Part 2
“We do not often have,” said he, “at this place visitors above the rank of fishermen, and we have never before had any visitors like you. I can assure you a welcome, dear boys, from all the good people here. There is to be a fête to-day in honor of the marriage of two of my flock. Would you like to go? If so, I invite you most cordially, and assure you of a welcome.”
This unexpected invitation, thus kindly given, was accepted with undisguised eagerness; and thereupon the boys accompanied the priest, who first of all went to his own home, where he offered them some simple refreshments. The priest’s home was a small cottage of very unpretending exterior, and very similar to all the other cottages; but inside there were marks of refined taste and scholarly pursuits. A few Latin and Greek classics were on a small book-shelf. There was an harmonium, with some volumes of sacred music, and here and there were some volumes which were of a theological character. The entertainment of the priest consisted of some coffee, which the boys were surprised to find, and which they afterwards unanimously pronounced to be “perfectly delicious,” and some fresh eggs, with immaculate bread and butter.
After chatting with the boys for about an hour, the priest announced that it was time to start, as their destination was on the opposite side of the island. They accordingly set out at once, and walked along the slope of a hill. There was no road, but only a footpath, which served all the purposes of the Magdalen Islanders, in spite of the skipper’s theories about a railway. On the way the priest entertained them with stories of his life on these secluded islands, of the storms of winter, of the ice blockade, of the perils of the sea, of the vast solitude of the surrounding gulf, where in winter no ship ever ventures. Yet in spite of the loneliness, he affirmed that no one here had any sense of desolation, for it seemed to all of the inhabitants, just as it seems to the inhabitants of other countries, that this home of theirs was the centre of the universe, and all other lands strange, and drear, and unattractive.
At length they reached their destination. It was a cottage of rather larger size than usual, and it seemed as if the whole population of the island had gathered here. Tables were spread in the open air, and a barrel of cider was on tap. As they drew near they heard the sound of a fiddle, and saw figures moving about in a lively dance. Old men, young men, women, girls, and children were all laughing, talking, dancing, or playing. It was a scene full of a curious attractiveness, and exhibited in a striking way the irrepressible gayety that characterizes the French wherever they go.
At their approach the laughter and the dance ceased for a time, and the company welcomed the good priest with smiles and kindly words. The boys also came in for a share of the hospitable welcome, and as soon as the priest had explained who they were, they were at once received as most welcome and honored guests. Unfortunately the boys could not speak a word of French, and the people could not speak a word of English, so that there was not that freedom of intercourse between the two parties which might have been desirable; but the priest did much to bring about this interchange of feelings by acting as interpreter, and the boys also by gestures or by smiles endeavored, not without some success, to make known their feelings for themselves.
The boys soon distributed themselves about at random, and the good people never ceased to pay delicate little attentions to them by offering them coffee or cakes, by uttering a few words in the hope that they might be understood, or, if words were wanting, they took refuge in smiles. But words were not wanting, and different members of the party made violent efforts to break through the restraints which a foreign language imposed, and express their feelings more directly.
Thus Captain Corbet, who had accompanied the party, finding himself hospitably entertained by a smiling old Frenchman, endeavored to make known the joy of his heart.
“Coffee,” said he, tapping his cup and grinning.
“Oui, oui,” said the Frenchman.
“Coffee dood--pooty--nicey--O, velly nicey picey.”
Captain Corbet evidently was falling back upon his “baby talk,” under the impression that it would be more intelligible to a foreigner. But this foreigner did not quite understand him. He only shrugged his shoulders.
“Cooky--cakey--nicey,” continued Captain Corbet, in, an amiable tone. “All dood--all nicey--velly.”
And he again paused and smiled.
“Plait-il?” said the Frenchman, politely.
“Plate? O, no, no plate for me, an thank you kindly all the same.”
The Frenchman looked at him in a bewildered way, but still smiled.
“Vouley vous du pain?” he asked, at length.
