VI.
Up Anchor and after them.—Blast of the Foghorn.—A long Search amid Mists, and Darkness, and Storms.
AS the boat drifted away from the schooner, horror for a time seemed to have struck dumbness into all on board. From this stupor Mr. Long was the first to rouse himself.
“Captain,” he cried, “we must up sail and after them.”
“Which way shall wo go?”
“After them any way. Follow the poor lads before they get any farther. Come, boys, up with the anchor! Corbet, up with your sails!”
The way that anchor was walked up was a wonder. In an incredibly short space of time the schooner was dashing through the water, swept on by wind and tide.
“Which way does this current take us?” asked Mr. Long.
“Well, right round the island, and down to Biomidon, and then out into the Bay of Fundy.”
“I can’t see the island.”
“No; the fog’s too thick; but it’s right off there,” said Captain Corbet, waving his left hand.
“I suppose the poor lads couldn’t work ashore.”
“Not with, their bare hands. Their oar’s gone—that’s the mischief of it.”
Mr. Long looked gloomily around.
“The only thing, then, is for us to follow on where they may be drifting.”
“You’ve hit the nail on the head, sir. There’s nothin’ else for us—not a hooter.”
“How far is the main land from here?”
“Several miles.”
“Does the current strike near it anywhere?”
“No, sir! It goes straight in a bee line for Blomidon.”
“After leaving this island, then, Blomidon is the nearest land for them.”
“Yes, or Parrsboro’.”
“How long will it take them to drift there?”
“About three hours.”
“How far will they be likely to drift?”
“Let me see. It’s seven o’clock now. It’s nearly dead low tide’. It’ll be on the flood soon, and by the time them there lads get to Blomidon, there’ll be a flood tide.”
“And how will that be for them?”
“It’ll drift ’em back.”
“In which direction?”
“Wal, sir, it would take a man with a head as long as a hoss, tail and all, to answer that there pint. Lor’ bless you, in this here bay there’s no knowin’ where the tide ‘ll drift a man.”
“If it weren’t for the fog, there’d be no danger,” said Mr. Long, musingly.
“That there’s an ondeniable fact, at any rate.”
“Do you think the fog will continue?”
Captain Corbet screwed his head round in the direction of the wind, and drew up his face into a most extraordinary grimace.
“Well, I rayther think,” said he, slowly, “that you’ve got me there.”
“You don’t know, then, anything about it,” said Mr. Long, impatiently.
“Not a hooter.”
Mr. Long walked away, and looked mournfully out over the dim sea.
Deep sadness and sore anxiety now reigned over the little vessel. Mr. Simmons said not a word, but sat staring fixedly at the fog. The boys stood in silent groups. Not a word was spoken.
Mr. Long walked forward to the bows, and looked out. The wind was increasing, and the sea was growing rougher. Evening was passing away, night would come—and then, what! To think of those poor lads in the boat was anguish. He walked back again to Captain Corbet.
“Where are we now?”
“Wal, we’re just roundin’ the island.”
“I can’t see it.”
“No, I have to give her a wide berth. It’s low tide, and the ledges are dangerous.”
“Do you think the boat may be drifting out here, or nearer in shore?”
“Wal, accordin’ to my cal’lation, they’d oughter be out here somewhere. Jedgin’ by the direction the boat took, I should say I was followin’ pooty close in their track, though there’s no knowin’ for sartin.”
“Oughtn’t we to be up to them by this time?”
“Wal, I don’t know. You saw the pace they went off at. Geeracious! Talk of race-hosses! Why, that boat went off at a rate to beat all creation holler!”
“But we’re going faster. We have the same current, and we’ve got sails up.”
“Never a truer word; but then it took some time for us to get a start, and in that time, gracious ony knows where they’ve got to. The ony thing that we’ve got to do, as I can see, is to keep follerin’ our noses right straight on, and keep in the current.”
Suddenly a thought struck Mr. Long. Rushing down into the cabin, he returned with a fog-horn, and raising it to his lips, blew a long, piercing blast.
“That’ll fetch ’em, if anything does,” said Captain Corbet.
“Silence!” cried Mr. Long, listening intently, while all others on board stood listening for the return cry.
But no sound came back.
“They’ve got a pistol, and if they hear us, they would fire. Have you a gun, captain?”
“Nary gun.”
“This horn, then, is the best thing. Shouting is of no use,” said Mr. Long; and he blew another blast.
Again they listened, and again there was no response. To their waiting ears, as they listened in an anguish of expectation, there came no answering cry, no shout, no pistol shot—nothing but the plash of waves near by, the singing of the wind through the rigging, and the boom of the surf on some distant beach which the fog hid from view.
On went the schooner, and Mr. Long blew unweariedly, clinging to this horn as something by which he still might gain access to the lost boys, and finding in this occupation something of that antidote to pain which action of any kind yields to the energetic nature. But time passed on, and only the winds heard these shrill blasts, and only the winds responded to the signal.
So darkness came upon them, and night; and the darkness of this night was intensified, by the thick fog, so that it became a darkness which might be felt.
