of the lake. Here he dined. Then he drove back again to see Solomon.
To his deep disappointment he learned that Solomon had not made his
appearance since. He therefore left a message to the effect that he
would drive out again on the following day, or, if it was stormy, on
the first fine day. This was all he could do; and so, mastering his
disappointment as well as he could, he drove home again.
It was evening when he reached home. Here a fresh surprise awaited him;
for on asking after Phil and Pat, he learned that they left the house
after breakfast, and had not been seen since. He wondered at this, as he
could not imagine what would take them away, particularly on an occasion
like this, when they ought to be naturally anxious to learn the result
of so important a thing as his search after Solomon. He concluded,
however, that they had gone off on some long walk, or out in the harbor
in a boat, and had been detained.
After a time, as he was wandering about, the servant who had driven him
to Loch Lomond met him, and told him that there was a report of some
accident that had occurred at the Falls that morning.
In a moment Bart’s most anxious excitement was aroused, and he asked
about the accident. The servant did not know anything in particular.
He had only heard that a boat had been upset in the Falls with two
men. Some said they were boys. People had seen them swept under the
suspension bridge. It was said that they were drowned.
At the mention of this, Bart felt for a few moments as though he were
turned to stone. He could not move or speak. In those few moments there
flashed across his mind the remembrance of what Pat and Phil had said
about a visit to the islands, together with mysterious hints and casual
remarks that he had heard afterwards, to which at the time he had paid
no attention, but which now all came back to his memory with fearful
distinctness and accuracy. From all this there arose within him the fear
that Pat and Phil had made the attempt against which he had warned them,
taking advantage of his absence, and that the boat that had been upset
was no other than theirs.
What was to be done?
He did not know what. By this time his father was home, and he at
once went to him and told him all about it. At this story Mr. Darner’s
anxiety was equal to that of Bart. He himself had heard, in the course
of the day, about the accident, but had never imagined that it so nearly
affected him. The moment that he learned this from Bart, he at once
went forth to make further inquiries, to see what could be done, and to
commence a search in any possible way in which a search might be made.
He went first of all to the suspension bridge, and made inquiries of
the toll-keeper. That functionary was able to tell him all that could
be told. It amounted to very little. He had heard shouts on the bridge,
over which two or three people were passing, and had gone out to see
what was the matter. He had just got out in time to see two men--or
two boys, he did not know which--swept by the current under the bridge.
There was a boat also, bottom upwards. He and all the rest stood staring
in horror without doing anything. To do anything was in fact impossible.
The bridge was far above the water, precipices intervened, and the
current was running so fast that the figures were swept away before they
could fairly understand what had happened.
Were they alive, or dead?
This was the question which Bart asked in intense anxiety and dread.
The toll-keeper could not say, but his impression at the time was, that
they were alive; he also had an idea that one of them was clinging to a
bit of wood. But he would not be sure.
“Could he make out their clothes--what they were like?”
No; for only their heads were above water. They had no hats. They
uttered no cry, and made no noise whatever, but he did not think that
they were dead. Still they did not seem to be swimming, and the whole
thing was a puzzle.
Unable to get any more satisfaction from the toll-keeper, Mr. Darner
next went to the town, and made inquiries among the boatmen and
fishermen. There was but one reply from all of them, and that was, that
they had seen nothing. They informed him that there had been a thick fog
in the harbor all day, and a boat might drift out to sea without being
noticed. All of them thought it very unlikely that any men, after being
upset in the Falls, could avoid drowning, although, at the same time,
they were willing to allow that it was just possible. But if so, the
only chance that they could have was to be picked up while in the
harbor. If any men were to drift down the harbor, in the fog, without
being observed, out into the bay, there did not seem any chance of their
being saved.
Such was the opinion of those who knew most about it. Full of anxiety,
and almost despair, Bart and his father then went elsewhere on their
hopeless errand. They visited the tug-boat men, the ferry-boat men; they
questioned many of the scow men and rafts-men; but though most of these
men had heard about the accident, none of them had either seen or heard
of any men, or of any boat, drifting down the harbor.
