off to explore the island. There was not much to explore; but what
there was, proved difficult. The trees grew densely, interlacing their
branches, while beneath them was a thick growth of underbrush and ferns.
Fallen trunks, some fresh fallen, others half rotted, intercepted them
at every step; and they had to climb over them or crawl under. Progress
was extremely difficult, and a good half hour was occupied in going
from one end’ of the island to the other. Here they rested for a while,
looking from the edge of the cliff down the precipice-into the sea. Then
they began to return, keeping along the edge of the island, where
the trees and the underbrush were not so dense. Beneath they could see
Messrs. Simmons and Long diligently hammering away. Scattered along the
beach were the other boys. In the air, abreast of them, the sea-gulls
darted about with hoarse screams. One huge fellow flew straight toward
them, without seeing them, carrying a fish in his claws. The sight of
them so frightened him, that he dropped the fish, and flew off with a
harsh shriek. On picking up the fish, they found it yet possessed of
much vigor. Bruce took it and hurled it far out, and watched it to see
where it would fall. It struck its own native element, into which it
sank; and the boys generously hoped that it was able to resume its life,
which had been interrupted by so wonderful a transition into the world
of air.
So they wandered along, finding their way here much easier, and from
time to time stopping to examine some object of interest, to dart into
the woods after something that attracted their attention, or to lean
over the cliff, and let stones fall, ‘and watch them as they fell
straight down, far, down, till they struck the beach below.
By and by they became scattered. Phil Kennedy and Tom Crawford had gone
across the island. Arthur and Bart were walking on, and Bruce lingered
behind to try and find a gull’s nest, which seemed to be somewhere over
the edge of the cliff. He lay down, and bent far over, and at length saw
what he suspected. The gull that was on the nest flew away in affright,
as she saw the face peering at her, and Bruce determined to seize the
eggs. But how could he? The nest was out of his reach, he scrutinized
the place narrowly, and at last concluded that it could be done. About
three feet beneath him was a projecting rock. On this he could Stand;
and holding on to the root of a tree at the edge of the cliff with one
hand, he could extend his other hand far enough to touch the nest. All
this he saw, and at once began to make the attempt. The edge of
the cliff was rocky, and hung over a foot beyond the precipice; the
projecting rock below did not come out so far. About five feet back, a
tree grew, one of the roots of which had projected itself forward, and
crooked itself along the edge, and the earth having been blown away, it
was now exposed. This root Bruce grasped; and lowering himself over the
edge, he let himself down till his feet touched the shelf; then lowering
himself still more, he prepared to reach out his hand.
But at that instant a thrill of horror shot through every nerve. The
shelf on which he was standing seemed slowly to sink beneath him. Well
for him was it at that moment that he had not lowered, himself farther,
and that there had not yet been time to extend his arm to the nest. The
thrill of horror transfixed him. He sprang up, and grasped the root with
both hands. The next instant the shelf crumbled away, and his feet hung
idly in the empty air. A wild shriek sounded out--a shriek of mortal
terror, that sent an icy chill to the heart of Bart and Arthur, and
brought them back in mad anxiety and fear.
Far below, Mr. Simmons had been busily hammering at the cliffs. His
basket was filled with unusually fine specimens, and he had just turned
to send off Bogud with this basket to the landing-place. He was just in
the midst of some directions about a peculiar hammer which he wanted,
when suddenly an immense mass of rock came thundering down, and buried
itself in the gravel, not ten feet in front of him. Mr. Simmons started
back, and rushed far out from the treacherous precipice. Looking up with
a white face, he sought to see the place from which the rock had fallen.
He looked up. A deeper, deadlier pallor came to his face; big drops
started from his forehead; a shriek escaped him.
“O, God! Who is it?” he groaned.
For there on the edge, grasping the tree-root with both hands, hung the
figure of a boy writhing as he sought to find some place for a foothold
against the rock. Two figures were bending over.
By the red shirts which all wore, he knew that the one in danger must be
one of those five that had dressed themselves in this way. But which of
them it was, he could not tell.
His shriek roused others. Mr. Long came hurrying there, and the other
boys, all looking up with eyes of horror and ashen lips. The moments of
that suspense were agony.
There was nothing that they could do. Mr. Long alone tried to do
something. Starting off at full speed, he ran on, trying to find a
place to scale the cliff. Gradually a few others followed. But the rest
thought it was of no use, and awaited the end in voiceless horror.
Meanwhile Bruce Rawdon had clung to the root, shrieking for help, and
trying to find some resting-place for his feet. In vain he tried. The
precipice retreated inward, and the shelf that had fallen left a deeper
hollow behind. Almost senseless with the horror of his situation, he was
conscious of nothing but the fact that friends were near; and for these
he shouted, clinging desperately to the root of the tree. Another boy
might have fallen; but Bruce’s muscles had been toughened by all kinds
of manly exercise, and he had in him the germ and the promise of mighty
strength and stature.