“Ef we want to save the boys,” said Captain Corbet at last to Mr. Long, who stood dejectedly near him, “my opinion is, that we’d better keep afloat ourselves; but at the rate we’re goin’, it’s my opinion that before long we’ll be high and dry. And we may thank our blessed stars if we light on a mud flat, and don’t get dashed to small bits on Blomidon. Them’s my sentiments.”
“Why, don’t you know where you are?”
“No more idee where I am than the man in the moon.”
“I thought you knew the coast.”
“So I do—like a book.”
“What do you mean, then?”
“Why, if it was only the fog, I wouldn’t mind; but, mind you, there’s the tides. The flood tide ’ll be coming along soon, and then where’ll we go to? We may get twisted up into an eddy, and find ourselves on Cape Split; or we may glide up to Windsor, or get thrown on the rocks, goodness ony knows where. There’s no knowin’ where these tides may take it into their blessed hearts to drift us to. So the long and the short of it is, I move we anchor.”
“But isn’t it a common thing for schooners to drift about here?”
“Not in the Basin of Minas, thank you. No, sir. Not if they can help it. Out in Fundy it’s different. Fundy hain’t got no bottom to anchor on, except near the shores. Fundy ain’t one universal mud bank, nuther. Out in Fundy every skipper cal’lates on driftin’, jest as a sea captain cal’lates on navigatin’ by scientific observation. Driftin’ in Fundy is a science by itself, and vessels make v’y’ges back’ard and for’ard by a new patent driftin’ process. But in here nobody drifts. It’s no go.”
Mr. Long gave a heavy sigh.
“At any rate, let’s drift a little longer. I cling to hope of coming up with the boys.”
“Comin’ up with them! Law bless my heart alive, we’ve comed up with ’em and passed ’em long ago. We’ve got on different tracks somehow. Ef they’d been afloat, they’d never missed hearin’ that everlastin’ trumpet you’ve been a-blowin’ on so like all possessed.”
Now all this time since they had left the anchorage the wind had been blowing strongly. As the darkness increased, Captain Corbet had taken in his foresail. The water grew rougher, the little schooner labored heavily, and pitched, and tossed, and rolled about, while the waves dashed over her bow. Mr. Simmons had retired to his berth with the bodily pangs of seasickness superadded to his mental anxiety. One by one the boys had disappeared below, and for an hour or more none were left on deck but Mr. Long, Captain Corbet, and the mate. A light had been hoisted, and Mr. Long still blew the fog-trumpet.
But he no longer blew it with any hope. Captain Corbet had presented full before him a palpable fact, and that was, that they must be far away from any place where the boat could possibly be. They had sailed on and passed beyond them. They could not have been near the beat at any time. Some other current must have carried it away in another direction. Had it not been so, they must assuredly have heard those shrill yells, and in that ease they would have responded. Either they had been caught in another current, or else that had happened to them on which he dared not think. But then, even so, if they had got into another current, could it avail them? For that boat to drift out into this sea would be sure destruction.
“Captain,” said he, “are there more currents than one about those islands?”
“As many currents as there is hairs on a hoss’s tail.”
“Then it’s quite likely they got into another one.”
“It’s sartin.”
“Can you conjecture how they may have gone?”
“Wal, you see the current we came by was a kind of inside one that took us round the nighest island. Now, outside of that there was another current that kind V goes round the next island, which is a bigger one than the one we were at. I’ve been turnin’ it over in my head, and I cal’late that that there boat, jedgin’ by the course she took as she shot by us, got swept into the outer current, and was driven away around the outer island.”
“We couldn’t have been near her at all, then.”
“It seems not.”
“Where could they have been when we began to blow?”
“As near as I can cal’late, jedgin’ by the natur’ of the currents, and the course they took, they might have been off the farthest end of the other island.”
“How far away from the place where we were?”
“Over two miles—yes, more’n three miles.”
“How far can you hear one of these fog-horns?”
“About a mile.”
“So they couldn’t have heard us?”
“Couldn’t have heard a note. No, sir. And that accounts for their silence.”
“Where does the current go to, after going round that island you speak of?”
“Wal, there’s a good many, but there’s two main currents: one goes round the island, and returns and jines the one that we come down by.”
“And if the boat came by that, it would be behind us.”
“Jes so.”
“About how far?”
“O, ten miles or more by this time.”
“If so, every moment now takes us farther from them.”
“That’s about it, anyway you take it. But the flood tide’s catching us now, and where it’s takin’ us to’s more’n I know.”
“It will take the boat too.”
“Yes; of course.”
“You spoke of another current.”
“Yes, the other current sweeps around farther up, nigh unto the main land, and takes a turn and comes down, till it jines the gen’ral current along with the others.”
“So, if they had drifted into that, they would still be behind us.”
“Of course.”
“Where do you think we are now?”
“Can’t tell. Somewhere near Blomidon, though perhaps I’m jest as near Horton Bluff.”
“How far would the boat drift till the tide turns?”
“Wal, they would have time to drift nearly to Blomidon.”