This took away from Bart and his father almost their last hope. Yet
still they were not willing to give up their search, but continued until
late into the night their now apparently hopeless task.
IV.
_At the Mercy of the Tide.--Ears deafened.--Eyes blinded.--A fresh
Struggle for Life.--The Roar of the Steam Whistle.--Where are we?--Pat
explores.--A desolate Abode.--The falling Tides.--Without Food and
Shelter._
WHERE is Pat?
Such was the terrible question that came to the mind of Phil, as,
clinging to the oar, he felt himself swept onward by the resistless
current. Far on high was the suspension bridge; on either side were
dark, savage precipices, and the sweep of the tide hurried him along
helplessly between these.
Where is Pat?
At that dread question his heart sank within him. The remembrance of his
recent plunge beneath the furious billows where he had been hurled
down, and whirled round, and thrown out again, was still most vivid.
He thought of Pat as being engulfed beneath them still. His own escape
seemed little short of miraculous, and he could not hope that both of
them were safe. Such an escape was astonishing for one, but for two it
was too much to hope for. He did not dare to look back. He was afraid to
know the worst, and that look back, he thought, would show him only the
dark water. For a time he felt as though he would rather fear the worst,
than actually know it; and so, despairingly, he was swept on, and passed
under the bridge in the same attitude in which he had emerged from the
Falls.
Suddenly from behind him there sounded a cry,--
“Hooray!”
A thrill of joy passed through Phil. It was Pat’s voice. In an instant
his terror fled, and he looked back. There, to his amazement, close
behind him, he saw Pat, drifting along, with his face above water fully
revealed, and showing, even at that dread moment, the calm self-reliance
and good-natured ease that always distinguished him. Phil was so
overcome with joy, that he could not say a word.
“Sure an it’s rather wet, so it is,” said Pat, in as natural a tone as
though he were walking along the road in a rain shower.
Phil made no answer.
Again they drifted on in silence.
Now, as for Pat, at the moment when the boat hung hovering on the edge
of the fall, he had stood, keen, watchful, observant, with every one of
his wits about him, and had shouted out to Phil.
Phil had jumped first, but Pat followed immediately. His experience
was like that of Phil, with this difference--that he was under water a
little longer. On emerging, he saw Phil a little in front of him, and so
he felt at ease on that score. His first thought now was about the boat.
He looked back, and saw it not more than six feet behind him, bottom
upwards. Upon this he was seized with a very strong desire to gain the
boat once more; and so he floated on for a time, thinking what to do. At
length he made an effort to swim back towards it. The progress that he
made was scarce perceptible, and he could hardly have gained the boat
by his own efforts; but, fortunately, the river current favored him, for
the boat reached a place where it was whirled round so that its stern
came close to him. A vigorous effort enabled him to seize it, and it was
his joy at this which had elicited the cry that had first given to Phil
the knowledge of his safety. The other remark, about the wetness of
the place, was merely owing to the same exultation, and was intended to
convey to Phil something of the same cheerful confidence that filled his
own mind.
The boat was bottom upwards, but that was rather an advantage; for a
boat can bear a heavier weight under those circumstances than if it is
filled with water in its natural position. Pat knew this very well,
and proceeded at once to avail himself of this knowledge. He did so by
climbing upon it--a task which required some effort, but in which he at
length succeeded. In doing so, he was compelled to let go his oar. This,
however, did not trouble him, for the boat was better than any oar could
be, and so he straddled upon the bottom, and began to think how he could
get Phil into the same comparatively easy position.
At last he hit upon a plan.
“Phil!” he cried.
Phil looked round, and saw the boat, and Pat seated on it.
“Shove us yer oar, darlint,” said Pat. “Can ye shove us up your oar,
jewel?”
Pat spoke in a coaxing tone, just as though he was asking some favor
from Phil.
At this request Phil pushed the oar along the surface of the water with
one hand, using the other to keep himself afloat. The boat was near
enough for him to reach it, and Pat, stooping down, grasped it. Then
pulling at it, he drew Phil towards him, until at length he also was
able to grasp the boat.
“Now,” said Pat, “I’ll take the oar, and you jist climb up here.”
He took the oar in one hand, and reached out his other to assist Phil.
