Part 2

Pat’s confident tone reassured Phil, and as Pat set off quickly to the boat, he followed without a word of further objection. Under the impression that there was now not a moment’s time to lose, they pushed the boat off; and seizing the oars, they began pulling with all their strength, Pat taking the stroke oar, and striving to head her in that mysterious direction which he had described a short time ago. For a few minutes they exerted all their strength; and both boys, as they pulled, kept turning their heads, so as to see the shore, which they wished to gain. Those few minutes served to put a considerable distance between them and the island which they had left. But the interval was not exactly the kind which they wished to see between them and it. It was evident that their progress forward was not very great, but that at the same time their progress down the stream was fearfully rapid. And that stream was setting full towards the Falls.

Phil noticed this first, and his cry aroused Pat, who was still too much interested in watching his destination to regard his actual situation. But that situation, as the two boys looked around upon it, was calculated to administer a shock to the strongest nerves, and quicken the action of the stoutest heart.

The river current was running down at such a rate of speed that their efforts to counteract it while crossing were quite unavailing. Its force had already dragged them down stream about half way between the two islands, while the actual progress which they had made towards their destination was small. Their downward drift had brought them nearer to the Falls, and as they took their hasty look around, they were aware again of that low, sullen roar which they had heard on the island; but now that roar was deeper and nearer, and the low, droning sound of the agitated waters struck more menacingly upon their ears.

At this moment there was still one chance, and one only. That was to head the boat back for the island which they had just left. Had they done so, and rowed for their lives, there was a possibility of emerging yet from the clutch of that hungry current, which grew more and more tenacious as they advanced, and from which escape was only possible by a retreat. But at that moment Pat did not fully realize the danger that impended. He was quite cool, and the mistake that he made arose from an error in judgment, rather than from anything like panic. He had only the idea of resisting the current, and was unable as yet to give up his purpose of returning to the boat’s wharf. So he headed the boat up stream in such a way that their own force should be brought as much as possible against the current, and yet secure to it a slight advance.

They now pulled, as before, in silence, using all their strength. The head of the boat was almost up stream, and as they pulled they could see all that could be seen of the danger below them. For about five minutes they thus struggled, and at the end of that time there began to force itself into the minds of both of them the dread conviction that the strength of the current was too great for their efforts. Pat saw this first, and, seeing this, made a final relinquishment of his efforts to cross, and put the boat’s head straight up stream, so as to make all their efforts tell against the tide itself. But by that time they had brought themselves to where the tide was strongest, and that tide was growing stronger and stronger every minute. This they both saw and felt; and they knew enough of the nature of the Falls to understand now the mistake that they had made. For they had crossed to the islands when the tide was falling, and, in their attempt to return, had been caught by a tide that had been increasing in force ever since they had last crossed it, and was still increasing and directing all its might down towards the Falls.

Their efforts to resist the tide were overpowered. The river was gaining; their strength was failing. One last, faint hope remained--to turn the boat back, to pull towards the islands; it might yet be possible by strenuous effort to drag the boat forth from the clutch of the mighty waters. The lower island was as yet below them, on their left; if they could only bring the boat out of the middle of the stream, they might reach it.

For the last time, then, Pat changed the direction of the boat, turning it but slightly, however, just enough to aim at the upper island. Then again, as before, they put forth their last remaining energies. With feverish anxiety they fixed their eyes upon one or two objects on the land, to watch whether the boat was losing or gaining. That it was still being drawn down by the tide was at once certain; but they yet had a hope that their advance towards the islands might serve to bring them there before it was too late. And now they had fairly reached the crisis of this tremendous struggle. Rousing up the very last of their exhausted strength, they exerted themselves with the convulsive energies of despair, working in silence, with eyes fixed on the shore.

In vain!

They saw themselves drawn down in a line with the lower island, and there, tree by tree, and rock by rock, they saw that island slipping past them; while the distance between them and it had been lessened so slightly that it afforded no prospect whatever of their being able to attain it. At length the last vestige of hope died out. The howling, wrathful vortex was just before them, and now the islands were forgotten, and all their efforts were directed towards saving themselves as long as possible from that fate which they felt was inevitable.

