“The fact is, boys,” said Bruce, with the air of a judge or an umpire, “we’ll have to make up our minds to visit all these islands. Each one has his preference, and each one shall be gratified. You, Bart, may see Anticosti; you, Arthur, may see Sable Island; you, Tom, may visit St. Paul and St. Peter; you, Phil, may visit the Bay of Islands; and at the same time you, Pat, may see Newfoundland. Of course, then, I hope to go to the Magdalen Islands. Now, as we are going to visit all these places, and the Magdalen Islands happen to be nearest, we will take them first, while we may visit in turn Anticosti and the others, winding up with Sable Island, which may be postponed to the last, since it is the farthest off. We may make up our minds, boys, to no end of adventures. We’re all in first-rate training; we are hardened by adventures on sea and on shore; we can live on next to nothing; and I’m only sorry that we’re not a little nearer to the North Pole, so that we might set out now as we are to settle the question forever about the open Polar Sea.”
The extravagant notion with which Bruce closed his address was received with shouts of laughter and applause. Then followed a confused conversation. At length they all gathered around Captain Corbet, who had thus far been a listener, and began to question him about the various places which they proposed to visit. The answer of the venerable navigator was not very satisfactory.
“Wal, boys,” said he, “you put me down in any part of old Fundy, an I’m to hum; anywhar’s between the head of old Fundy an Bosting, I know it all be heart; an I engage to feel my way in fog or in darkness, or in snow-storms, backard an forard, year on an year on; but jest about here I’m all agog. In these here parts I’m a pilgerrim an a stranger, an ain’t particularly to be trusted. But I can navigate the Antelope all the same, an fool round in these waters as long as you like. I ain’t got any chart, terrew; but I’ve got an old map of Canady, an kin scrape along with that, especially this season of the year. I kin git a ginral leadin idee of the position of places, an work along the old Antelope wharever you want to go. I’m an old man myself, an don’t mind this kerrewsing a bit; in fact, it’s rayther agree’ble. The best of it is, we’re allus sure to fetch up some-whar.”
This frank announcement of Captain Corbet’s ignorance of these seas might have excited disquietude in the bosoms of less enterprising lads; but the cruisers of the Antelope had seen and known, and felt and suffered, too much to be easily disturbed. Of Captain Corbet’s confession they thought nothing whatever, nor indeed did it really matter very much to them whether he was acquainted with these waters or not. After all, they were not particular about any destination; any mistakes which he might make would not create any inconvenience to them; and even if, in seeking to reach Newfoundland, he should land them at Cape Cod, they would not much care. Under these circumstances they listened to his words with indifference, and if they felt any disappointment, it was because they were unable to gain from him any information whatever about the places which they proposed to visit.
Since they could gain no information, they did not waste much more time in conversation, but concluded to set out without delay. And so in a little while the Antelope spread her white wings, and began to walk the waters in her usual style, like a thing of life, and all that. In process of time she reached the entrance of the bay, and then passed out into the gulf.
It was a glorious day. The wind was fair. The Antelope did her best. The sun went down that evening behind the high hills, and before them lay a wide expanse of water. On the following morning they saw land ahead. The land was an island, or a cluster of islands, and all the boys felt certain that it was the Magdalen Islands.
In spite of Captain Corbet’s ignorance of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, he had chosen his course very accurately, for this was indeed their destination. As the schooner drew nearer and nearer, the boys looked with curious eyes upon this remote and isolated spot, situated in the midst of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and shut out during all the winter months from the rest of the world of man by ice, and storms, and solitude.
The wind died away after sunrise, and hours passed before they came near enough to think of landing. At length the anchor was dropped, and the boat was made ready to go ashore. From this point they could see this new land to the best advantage. They saw before them an island rising high out of the water, with its green slopes covered with grass, and crowned with trees, and dotted with white houses. Before them there were a cove and a sandy beach, upon which boats were drawn up. The other islands of the group were shut out from view by this one. Not far away—in fact, not farther than a stone’s throw—there lay another schooner at anchor. Very different was this other schooner from the Antelope. The Antelope, in spite of its many admirable and amiable qualities, was not particularly distinguished either for size, or strength, or speed, or beauty. In every one of these particulars the other schooner was the exact opposite. It was large; it was evidently new; its lines were sharp and delicate, indicating great speed; its spread of canvas was immense; it was a model of naval architecture; while the freshness of its paint, and the extreme neatness which appeared in every part, indicated a far greater care on the part of its master than any which the good and gracious Corbet was ever disposed to exhibit towards his beloved Antelope. On high floated the Stars and Stripes, exhibiting the nationality of the stranger. On her stern the boys could read her name and nation. They saw there, in white letters underneath a gold eagle, the words,—
FAWN-GLOUCESTER.
“On land,” said Bruce, gravely, as he looked at the strange craft, “the Antelope and the Fawn are somewhat alike; but on the sea it strikes me that there is a slight difference.”