Chapter 6

This, he saw, was its extreme limit, beyond which it did not extend. There was no communication with any shore. There was no more indication now of land than when he had first arrived. This discovery was a gradual one. It had been heralded by many fears and suspicions, so that at last, when it forced itself on his convictions, he was not altogether unprepared. Still, the shock was terrible, and once more poor Tom had to struggle with his despair--a despair, too, that was all the more profound from the hopes that he had been entertaining. He found, at length, in addition to this, that the tide was rising, that it was advancing towards his resting-place, and that it would, no doubt, overflow it all before long. It had been half tide when he landed, and but a little was uncovered; at full tide he saw that it would all be covered up by the water,--sea weed, rocks, and all,--and concealed from human eye.

In the midst of these painful discoveries there suddenly occurred to him the true name and nature of this place.

Quaco Ledge!

That was the place which Captain Corbet had described. He recalled now the full description. Here it lay before him; upon it he stood; and he found that it corresponded in every respect with the description that the captain had given. If this were indeed so, and the description were true,--and he could not doubt this,--how desperate his situation was, and how he had been deceived in his false hopes! Far, far away was he from any shore!--in the middle of the bay; on a place avoided by all--a place which he should shun above all other places if he hoped for final escape!

And now he was as eager to quit this ill-omened place as he had once been to reach it. The tide was yet low. He tried to push the boat down, but could not. He saw that he would have to wait. So he got inside the boat, and, sitting down, he waited patiently. The time passed slowly, and Tom looked despairingly out over the water. Something attracted his attention. It was a long pole, which had struck against the edge of the shoal. He got out of the boat, and, securing it, he walked back again. It was some waif that had been drifting about till it was thus cast at his feet. He thought of taking it for a mast, and making use of the sail. The idea was an attractive one. He pulled the sail out, unfolded it, and found it to be the jib of some schooner. He cut off one end of this, and then with his knife began to make a hole in the seat for his mast. It was very slow work, but he succeeded at last in doing it, and inserted the pole. Then he fastened the sail to it. He was rather ignorant of navigation, but he had a general idea of the science, and thought he would learn by experience. By cutting off the rope from the edge of the sail he obtained a sheet, and taking off the cover of the biscuit box a second time, he put this aside to use as a rudder.

But now, in what direction ought he to steer?

This was an insoluble problem. He could tell now by the flow of the current the points of the compass, but could not tell in which direction he ought to go. The New Brunswick coast he thought was nearest, but he dreaded it. It seemed perilous and unapproachable. He did not think much better of the Nova Scotia coast. He thought rather of Cape d'Or, as a promising place of refuge, or the Petitcodiac. So, after long deliberation, he decided on steering back again, especially as the wind was blowing directly up the bay.

By the time that he had finished these preparations and deliberations the boat was afloat. Eagerly Tom pushed it away from the shoal; eagerly, and with trembling hands, he let the sail unfold, and thrust the board into the water astern. The boat followed the impulse of the wind, and the young sailor saw with delight that his experiment was successful, and before long the dark rocks of Quaco Ledge were lost to view.

Now, where there is a definite object to steer by, or a compass to guide one, and a decent rudder, even an inexperienced hand can manage to come somewhere near the point that he aims at. But take a boat like Tom's, and a rude and suddenly extemporized sail, with no other rudder than a bit of board, with no compass, and a surrounding of thick fog, and it would puzzle even an experienced sailor to guide himself aright. Tom soon suspected that his course was rather a wild one; his board in particular became quite unmanageable, and he was fatigued with trying to hold it in the water. So he threw it aside, and boldly trusted to his sail alone.

The boat seemed to him to be making very respectable progress. The wind was fresh, and the sea only moderate. The little waves beat over the bows, and there was quite a commotion astern. Tom thought he was doing very well, and heading as near as possible towards the Petitcodiac. Besides, in his excitement at being thus saved from mere blind drifting, he did not much care where he went, for he felt assured that he was now on the way out of his difficulties.