Of the two, Pat was the least affected. Phil was pale, and sat with his eyes glaring at the flood, straining himself at the oars with all his strength, his brows contracted, his lips parted, his breath coming and going in quick, short gasps. As for Pat, the ruddy color of his honest but freckled Irish face remained unchanged; and though he was working with all his might, he as yet showed no signs of any very extreme exhaustion; for his muscles were harder, and his frame more inured to labor, than the slender limbs and lighter frame of his companion. Nor did he gasp or sob, nor were his brows contracted, nor was there any other expression on his face than that same jovial, healthy, and withal rather impudent self-confidence which it usually wore.

Yet, if anything could have reduced Pat to despair it was the sight that now appeared immediately before him.

The boat had been dragged for some distance out of the middle of the stream, and was nearer the island than it had been, though still out of reach. The tide was fearfully strong. At every desperate pull the boat would stand still; but between the strokes the tide would bear it down. Thus their efforts only served now to stop the boat for a few moments at every stroke, without in any way ennabling them to elude their fate.

The Falls were close at hand--just in front.

These Falls were not, however, a thunderous cataract, though at the lowest stage of the tide, their furious surges, as they sweep over the rock-strewn descent of the river bed, would be, perhaps, even more dangerous than a cataract itself. But now they were not at their most furious stage. Still, as the boys gazed there, they saw enough to appall them.

All across was a white line of foam. Immediately in front, the water seemed to come in contact with some hidden reef, for it lifted itself up in a heap, and, rounding over, tumbled in thunder on the other side. It was towards this that they were drifting. This was sufficiently formidable, but where the foam tossed and the boiling waters seethed in a long flood of white, it seemed equally so; and thus even if Pat had been inclined to make a choice of some particular place to direct the boat, he would not have been able to select one, since all places appeared equally repellent. The fact was, however, Pat had no such ideas, but was thinking of some other way of encountering the coming fate.

There, then, full before them, was the long line of boiling breakers; there was that upheaving mass of water rounding itself over the sunken ledge. The hiss of the foam was in their ears, while beneath it was the gloomy menace of the roar of many waters.

“Phil,” cried Pat, “can you swim?”

“A little,” said Phil.

“It’s our last chance. Will ye do what I tell ye?”

“Yes.”

“Take off yer coat, howld on to yer oar, and jump whin I give the word.”

“What!” cried Phil; “stop rowing? Why, we’ll be lost--”

“Lost, is it? We’re sure to be that--row--or no row--so do as I say--will ye?”

Phil was silent for a moment, and still tugged at his oar, for neither of them had stopped during this conversation. In that moment of extremest peril there was no time to be taken up in deliberating. He had either to consent to Pat’s proposition, or refuse, and that at once.

“The boat’ll upset,” cried Pat, “sure. You jump out wid me whin I give the word. But ye’ll have to take off yer coat first. Yer bound to get a duckin, ony way, an ye’d better do as I say.”

“I’ll do it,” cried Phil, suddenly and decidedly.

“Aff wid yer coat, thin,” cried Pat.

Both boys flung down their oars, and whipped off their coats in an instant.

The boat was dragged now, without any further resistance, straight towards the Falls.

“Grab howld of yer oar,” cried Pat, quickly. “Stand up, an’ jump whin I give the word--ony mind, whin ye do jump, jump for’ard as fur as ye can.”

“Yes,” said Phil, quietly.

The two boys now stood up, each grasping an oar, and watching the water before them. The boat drifted down--nearer and nearer! Phil’s heart throbbed fast in the suspense of that dread moment, but Pat stood cool, collected, with his sharp, eager glance watching for the right time to jump.

