XX.
How to waken a Sleeper.—Off Home.—A weary Way.—Baffled like the Flying Dutchman.—Corbet pines for his Bobby.—“The Wind at last! Hurrah!”
AT midnight the whole party left Captain Pratt’s, in order to make preparations for embarking in the Antelope, as soon as the tide would serve. Pat had regained very much of his former strength and spirits; the pain had, in a great measure, left him, and the reaction from his misery exhibited itself in occasional peals of wild laughter, which broke very strangely upon the silence of the night. He was quite able to walk down, and joked with the other boys about his mishap. Trouble had been anticipated in getting him down to the vessel; but the anticipations, which had proved baseless in regard to him, were more than realized in the case of the mate. This worthy had spent almost all the time in sleeping on Captain Pratt’s haymow; and now, when the time had come for departure, it was found absolutely impossible to rouse him. At ten o’clock, Captain Corbet had called him, but with no result. Then he had used other modes of rousing him, which had all ended in a failure. Mr. Long had exerted himself, and with a like result. As a last resort, he had commissioned the hoys to do what they could toward rousing the slumberer. They very willingly undertook the commission. Ranging themselves round him, they kept up a prolonged shake at his shoulder, his head, and his feet. By this means they succeeded in rousing him so far that he would utter words in a dreary way in answer to their cries.
“Get up! Get up!”
“Ye-e-e-e-e-e-s,” was the reply, ending in a long snore.
“Get up! Hi, hi, hi!”
“In—a—mi—i—i—n’t.”
“Hallo! Up! Get up! The schooner’s off!”
“Hey?”
“The schooner’s off!”
“Hm-m-m—”
“Here! No sleeping! Get up! You shan’t sleep any more! Get up!” and amid loud cries and yells the recumbent form was shaken from head to foot. The mate gaped, and yawned, and blinked, and opened his eyes with a glassy, dreamy stare, dazzled by a candle-light, which flickered in his face, and confused by the uproar. He was like a bat suddenly plunging into a lighted parlor full of noisy children—out of the midst of a dark night. Only he wasn’t quite so much awake as a bat might be.
“My—name’s—Wade,” he ejaculated at last, in a slow and solemn tone.
“Hi, hi, hi! Yah, yah, yah! Hi, yah! h-o-o-o-o! Get up!”’
“My ole ’oman’s name’s Gipson,” continued the mate, in a dreamy voice, as though amid his dreams he was still following out the one train of thought which seemed to engross his mind during his waking hours.
“Ya, ya, ya, ya! Get up! Get up! Hal-l-o-o-o-o-o! Bow-avoav-wow! Ba-a-a-a-a!” and with yells and shouts like these, with cock-crows, with all the cries of a crowded barn-yard, the boys returned to their effort at rousing him.
“An’ ye’ll not find many of that name in this country!” said the mate, with a tone, to which he seemed struggling to give a sleepy emphasis.
Up rose the barn-yard cries again, mingled with yells, shrieks, bellowings, cat-calls, hoots, and roars.
“Come, come,” cried Bart, shaking his head violently. “Won’t you get up?”
“No, sir!” said the mate; but whether if referred to his dream, or was intended as a reply to Bart, did not very clearly appear. The boys began to despair, and at length, after further endeavors, they were compelled to give up. They accordingly returned to Mr. Long, and informed him of their utter failure.
Mr. Long’s eyes glared wildly.
“Very well!” said he, sternly, and with a dark frown. “Ve-e-ry well! I’ll see if I can’t wake him this time. I’ve been humbugged long enough; and if words are of no use, I’ll have to try what virtue there is in cold water.”
Saying this, he seized a pail, filled it at the well, and strode to the barn, followed by all the boys. Reaching the place, he advanced to the mate, and mercilessly emptied the entire contents full upon his head.
That succeeded.
With a gasp, a splutter, and a shriek, the mate started to his feet, looking wildly around as he tried to regain the breath which Mr. Long had so rudely driven out of him.