The shriek that roused Arthur and Bart was followed by others, which led
them speedily to the place.
With a groan Arthur flung himself down, and grasped his brother by the
wrist. Bart took a swift glance around.. A small tree was growing near
the edge. Twining his sinewy legs around this, he bent his body over the
precipice, and caught Bruce by the waistband. Then, clutching the tree
with his legs, he made a mighty effort to raise Bruce. The latter, in
the mean while, had seized Arthur, who was also trying to raise him.
But Arthur had not a fair chance to exert his full strength, and so they
prevailed but little against the dead weight which they were trying to
lift.
“Arthur!” cried Bart.
“Well.”
“Can you catch hold of this tree where my legs are? Hold it with one
hand, and then you can pull better with your other. Can you do it?”
“Yes. I’ve got hold.”
“Now then.”
With a tremendous effort, both boys pulled together. The slender tree
bent beneath their efforts. But the weight was raised! Yes! O, thank
God! higher--higher! There was Bruce’s head at the edge, and now his
shoulders. And now he himself, by a last; despairing, convulsive
effort, had flung himself forward, and was on the rock. They dragged him
forward. He was saved.
Arthur burst into tears, and held Bruce in his arms. Bart rushed off
for water. Returning in a few minutes with his leathern cup,--which he
always carried,--full of cold water, he gave it to Bruce. The fainting
boy drank it, and then drew a long breath.
“God bless you, boys!” he said at last, wringing the hand of each. He
would have said more, but he could not.
“I’ll be all right’ presently,” said he, taking a long breath. “My
heart feels painful;” and he pressed his hand against his breast. “Don’t
bother any more, Bart. I’m coming round fast. Just let’s sit here, and
be quiet for a little while.”
They sat there in silence for some time; and gradually the color began
to come back to Bruce’s face.
Suddenly the crackling of brushwood was heard, avid Mr. Long came
running up to them, his face as pale as death, and his eyes round with
the horror of a frightful suspense. The moment he saw the little group,
he flung himself on his knees by Bruce, and, catching him in his arms,
he kissed him again and again.
“Thank God! O, thank God!” he moaned, and burst into tears.
Hitherto Mr. Long had the reputation, among the boys, of being a hard,
unfeeling man; but from that moment this opinion was changed.
Mr. Long said nothing more at that time, partly because he did not wish
to distress. Bruce by any questions just then, and partly because he
was so faint, from the tremendous rush up the cliff, that he could not
speak. In fact, for a time he seemed as much broken as Bruce. So they
sat quietly together waiting.
Mr. Long’s effort was a desperate one, but the only thing to be done. It
is possible that Bart and Arthur, if they could not have drawn up Bruce,
might have held him there for a long time, and in that case Mr. Long
would have been there to save him.
After about an hour, Bruce said he was all right, and they walked toward
the place of descent. It seemed, indeed, as though he had got over his
accident. He said his arms ached a little, and there was a slight pain
in his breast, but that it was passing away. The descent was toilsome,
but Bruce accomplished it as well as any of them. By the time he reached
the shore, he declared himself perfectly well.
Mr. Simmons was there to meet him. He wrung his hand very earnestly,
with tearful eyes, but did not trust himself to speak. Then Bruce told
all about it, and the excitement of this adventure put an end to all
further search for minerals.
At length five o’clock came, and they prepared to go back to the
schooner. The tide had fallen considerably, and a strong current was
running past them. The water was not so placid as it had been, but was
getting broken up, and somewhat rough. The wind had changed, and was
blowing more freshly than before. There were also gathering fog banks,
which were drawing nearer every moment, and threatening soon to be
around them. All things showed, therefore, that it was high time to
retire. Signals were made, and before, long they saw the boat leave the
schooner, and come to the shore.
On landing, the mate wanted to know if any of them could scull a boat.
Bruce said that he could, and so did Arthur and Bart. The mate said that
he wanted to stay aboard to get the sails ready; and to save time, it
would be necessary for some one of them to bring the last boat aboard.
Each one of these three offered to scull her; but it was at last decided
that Arthur should go in the second boat and bring her back, while Bruce
should take the last load. Bart readily gave up his claim to the others;
and so it was arranged.
“But are you sure you’re strong enough for that?” said Mr. Long.
“Strong? Of course.” said Bruce. “I’m stronger than ever, sir.”
So the first boat started with the same load which it had when landing
before, with the addition of one boy more. The next boat took Arthur and
four more boys, leaving Bruce, and Tom, and Phil, and Bart.
About an hour had passed between the time when the boat left to take
them from the island and the time when Arthur brought it back for the
last trip. In that hour many changes had taken place. The tide had
fallen farther. Between the beach, where they stood, and Pinnacle
Island, the rocks were laid bare, and could be traversed on foot.
