_A miserable Night.--No one shrinks.--Their Efforts lessen.--Morning
comes.--Four Feet of Water in the Hold.--Take to the Boat!--Come along,
Captain!--The Dignity of Corbet.--The Folly of Pat.--The Insanity of
Solomon.--The Imbecility of Wade.--The Perplexity of the Boys.--Dat ar
ole Woman!--An Agony of Impatience.--Four on board tempting Fate._
NIGHT came--a miserable--miserable night! On the previous night, the
boys had slept; but this night, sleep was not thought of by any one of
them. Exhausted though they all were by hard work, they yet felt the
position of the Antelope to be too perilous to think of sleep. It was a
time for vigilance. It was a time when each one had to keep himself
wide awake, and hold himself prepared to rush to the boat at a moment’s
warning. The boat floated astern, as usual, and in it were all the
stores that might be necessary for a lengthened row; but they wished to
postpone any recourse to this boat to the latest possible moment. And
all the time the Antelope held on her course, impelled by a fair, yet
moderate breeze, that blew directly astern.
Exhausted though they were, yet none of them shrunk from his task. All
took turns. Corbet and Wade, Wade and Solomon, Corbet and Solomon; then
the boys, two by two, at the pump; each couple laboring strenuously and
conscientiously, yet showing the same result. For, whoever it was that
worked, or whatever was the amount of labor expended, the result seemed
in each case a failure and a defeat. They were struggling against a
common enemy; but the enemy was gaining. In spite of their efforts, the
waters continued to rise, and there was no way by which they could bring
any additional labor to bear. Had there been another pump, they would
have been in a better position. At about midnight they undertook a
second time to supplement the pumping with baling, but again desisted on
account of the utter exhaustion which followed such severe toil. It only
lessened their power of working at the pump. So once more they gave it
up.
From that time on their efforts grew less and less. The long toil had
told upon every one of them, more particularly upon the boys. The
labors of Captain Corbet, of Solomon, and of Wade, were less vigorous
certainly; yet still, they were even and well sustained; but those of
the boys grew more and more fitful, irregular, and feeble.
Each time that any two of them came to take their turn, they felt as
though this must be the last. And so the hours and the labors of that
dreary night dragged on.
Morning came.
All the boys felt that their capacity for work was well nigh exhausted.
Morning came, and brought the fog. No land appeared. No ship was in
sight. They sounded a blast on the fog horn, but no reply came.
Morning came, and brought, worse than all, the sight of four feet of
water in the Antelope’s hold,--an amount so great that further pumping
was useless, and at the best could only delay for a very short time a
doom that was inevitable.
Morning came, then, and brought this sight; and the four feet of water
in the Antelope’s hold at once forced a change in the decision of those
on board.
They saw that if they continued pumping they might delay the decisive
moment somewhat, but that it must come; and if it came with all of them
on board, they must sink with the sinking schooner. And that the end
was near, they could see. There was no time for delay. Already the signs
which met their view told them that the end was near.
Take to the boat!
This was now their thought. To the boat,--before it was too late! On
board the boat were all the stores necessary for a protracted voyage;
and they all began to feel that this boat was now a better place
than the sinking Antelope. The boat was a place of rest; a place more
restricted-, yet still, one which promised comparative peace and safety.
To that boat, therefore, they must go, before it was too late; while yet
they could embark in peace, and move away from the doomed Antelope.
Nor was a resort to the boat so hopeless an undertaking as it might
appear to have been. At the worst, they were in a part of the world
where ships are frequent; and some of them thought that land was near
enough to be seen in some direction if only the fog should be
dispelled. The stores in the boat were sufficient to sustain life for
a considerable time, and they would be free from the necessity of
incessant and most exhaustive labor.
There was now no time for any delay or any hesitation. They all felt
this. The sight of the Antelope’s hold decided them.
They must take to the boat.
“Come along, captain,” said Bart. “We mustn’t stay any longer. The
Antelope’ll go down before half an hour. If we pump any longer we’ll
all be used up, and won’t delay her sinking more than five minutes. Come
along.”
“Goin doun!” said Captain Corbet, dreamily. “Only think of the Antelope
goin doun!”
“Come, captain,” said Bruce, taking his arm. “The boat’s all ready.”