“Pan?” said Captain Corbet; “pan? Course not. What’d I do with a pan?--but thankin you all the same, course.”
The Frenchman relapsed into silence.
“It was a pooty ’itile tottage,” said Captain Corbet, resuming his baby talk, “an a pooty tompany, an it was all dood--pooty--nicey.”
But the Frenchman didn’t understand a word, and so at length Captain Corbet, with a sigh, gave up the attempt.
Meanwhile the others were making similar endeavors. Tom had got hold of a French boy about his own age.
“Parley vous Français,” said Tom, solemnly.
“Oui,” said the French boy.
“Oui, moosoo,” said Tom.
The French boy smiled.
“Merci, madame,” continued Tom, boldly.
The boy stared.
“Nong--tong--paw,” proceeded Tom, in a business-like manner.
Of this the boy could evidently make nothing.
But here Tom seemed to have reached the limit of his knowledge of French, and the conversation came to a sudden and lamentable end.
Bart had carried on for some time an interesting conversation with smiles and gestures, when he too ventured into audible words.
“Bon!” said he, in an impressive manner; and then touching the breast of the boy to whom he was speaking, he continued, “You--tu--you know--you’re bon;” then, laying his hand on his heart, he said, “me bon;” then, pointing to the cup, “coffee bon;” then sweeping his hand around, he added, “and all bon--house bon, company bon, people bon.”
“Ah, oui,” cried the boy. “Oui, je vous comprends. Aha, oui, la bonne compagnie, le bon peuple--”
“Bon company, bon people, bon company, bon people,” cried Bart, delighted at his success in getting up a conversation; “bon coffee, too; I tell you what, it’s the bonnest coffee that I’ve tasted for many a long day.”
At this the boy looked blank.
“Parley vous Français?” asked Bart, in an anxious tone.
“Oui,” said the boy.
“Well, then, I don’t,” said Bart; “but the moment I get home I intend to study it.”
And at this stage Bart’s conversation broke down.
Pat chose another mode of accomplishing the same end. Captain Corbet had been acting on the theory that foreigners were like babies, and could understand baby talk. Pat, in addition to this, acted on the theory that they were deaf, and had to be addressed accordingly. So, as he was refreshing himself with coffee and cakes, he drew a little nearer to the old woman who had poured it out for him, and bent down his head. The old woman was at that moment intent upon her coffeepot, and did not notice Pat. Suddenly Pat, with his mouth close to her ear, shouted out with a perfect yell,--
“Bully for you! and thank you kindly, marm!”
With a shriek of terror the startled old woman sprang up and fell backward. The chair on which she had been sitting, a rather rickety affair, gave way and went down. The old lady fell with the chair upon the ground, and lay for a moment motionless. Pat, horror-struck, stood confounded, and stared in silence at the ruin he had wrought. The bystanders, alarmed at the shout and shriek, crowded around, and for a moment there was universal confusion. Among the bystanders was the priest. To him Pat turned in his despair, and tried to explain. The priest listened, and then went to see about the old woman. Fortunately she had fallen on the soft turf, and was not at all hurt. She was soon on her feet, and another chair was procured, in which she seated herself. The priest then explained the whole affair. Pat was fully forgiven, and the harmony of the festival was perfectly restored. But Pat’s laudable efforts at maintaining a conversation had received so severe a check that he did not open his mouth for the rest of the day.
The festival went on. Fun and hilarity prevailed all around. The dancing grew more and more vigorous. At length the contagion spread to the elder ones of the party, and the boys were astonished to see old men stepping forth to skip and dance about the green; then old women came forward to take a part, until, at length, all were dancing. The boys stood as spectators, until at length Bart determined to throw himself into the spirit of the scene. He therefore found a partner, and plunged into the dance. The others followed. Captain Corbet alone remained, seated near a table, viewing the scene with his usual benevolent glance.
