XXII.
Being jolly under creditable Circumstances.—Songs, Medleys, Choruses, Cheers, Laughter, Speeches, Responses.—The Mud again.—Hard and fast.—What’ll you do now, my Boy?
MR. LONG had gone from their gaze completely, and could be seen no more. While trying to find him, the boys made conjectures as to where he might be. Giving up all idea of his being on the beach, they imagined him wending his solitary way far up the coast, or, perhaps, scaling the mighty cliff itself in some more accessible place. Gradually the vessel drifted farther and farther away, until at length it was far up in Minas Basin.
“Well, boys,” said Bart, “this is getting to be monotonous. We’re like ferrymen, going forever between two points.”
“Yes, or like the pendulum of a clock, vibrating always, backward and forward.”
“One more night of drifting is before us.”
“More meals of pork and molasses.”
“Or burnt Indian paste.”
“Or smoky molasses candy.”
“The worst of it is, that we have nothing to amuse ourselves with.”
“It’s a pity we couldn’t start some game.”
“Bart, tell a story.”
“A story?” said Bart. “Who could tell a story under such circumstances?”
“I don’t believe,” said Bruce, “that a calm was ever known to last so long in the Basin of Minas. Was it, captain?” he added, appealing to Captain Corbet, who had just emerged from the cabin.
“Wal,” replied Captain Corbet, “it’s not usual to have a calm in the month of May; still, we do-have ’em sometimes.”
“I should rather think we had,” said Bart.
“I’ve known ’em last a week,” said Captain Corbet, solemnly.
“A week?”
“Yes, a hull week; but that was in July. Still, there’s no knowin’. It may be in May this year.”
“Then we’ll have to go ashore in the boat tomorrow. I will. I’ll mutiny, and start off.”
So spoke Bart, and the rest all declared that they would do the same.
“O, we’ll have wind to-night,” said Captain Corbet, in a tone of vague encouragement. “Yes, yes, we must have wind to-night, or before morn-in’. We’ve had about calm enough. You feel anxious, no deoubt, all on ye,” he continued, with a superior smile; “but if you feel so, jedge what I must feel—me, with, my babby. Why, every minute,—yes, every mortial minute,—the voice of that there smilin’ babe is a-soundin’ in my ears. Sometimes he says, ‘GGa-ga-ga,’ and sometimes ‘Da-da-da;’ and sometimes the cunnin’ leetil human creetur emits a cry,—a favorite one of his’n,—that sounds jest like ‘Bo-rax! Bo-rax! Bo-rax!’ Isn’t it odd?”
And he looked at the boys with that mild face of his, whereon was intermingled an expression partly made up of a father’s affection, and partly of tender enjoyment of his little cherub’s innocent ways.
“And what does he mean by Borax?” asked Bruce.
“What does he mean? Why, a’most everything. It’s a pet name he gives to me, you know. That and ‘Ga-ga’—”
“I suppose he doesn’t know the English language yet.”
“No, he hain’t larned it yet; but he’s a-gettin’ on. Why, I could stand here for hours and tell you words of his’n. He’s uncommon spry, too. He—”
“Bart,” cried Bruce, suddenly, “start up a song. Sing ‘Uncle Ned.’”
At this Bart started up a song, which was a medley, made up of “Uncle Ned” and “The Mermaid.” The first verse was as follows:—
"There was an ole nigger, and he sailed on the sea;
And he lived not far from the land;
And he had no wool on de top of his head,
And a comb and a glass in his hand.
Chorus.
"O, the sto-o-o-o-o-o-o-ormy winds, how they blow!
So take up de shubbel an’ de hoe,
While we poor sailor-boys are climbin’ up aloft.
He has gone whar de good niggers go—‘gers go—‘gers go—
He has gone whar de good niggers go.”
This astonishing production was sung with uncommon energy and spirit. At its close Bart retired below, while the others went on singing; and after a short time he returned with a piece of paper in his hand, and a triumphant smile on his face.
“Hallo, Bart! what have you got there?” cried Bruce. .
“It’s an original song,” said Bart.
“By whom?”
“Myself,” he replied, meekly.
“Hurrah! Go it! Sing it! Give it to us!”
“All right; but you must all join in the chorus.”
“Of course. What’s the tune?”
“‘Auld Lang Syne.’”
“Go ahead, then, young feller! Propel! Shoot away! Beady—present—fire!”
Waiting for the noise to subside, Bart stood in the midst of them, and after the cries had ceased, he began:
"Should Capting Corbet be forgot,
A-sailin’ o’er the sea!