“What—what—what—why, what—d’ye—mean?”
“I mean this,” cried Mr. Long, “that you’re wanted on board, and if you don’t go, I’ll empty the whole well on you.”
The mate looked at him half fearfully, half reproachfully, and then, shaking the water out of his dripping locks, he slowly wended his way to the vessel.
At last all were on board; the baskets and boxes were in the hold, the lines were cast off, the sails were hoisted, and the Antelope dropped down the stream. Messrs. Simmons and Long retired, but most of the boys remained on deck for some time, singing, and laughing, and joking with each one about the peculiar mishaps which he might have incurred during the last eventful week. At length all retired, and silence reigned over the schooner and over the deep.
Early in the morning all were up. The sea, far and wide, was as smooth as glass, except where long lines, and occasional ripples, showed the meeting of opposing currents. Above, the sky was cloudless, the sun was bright, and in the air not a breath of wind was stirring. Upon this Mr. Long looked with extreme impatience, frowning darkly upon land, sea, and sky. The schooner’s sails were flapping idly, her head was pointed toward the Five Islands, and Captain Corbet was standing listlessly at the helm.
“Captain, what’s all this?” asked Mr. Long.
“The schooner is heading toward the Five Islands. Are we going back?”
“No, sir. The schooner’s not particular just now whar she heads.”
“Why don’t you steer for Grand Pré?”
“Jest what I’d like to do, if she’d let me.”
“Let you?”
“Yes. There ain’t a mite o’ wind, an’ she’s, goin’ every which way.”
“Then we’re standing still, and doing nothing.”
“Standin’ still?” cried Captain Corbet. “Lor’ bless you, a couple of hours ago we were ten miles up there;” and he pointed far away toward the other end of the bay.
“Up there?”
“Yes. We’re not standin’ still; not by no manner o’ means.”
“What are we doing?”
“Driftin’.”
“Drifting?”
“Yes; goin’ ahead like a race-horse—head fust, tail fust, sideways, end on, and every kind o’ way that a floatin’ craft kin move.”
“Where are we drifting to?”
“Down to Blomidon.”
“Blomidon!” cried Mr. Long, aghast.
“Yes; an’ farther too. It’ll be lucky if we don’t find ourselves out in the Bay of Fundy before long.”
“But can’t you do something? Can’t you sail for some harbor?”
“Jest what I’m a pinin’ to do, on’y I can’t come it, nohow. Ef I had a steam tug-boat I’d clap a line on board her, an’ get into a place of refooge; but bein’ as there isn’t any, we’ve got to drift.”
“Why don’t you anchor?”
“Anchor?” cried Captain Corbet, in surprise. “Why, the anchor’s broke.”
“Well, well,” said Mr. Long, in bitter vexation, “haven’t you got something—no sweeps?”
“Not a sweep, as I’m a livin’ Corbet.”
It was too true. There was no wind, and they were drifting at the mercy of the tide. The vessel went every way, heading in no direction. They had no anchor, and they could not sail into the shore. They were completely helpless. By this time they had all hoped to be near their destination; but it seemed, from appearances, that they were farther away than ever.
What brought their situation home most forcibly to all, was the solemn fact that their provision was now limited to Indian meal and molasses, with a little salt pork. If Solomon had only been on board, it would not have been so bad, for the genius of the venerable cook would have evolved even out of such unpromising materials as these a wonderful variety of palatable dishes. But Solomon was far away, and the cooking was intrusted to the clumsy hands of the mate. His attempts were so deplorable that the boys were permitted to make experiments of their own in the lofty art of cookery. The consequence was, that they spent the whole morning in the cabin, and used up most of the molasses in making candy, which, though very badly burned, was still more agreeable than the burned paste of Indian meal which the mate laid before them as a breakfast.