In the midst of this festive scene the skipper approached. He walked with rapid steps, and, without hesitating an instant, seized a partner and flung himself, with all the energy of his race, into the mazy dance.
“I don’t often dance, boys,” he remarked, afterwards, “but when I do, I mean business.”
It was evident that on this occasion the skipper did mean business. He danced more vigorously than any. He jumped higher; he whirled his partner round faster; he danced with more partners than any other, for he went through the whole assemblage, and led out every female there, from the oldest woman down to the smallest girl.
Most of the time he chatted volubly, and flung out remarks which excited roars of laughter. He won all hearts. He was, in fact, an immense success. The boys wondered, for they had not imagined that he could speak French.
He alluded to this afterwards.
“We have a natral affinity with the French down in New England,” said he. “When America was first colonized, our forefathers had to fight the French all the time. The two races were thus brought into connection. Our forefathers thus caught from the French that nasal twang with which the uneducated still speak English. You find that twang among the uneducated classes all over the British provinces and New England. It’s French--that’s what it is. Corbet and I are both uneducated men, and we both speak English with the French twang. I speak French first rate; and Corbet there could speak it first rate also, if he only knew the language perfectly.”
These remarks the boys did not quite know how to take. The skipper seemed to have a bantering way with him, and spoke so oddly that it was impossible for them to make out half of the time whether he was in earnest or only in jest.
III.
_Friendly Advice and dismal Forebodings.--Once more upon the Waters, yet once more.--Due North.--A Calm.--The Calm continues.--A terrible Disclosure.--Despair of Corbet.--Solomon finds his Occupation gone.--Taking Stock.--Short Allowance._
ANOTHER day was passed very pleasantly at the Magdalen Islands, and then the boys concluded that they had seen about all that there was to be seen in this place. As the question where next to go arose, they Concluded to ask the skipper.
“Well, boys,” said he, “in the first place, let me ask you if you’ve ever heard of Anticosti?”
“Of course we have,” said Bart.
“Well, don’t go there; don’t go near it; don’t go within fifty mile of it; don’t speak of it; don’t think of it; and don’t dream of it. It’s a place of horror, a howling wilderness, the abomination of desolation, a haunted island, a graveyard of unfortunate sailors. Its shores are lined with their bones. Don’t you go and add your young bones to the lot. You can do far better with them.”
“Well, where do you advise us to go?” asked Arthur.
The skipper thought for a few moments without answering.
“Well,” said he, “you know Sable Island.”
“Yes,” said Bart, in some surprise.
“Well,” said the skipper, impressively, “don’t go there; don’t go within a hundred miles of it; don’t speak of it; don’t think of it; don’t dream of it.”
“But you’ve said all that to us before,” said Bruce. “We want to know where we _are_ to go, not where we are _not_ to go.”
“Well,” said the skipper, “I am aware that I’ve said all this before, and I say it a second time, deliberately, for the simple purpose of impressing it upon your minds. There’s nothin like repetition to impress a thing on the memory; and so, if you ever come to grief on Anticosti, or on Sable Island, you’ll remember my warnin, and you’ll never feel like blamin me.”
“But where ought we to go?” asked Bruce.
“Well, that’s the next point. Now, I’ve been thinkin’ all about it, and to my mind there ain’t any place in all this here region that comes up to the Bay of Islands, Newfoundland.”
“The Bay of Islands?”
“Yes, the Bay of Islands, on the west coast of Newfoundland. It’s a great place. I’ve been there over and over, and I know it like a book. Thousands of vessels go there every season. It’s one of the best harbors in the gulf. It’s one of the most beautiful places in the world. The air is bracing, the climate salubrious, the scenery inviting; and it only needs a first-class hotel with all the modern improvements in order to become a number one waterin-place. Yes, by ginger!” he continued, “you plant a first-class hotel there, and let that there place become known, and there’s nothin to prevent it from goin ahead of Long Branch or Newport, or any other place you can mention.