In an hour or two after leaving the ledge it grew quite dark, and Tom saw that it would be necessary to prepare for the night. His preparations were simple, consisting in eating a half dozen biscuit. He now began to feel a little thirsty, but manfully struggled against this feeling. Gradually the darkness grew deeper, until at last it assumed the intense character of the preceding night. But still Tom sat up, and the boat went on. The wind did not slacken, nor did the boat's progress cease. Hours passed by in this way. As to the tides, Tom could not tell now very well whether they were rising or falling, and, in fact, he was quite indifferent, being satisfied fully with his progress. As long as the wind distended his sail, and bore the boat onward, he cared not whether the tide favored or opposed.

Hours passed, but such was Tom's excitement that he still bore up, and thought nothing of rest or of sleep. His attention was needed, too, and so he kept wide awake, and his ears were ever on the stretch to hear the slightest sound. But at last the intense excitement and the long fatigue began to overpower him. Still he struggled against his weakness, and still he watched and listened.

Hours passed on, and the wind never ceased to fill the sail, and the boat never ceased to go onward in a course of which Tom could have no idea. It was a course totally different from the one which be intended--a course which depended on the chance of the wind; and one, too, which was varied by the sweep of the tide as it rose or fell; but the course, such as it was, continued on, and Tom watched and waited until, at last, from sheer exhaustion, he fell sound asleep.

His dreams were much disturbed, but he slept on soundly, and when he awaked it was broad day. He looked around in deep disappointment. Fog was everywhere, as before, and nothing could be seen. Whether he was near any shore or not he could not tell. Suddenly he noticed that the wind was blowing from an opposite direction. How to account for this was at first a mystery, for the fog still prevailed, and the opposite wind could not bring fog. Was it possible that the boat had turned during his sleep? He knew that it was quite possible. Indeed, he believed that this was the case. With this impression he determined to act on the theory that the boat had turned, and not that the wind had changed. The latter idea seemed impossible. The wind was the chill, damp fog wind--the sou-wester. Convinced of this, Tom turned the boat, and felt satisfied that he had resumed his true course.

After a time the wind went down, and the sail flapped idly against the mast. Tom was in a fever of impatience, but could do nothing. He felt himself to be once more at the mercy of the tides. The wind had failed him, and nothing was left but to drift. All that day he drifted, and night came on. Still it continued calm. Tom was weary and worn out, but so intense was his excitement that he could not think of sleep. At midnight the wind sprung up a little; and now Tom determined to keep awake, so that the boat might not again double on her track. He blamed himself for sleeping on the previous night, and losing so much progress. Now he was determined to keep awake.

His resolution was carried out. His intense eagerness to reach some shore, no matter where, and his fear of again losing what he had gained, kept sleep from his eyes. All that night he watched his boat. The wind blew fitfully, sometimes carrying the boat on rapidly, again dying down.

So the next morning came.

It was Thursday.

It was Monday night when he had drifted out, and all that time he had been on the deep, lost in the fog.

And now, wearied, dejected, and utterly worn out, he looked around in despair, and wondered where this would end. Fog was everywhere, as before, and, as before, not a thing could be seen.

Hours passed on; the wind had sprang up fresh, and the boat went on rapidly.

Suddenly Tom sprang upright, and uttered a loud cry.

There full before him he saw a giant cliff, towering far overhead, towards which the boat was sailing. At its base the waves were dashing. Over its brow trees were bending. In the air far above he heard the hoarse cries of sea-gulls.

In his madness he let the boat drive straight on, and was close to it before he thought of his danger. He could not avoid it now, however, for he did not know how to turn the boat. On it went, and in a few moments struck the beach at the base of the cliff.

The tide was high; the breeze was moderate, and there was but little sun. The boat was not injured by running ashore there. Tom jumped out, and, taking the rope in his hands, walked along the rough and stony beach for about a hundred yards, pulling the boat after him. There the cliff was succeeded by a steep slope, beyond which was a gentle, grass-grown declivity. Towards this he bent his now feeble steps, still tugging at the boat, and drawing it after him.

