, an can have enough to eat,—so what’s the odds, as long as you’re happy? I ain’t a croaker, I ain’t, but go in for bein cheerful, an if you ain’t goin to knock under, why I ain’t, an so let’s be jolly an move on.”
Saying this, Bennie hoisted his sail once more. The wind was light, but fair, and the only question now was, whether that wind would be strong enough to carry the boat against the tide. As to the tide, that was certainly sufficiently strong, but unfortunately it was unfavorable. The tide had turned, and was running down the Strait of Minas, up which they wished to go. The tide was thus adverse, and in addition to this was the fog.
The fog!
Yes, the fog, the dreaded, the baleful fog, was coming on. Already Ile Haute was concealed from view. Soon the opposite shore would be veiled. Worse than all, the night was coming on. With fog and darkness united, their way would be uncertain indeed.
Fortunately for them, the way was a straight one, and the wind, though not very strong, and though opposed by the tide, was yet fair. This much was in their favor.
And so they spread their sails. And the wind filled the sails, and the boat went on. The tide was against them, but still the boat advanced. Some progress, at last, was made. Hour after hour passed, and still they went on. Bennie seemed to be quite encouraged. At last they came to a wide beach.
“Hurrah!” said Bennie, “we’re here at last. This is the place, lads. We’re at Parrsboro’! Hurrah!”