Between the schooner and the shore, a swift current was running,
which grew stronger every moment. By six o’clock the current was very
powerful. The mate, on his second trip, had considerable difficulty in
getting to the schooner; and he had given very careful directions to
Arthur as to the course which he should go in returning.
“You must head the boat farther up,” said he, “so as to strike the
scho’oner fair. I didn’t cal’late right about that there tide. You’ve
got to head your boat well off that side, and then the tide ‘ll help you
instead of henderin’.”
“All right,” said Arthur.
In going ashore, he found the current very strong; but the beach
was long, and, of course, it was very easy to land somewhere. As it
happened, he was carried down some fifty feet below the place which
he wished to reach; but that didn’t make any practical difference. It
served to open his eyes to the peculiar danger before them, and made him
see that the very greatest care would have to be exercised in returning,
or else the swift tide would sweep them away from the place to which
they wished to go.
As Arthur looked round, after the other boys had got in, an exclamation
burst from him.
“Whew!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Why, the fog. How suddenly it has come up! Why, it’s getting as thick
as night. Look here, Bruce; we’ve got to be pretty careful this time.
See here; you must head out that way, for the current is running like a
race-horse, and this fog isn’t helping matters.”
He then proceeded to explain to Bruce the best course to take, and Bruce
said he would do exactly as he told him.
“You’re sure you can do it. You’re sure you’re not used up at all,” said
Arthur.
“Not a bit of it!” said Bruce, with a laugh.
“If I feel used up, I’ll hand over the oar to you or Bart.”
Saying this, he worked away with vigorous pushes, and the boat moved in
the direction indicated by Arthur.
Bruce soon found that Arthur had not exaggerated the force of the
current. It seemed to drag the boat sidewise with fearful power. But a
strong hand was at the scull, and the boat’s course was true, and every
moment brought them nearer.
As they went, the fog grew thicker at every foot. The wind blew more
strongly, and the water grew rougher, making the progress of the clumsy
boat more difficult. Soon the shore grew indistinct; but this they did
not regard, since their eyes were fixed on the schooner, to which they
drew steadily nearer. There, on board, stood the-other boys; and Mr.
Simmons was talking to Captain Corbet, and Mr. Long was watching them
with some anxiety. The mate stood near the bow with a rope, ready to
throw as soon as they should come within reach.
But though near enough to see all this, they could not hope to get there
yet without a severe effort. For now the farther out they went, the
stronger grew the current; and Bruce felt a heavier drag, against the
boat, and gathered up his strength for sterner exertions. He took a
hasty look at the schooner, so as to get her bearings, and then headed
the boat at a sharper angle against the current. This was admirably
calculated; and now the boat fell off less, and seemed to work itself
steadily toward the schooner.
Arthur was in the bows, anxiously watching the boat’s course. The other
boys sat in silence, conscious of the hazard before them, but facing it
bravely. On board the schooner not a word was spoken. Mr. Long’s face
seemed to grow more anxious. His hands clutched one another with a rigid
grasp, and his eyes seemed fastened on Bruce. The mate stood with his
rope, not venturing to make any suggestion, for he saw that Bruce was
doing all that could be done. His forehead was contracted into a painful
frown, and he was whistling softly to himself (from a habit that he had
acquired), and which, in him, was a sign of grave perplexity of soul.
Nearer and nearer came the boat; but the anxious watchers began to
see that, the current was swerving them off more rapidly than they had
expected, and that the angle of the boat’s drift would lie not so near
as they hoped. Bruce saw this, and summoned up a new force out of his
strong muscles. A few mighty ‘strokes, and something was gained even
against the pressure of that tremendous current. There was the schooner.
On--on; nearer--nearer.
They had hoped to touch her bow; but now they saw it would be well if
they could get near her stern. Back ran the mate with his rope. Not a
word was spoken. No one ventured to call for greater exertions from
that brave, strong boy, who was plying his oar so mightily. And now the
moment had come. Forward sprang the mate, and the rope sped through the
air. Arthur’s hands were extended to seize it. Bruce did not abate one
stroke, but worked with desperate energy. The boat was borne past the
schooner’s quarter. The rope touched Arthur’s right hand,--his fingers
closed around it.
Alas! it was but the extreme end of the rope that he held; and before
his other hand could seize it, it had slipped through his fingers, and
fell into the water.
“Row, row, Bruce! I’ve dropped the rope!”
A groan burst from Bruce. He gave three tremendous strokes. They were
the last efforts of despairing energy. As he moved his arms to make the
fourth, he staggered back. The oar fell from his nerveless grasp. He
sank down, with a groan, at the bottom of the boat.
“Boys, I--I’m dying!”
Gasping out these words, Bruce closed his eyes, and lay motionless.
A cry of dismay and terror burst from the schooner. Pallid faces, and
eyes of horror, were turned toward the boat, which now, hurled on by
the swift current, was borne farther and farther away, until at last it
vanished from view in the fog.
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.”