And now that mighty mass of water, that lifted itself up in a heap, as it rose and rounded itself over the sunken ledge, grasped the boat, and raised it on high in its tremendous embrace, and impelled it forward. For a moment the boat seemed to linger there hesitating. Then it trembled in every fibre. Then it slowly turned round, till its broad side was presented to the waters below. Then one side was slowly drawn down under the water, while the other side rose up. Behind it a wall of water rushed.

Suddenly Pat gave a loud yell--

“Jump!”

Phil was already standing with the oar poised in one hand, and the other hand outstretched, waiting for Pat’s word. Every nerve, every sinew, was on the alert, and before the whole word was fairly spoken, and before Pat himself had sprung, Phil leaped forward. His feet touched the water first, He went down. A tremendous grasp seemed to seize upon him, dragging him downward, and ever downward. He gave himself up for lost. In the whirl of his senses, he seemed sinking into fathomless abysses, and in his ears there were the howling and the abhorrent uproar, and the deafening thunder-peal of a thousand cataracts. Then, in the midst of all this, another grasp clutched him, and dragged him swiftly forward, and whirled him round and round. Then he seemed to be thrown upward by the resistless upheaval of some mighty mass beneath him, and then suddenly he shot forth, out of the darkness and the uproar of the ingulfing waters, into the upper air and the glad light of day.

Clutching his oar, which he had held all this time with the grasp of a drowning man, he drew a long breath, and looked all around. Above him was the blue sky; farther on, across the sky, hung the suspension bridge; behind him was the howl of the Charybdis that he had just escaped.

Where was Pat?

As he thought of this, an involuntary shudder passed through him. He himself had escaped, and he now felt comparatively safe, for the oar was of immense assistance, and with the help of this it needed only a slight effort to keep his head above water. As to progress in any direction, the water was settling that question for him; for the mighty, resistless tide held him in its embrace, and was bearing him onward helplessly. There was no place to which he might look for escape, and no one to help.

But where was Pat?

III.

_Bart off on an Expedition.--The Search after Solomon.--The aged Toiler.--The Flaming Fury.--The brandished Broomstick.--Collapse of Solomon.--Extinction of the Flaming Fury.--Solomon vanishes.--Terrible Tidings.--An anxious Search.--Despair._

MEANWHILE Bart had started off, as we have seen, on his expedition after old Solomon. The place in which he proposed to seek after him was distinguished by the euphonious and historical name of Loch Lomond, which name originated from the existence of a small but very pretty lake in that locality, which was in the neighborhood of a hill. Now, this lake and this hill bore a fanciful resemblance to the famous Scottish lake and hill, and the names were applied to these by some enthusiastic Scotchman. The lake was one of a chain, all of which were small and rather pretty, and the whole region round about went by the name that properly belonged to the lake.

Two or three miles away from this lake there was what is called a “colored settlement,” which, of course, means a settlement inhabited by people of color. This was also called the “black settlement,” and also the “nigger settlement.” Solomon had informed Bart that he intended visiting this place, and Bart thought of this as the only place where he could be heard of.

The colored settlement was founded by some slaves, brought away from the Southern States by the British during the war of 1812. They had been presented with land here, and had been told to chop down the trees, clear the land, and become farmers. The settlement had not been a very great success, however, and it was generally admitted that the genius of these people did not lie in colonizing new countries.

It was a beautiful morning, and though Bart saw high fog banks piled up to the skies in the harbor and in the bay, yet he soon left behind him all thought of this, and entered the country. The scenery was attractive, the air was clear and exhilarating, the horse was fast, and everything conspired to fill him with joyous feeling. His mind reverted to Bruce’s letter, and he passed most of his time during the drive in speculating about the coming excursion, and in rejoicing over the happy accident that had taken Captain Corbet to Prince Edward Island, and brought him within sight of Bruce before he had engaged about the oats. Amid such pleasant thoughts as these his mind busied itself, and at length he reached the colored settlement.

He stopped at a rude log hut, which had a roof of poles and mud, from which a flour barrel projected, and served as a chimney. Here some squalid children were playing on the turf, and an elderly colored lady was engaged in washing. Her Bart accosted with a polite inquiry about Solomon.