O, no! when we get back to school,
We’ll often think of he.
Choruss.
"We’ll often think of he, my friends;
We’ll often think of he.
O, yes! when we get back to school,
We’ll often think of he.”
“What’s that?” cried Captain Corbet, with a smile of pleasure wreathing his venerable face. “Why, it ain’t—why, railly—why, it is me, too! Why, railly! An’ you made up all that? Wal, now, I call that rale cute. I do, railly. On’y I do wish, sense you did take the trouble to make up that there,—bein’ as your hand was in,—I wish you’d kinder added a line interriducin’ the babby. We like to be kind o’ onseparable. It seems kind of agin natur’ to separate us.”
“All right. I’ll introduce anything,” said Bart. “Here, boys, I’ll give you another chorus.
‘We’ll often think of he, my friends;
We’ll often think of he;
The capting and his schewner gay,
Likewise his small ba-be-e-e-e-e.’”
This new impromptu chorus was sung with still greater enthusiasm. Captain Corbet was affected to tears. Emotion overpowered him. As soon as he could muster strength to speak, he exclaimed,—
“You’ve onmanned me—you have, railly. The mention of that blessed babby kind o’ took away all my strength. But I’ll reward you, boys. When we get back, I’ll make you all come up, and introduce you all to the babby himself,—sometime when the old woman’s away, you know,” he added, mysteriously.
“I will now occupy the time by continuing the hymn,” said Bart, solemnly. Whereupon he proceeded:
"I love to go to Blomidon,
Its beauty for to feel;
But I’d prefer a better fare
Than pork and Indian meal.
Chorus.
"Than pork and Indian meal, my friends;
Than pork and Indian meal.—
O, I’d prefer a better fare
Than pork and Indian meal.”
This was sung earnestly and with very deep feeling. The recollection of their melancholy condition caused a mild pathos to be infused into the tones of all. Some of them seemed to be shedding tears. At any rate, they held handkerchiefs to their eyes.
The next verse:
"I love to sail on Minas Bay,
Its beauty for to see;
To hunt for clams among the sands,
And put them into me.
CHorus.
"And put them into me, my friends;
And put them into me.
To hunt for clams among the sands,
And put them into me.”
The mild melancholy that characterized the last chorus here changed into a livelier note, expressive of greater cheerfulness.
The next verse:
"Pratt’s Cove it has the biggest clams
That ever mortal saw;
But when we hunt for clams again,
We mustn’t eat them raw.
CHorus.
"We mustn’t eat them raw, my friends;
We mustn’t swallow them raw.
O, clams are good for human food,
But we mustn’t eat them raw.”
This was sung energetically, yet in a dignified manner. The chorus was intended to convey a wholesome piece of advice to those who might happen to be in need of it,—Pat, for instance,—and so it was sung with dignity; at the same time, the energy with which it was rendered was admirably adapted to enforce the advice and carry it home to the heart and conscience of the hearer.
The next verse:
"We’ve got molasses for our food,
It came from Tri-ni-dad;
And when to candy it is boiled,
It really isn’t bad.
Chorus,
"It really isn’t bad, my friends;
It isn’t very bad.
Molasses, boiled, to candy turns,’
And really isn’t bad.”
A greater degree of liveliness prevailed here at the celebration of the only eatable thing among the stores. There was an intention to do honor to the molasses, and honor was accordingly done.
The next verse:
"Three cheers for Bogud, Billymack,
Three cheers for all the crew,—
For Jiggins, Sammy, Muclcle, Pat, .
And three for Johnny Blue!
Chorus.
Three cheers for Johnny Blue, my friends,
Three cheers for Johnny Blue,—
For Jiggins, Sammy, Muckle, Pat,
And three for Johnny Blue!”
Immense enthusiasm. Surprise on the part of all the boys whose names were thus so unexpectedly “wedded to song.” Recovering from their surprise, each one jumped up, placed his hand on his heart, and acknowledged the compliment by a low bow; after which the song was sung again; after which there came more bows; and it would have gone on thus, with alternate bowing and singing, till the present time, had not the boys themselves felt overpowered, and demanded another verse.
The next verse:
"Three cheers for all the boys on board;
For Corbet three times three;
And thirty more for the jolly black flag
Of the ‘B. O. W. C.’!
Chorus.
"The ‘B. O. W. C.’ my friends,
The ‘B. O. W. C.’
Ever so many more for the jolly black flag
Of the ‘ B. O. W. C.’!”