Pat’s help was of great value in such a difficult task, and by means
of it Phil was at length able to clamber up, and straddle upon the boat
behind his friend. They found, to their delight, that the boat supported
both of them with the greatest ease. Now, had it been filled with water
in its ordinary position, right side up, it could scarcely have given
assistance to one of them; but as it was, it gave the most perfect
support to both of them. The reason is easy to explain. When a boat is
turned completely over, bottom upwards, so suddenly as this was, there
always remains a certain amount of air confined inside. This gives it an
immense amount of buoyancy, and until that air all escapes that buoyancy
continues. Of course, after a time the air will all escape, and then the
boat must sink beneath the weight imposed upon it. But if the boat is
tight, the air will be retained, and consequently the buoyancy will
remain for a long time. Now, fortunately for Phil and Pat, the boat
that they had was new, and well calked, and as tight as possible; and so
there was no immediate danger. Fortunately also for them, they had thus
far suffered nothing from cold; for it was the end of July, and the
water was rather warm, and the air was warm also. And so, though they
had experienced such a plunge into the water, and such a prolonged
immersion, and though they now sat thus in their wet clothes, yet, after
all, they suffered nothing whatever from either damp or chill, but, on
the whole, were rather comfortable than otherwise.
Thus far they had uttered no cry for help, nor had they heard any call
of any human voice that might indicate the neighborhood of any human
sympathy. They had passed under the suspension bridge. They had swept
past shores that were crowded on either side with wharves, houses, and
steam saw-mills, but as yet had seen no efforts to assist them. In fact,
as it afterwards proved, no one had noticed them. Whether it was that
every one was busy, or that they had been carelessly regarded as an
ordinary boat in its ordinary position, could not be known; certain it
was that no one offered to assist them. Thus, then, they swept along,
until at length they reached the place where the river enters the
harbor. Just here, the boat, in its drift, came near to the oar which
Pat had dropped when he clambered into it. He grasped Phil’s oar, and
reaching out, he drew it towards him and regained possession of it.
“There’s no knowin,” said he, “what use this may be. It’s best to take
it whin it comes to us handy.”
Saying this, he gave Phil one oar, and keeping the other himself, he
waited for some chance of escape.
But their troubles were far from ending as yet, and soon the prospect
of escape was removed still farther from them. For as they reached the
place where the river enters the harbor, just as they saw a man on the
beach, and began to shout to him to try and attract his attention, they
drifted on, and plunged into a thick, dense cloud of fog.
That fog was no common fog. It was the advance guard of a fog that
covered the bay, and seemed to be thrown forward into the harbor to take
possession and hold it until the main army should be ready to advance.
It was dense, damp, and obscure. Through this they passed, trying to
peer through the gloom, and find out where they might be going. Several
times they shouted, but soon found out the uselessness of this. For the
noise and riot all around showed them that shouting was simply absurd.
Around them they heard the yell of steam whistles from tug-boats, from
ferry-boats, and from what seemed to be a thousand other places. For it
was now about midday, and that is the time when all the steam whistles
of all the steam saw-mills of the city let off one simultaneous blast.
The yells seemed to arise in every conceivable direction. Amid such an
uproar, their loudest cries were feeble, and could not be heard; so they
soon became convinced of the uselessness of this, and remained silent,
but watchful. Watchfulness, however, was equally useless; for if it
is in vain that one shouts amid the yells of steam whistles, so it is
equally in vain that one tries to keep up a watch in the midst of
a dense fog. Watching could reveal nothing but that obscurity which
surrounded them.
In this way, then, they drifted down the harbor, while the steam
whistles were yelling around them so as to stifle all their cries for
help, and while the fog was gathering round them in its dense folds so
as to obscure their sight. But the boat bore them well, and it was
at least a subject of rejoicing to them that they were thus seated in
comparative comfort on that boat, instead of floating tip to their chins
in the water, clinging to their oars.
Neither of them spoke a word as they thus drifted. Both of them were
anxiously on the lookout for some means of escape. But no way of escape
presented itself. They drifted on. The time seemed long indeed as
they thus drifted, though how long it really was they had no means of
knowing, and could only conjecture. On they went, and still on, and no
help appeared, and no way of escape was visible.