“Solomon!” said she. “Wha dat ar? What? dat ar ole man? Mrs. Franklin’s ole man?”

Bart didn’t know anything about Mrs. Franklin, but he gave a description of Solomon, which was sufficiently accurate for this lady to recognize it.

“Dem’s um,” she said, in a positive tone. “Wal--dat ar ole man’s libben at Mrs. Franklin’s--”

“And where is Mrs. Franklin’s?”

“Jes you go ahead till you come to de meetin’ house, an it’s de sebent house after you get to de meetin-house.”

Bart drove on, and in due process of time reached the meeting-house, and then began to count the houses. He found a little difficulty about this, as he could hardly distinguish between what might be a house and what might also be a barn, and was stopping at a place in the road opposite a hut like the one at which he had first stopped, when his attention was arrested by the sight of a man in the field on the other side of the way. The man’s back was turned towards him, and he was toiling with all his might over a stone and a crowbar, occasionally straightening himself up and rubbing his back, and uttering groans which reached Bart’s ears even at that distance, and smote upon his heart.

That aged figure,--aged it was,--could that indeed be Solomon? and was this the way he enjoyed himself while on a visit to his friends? With a crowbar, prying up granite boulders? What a thought!

In a moment Bart was out of the wagon, and was running over the fields towards the old man. He came up close just as the old man was rubbing his back. He caught him by the arm. The old man gave a wild leap, and turned round with an expression of awful fear.

But the object of his fear resolved itself into the pleasant face of Bart, and all the terror fled, and a smile of joy illumed the venerable, yet dusky face. Tears started to his eyes, and, reaching out both hands, he dropped the crowbar; then, coming forward with a low moan of happiness, he exclaimed,--

“You! Mas’r Bart. You, Mas’r Bart--you--you--Mas’r Bart--”

Yes, it was Solomon.

Full of wonder and pity, Bart seized the hands of his old friend, and began asking him a thousand questions. What was he doing here? What did he mean by keeping away? And then, without waiting for an answer, he went on to tell about Bruce’s letter, and their proposed expedition, and the necessity which there was for him to accompany them. Finally he urged him to get ready as soon as possible.

To all this Solomon listened in silence, without saying a word. He stood with his hands clasped together, with his eyes fixed at times on Bart, and at times half closed, while his lips kept muttering low, inaudible words. At length, however, his face and manner underwent a change. He started back, his eyes were fixed on something in the distance, and that same expression of terror came over his face which Bart had seen upon it when he first accosted him.

At this Bart turned instinctively to see what it was that inspired such terror in the mind of Solomon.

He saw a colored lady--tall, gaunt, with a turban on her brow of flaming red, with a look of fury on her face, and a broom in her hand, which she was brandishing wildly. She came with great strides at a run, and was evidently coming towards them. Bart’s first idea was, that she might be a mad woman, and he had a vague impulse to run; but the next instant his mind connected this woman with Solomon, and suggested her as the cause of his fear. As for Solomon, he was now quite beside himself with terror. His hands fell nerveless by his sides, his jaw dropped, his head shook as with a palsy, his knees knocked together, he seemed scarce able to stand erect, and could not utter one single word; all the while his eyes were fixed on the advancing Fury with the flaming turban, and his look was the look of one who expected instant annihilation.

The Fury of the flaming turban drew nearer. Her course showed that she had emerged from the house on the opposite side of the road. As she rushed on, and as she brandished her broom, she howled out the most terrible threats against somebody, which somebody Bart now supposed must be Solomon, and at once, full of pity, determined to defend the old man from her fury. He therefore stood in front of Solomon, and was just about to call to his servant to come and help him, when the idea struck him that the Flaming Fury seemed strangely familiar to him; and as she came yet nearer, he recognized her perfectly. To his utter bewilderment and unbounded amazement, the Flaming Fury turned out to be no other than one who, for the last few years, had been quite a visitor at his father’s kitchen, and a dependant on his father’s bounty. “Black Betsy” was the name by which she was known. A silvery voice, a truly humble and grateful mind, a meek and quiet spirit, a winning demeanor, a smile that always charmed every one upon whom it beamed,--such was the Black Betsy that was known and loved in the Damer kitchen. But what was this? What had happened?

