“It’s blowin a leetle mite too fresh,” said Captain Corbet to Bruce, “for to contennew on this course; so I’ll jest come round, an run afore it. Arter all, it’s the best course,—for it’s west, an had ought to fetch us up somewhar eventooly, though I ain’t got overly much confidence in this here compass.”
“Compass! Why, what’s the matter with the compass?” asked Bruce.
“Wal, yesterday at sunrise,” said Captain Corbet, in a gentle tone of regret, “I noticed that, accordin to the compass, the sun was a risin in the nothe, an that was agin natur. So I knowed that either the sun was wrong or the compass, and nat’r’ly concluded that it was the compass. So I jest examined it, an sure enough, I found the needle all rusted up; an I’m a leetle mite afeared it ain’t no more good, jest now, than a rusty nail. Consequently, I don’t feel like settin any very great confidence on her. Wal, for that matter, I never thought much of compasses, an don’t gen’rally go by them when I’m in old Fundy, though hereabouts they might p’aps be some use.”
At this fresh instance of Captain Corbet’s way of navigating, Bruce was so overwhelmed that he could not say a single word. A flush passed over his face. His lips parted as though he was about to speak; but he checked the rising remark, and walked forward, where he began to talk earnestly with the other boys.
But suddenly their conversation was interrupted. There was a sharp crash, a wild flap, a dark shadow, and in an instant a large object floated away through the air on the wings of the wind, while the noise of flapping, snapping and cracking still filled their ears. A hurried, startled glance showed them all. As the Antelope was coming round, a gust of wind more violent than usual had struck her. The old sails were too weak to stand it. The mainsail yielded utterly, and was torn clean off, and flung away upon the waters. The foresail had suffered but little less injury, for it had been torn completely asunder, and now showed a huge rent, while the two portions flapped wildly and furiously in the blast.
“Wal,” said Captain Corbet, “ef—this—here—don’t—beat—all!”
He was silent for a moment, and stood contemplating the ruin before him.
“Wal,” he continued, drawing a long breath, “what’s got to be must be. I knowed it would come some day. You can’t fight agin the wind an storm for more’n seventeen year without feelin it; and these sails has been an had their day. I knowed it. I told you, boys, once—I dar say you mind the time—that them sails might be stronger, and that they wasn’t adapted to be hung on to a ship of a thousand ton. Still I did hope that they’d stand this here vyge.”
“But what are we going to do now, captain?” asked Tom.
“Do?” said the captain. “O, wal, ’tain’t so bad’s it might be. We’ve got the foresail yet; an me and Wade’ll fix her; we’ll take her, an sew her up, and make her as good as new; an we’ll work along some how. You needn’t be troubled; it ain’t goin to make a mite of difference; an I don’t know, after all, but what in the long run p’aps it’s a goin to be better for us. We ain’t ben a doin much with the two sails, that sartain; p’aps now we’ll do better with only one.”
And now the venerable captain and his noble mate prepared to obtain possession of the sail. This was done without any very great effort, the boys all assisting. Then the two navigators (master and mate), having armed themselves with sail-needles and twine, proceeded to sew up the rent, to patch, to mend, and, in general, to renovate the old, old wornout sail. At length this last was happily accomplished; the sail was restored to its place, and as it swelled out at the pressure of the ocean blast, it seemed as efficient as ever. But either, in this case, appearances were deceptive, or else its previous condition had been deplorably weak. Certain it is, that after having sustained the blast for about half an hour, the old rag of a sail began to give way again in a dozen different places, and at length split up almost close beside the former rent. At this Captain Corbet surveyed the tattered canvas with melancholy resignation.
“This here wind,” said he, “is a leetle too stiff for her jest now. I think we’d better save her from another time. She’ll do very well in milder weather.”
By “she” Captain Corbet meant the sail, which he thus personified with affectionate familiarity. As he said this, he proceeded to lower the tattered canvas, and examine it in a pitying, compassionate, and caressing sort of way, quite oblivious of any other duty.
Meanwhile the Antelope tossed and pitched about at the mercy of the waves. There was nothing that deserved the name of a storm; yet, nevertheless, the wind was boisterous, and the sea somewhat rough. The position of the Antelope became, therefore, in the highest degree unpleasant, and this last example of Captain Corbet’s helplessness and incapacity served to complete the despondency of the boys. It now seemed as though their last hope had gone. The compass was useless; the sails were reduced to rags; they had no means of flight from their present misery; and the only comfort remaining was, that the danger which menaced them was not immediate, and might yet be evaded.
Nothing now was left to the boys but to watch with eager eyes the scene around—to search over the waste of waters with the hope of seeing some sail, or perhaps some sign of land. And to this they devoted themselves. It was indeed a cheerless task, and one, too, which gave them but little hope. Hours passed, yet no sail appeared. Dinner time came, and the dinner was spread; yet the boys showed but little appetite. They had been in far worse circumstances than this, yet still this was sufficiently unpleasant to destroy all relish for Solomon’s cookery, even if the banquet had been composed of greater dainties than salt pork and sea biscuit.
Thus the guests at that banquet were not at all appreciative; and they sat there in the schooner’s hold, not to eat, but merely to pass the time, which hung so heavy on their hands. Yet even thus their impatience did not allow them to spend much time at the dinner, for they soon retreated, and took up their stations on deck once more, to stare around, to scan the horizon, and to peer into empty space.
Hours passed. On that afternoon, the wind gradually went down, and there seemed a prospect of calmer weather. Captain Corbet began to talk of mending the sail, and hoisting it again; and at length, calling upon Wade, he and his mate proceeded with needles and sail twine to patch up as before. Into this occupation these two plunged, but the boys still stood on the lookout.
At length, Bart directed Bruce’s attention to something which appeared on the margin of the sea, far away on the horizon.
“Bruce,” said he, “don’t you see something out there that looks like the mast of a vessel?”
Bruce looked eagerly in the direction where Bart was pointing, and the others, who had heard the remark, did the same.
CHAPTER II.
As they all stood looking in the direction where Bart was pointing,—
“I see it,” said Bruce. “It’s certainly the mast, and the mast of a ship, for there is the yard and the rigging; but there’s only one mast.”
“It’s a sloop,” said Phil.
“No,” said Tom; “it’s a square-rigged vessel of some sort.”
“Sure an it ain’t got no more ’n one mast,” said Pat; “an be the same token, there’s no hull at all at all. Be the powers, but it would be a quare thing intirely if it was to turrun out to be another wather-logged ship. An if it is, it’s meself that’ll not set fut aboord of her; not me, so it isn’t.”
“There’s something,” said Bruce, “that may be a hull. I can see it sometimes quite plain. Now look, boys, carefully, all of you, as we rise on the top of a wave.”
All this time Arthur had been examining the object through the spy-glass. As Bruce said this, he handed the glass to him.
“It’s not a ship,” said he, “nor a vessel of any kind. It’s land.”
“Land!” cried all the boys.