There was another scrawl that seemed intended for a date, but the boys
could not make it out. It looked like “Tuesday, March,” but it might
have been anything else.
Such, then, was the writing. The captain had believed that the ship was
actually going to pieces, and had hurried off evidently in the greatest
possible haste, and had probably thrown into the boats a few of the
barest necessaries of life.
But Bart suggested another theory. It was that the captain had put this
writing in the bottle, and had got it all ready to throw over, when
perhaps a sail had hove in sight, and thus the bottle had been left in
the cabin.
Another theory was, that, in his hurry or panic, he had forgotten all
about the bottle, which had floated about in the cabin, and been left in
one of the state-rooms by the retreating waves.
It was evident to all that the captain, “Henry Hall,” had lost his
head. In his terror he had believed that the ship was “going to pieces;”
whereas nothing of the sort was going on. She might possibly have been
on her beam-ends, since he said so, but even here his fears might have
exaggerated the danger. Captain Corbet thought that she had been struck
over on her beam-ends, and held down by her sails, and, when these were
torn away, she had eventually righted herself.
“That thar skipper,” said he, sententiously, “was frikened out of his
seven senses, and fancied the craft was brakin up. So he rushed to the
boats, chucked in a bag of biscuit and a few bottles of water, and rowed
away for his life.”
Captain Corbet paused for a moment, and looked at the boys with a very
singular expression on his face.
“And now,” said he, “my dear young friends, do you know what you air and
what you’ve ben an gone an done?”
“What?” asked Bruce, in some surprise at the captain’s tone and manner.
“Wal, only this--you’re salvors.”
“Salvors!” repeated Bruce, to whom this word conveyed no meaning in
particular.
“Salvors!” repeated Captain Corbet, impressively. “Yes, you’ve found
this here ship on the broad bosom of the deep, deserted; you’ve took
possession--she’s yours.”
“Well, what of that?” said Bruce. “For that matter, she belongs to all
of us.”
“She belongs to all them that bear a hand to bring her into port.”
“Into port!” cried Bart, in great surprise.
“Yes, into port,” said Captain Corbet. “That thar was the very fust idee
that entered into my head as I sot foot on this here deck. This noble
ship, this valable cargo,--is this to be given up, or surrendered to the
tender mussies of the pitiless and ragin ocean? Not if I knows it. If
we can manage to navigate this here craft into port, she’s ours! We can
sell her. We can sell her cargo. It’s a val’able cargo. It’ll give each
of us enough, if the proceeds air divided, to set us up for life. For
my part, I’m an old man, with one foot in the grave; but I never forget
that I am a feyther, and never did the parential heart beat more wildly
than it did at the identical moment when this thought came like fire
into my brain. That’s so.”
“But how in the world can we get her into port?” cried Bart, in
astonishment and excitement.
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “that thar’s the very identical pint that
I’ve been a cogitatin over the hull arternoon. I’ve gone about this here
craft on all sides, an I’ve sot an surveyed her from a distance.
I’ve shot my eyes an meditated her all over. But thar’s one grand and
overpeowerin obstacle in the way to a fair navigation, and that is, she
hasn’t got a rag of a sail except that jib.”
“‘So what can we do?” said Bruce. “We can’t get her to move an inch
without sails.”
“Couldn’t we rig up the sails of the Antelope?” asked Tom.
Captain Corbet shook his head mildly.
“’Tain’t possible,” said he, “no how. Fust an foremost, the spread
of canvas on the schewner ain’t over an above sufficient to fetch her
along, and on this here ship it wouldn’t be a succumstance. Why, this
here ship is a thousand tonner, an more too. Besides,” added the
venerable captain, with mild suggestiveness, “the canvas of the Antelope
_might_ be stronger.”
This was a statement the truth of which was at once felt and
acknowledged by all the boys.
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “there ain’t no use doin things up in a
hurry--not a mite. We’ve got to deliberate, cogitate, turn it all over
in our minds, and be precious keerful how we decide. There’s a good deal
at stake, and this here hour may be a goin to make or mar our fortins. I
intend to brood over it this night, an p’aps by mornin I’ll see my way.
The only trouble is,” he added, in a pensive tone, “that I don’t quite
know how I can ever see my way to navigatin this here vessel without
sails.”
“Perhaps we can drift to some place,” suggested Phil.
Captain Corbet looked at Phil for a few moments with mild astonishment.
“Have you ever tried driftin, young sir?” he asked, at length.
“No,” said Phil, “except with you, in the Antelope.”
“Yea, and in the Bay of Fundy. Now, if this was only the Bay of Fundy,
I’d feel at home. In that thar bay I’d ventoor to cal’late the exact
point to which this here ship would drift. But this ain’t the Bay of
Fundy, and, what’s more, I don’t understand the currents of these here
waters,--more’s the pity, bein as I’m a pilgerrim an a stranger. As to
driftin, why, we’ll drift, course, as long as we’re aboard; but where we
may drift to it would take a man with a head as long as a horse to tell.
Why, we might drift to Portygal, and that, I think, wouldn’t quite meet
the voos of any of us. I’ve knowed, or leastways I’ve heerd tell of
ships that’s gone all the way over to Portygal, partly driftin, partly
by the wind a blowin of ‘em. But this here ship I want to indooce to go
to some home port,--and how to do that is the puzzle that now occoopies
this bewildered brain.”
With these words the captain gently passed away from the group of
boys, leaving them to think over and to talk over this new and exciting
project. It was in conversation about this and about the message in the
bottle, that they occupied themselves till bedtime.
That night they concluded to sleep in their old quarters on board the
Antelope, as the beds and bedding in the cabin of the Petrel were not
dry enough to satisfy the mind of Captain Corbet.