At length Pat began to make use of his oar by putting it over the boat
into the water, and working it in the way called sculling; in such a
way, however, as to give the boat as strong an inclination as possible
to the right. It was not easy to scull, for there was no socket in which
to insert the oar; but Pat did the best he could, and by holding one
foot he managed to keep the oar in a steady enough position by holding
it between his foot and the keel. Phil watched him in silence for some
time, and Pat went on working at the oar with all his might.
“What are you doing, Pat?” he asked at last.
“Well,” said Pat, without stopping, “there’s jist a ghost of a chance
for us. We’re dhriftin out to sea, an ef we sit still we’ll be miles out
before we know it. Now there’s Partridge Island afore us yet, an it’ll
be on our right as we’re dhriftin out, an I’m strivin to see if I can
give a twisht to the boat, so as to draw her in nearer to the shore.”
“Can’t I help?” said Phil.
“I suppose ye may as well thry,” said Pat.
Upon this Phil took his oar, and began to use it in the same way as
Pat. The efforts of the boys were directed, not towards resisting the
current, but towards effecting a movement of the boat to the right,
and drawing it away from the middle of the stream to within reach of
Partridge Island. This place was now their last hope.
“Ef we can only get out of the sthraim,” said Pat, “we’ll get to the
island. The boat’s hard to move this way, but we may do something.”
No more was said, but they both worked silently and vigorously. Soon the
water grew somewhat rough, and waves began to rise. These were not of
any size, but the boat was so low down that even the little wavelets
broke over them as they sat there. After a time these wavelets grew
larger, and at length they encountered several in succession that were
worthy of being considered as waves. After this the water continued
rougher, and their drift was by no means so quiet and uneventful as it
had been. The fog, too, remained as thick as ever. Around them was still
the sound of whistles and fog horns, and high and loud and clear above
all the din arose one far-penetrating yell.
“That’s the island whistle,” said Pat--“the fog whistle, so it is. We’re
comin nearer.”
After a time this whistle seemed to be no nearer, but to have changed
its direction.
“Where in the wide wurruld are we dhjiftin to?” said Pat, trying in vain
to peer through the fog.
“We must have passed the island,” said Phil, uneasily.
Pat shook his head in silence.
But now new anxiety came to the two castaways, and the faint hopes that
had arisen began to subside. The wind was blowing somewhat fresh,
the waves were growing larger and more aggressive every moment. They
appeared to have been carried beyond the island, and if so, they had
no hope of any escape, unless they should come upon some vessel. But
in that dense fog such a hope was faint indeed. Even in broad day their
situation would have been dangerous, but now it was nothing less than
desperate. These thoughts now came to each of them, and they said
nothing, but they still worked, as if mechanically, at the oars.
Suddenly something dark loomed immediately before them through the fog,
and in a few seconds, as the swift tide bore them nearer, they saw rocks
and sea-weed.
“Hurrah!” cried Pat. “It’s the island, afther all.”
But at that moment the great fog whistle sent forth its blast, which
sounded far away over the waters.
“‘Tain’t the island, ayther, sure enough,” said Pat. “I wondher if it’s
the shore.”
By this time they were close up to the rocks, and Pat leaped off. It
was not deeper than his waist. Phil followed, and they pulled the boat
forward. It was a shelving ledge of rock, covered with sea-weed; and
drawing the boat as far up on this as they could, they stood still, and
rested, and looked around.
But little could be seen, for the fog was thick, and shut out all except
what was within their immediate vicinity. Nothing but rocks and seaweed
appeared. The rocks were rude and jagged crags, upheaved in wild
disorder, with huge boulders lying in the interstices and hollows. Over
all these was a vast accumulation of sea-weed.
“It’s ashore somewhere that we must be,” said Pat; “but where it is I
don’t know at all, at all, so I don’t; somewhere on the Carleton shore,
so it is. The island’s over there, and this ought to be the baich. I’ll
tell you what I’ll do. You stay here by the boat, and I’ll go off and
see if I can make out anything.”