This last chorus was sung with a vehemence, an ardor, and an enthusiasm that are absolutely indescribable. It included all, and identified all, in the most delicate manner, with the “B. O. W. C.” It was sung over and over, and over yet again, accompanied with any quantity of cheers for everything under the sun. The special allusion to Corbet, in the last verse, elicited a fresh display of emotion from that venerable and highly-impressible party. He did not say much, however. He merely went round among the boys, and shook hands most warmly with all of them, one by one. He asked each one about his father, his mother, his brothers and sisters, and his uncles and aunts. He asked their full names, their ages, and the number of their blood relations. He then made a public address to them, in which he freely offered, at any time, to take any of them, or all of them, on a cruise anywhere, at a moment’s warning. Finally, he reiterated his offer to introduce his babby to them all. This formed a climax. Beyond this he could not go. And there, naturally and inevitably, his eloquent oration ended.
So passed the time. And when you take into consideration the solemn fact that all this time they were drifting, that the sea was smooth, that there wasn’t a breath of wind, that there was no prospect of getting home, or anywhere else, for that matter,—you will come to the conclusion that these boys were jolly under creditable circumstances. And you will be right in that conclusion; for it was in the very face of calms, strong tides, empty larders, wanderings at sea, famine, and privations of all kinds, that these boys stood up and sang their song.
In this sense it became not a mere song of jollity or of idle sport. It was more. It was the song of the unconquered soul. It was a defiance hurled full in the face of Fortune.
The evening passed. The shades of night came down. It was dark, and it grew darker. Until late, the sounds of song, of laughter, and of merriment, came forth and resounded through the night. At length all was still. All on board had descended to their couches, and were wrapped in profound slumber.
The boy who awaked first in the morning gave such a shout that all the others were roused at once.
What was it?
What! An instant told them all. Down through the hatchway there came a blast of wind strong and cool, and full of sea salt. Above, they could see the sail distended to its utmost, while higher up the clouds were scudding across the sky. Below, the vessel was lying far over, as it yielded to the wind; and her pitching and tossing, together with the dash of waves against her bows, told all that she was moving swiftly through the water.
They hurried up to the deck.
Far around them was the blue sea, now tossing into white-capped waves. A fresh, strong wind was blowing over the water, and it was fair. On the right rose Blomidon from out the foam that gathered at its base; on the left the water extended till it was lost in the distance amid the haze that hung over the low-lying shore. Behind them lay the Five Islands, and all that water over which they had so long been drifting. The vessel was heading straight to Grand Pré, and was tearing her way through the water as she had never done before within the experience of any of her present passengers.
Joy reigned supreme. Loud cheers and cries of delight burst forth.
“Why, captain,” said Bart, “I. began to think that the Antelope couldn’t sail at all.”
“Can’t she, though? O, she isn’t a bad sailor when she’s got a wind dead fair like this.”
“When’ll we get to Grand Pré?”
“Wal, that’s difficult to say,” said the captain, thoughtfully.
“Why, you don’t mean to say that there is any danger of the wind stopping now, or changing?”
“O, no; there’s no danger of that.”
“Well, what is there?”
“Why, we can’t get to the wharf.”
“Why not?”
“It’ll be low tide when we get there.”
“Low tide!” repeated Bart, in consternation; “and how far will we be from the wharf?”
“O, miles; and that isn’t the worst of it. You’ll have the Cornwallis River between you and Grand Pré.”
Bart said no more, but retired to convey this disheartening intelligence to his companions. They talked over it thoughtfully and with serious faces.
The vessel went on. The tide was against them, but the wind was strong and fair, and blew with undiminishing power. Looking toward the shore, they could see that their progress was excellent.
Nearer they came, and nearer, until at last they saw before them a vast extent of mud flats, beyond which lay a low ridge all green with verdure; and they knew it as the dike of Grand Pré. Beyond this again ascended the hills, with the white village at the base, and on the slope the conspicuous form of the Academy, with its broad portico and lofty cupola. .
“Where are you going now, captain? You can’t anchor. Is there a port here to run the schooner into?”
“Nary port.”
“What’ll you do? Surely you won’t drift off again?”
“Drift? No, sir.”
“How will you manage?”
“How? Why, there’s only one thing to do; and that is, to run her right straight in on to a mud flat.”
As he spoke, he looked steadily forward, and gave the tiller a pull to starboard. The schooner turned slightly. The next instant it ran squarely upon the mud flat, and stuck there, hard and fast.