At length he reached the grassy slope, and found here a rough beach. He fastened the boat securely to the trunk of a tree that grew near.

Then he lifted out the box of biscuit, and over this he threw the sail.

He stood for a few moments on the bank, and looked all around for signs of some human habitation; but no signs appeared. Tom was too exhausted to go in search of one. He had not slept for more than thirty hours. The country that he saw was cleared. Hills were at a little distance, but the fog which hung all around concealed everything from view. One look was enough.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, he fell upon his knees, and offered up a fervent prayer of thankfulness for his astonishing escape.

Then fatigue overpowered him, and, rolling himself up in the sail, he went to sleep.

VIII.

Off in Search.--Eager Outlook.--Nothing but Fog.--Speaking a Schooner.--Pleasant Anecdotes.--Cheer up.--The Heart of Corbet.

After the arrival of Bruce and Bart, Captain Corbet did not delay his departure much longer. The vessel was already afloat, and though the tide was still rising, yet the wind was sufficiently favorable to enable her to go on her way. The sails were soon set, and, with the new boat in tow, the Antelope weighed anchor, and took her departure. For about two hours but little progress was made against the strong opposing current; yet they had the satisfaction of reaching the mouth of the river, and by ten o'clock, when the tide turned and began to fall, they were fairly in the bay. The wind here was ahead, but the strong tide was now in their favor, and they hoped for some hours to make respectable progress.

During this time they had all kept an anxious lookout, but without any result. No floating craft of any kind appeared upon the surface of the water. Coming down the river, the sky was unclouded, and all the surrounding scene was fully visible; but on reaching the bay, they saw before them, a few miles down, a lofty wall of light-gray cloud. Captain Corbet waved his hand towards this.

"We're in for it," said he, "or we precious soon will be."

"What's that?" asked Phil.

"Our old friend--a fog bank. You'd ought to know it by this time, sure."

There it lay, a few miles off, and every minute brought them nearer. The appearance of the fog threw an additional gloom over the minds of all, for they saw the hopeless character of their search. Of what avail would it be to traverse the seas if they were all covered by such thick mists? Still nothing else was to be done, and they tried to hope for the best.

"Any how," said Captain Corbet, "thar's one comfort. That thar fog may go as quick as it come. It ony needs a change of wind. Why, I've knowed it all vanish in half an hour, an the fog as thick as it is now."

"But sometimes it lasts long--don't it?"

"I should think it did. I've knowed it hang on for weeks."

At this gloomy statement the boys said not a word.

Soon after the schooner approached the fog bank, and in a little while it had plunged into the midst of its misty folds. The chill of the damp clouds, as they enveloped them, struck additional chill to their hearts. It was into the midst of this that poor Tom had drifted, they thought, and over these seas, amidst this impenetrable atmosphere, he might even now be drifting. In the midst of the deep dejection consequent upon such thoughts, it was difficult for them to find any solid ground for hope.

The wind was moderate, yet adverse, and the schooner had to beat against it. As she went on each tack, they came in sight of the shores; but as time passed, the bay widened, and Captain Corbet kept away from the land as much as possible. All the time the boys never ceased to maintain their forlorn lookout, and watched over the sides, and peered anxiously through the mist, in the hope that the gloomy waters might suddenly disclose to their longing eyes the form of the drifting boat and their lost companion.

"I tell you what it is, boys," said Captain Corbet, after a long and thoughtful silence; "the best plan of acting in a biz of this kind is to pluck up sperrit an go on. Why, look at me. You mind the time when that boat, that thar i-dentical, individdle boat, drifted away onst afore, with youns in it. You remember all about that,--course. Well, look at me. Did I mourn? Did I fret? Was I cast down? Nary down; not me. I cheered up. I cheered up Mr. Long. I kep everybody in good sperrits. An what was the result? Result was, you all turned up in prime order and condition, a enjyin of yourselves like all possessed, along with old O'Rafferty.