“And when the tide turns, you can’t tell where they’d go?”
“No, sir—nor nobody else.”
“What chance would there be of the boat keeping afloat?”
Captain Corbet shook his head.
“It’s rough—precious rough. Ef it had been any other boys than them there partic’ler boys, I’d have my doubts. They’d all be swamped, sure as a gun. But them there boys is oncommon lively creeturs. An’ they’ve got a great idea of a rowboat, though they don’t know nothin’ of sailin’. They’d manage to keep afloat as long as anybody I know of. They’d make a precious hard fight of it afore they’d knock under, mind, I tell you. They’re boys that are up to snuff. They mind me of my babby. My babby is the cutest little creetur that ever I see in all my born days. Why, that there infant last week—jest a week ago to-morrow—that there infant—hallo—O—ah—hur—why, I declare—Mr. Long—why, he’s gone, ah’ hasn’t heard about the infant.”
It was a fact. Mr. Long had gone, and had lost the story of the infant. A moment afterward the shrill blast of the horn sounded out over the deep.
“Captain,” said he, as he came back again, “I won’t object any more to your anchoring. Do as you choose. God alone knows what is best to do. He alone can save those dear boys. I must try to trust them to him.”
A few moments after, the vessel was swinging at her anchor in twenty fathoms water.
Captain Corbet and the mate calmly retired to sleep, leaving the schooner to take care of herself. But there was one who slept not all through that night. Mr. Long could not leave the deck. The air below was stifling to one so full of anxiety and suspense as he was. All night long he paced the deck with unwearied footsteps,—all night long,—stopping at times to sound his trumpet; stopping again to peer through the thick darkness that hung around like a funeral pall over the grave of the departed. There, too, over and over again in the darkness and the gloom of that night, he knelt down on that deck, and poured forth all the anguish of his soul, calling forth out of his despair unto Him who alone is able to save. After each prayer his soul would grow calmer, and the storm of his agitated heart would cease for a time, till, gradually reassuming its strength, his grief would once more return, to be once more dispelled by prayer. So, amid vigil, and fasting, and prayer, and grief, passed, the night away; and when the dawn came, there stood this man looking out over the sea, with a face pale from suffering, and eyes dimmed with unfamiliar tears.
The dawn of day brought at least one comfort. The wind had changed during the night, and the fog had gone. The wide sea once more unfolded itself, and as the light grew stronger, Mr. Long eagerly scanned it in all directions in search after the lost ones. At last, rousing Captain Corbet and the mate, he urged them to set sail once more.
Captain Corbet came on deck, and looked round in great curiosity to see where he was. He had gone to sleep in beautiful ignorance of his whereabouts, and it had been an interesting problem as he dozed off to sleep.
The moment he looked around, he uttered a cry.
“Good gracious!”
Mr. Long looked inquiringly at him.
“Ef I ain’t back at my own door! Don’t you see it, Mr. Long? Why, darn me, ef we haven’t drifted clean back to Grand Pré!”
Mr. Long looked in wonder to where Captain Corbet pointed, and there, to his surprise, he recognized the familiar shore. A cloud came over his brow. The thought of the lost ones came to him more vividly as he saw the place which might possibly be doomed to know them no more forever.
“Ef it warn’t-dead low tide,” said Captain Corbet, “darn it ef I wouldn’t have a good mind to tie up the old Anty to the nighest stump, and take a run up to see the babby.”
Mr. Long turned upon him with so terrible a frown that Captain Corbet was awed.
“O—I didn’t mean it. I—I ony made the remark. Of course I didn’t mean it—it’s ony a leetil outbust of parential affection.”
“Come, make haste!” said Mr. Long, sternly. “There’s no time to lose. We must scour the bay till we find the boys.”
The anchor went up, and up went the sails, and the Antelope once more spread her wings to the blast, and went over the waters.
But where could they go?
That was the question which it was difficult to answer. Where, or in what direction, east, west, north, or south?
Through all that day they sailed about. First, they went down the straits past Blomidon; then, turning back, they stretched away far over to the farthest extremity of the bay. They spoke what vessels they met. They watched every floating object, and it was with a feeling of relief that each one resolved itself into a chip, or a shingle, or a log, and never into a hat or the seat of a boat.
So passed the day.
Searching in such a way, without any clew, it was difficult for them to feel that they were doing anything. While they were searching in the east, the traces of the object, of their search might all be in the west; and while they were examining the north, the boat might be drifting in the south; or, while they were in the Basin of Minas, the boat might be helplessly carried about by the currents of the Bay of Fundy.
One thing there was to comfort them; and that was, the departure of the fogjdhe clear atmosphere, the pleasant breeze, the bright sunshine. Several vessels had been met with, and all had promised to keep a lookout and engage other vessels in the same service. On such a sea, and under such a sky, there could be no danger, if the boat had survived the night.
But had the boat survived the night?
Alas! and alas! who could answer that!
Mr. Long, at any rate, would not give up. As though in defiance of fate, he would not haul down that flag which Bart had hoisted, but kept it flying, in the fond hope that it would once more greet their eyes.