_Rowing ashore.--Nearer they come.--The Fog dispels.--Strangely
familiar.--A Man advances towards them.--Wild Shouts from Bart and
Tom.--Wilder Shouts from the other Boys.--Confused Rejoicings.--A
hearty Welcome.--Explanations.--The receding Tide.--A Visit to the
Antelope.--Mournful Remembrances.--The Speech of Captain Corbet._
THE sight of land a cry of joy burst forth from all in the boat, and
Bart and Torn bent to their oars with all their force. As they drew
nearer, they saw, to their intense delight, that this strange land
was no wilderness, no desolate shore, but an inhabited place, with
cultivated fields, and pasture land, and groves. One by one, new
features in the landscape revealed themselves. There was a long beach,
with a grand sweep that curved itself away on either side, till it
joined steep or precipitous shores. Behind this were fields, all green
with verdure, and a scattered settlement, whose white houses, of simple,
yet neat construction, looked most invitingly to these shipwrecked
wanderers. At one end of the winding beach rose the fabric of a large
ship in process of construction.
Nearer they came, and yet nearer. The tide was high on the beach, and
the waters almost touched the green fields that fringed the shore with
alder bushes. Here a boat was drawn up, and beyond this stood a neat
farm-house. On a fence nets were hanging, showing that the occupant
of this house united the two callings of farmer and fisher. Beyond
the settlement, the land rose into high hills, which were covered with
forest trees, and from these had been wafted that aromatic breeze which
had first made known to them the neighborhood of land.
All this time the breeze had been slightly increasing, and the fog had
been steadily diminishing. Now the shores appeared in fuller outline.
Looking back over their course, they could see the masts of the
Antelope, where they projected above the water. They could see that they
had drifted into a bay, and the Antelope had sunk into its shallowest
part.
There was something in this scene which appeared to them strangely and
most unaccountably familiar. All had the same feeling, yet not one
of them expressed it. Each imagined that it was his own fancy; and so
disturbed had their minds been for the past few days, that they felt
unwilling now to indulge this fancy. Yet every moment the fancy grew
stronger, and brought fresh wonder with it. In this way they rowed
along, and every moment brought the boat nearer and nearer to the shore.
At length they saw a man come forth from the house before them, and
advance towards the beach. His face was turned towards them; he was
staring at them most intently. As the boat advanced, he advanced; and
thus the two parties approached. Every moment revealed more and more of
the opposite party to each.
Bart and Tom were rowing, and thus had their backs turned to the
shore and their faces towards the sea outside. Here the fog was fast
dispelling, and as it fled, there opened up mile after mile of the
coast, and the sea horizon. There, on that horizon, there came forth out
of the fog to their eyes a solitary object, that appeared to float upon
the sea. It revealed itself more and more; and first, magnified and
distorted by the mist, it seemed like a lofty table land of cloud, then
like a giant rock, but at length resolved itself into a wooded island
with precipitous sides. There it lay full before them.
As it thus revealed itself, Tom uttered a wild shout. Bart instantly
uttered another.
“Boys! Boys! Look! Look! Hurrah! Hur-ra-a-a-a-a-a-ah!
Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!”
But at that very instant there arose a wild outcry--a clamor worse than
theirs--from all the others in the boat. Solomon gave a yell, Captain
Corbet started up, and ceased to stroke his legs Bruce, Arthur, Phil,
and Pat, with one wild cry, started erect to their feet, regardless
of the swaying and rocking of the boat. And “Hurrah!” they cried.
“Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!! Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!”
“Scott’s Bay! Ile Haute!” cried Tom and Bart.
“Scott’s Bay! Benny Grigg!” cried all the others.
“Scott’s--Grigg.”
“Benny-Haute.”
“Ile-Bay.”
“Benny-Bay.”
“Ile-Grigg.”
“Scott’s Haute.”
Such was the medley of cries that arose from all, shouting and yelling
at once. While all the time there stood on the shore the man that
had come down to meet them; who first had started and stared with
amazement,--and who then, recognizing them all, and seeing the masts of
the sunken schooner beyond, understood the whole situation, and rejoiced
over it accordingly--showing his joy, indeed, in a less noisy and
demonstrative manner than theirs, but in a way which was thoroughly
characteristic.
For Benny suddenly turned, and started off to the house on a full run.
Then he disappeared.
The boat drew nearer, Benny appeared once more.
The boat touched the beach.
At that very instant Benny touched the beach also, and, plunging into
the water, began shaking hands with every one of them, in the most
violent and vehement manner.
“Come along! Come along! Come right up! Come along! Don’t mind the boat.
I’ll see to that. Come along to the house. Blowed if I ever see the
likes o’ this in all my born days! Come along!”
Such was the welcome of Benny Grigg.
And in this way Benny dragged them all up to his house. Here he gave
them another welcome, characterized by a lavish hospitality, and a
warmhearted friendliness that was truly delightful to his guests; in all
of which he was seconded by Mrs. Benny. The table that was spread before
them was loaded down with everything that the house could furnish, and
the shipwrecked guests ate with an appetite such as is only known to
those who have labored hard and fasted long.