"Again, my friends," he continued, as the boys made no remark, "consider this life air short an full of vycissitoods. Ups an downs air the lot of pore fallen hoomanity. But if at the fust blast of misforten we give up an throw up the game, what's the good of us? The question now, an the chief pint, is this--Who air we, an whar air we goin, an what air we purposin to do? Fust, we air hooman beins; secondly, we air a traversin the vast an briny main; and thirdly, we hope to find a certain friend of ourn, who was borne away from us by the swellin tide. Thar's a aim for us--a high an holy aim; an now I ask you, as feller-critters, how had we ought to go about it? Had we ought to peek, an pine, an fret, an whine? Had we ought to snivel, and give it up at the fust? Or had we ought, rayther, to be up an doin,--pluck up our sperrits like men, and go about our important work with energy? Which of these two, my friends? I pause for a reply."

This was quite a speech for Captain Corbet, and the effort seemed quite an exhaustive one. He paused some time for a reply; but as no reply was forthcoming, he continued his remarks.

"Now, see here," said he; "this here whole business reminds me of a story I once read in a noospaper, about a man up in this here identical river, the Petticoat Jack, who, like a fool, pulled up his boat on the bank, and wont off to sleep in her. Wal, as a matter of course, he floated off,--for the tide happened to be risin,--an when he woke up out of his cool an refreshin slumbers, he found himself afar on the briny deep, a boundin like 'a thing of life,' o'er the deep heavin sea. Besides, it was precious foggy,--jest as it is now,--an the man couldn't see any more'n we can. Wal, the story went on to say, how that thar man, in that thar boat, went a driftin in that thar fashion, in that thar fog; an he drifted, an drifted, an derifted, for days an days, up an down, on one side an t'other side, an round every way,--an, mind you, he hadn't a bit to eat, or to drink either, for that matter,--'t any rate, the paper didn't mention no such thing; an so, you know, he drifted, an d-e-e-e-rifted,--until at last he druv ashore. An now, whar d'ye think he druv?"

The boys couldn't think.

"Guess, now."

The boys couldn't guess.

"D'ye guv it up?"

They did.

"Wal, the paper said, he druv ashore at Grand Manan; but I've my doubts about it."

The captain paused, looked all around through the fog, and stood for a moment as though listening to some sound.

"I kine o' thought," said he, "that I detected the dash of water on the shore. I rayther think it's time to bring her round."

The vessel was brought round on another tack, and the captain resumed his conversation.

"What I was jest sayin," he continued, "reminds me of a story I onst heard, or read, I forget which (all the same, though), about two boys which went adrift on a raft. It took place up in Scott's Bay, I think, at a ship-yard in that thar locality.

"These two unfortunate children, it seems, had made a raft in a playful mude, an embarkin on it they had been amoosin theirselves with paddlin about by pushin it with poles. At length they came to a pint where poles were useless; the tide got holt of the raft, an the ferrail structoor was speedily swept onward by the foorus current. Very well. Time rolled on, an that thar raft rolled on too,--far over the deep bellew sea,--beaten by the howlin storm, an acted upon by the remorseless tides. I leave you to pictoor to yourselves the sorrow of them thar two infant unfortunits, thus severed from their hum an parients, an borne afar, an scarce enough close on to keep 'em from the inclemency of the weather. So they drifted, an drifted, an de-e-rifted, until at last they druv ashore; an now, whar do you think it was that they druv?"

The boys couldn't say.

"Guess now."

The boys declined.

"Try."

They couldn't.

"Name some place."

They couldn't think of any.

"D'ye guv it up?" asked the captain, excitedly.

They did.

"Well, then," said he, in a triumphant tone, "they druv ashore on Brier Island; an ef that thar ain't pooty tall driftin, then I'm a Injine."

To this the boys had no reply to make.

"From all this," continued the captain, "you must perceive that this here driftin is very much more commoner than you hev ben inclined to bleeve it to be. You also must see that thar's every reason for hope. So up with your gizzards! Pluck up your sperrits! Rise and look fortin an the footoor squar in the face. Squar off at fortin, an hav it out with her on the spot. I don't want to hev you go mopin an whinin about this way. Hello!"

