“But why don’t you keep well in to the Nova Scotia shore?”
“Wal, that thar’s the very identical thing I’m a drivin at, an I dar say, if the fog was to lift, you’d see it quite handy over thar.”
“But where are we now?”
“Wal, as nigh as I can cal’clate, we’ve about got to the end of Nova Scotia; an I’ve a mind to take a long tack to the nothe-west, next turn, an hain’t got no reasonable doubt but what we’ll keep on till we fetch up in old Fundy.”
All this was rather disheartening to the boys. They saw that Captain Corbet did not even profess to have any exact knowledge of his position, and, judging from the past, they did not believe that he had any. Still, the change of course which he announced was something, and it seemed to afford some slight material for hope.
At length the Antelope came round on her next tack, and, taking a north-west course, she kept it for some time. At first the captain was rather watchful; but, after three or four hours, his vigilance began to relax, and at length he ventured to announce to the boys that they must be in the Bay of Fundy.
“An when I’m here, in this Bay o’ Fundy, boys, mind you,” said he, with something of exultation in his tone,—”when I’m here, why, I’m to hum. These waters was the place whar I sported in boyhood’s days. Here I matoored into a man. Here I’ve held commoon with the ragin biller, an rode on the kerest of the toomultus ocean. You can’t disturb me when I’m in old Fundy. It’s my hum. Fog an tide hev ben my companions from childhood, an the Bay of Fundy recognizes in the aged Corbet her—”
But what he was going to say was never said, for the word was taken out of his mouth, and exchanged for the interjection,—
“Hallo!”
The Antelope had come to a sudden stop. The shock was strong enough to knock Captain Corbet on his knees, and huddle all the boys together in a startled and struggling crowd.
In an instant Corbet was on his feet, and rushed forward to see what was the matter. The boys followed. The helm was left to take care of itself, and the sails snapped and fluttered in the wind. All was confusion.
“Why, I do believe,” said the captain, “I do railly believe she’s struck! Dear me! Wal, I never! This—doos—beat—my—grandmother!”
This allusion to his grandmother, under such circumstances, far from reassuring the boys, only excited their alarm the more, and made them think that their revered commander had lost his senses.
“Boys,” cried Bruce, “the Antelope’s struck, and is sinking. We’ll have to take to the boat. I’ll fill a keg of water. The rest of you gather a supply of biscuit for a week, and one of you bring the compass.”
“O, no; don’t trouble yourselves,” said Captain Corbet. “It’s—it’s—not—the slightest consekence. Don’t—don’t—hurry.”
But these and other words were lost on the boys, who, now in the full conviction that the Antelope was sinking, hurried to do as Bruce had told them.
But Tom and Pat held back. Pat rushed to the mainmast, and busied himself with some ropes; and Tom went to the pump, and, after taking a peep into the hold, began pumping.
After a minute or so he called out,—
“I say, boys, there’s no hurry. There’s no water in her.”
These words made the others desist from their preparations. Seeing Tom pumping, it struck them all that this was better than taking to the boat; so they all hurried to his help. As yet, however, there was nothing to be done.
“O, thar’s no danger in p’tic’lar,” said Captain Corbet. “She’s struck a sand-bank, paps, or, paps, a reef, somewhars. An now I wonder whar it can be.”
To this remark, which showed his utter ignorance of the situation, the boys had no reply to make. Bruce, however, tied an iron belaying-pin to a rope, and began sounding for bottom. At the stern he found three fathoms, at the bows only three feet. He took a boat-hook, and, plunging it down into the water at the bows, found that it was smooth sand, and the bows were resting upon it. This gave some comfort, for he hoped that they might yet escape.
But the wind was strong, and the waves made the Antelope roll and work about in her sandy bed after a most unpleasant fashion. If this continued long, the boys knew that the schooner would be lost, for she could not resist such a strain as this. Still, they turned their thoughts now rather to the task of saving her, if possible, than taking to the boat; and so, lowering the sails, so as to lessen the effect of the wind upon her, they set to work, some with the sweeps rowing, and others with the boat-hook pushing, and thus they tried to get her off the sand-bank.
“It’s about the best thing we can do,” said Captain Corbet, in a patronizing tone; “an we’ll do it yet. An I dare say the tide’ll lift us.”
This mention of the tide cheered the boys. If the tide was rising, they could hope; if not, it would be bad for them. A little calculation showed them that it could not be falling, but must be rising, and this discovery made them work with renewed energy.
At length they had the satisfaction of finding that their efforts were successful. The water at the bows deepened; the schooner moved. She was afloat! Quickly the sails were hoisted, and the Antelope, catching the wind, came round, and once more sought the deep water.
CHAPTER XX.
But though the Antelope was once more in deep water, their troubles were not yet over, for others soon arose almost as grave as the one from which they had just escaped. First of all, the uncertainty of Captain Corbet as to his position had evidently returned. He had that expression of concern, bewilderment, and confusion which shows a puzzled mind. He said nothing, but, after about a quarter of an hour’s run, brought the Antelope about, and went on another tack. And now the wind, which all day had been rather fresh, began to lessen more and more, until after about a couple of hours it had almost died away.
All this time Solomon had been on deck. He had come up when the Antelope struck, and had worked away with the rest in their efforts in getting her off. Afterwards he had remained, out of a natural feeling of curiosity, to see whether any more rocks or sand-banks were to be encountered. This danger, however, now seemed to have passed away, and Solomon became mindful of the duties of a cook. He therefore went below to prepare the evening’s repast.
Scarcely had he done so, than he bounded up again out of the hold upon deck. His eyes were staring, his jaw dropped, and if his black face could have shown anything like pallor, it would have done so at that moment.
“Da-da-da-dars—a—leak. Da-da-dars a foot of water down below!” he gasped.
At this astounding and alarming intelligence the boys rushed down into the hold. Solomon’s information was right. Over the floor there was as much as six inches of water, and everything that lay there was saturated.
At once the whole truth flashed upon them. The Antelope had rolled and twisted herself on the sand-bank so much, that her timbers and planks had been opened, and a dangerous leak had been established. It was not a broken place, or a hole that could be stopped up, but evidently some general leakage arising from the strain to which she had been subjected.
This served, in the opinion of all, to fill up the measure of their troubles. Bad enough it was to be enclosed in the fog; bad enough to be without any knowledge of their situation; bad enough to be in the vicinity of dangerous shoals, and perhaps rocks; but in addition to all this, to have their vessel leaking, this indeed was a thing which might well cause despair. And accordingly at the first sight of the water in the hold, every one of them stood as if paralyzed, and looked on motionless and in dead silence.
Bart was the first to break the silence.
“Come, boys,” said he. “We’ve every one of us been