“Then,” continued the skipper, “if you wanted to go any further, you might go up the Straits of Belle Isle, and round Newfoundland. If you had time, you might take a run over to Greenland; it’s gettin to be quite a place, a fashionable resort in the hot summer; but perhaps you won’t have time, and won’t care about doin more than cruisin round Newfoundland, and then home.”
Once more the skipper’s tone seemed somewhat extravagant to the boys, and they did not know how to take it.
“O, well,” said Bart, “we don’t want to go to Greenland this season. When we do go there, we shall probably go for good; but just now, we want to confine ourselves to the gulf. If you can really recommend the Bay of Islands, perhaps we had better go there; that is,” added Bart, “unless you think we had better go to Iceland.”
The skipper looked at Bart for a few moments in silence, and a smile gradually passed over his face.
“Well,” said he, after a pause, “that’s the identical place that I was just going to recommend, when you took the words out of my mouth. The fact is, boys, with that old tub of yours you might as well go to Iceland as anywhere else. Every time I look at it I am thunderstruck. What were your fathers and mothers thinkin of when they let you come away up here in such an old rattle-trap?--an old tub that isn’t worth being condemned! Do you think you’ll ever get home again in her? Not you. Do you know where that old tub’s bound to go before the end of this season? Down to the bottom of the sea; and if you don’t go in her, you may bless your lucky stars. I only wish I wasn’t otherwise engaged. I’d make you all clear out at once, and come aboard the Fawn.”
Captain Corbet was not present, and did not hear these insulting reflections upon his beloved Antelope, and therefore was spared the pain which they would have caused to his aged bosom; but the boys were not the ones to listen to such insinuations in silence. The Antelope was dear to them from past associations, and they all began at once to vindicate her character. They talked long and eloquently about her. They spoke of her speed, soundness, and beauty. They told of her performances thus far.
At all of which the skipper only grinned.
“Mark my words, boys,” said he; “that there tub is goin to the bottom.”
“Well, if she does, she’ll get up again,” said Bart.
The opinions of the two parties were so different that any further debate was useless. The skipper believed that they were bound for the bottom of the sea; the boys on the contrary had faith in the Antelope. The end of it all was, that they concluded to take the skipper’s advice in part, and sail for the Bay of Islands. This place was one which they all were desirous of visiting, and they thought that when they had gone that far, they could then decide best where next to go.
They were to leave the next morning. That evening they took leave of the friendly skipper.
“Boys,” said he, “I’m afraid we’ll never meet again; but if you do get back safe from this perilous adventure of yours, and if any of you ever happen to be at Gloucester, Massachusetts, I do wish you’d look me up, and let me know. I’d give anything to see any one of you again.”
With these words the skipper shook hands with each one of them heartily, and so took his leave.
Early on the following morning the Antelope spread her sails and began once more to traverse the seas, heading towards the north. The wind was fair, and all that day they moved farther and farther away from the Magdalen Islands, until at length towards evening they were lost to view in distance and darkness.
On the next day they were all up early. They saw all around a boundless expanse of water. No land was anywhere visible, and not a sail was in sight. This was a novelty to the boys, for never yet had any of them had this experience in the Antelope. Some of them had been out of sight of land, it is true; but then they were in large ships, or ocean steamers. Being in such a situation in a craft like the Antelope, was a far different thing. Yet none of them felt anything like anxiety, nor had the slurs of the skipper produced any effect upon their affectionate trust in their gallant bark, and in their beloved Captain Corbet.
Certainly on the present occasion there was little enough cause for anxiety about the sea-worthiness of the Antelope. The sea was as smooth as a mirror, and its glassy surface extended far and wide around them. There was not a breath of air stirring. They learned from Wade that the wind had gradually died away between sundown and midnight, until it had ceased altogether. They were now in a dead calm.