Saying this, Pat started off to explore the rocks and see the country.
Phil sat down on the wet sea-weed, holding the painter. His heart was
full of fervent gratitude for his astonishing escape, and as his memory
brought back the terrible events that had happened since he left the
island, a prayer of thankfulness was breathed forth from his inmost soul
to the One who had preserved him.
In a short time Pat returned. He looked disappointed, vexed, and
somewhat puzzled.
“We’re not on the baich at all,” said he, in a tone of vextion.
“Where are we--on an island?”
“Niver an island,” said Pat. “It’s a rock that we’re on. It’s what they
call a rafe. But what it is I don’t know. It’s big enough, and runs over
iver so far. Anyhow, we’re not far from the harbor, or from the island.
If I ony knowed how far we were from the shore, I’d like it better. But
I can’t see anything, or hear anything of it.”
“Perhaps we’re close by the shore,” said Phil.
“No; I’ll tell you where it is. I have it. I knowed it,” cried Pat. “I
was sure of it, ony I couldn’t get hold of it. Ye know that rafe lying
off the Carleton shore--Shad Rocks?”
“Yes,” said Phil.
“Well, it’s that same that this place is; and we’re standin here now, so
we are, as sure as you’re alive.”
“Shad Rocks!” cried Phil. “Shad Rocks!”
“Shad Rocks it is,” said Pat, “an no other place. An now I undherstan it
all. Out there is the say,” said Pat, turning and facing where he
supposed the sea to be. “Up there on the lift is Partridge Island, where
ye hear the staim whistle, and back there’s the Carleton shore.”
This discovery cheered them both greatly; and the moment that Pat
suggested this, everything confirmed it. The sounds of whistles in
various directions could now be identified with various steamboats with
which they were acquainted, while the lowing of cattle and the reports
of guns in other directions showed where the land was.
They now looked forward with perfect calmness towards escaping. Before
very long the tide had retreated far enough to leave the boat exposed.
The first thing that they did was to turn her over and set her right.
They then put inside her the oars, which had saved their lives in the
falls, and which they had fortunately brought with them all the time
of their drift on the bottom of the boat. This gave them the means of
effecting their escape.
All that they now had to do was to wait till the boat could float
again. As near as they could calculate, the tide would not be back again
sufficiently to float the boat until eight o’clock in the evening. They
had therefore nothing to do but to wait as patiently as possible. They
were wet and hungry; but in that midsummer day, the wet did not make
them at all cold, and in the course of time their clothes dried upon
them; and as to hunger, they were too much overjoyed at their escape to
make any allusions to such a trivial thing. They amused themselves by
hunting after shrimps in the interstices of the rocks and in the water
pools that lay about.
Thus the time passed, and at length the tide rose high enough to float
the boat. Fortunately for them also, the fog lessened somewhat, and thus
they were able to direct their course much more easily. Soon they were
on the waters again, rowing along, assisted now by the rising tide, and
thus finally succeeded in reaching their destination.
On arriving at the house, they learned about the search of Bart and his
father. They had not yet got home. Servants were at once sent to tell
them the news, and it was at the very lowest point of their despondency
that the tidings came that the lost were found.
V.
_Flight of Solomon.--In Hiding.--Solomon is himself again.--Up the
River.--Through the Country.--A long Drive.--An Indian Village.--An
Indian Guide.--Preparing for the Expedition._
THE joy which Pat and Phil had felt over their safety was certainly not
greater than that of Bart, as the lost ones were at length restored. His
intense anxiety was followed by a happiness as intense, and his excited
feelings resulted in a somewhat sleepless night. But in the wakeful
hours of that night his mind was taken up by other things than the
affairs of Phil and Pat, and his thoughts reverted to the earlier
events of that day, to Loch Lomond, and to Solomon. He still wondered at
Solomon’s precipitate and mysterious retreat, and obstinate staying away
from the house. It looked as though Solomon did not want to go on the
expedition; yet he felt in his own heart, that without Solomon the
expedition would lose its chief charm. Consequently Solomon must go. But
how could he overcome his objections? It would be necessary to see
him at once, to drive out to Loch Lomond as early as possible the next
morning.