After which Benny questioned them all closely, and made them tell him
how it was that they had come here. Great was his astonishment, but
greater still his amusement. Though it had so nearly been a tragedy, to
hear it seemed like a comedy. There is but one step between the sublime
and the ridiculous--the terrible and the grotesque--tragedy and comedy.
Benny chose to regard it all from the lighter point of view, and
accordingly he laughed with unrestrained hilarity, and made merry with
exceeding mirth.
But after the story was all told, he grew more serious, and, producing a
well-worn chart, he explained to them his theory as to their wanderings.
He pointed out to them the probable place where the Antelope had struck,
described the character of the tides and currents, and showed how it
was that, with such a wind, and under such circumstances, they, very
naturally, had drifted into this particular part of the Bay of Fundy.
Benny’s explanation was indeed so very lucid, and so satisfactory, that
they all expressed their regrets at not having known this before, in
which case they would have been saved from much anxiety.
When they arrived at Scott’s Bay it was high tide, but by the time that
they had finished their story and the conversation that had been caused
by it, the tide was far down on the ebb. On going forth they could
see that the deck of the Antelope had been uncovered by the retreating
waters. In two or three hours more the tide would be at the lowest
ebb, and they could see that it would be possible for them to visit the
sunken schooner. It lay about a mile away from the beach, between which
and her there extended long mud flats, which could easily be traversed
at low water.
They waited till the tide was low, and then they all walked down to her.
There she lay--the Antelope--the vessel that had carried them so far,
through strange seas, amid so many dangers and perils--the vessel
associated with so many memories. They climbed on board. They saw
that her hold was still full of water; for, though the crevices were
numerous, and wide enough to let in the sea, they could not let it out
with sufficient rapidity to keep pace with the fall of the tide. Still,
the water streamed out in small jets, or trickled out, drop by drop,
in a hundred places, affording them a very impressive sight of the true
condition of the Antelope, and of the danger against which they had
struggled so long and so laboriously.
“If the water’d ony get out of her,” said Captain Corbet, in a
melancholy voice, “she might float ashore.”
“Yes,” said Benny, “she might float, perhaps, as far as the shore, but
no farther. ’Tain’t no manner of uthly use a tryin to repair that
thar craft, cos she’s ben an gone an got done for. She’s wore out, the
wustest kind. That thar vessel ain’t wuth a tryin to repair her. It’s
a mussy she held out so long, an didn’t go to pieces all of a suddent,
some-whars in the middle of the sea.”
To this Captain Corbet made no reply. He felt keenly the truth of the
remark, and could see that the Antelope was indeed beyond the reach of
human aid.
The boys all climbed on board of the beloved, though battered old craft,
to take a last look and a last farewell. It was with unconcealed sadness
that they looked around. They could not go down into the cabin, or the
hold, for the water was there; yet the deck was enough to remind them
of that eventful past which they had experienced here. This was the
schooner that had borne them on their cruise around Minas Bay; which
had taken them around the Bay of Fundy when Tom was lost; which had
afterwards taken them to the Bay de Chaleur. This was the schooner
for whose appearance they had so watched and waited on board the
water-logged Petrel, and which had lately borne them over so many miles
of watery sea, through so many leagues of fog. And this was the end.
Captain Corbet it was that first broke the solemn silence.
“It air gone,” he said; “the derream hev bust! The berright derream
of fortin, of wealth, an of perosperity. Gone, tew, air the ole
Antelope--companion of my toils, my feelins, an my fame. Boys, you hev
ben the confidants of my feelins towards this here Antelope, an knows
how I loved her, yea, even as the apple of my aged eye! I stood here,
not long sence, by yon rudder, fixed firm an solemn; resolved to perish
with her; ready to sink into the deep blue sea. From that fate I was
spared; yet still my feelins air the same; the heart’s the same--‘twill
ne’er grow cold. An now I feel to mourn. I feel that I am indeed a
growin old. The days of my navigatin air brought to an end. Henceforth
the briny deep will be traversed by the aged Corbet no more forever.
From this time I retire from the heavin biller, an take refooge in my
own vine an fig tree. My navigatin arter this’ll be, with my belessed
babby in my arms, up an down the room. The only storms that await me
now, an the only squalls, air to be of a sterictly domestic characture.
Weak human natur, boys, might be tempted to repine, an to indulge in
vain lamintations over this here; but the time hev passed. I’ve made my
lamintation, an that’s enough. I’ll lament no more. Peace to her ashes.
Let her lie, an may no rude hand go a disturbin of the beloved Antelope
in her last restin-place. Let her lie buried here beneath the ocean. Let
the billowy main sound her requem, an chant her foon’ral dirge. An now,
farwell! an may you be happy! Good by, Antelope--ole friend--an receive,
as your last legacy an benediction, the belessin of the mournful
Corbet!”
He ceased. Silence followed, and in that silence they all retired from
the Antelope, and returned to the shore.