“O, yes,” said the captain; “and the Antelope’s goin doun! Dear me! Only
think of it!”
“Captain Corbet,” said Arthur, solemnly, “we’re all ready. Come, go
aboard the boat.”
“Well--well--well,” said the captain. “Very well. O, all right. O, yes.
You jest git into the boat. Git along. Never mind me. I’ll wait a while,
you know. You go ahead. I’ll jest meander around here while you’re
gettin into the boat. All right.”
At this the boys went off to the boat, and dropped in one after the
other. Bruce, and Arthur, and Tom, and Phil, and Bart. Pat lingered
behind. Those who had got into the boat expected that the others would
follow at once, and now looked eagerly towards them.
They were afloat astern; and there, at the stern of the Antelope, stood
Captain Corbet, surveying them with a melancholy air.
“Come along, captain,” said Bart.
“O, all right. Wait till the rest go,” said he. “Tain’t right for me
to clar out jest yet. The captain must allers be the last to quit the
sinkin ship.”
At this the boys called to the others,--to Pat, who had lingered behind,
to Solomon, and to Wade.
Pat was standing by the mainmast, To their amazement, they saw that he
was busily engaged in binding himself to it with ropes.
“Pat,” cried Bart, “why don’t you hurry up?”
Pat made no reply, but went on as before, solemnly and methodically.
“Pat,” cried Tom, “what in the world are you waiting for? Hurry up! What
are you doing?”
“Sure it’s tyin meself to the mast, I am,” said Pat.
“What,” cried Bruce, “tying yourself to the mast! What nonsense! What do
you mean?”
“Sure it’s the right thing to do,” said Pat. “It’s what they allers
does, so it is, wheniver a ship gits wracked. Sure I know; and I advise
you to do the same.”
“He’s tying himself to the mast!” cried Phil. “He’s mad. He’s insane.
Some of us’ll have to drag him on board.”
“Pat,” cried Barty, “come along. Are you crazy? The Antelope’s sinking!
What do you mean? Stop that. If you tie yourself to the mast, you’ll go
down with her. What nonsense! Drop that rope, and come with us.”
“Sure it’s safer here,” said Pat, calmly, “than on that bit of a boat,
so it is.”
“But the Antelope’s sinking.”
“Sure, don’t I know it? Meself does.”
“But you’ll go down in her, if you do that.”
“Arrah, what are you talking about? In shipwracks, doesn’t everybody tie
themselves to the mast?”
“What in the world shall we do?” cried Bart, in despair. “He’s crazy. I
never saw anything like it. He’s got a craze about tying himself to the
mast. Don’t you remember how he did the very same on board the Petrel?”
“We’ll have to go and untie him,” said Bruce.
“Only see how he’s fastening and knotting the rope,” said Tom.
“We’ll have to seize him, and bring him here by main force,” said
Arthur.
But from these thoughts they were now diverted by the appearance of
Solomon. He had been very busy for about a quarter of an hour, and was
now pulling away at a rope, as though the salvation of the whole party
depended upon the successful accomplishment of his design.
“Solomon,” cried Bart, “hurry, hurry! Come along! Hurry! The Antelope’s
going down fast! Hurry, and bring Pat along with you. The captain’s
waiting till you leave the Antelope. Hurry!
“I’se jest a histin up dis yer cookin-stove,” said he. “Ben tyin de
ropes roun it ebery which way, an jes got her ready to be put into de
boat.”
“The what!” cried Arthur.
“De cookin-stove,” said Solomon, gravely.
“He’s mad!” cried Bruce. “He’s gone crazy. Pat and Solomon have both
gone mad with excitement or terror.”
“You jes gib a left here, an help dis ole man put dis yer cookin-stove
aboard de boat, an den you ’ll be all right.”
“Solomon! Solomon!” cried Bart, “what horrible nonsense! What do you
mean by talking about putting a cooking-stove on board the boat? Come
along. Be quick.”
“Tell you what,” said Solomon, “dis yer stove am a nessary succumstance.
How you s’pose you get you meals cooked? Mus hab a cookin-stove. Mus so.
You got water to bile, and things to cook.”
“Nonsense;” cried Bart. “Can’t you see that it’ll sink the boat?”
“But what’ll you do?” said Solomon. “You’ll suffer if you don’t take it.
You mus hab a cookin-stove. Mus so!”