None of the party was very well pleased at this. They all wished to be moving. They disliked calms, and would have much preferred a moderate gale of wind. The Antelope, however, was here, and there was no help for it. She was far away from land. She lay gently rising and falling, as the long ocean rollers raised her up and let her down; and her sails flapped idly in the still air, at the motion of the vessel. The boys did the best they could under the circumstances, and tried to pass away the time in various ways. Some of them tried to sleep; others extemporized a checker-board, and played till they were tired; others walked up and down, or lounged about. All of them, however, found their chief employment in one occupation, and that was eating. Ever since they had been on the water their appetites had been sharpened; and now that they had nothing else to do, the occupation of eating became more important and engrossing. To prolong the repast while it was before them as far as possible, and then to anticipate the next, were important aids towards killing the time.
All that day the calm continued: on going to bed that night, the boys confidently looked forward to a change of weather on the following day. The night was calm. The following day came. They were all up betimes. To their deep disappointment they found no change whatever. There was the same calm, the same unruffled sea, the same cloudless sky. Not a sail was visible anywhere, and of course there was no sign of land on any quarter.
The second day the time hung more heavily on their hands. Some of them proposed fishing; but they had no hooks, and moreover no bait. Pat proposed fashioning a spike into a hook; fastening it on a line, and fishing for sharks, and worked all day at a rusty spike for this purpose. Unfortunately, he could not get it sharp enough, and so he had at length to give it up.
Captain Corbet was perhaps the most impatient of all; and this seemed singular to the boys, who thus far had known him only as the most patient and the most enduring of men.
On this occasion, however, his patience seemed to have departed. He fidgeted about incessantly. He kept watching the sea, the sky, and the horizon, and occupied himself for hours in all the various ways common among seamen, who indulge in the superstitious practice of trying to “raise the wind.” One mode consisted in standing in one position motionless for half an hour or more, watching the horizon, and whistling: another was a peculiar snapping of the fingers; another was the burning of some hairs pulled from his own venerable head. These and other similar acts excited intense interest among the boys, and helped to make the time pass less slowly. Unfortunately, not one of these laudable efforts was successful, and the obstinate wind refused to be “raised.”
That day the boys detected something in their meals which seemed like a decline of skill on the part of Solomon. There was a falling off both in the quantity and in the quality of the eatables. Only four potatoes graced the festive board, and a piece of corned beef that was quite inadequate to their wants. The tea was weak, and there was very little sugar. There was only a small supply of butter, and this butter seemed rather unpleasantly dirty.
On the following day all this was explained. Hurrying up on deck at early dawn, they saw the scene unchanged. Above was the cloudless sky, all around the glassy sea, and before them stood Captain Corbet, the picture of despair. By his side stood Solomon, with his hands clasped together, and his head hanging down.
“It’s all my fault, boys,” said Captain Corbet, with something like a groan. “I was to blame: But I declare, I clean forgot. And yet what business had I to forget? my fustest and highest duty bein to remember. And here we air!”
“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Tom, who, like all the rest was struck by Captain Corbet’s despairing attitude and words.
“I won’t hide it any longer, boys,” said he; “it’s this calm. I didn’t calculate on bein becalmed. I thought only of head winds, and then we could hev put back easy; but a calm! Why, what can you do?”
“Hide it?” Cried Bruce. “Hide what? What do you mean by this? What would you want to put back for?”
Captain Corbet groaned.
“For--for pro--provisions, dear boys,” he said mournfully, and with an effort.
“Provisions!” repeated Bruce, and looked very blank indeed. All the boys exchanged glanced, which were full of unutterable things. There was silence for some time.
Tom was the first to break it.
“Well, what have we?” he, asked, in his usual cheery voice. “Come captain, tell us what there is in the larder.”
“Ask Solomon,” said Captain Corbet, mournfully.
“Well, Solomon, tell us the worst,” said Tom.
But Solomon would not or could not speak. He raised his head, looked wildly around, and then hurried away.
Captain Corbet looked after him, and heaved a heavy sigh.