The hours of the morning passed, and neither anger, nor impatience, nor hunger could have any effect upon the relentless tides. The schooner calmly and placidly went drifting on, past Blomidon, past Cape Split; and they would assuredly have drifted out into the Bay of Fundy, had they not, very fortunately, encountered a side current, which bore them into a bay by Spencer’s Island. There they remained embayed till the turn of tide, and then they were borne out again, and up the channel, on the way back into the Basin of Minas.
They were so near the shore that Mr. Long deliberated seriously about landing, going on foot to Parrsboro’ village, and trying to get a row-boat to take them to Cornwallis, or taking the steamer to Windsor, or doing something else equally desperate. But Captain Corbet assured him that the steamer would not come for two days, and that he would be utterly unable to get any men to row him so far. So he was compelled to stay by the schooner.
Captain Corbet bore all this with admirable equanimity, looking with a mild concern at the impatience of Mr. Long, and regarding the boys with the indulgent smile of a superior being. Leaving the tiller to take care of itself, he mingled with them, and conversed freely with all. They drifted far up into the Basin of Minas, and looked forward to nothing better than a return to Blomidon and Cape Split, with, perhaps, an excursion in the Bay of Fundy.
So the day passed, and night came. On the following morning they found themselves still in the Basin of Minas, not far from the Five Islands, and drifting toward Blomidon.
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “I’ve been a-thinkin’ that this here is just like the Flyin’ Dutchman. You’ve heerd tell of him; course. They say he’s a-sailin’ an’ a-beatin’ round the Cape of Good Hope, but can’t never get round, nohow. That’s jest the pecooliarity of our position. Here we are, almost in sight of home, you may say, an’ still we have to go a-driftin’ an’ a-driftin’, an’ I shouldn’t wonder if we’ll get out into the Bay of Fundy to-day. If that happens, it wouldn’t be a wonder if we were blown off to Bosting.”
“Captain,” said Mr. Long, “I can’t stand this. I must get ashore. If we get near to Blomidon again, I’ll take Bruce Rawdon, and go ashore in the boat. I must go, for it’s a matter of the highest importance. Of course, it’s different with you. You wouldn’t care if you drifted here till doomsday.”
At this Captain Corbet thrust both hands deep into his trousers’ pockets, and regarded Mr. Long with a fixed gaze.
“Me?” said he, in a mild and almost parental tone. “Me not care? me! Look here, Mr. Long. Do you know what I am? I’m a parient! Your books call you home, sir; but what is it that’s a-callin’ o’ me? My babby, sir! That there tender infant has twined hisself round my boosom; an’ what am I a-doin’? You don’t know, sir; but I’m a-yearnin’ an’ a-pinin’ for my babby. He’s the most wonderful babby that I ever see,” continued the captain, in a faltering voice. “He’s got the pootiest crow; and if you’d jest hear him say his ga, ga, ga—”
“O, bother your confounded baby!” said Mr. Long, with brutal rudeness, turning away abruptly.
Captain Corbet looked after him with a puzzled expression. At first, indignant surprise seemed to predominate, and those who stood near anticipated an outburst of long-restrained feeling. But it was only for a moment. Then Captain Corbet’s better angel came to his assistance. Indignation vanished, and the face that was turned toward Mr. Long had on it nothing but a meek, sad smile.
Captain Corbet shook his head.
“Thar, that’s it; allus the same,” said he; “on-sympathetic, hard as a milestone, an’ owdacious in opposition to the tender babe. Human natur’,” he continued, elevating his patriarchal head, and regarding Mr. Long’s back with a severe dignity,—“human natur’ might exult in a administerin’ of a rebewk to sich langedge; but I’ve learned a better lesson. Yes, boys. I’ve sot at the feet of my babby. The aged Corbet has received insterruction from a mild infant. Now, I regard all that,” waving his hand toward Mr. Long, “not with anger, not with re-perroach, no, but with kimpassion. I pity him. I feel sorry for him. To him is unknown the holiest feeling of the hewman boosum; sich as I feel, sich as every feyther feels when he’s a-nussin’ of his peresshus babby.”