Captain Corbet suddenly interrupted his remarks by an exclamation. The exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance of a sail immediately to windward. She was coming up the bay before the wind, and came swiftly through the fog towards them. In passing on her way, she came astern of the Antelope.

"Schooner, ahoy!" cried Captain Corbet; and some conversation took place, in which they learned that the stranger was the schooner Wave, from St. John, and that she had not seen any signs whatever of any drifting boat.

This news was received sadly by the boys, and Captain Corbet had to exert his utmost to rouse them from their depression, but without much effect.

"I don't know how it is," said he, plaintively, "but somehow your blues air contiguous, an I feel as ef I was descendin into a depression as deep as yourn. I don't remember when I felt so depressed, cept last May--time I had to go off in the Antelope with taters, arter I thought I'd done with seafarin for the rest of my life. But that thar vessel war wonderously resussutated, an the speouse of my buzzum druv me away to traverse the sea. An I had to tar myself away from the clingin gerasp of my weepin infant,--the tender bud an bulossum of an old man's life--tar myself away, an feel myself a outcast. Over me hovered contennooly the image of the pinin infant, an my heart quivered with responsive sympathy. An I yearned--an I pined--an I groaned--an I felt that life would be intoll'ble till I got back to the babby. An so it was that I passed away, an had scace the heart to acknowledge your youthful cheers. Wal, time rolled on, an what's the result? Here I air. Do I pine now? Do I peek? Not a pine! Not a peek! As tender a heart as ever bet still beats in this aged frame; but I am no longer a purray to sich tender reminiscinsuz of the babby as onst used to consume my vitals."

Thus it was that the venerable captain talked with the boys, and it was thus that he sought, by every possible means, to cheer them up. In this way the day passed on, and after five or six hours they began to look for a turn of tide. During this time the schooner had been beating; and as the fog was as thick as ever, it was impossible for the boys to tell where they were. Indeed, it did not seem as though they had been making any progress.

"We'll have to anchor soon," said the captain, closing his eyes and turning his face meditatively to the quarter whence the wind came.

"Anchor?"

"Yes."

"What for?"

"Wal, you see it'll soon be dead low tide, an we can't go on any further when it turns. We'll have wind an tide both agin us."

"How far have we come now?"

"Wal, we've come a pooty considerable of a lick now--mind I tell you. 'Tain't, of course, as good as ef the wind had ben favorable, but arter all, that thar tide was a pooty considerable of a tide, now."

"How long will you anchor?"

"Why, till the next tarn of tide,--course."

"When will that be?"

"Wal, somewhar about eleven o'clock."

"Eleven o'clock?"

"Yes."

"Why, that's almost midnight."

"Course it is."

"Wouldn't it be better to cruise off in the bay? It seems to me anything is better than keeping still."

"No, young sir; it seems to me that jest now anythin is better than tryin to cruise in the bay, with a flood tide a comin up. Why, whar d'ye think we'd be? It would ony take an hour or two to put us on Cape Chignecto, or Cape d'Or, onto a place that we wouldn't git away from in a hurry,--mind I tell you."

To this, of course, the boys had nothing to say. So, after a half hour's further sail, the anchor was dropped, and the Antelope stopped her wanderings for a time.

Tedious as the day had been, it was now worse. The fog was as thick as ever, the scene was monotonous, and there was nothing to do. Even Solomon's repasts had, in a great measure, lost their attractions. He had spread a dinner for them, which at other times, and under happier circumstances, would have been greeted with uproarious enthusiasm; but at the present time it was viewed with comparative indifference. It was the fog that threw this gloom over them. Had the sky been clear, and the sun shining, they would have viewed the situation with comparative equanimity; but the fog threw terror all its own around Tom's position; and by shutting them in on every side, it forced them to think of him who was imprisoned in the same way--their lost companion, who now was drifting in the dark. Besides, as long as they were in motion, they had the consciousness that they were doing something, and that of itself was a comfort; but now, even that consolation was taken away from them, and in their forced inaction they fell back again into the same despondency which they had felt at Petitcodiac.