At this obstinate persistence in such unaccountable folly the boys were
in despair. The schooner was sinking, lower and lower every minute, and
there were those on board of her, wasting precious time and chattering
nonsense. What could be the meaning of this? Had terror deprived them
of their senses? It seemed so. There was Captain Corbet, absorbed in
his own thoughts, evidently quite forgetful of the present danger, and
unconscious of the scene around him. There was Wade, with his heavy face
gaping from the windlass, where he had seated himself. There was Pat,
still tying himself to the mast; and there was Solomon, toiling away
at the cooking-stove. It was like a small floating lunatic asylum. They
might well feel puzzled and bewildered.
But suddenly one part of this very difficult problem was solved of its
own accord. Solomon had not been very careful in the selection of his
hoisting apparatus. He had picked up some bits of rope, and fastened
them around the cooking-stove for slings, and into this he had passed
the hook from the schooner’s tackle. He pulled and labored away,
hoisting the heavy stove, and succeeded in raising it about half way
above the hatches. A few more pulls, and it would have been on the deck.
But there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip; and so it was destined
to prove in this case. For at the very moment when the stove hung thus
suspended, the slings suddenly gave way, and with a rush the heavy mass
descended, falling with a loud crash to the bottom, and with a force
that seemed sufficient to break through the Antelope’s bottom. There it
lay--a ruin!
Solomon stood and stared in silence at the scene. At length, drawing a
long breath, he raised his head and looked at the boys.
“Dar,” said he; “dat ar’s allus de way; troubles neber comes single. Dis
yer shows dat de end am come. Smash goes de cookin-stove, an shows dat
dis yer scursium’s a goin to tumminate in clamty. Dar ain’t a goin to be
no more eatin in dis yer party; dat’s all done up.”
“Solomon! Solomon!” cried Bart, “hurry up!” “Solomon! Pat! Wade! Captain
Corbet! Come! Quick! Hurry up! Quick!”
Such were the cries that now burst from those in the boat. They were
floating close by the schooner, so as to be convenient for those who
were yet on board. They had seen the destruction of the unfortunate
cooking-stove, and were now eager to get away before the schooner should
sink. But their patience was destined to be still further taxed, for
Solomon continued to make observations on the fallen stove; and Pat went
on winding the rope about himself and the mast; and Wade sat motionless
on the windlass; and Captain Corbet stood in the same attitude as
before,--in the attitude habitual with him, his hands mechanically
grasping the tiller, and his mild eyes fixed before him, as though he
was still steering the Antelope, and watching some shore ahead. But
before him there was only fog; and what he might have seen was not
visible to the material eye.
“No use,” said Solomon. “Dese yer may go, but I’se boun to stay. De
captain may go; an mas’r Wade, he may go; an Pat mus frow away dem
ropes. But for me, I’se goin to stick to de ole Antelope.”
“But she’s sinking, and sinking fast,” cried Bart, with feverish
impatience.
“Dar’s no odds to dis ole man. Ef I can’t stick to de Antelope, I don’t
want to go no whars else. Dar’s somebody a waitin for me, an I ain’t a
goin to ’spose mysef to her, no how.”
“But you’ll be drowned; you’ll be drowned. O, Solomon!” cried Bart, “cut
Pat’s ropes, and make him come; and hurry.”
“Come, come, captain. Make haste. Cut Pat’s ropes, Solomon. Come, Wade.
The schooner’ll go down in five minutes!”
“Don’t care!” said Solomon; “don’t care a mite. I’se dreadful fraid ob
dat ar ole woman. I’d rader be drowned here dis yar way, dan be hammered
to def wid a red-hot poker. Dat’s so; mind I tell you.”
The boys were now in an agony of impatience and anxiety. The waters were
high in the hold of the Antelope. They could see, from where they stood
in the boat, the dark gleam of the rising flood, and knew that any
moment might now witness the last plunge of the schooner into the depths
below. And so they shouted, and screamed, and called upon every one in
succession of those who still so madly lingered behind. But their cries
were unheeded; for those four on the deck of the Antelope made not the
slightest movement in response.
When the boys had left the Antelope, the water in her hold was about
four feet in depth. All the time since then it had been increasing; yet,
after all, though the time seemed long to the anxious boys, not over a
quarter of an hour had elapsed in reality.