This Black Betsy? This Virago, this Terror, this Flaming Fury? This! Impossible. Yet there was the astounding fact. There was only one explanation. Black Betsy was mad!

No, Bart, she was not mad; she was only drunk;--mad drunk, if you like, but not what is generally called mad.

And thus, mad drunk, the Flaming Fury came bounding up, howling and brandishing her broom. The moment that he recognized her, Bart felt not the slightest fear of her. He stood in front of Solomon. He looked at her fixedly, and raised his hand with a quiet frown.

It is just possible that, if Bart had been a stranger, the Flaming Fury would have swept him away with her broom, as she would have swept a straw. But seeing him, and recognizing him, produced an effect instantaneous and most astonishing. She stopped, still staring at him. The broom for a few moments remained poised in her hands, and then slowly sank towards the ground; while, at the same time, the hard ferocity of her face died out utterly, and was succeeded by a smile so gentle, so amiable, and so motherly, that Bart looked at her in fresh amazement.

“Why, ef it ain’t de dear chicken! Ef it ain’t de dear little Mas’r Bart, his bressed sef. De sakes, now!”

This exclamation was uttered in the softest, and most silvery, and most winning of those tones which Bart had always associated with Black Betsy. This additional proof of the identity of this amiable being with the Flaming Fury only increased his wonder.

“An how is dat ar bressed angel, your mudder, Mas’r Bart? Clar ef dese yer ole eyes ain’t farly achin to see her agin.”

“She’s very well, thanks,” said Bart, slowly.

“Dat’s good; dat’s lubly. Clar ef it don’t go clean to my ole heart! An so you dribe out to see de ole man! Wal, I allus sez, dat ar Mas’r Bart, I ses, ef he ain’t de ’stror’nest, ’fecsh’nest chicken! All heart, I sez, he is; all clar lub--no mistake. An what is dis life wurf widout lub? Why, it’s notin but de soundin brasses an templin simplum. Clar ef it ain’t!”

While this conversation had been going on, Solomon had regained consciousness; and seeing the change that had come over the woman, and that the Flaming Fury had subsided into the gentlest of beings, he began to gather together his scattered senses. Bart’s back was turned to him, and so he did not see him. But Solomon did not care for that. His one idea now was to save himself for the time, at least.

So, first of all, he edged away a little, very slowly and very cautiously. No notice was taken of this, and he ventured to retreat still farther. Still Black Betsy went on talking in her silvery voice, and with her winning smile. So Solomon retreated still farther. Black Betsy saw all this movement, and once she raised the broom and held it in the air. But her face was wreathed with smiles, and her soft, gentle accents flowed on in a mellifluous strain; and so it was, that the upraised broom, instead of calling Solomon back, only hastened his retreat. He thereupon turned abruptly, and making his way as rapidly as possible to the nearest woods, he soon disappeared.

Black Betsy still went on, mellifluous and voluble. The warmth of her nature seemed boundless. Tears stood in her eyes as she told Bart how she loved his mother. Finally she stopped with a sob, overcome with emotion, as she related the kindness she had received from his father, and began to cry.

At this Bart, who had been trying in vain to understand her, finally gave it up, and thought of Solomon. He turned around to speak to him.

To his amazement Solomon was not there.

And now this completed his bewilderment. He drew a long breath, and gave up altogether every effort to understand anything at all.

“Why, where has Solomon gone?” he asked.

“Berryin,” said Black Betsy, gently--“berryin. De ole man dreadful fond o’ berries.”

“Berries? Well, that’s odd. Why, I want to see him.”

“He tink he gib you pleasant ’prise--go pick berries for de dear chicken,” said Black Betsy, in a tender voice.

“But I want him,” said Bart. “I want him now. Where did he go?”