Bennie now led the way to his boat, which was drawn up on the beach. It was an open fishing boat of large size, with one mast and sail. It was, as Bennie had said, quite clean and comfortable, and afforded a very pleasant mode of dropping over to the Parrsboro’ shore. Having once seen the boat, the boys were now all eager to be off. Bennie, however, insisted on their taking their dinner before starting. This they all consented to do very readily. The dinner was almost ready, and Bennie prepared for the voyage, which preparation consisted chiefly in moving the boat down over the beach to the water, which was some distance away.
Then followed the dinner, which was served up in the usual sumptuous style peculiar to Mrs. Bennie. After this followed a kindly farewell to their motherly hostess, and the boys followed Bennie to the beach, accompanied by the venerable Corbet and the aged Solomon.
It had been no slight task to move the heavy boat from the place where she had been lying all the way down to the water, for the tide was quite low, and the space intervening was considerable; but Bennie had accomplished the task with the help of some of his neighbors, and the boat now lay so that a slight push might suffice to set her afloat; and inside were some provisions prepared by the forethought of Mrs. Bennie, together with some wraps put there with an eye to some sudden assault of the fog. Everything was, therefore, very well ordered to secure the comfort of the travellers.
On the way to the boat the venerable Corbet and the aged Solomon were silent, and appeared overcome with emotion. This silence was first broken by Solomon.
“Tell ye what, chilen,” said he; “it am drefful hard for a ’fectionate ole nigga like me to hab to undergo dis yer operatium. Can’t stan it, no how; an donno what on erf I’se a gwine to do. Here I ben a romin ober the mighty oceam, feelin like de father an garden ob all of youns; and now it ’mos stracts dis yer ole nigga to tar his sef away. Blest if I ain’t like to break down like a chicken; an I ain’t got nuffin else to do. Darsen’t go on wid you, Mas’r Bart—darsen’t, no how. Fraid ob dat ar ole woman wid de gridiron. De aged Solomon hab got to become a pilgrin an awander on de face ob de erf. But I ain’t gwine to wander yet a while; I pose to make a bee-line for de Cad’my. I hab a hope dat de ole ’oman hab not got dar; an if so I be safe, an tany rate de doctor’ll take her in hand—he’s de boy—dat ar’s de identical gemman dat kin overhaul her an teach her her ‘p’s’ an ‘q’s.’ But what you’ll do, chilen, widout me to cook, and to carve, an to car for you, am more dan I can magine. Ony I truss we’m boun to meet agin afore long, an jine in de social band; an so you won’t forgit ole Solomon.”
The boys all shook him warmly by the hand, advising him to go by all means back to the Academy, and put himself at once under the protection of the doctor, who would defend him from all possible dangers arising out of his “ole ’oman.”
The mate, Wade, also received their farewells.
Thus far the venerable Corbet had been a mute spectator; his heart was full; his mind seemed preoccupied; he seemed to follow mechanically. At last he saw the moment come which must once more sever him from them, and with a long breath he began to speak.
“It air seldom, young sirs,” said he, “that I am called on to experience a sensation sich as that which this moment swells this aged boosom; an I feel that this is one of the most mournful moments of my checkered career. Thar’s a sadness, an a depression, an a melancholy, sich as I’ve seldom knowed afore. ’Tain’t altogether the loss of the friend of my youth. That air passed and gone—’tis o’er. I’ve met that grief an surmounted him. But it was a sore struggle, and the aged Corbet ain’t the man he once was. Consequently, I’m onmanned; I’m all took aback. It’s this here separation, boys dear, comin as it doos, hard an fast on the heels of the great calamity of the loved and lost Antelope. But it’s got to be.”—He paused and sighed heavily. “Yes,” he continued, pensively, “it’s got to be. You ain’t my sons; you’ve got parients an gardens that’s anxious about you an wants to see you, and no doubt hain’t got that confidence in me which they might have in some. But go you, boys dear, and tell all them parients an gardens that there ain’t a pang, an there ain’t a emotion, an there ain’t a anxiety, an there ain’t a grief that they’ve ever had for any of you that I haven’t had for every one of you. Tell them that there ain’t a tear that they’ve shed over you, but I’ve shed too; an there ain’t a sigh they’ve heaved what I haven’t heaved, and ain’t a groan they’ve groaned that I ain’t groaned too. Tell them that Corbet, with all his faults, loves you still, an that if you run into dangers and trials, thar wan’t a moment when he wouldn’t hev shed his heart’s blood to get you off safe and clear. Don’t let em run away with the idee that I’m a stony-hearted monster that’s ben a endangerin of your lives in divers places. I’m ready to be blamed for carlessness an ignorance, boys dear, but not for lack of affection. You know it, an I know that you know it, an what I want is for you all to make them know it too. For, boys dear, I’m a father, an I know a father’s heart, an I wouldn’t have the heart of any father made bitter against me.”
How long the venerable navigator would have gone on talking, it is impossible to say; indeed, it seemed now as if, after his long silence, his tongue, having once found voice, had become endowed with perpetual motion, and was ready to wag forever. But Bennie Grigg put on a stopper, and abruptly interrupted.
“All right, all right, my hearty,” said he; “I’ll engage that they’ll do all that; but thar ain’t no time to lose; so tumble in, boys, tumble in, and let’s get off so as to round the pint an take the flood tide as it runs up.”
Upon this the boys all shook hands hurriedly with Captain Corbet, one after another, and then each one “tumbled” into the boat. Captain Corbet, thus suddenly silenced, remained silent as he seized each one’s hand. Then Bennie called upon him and Solomon to help him shove off the boat. Then Bennie jumped in and hoisted the sail. Then the boat moved slowly away, bearing the “B. O. W. C.” and their fortunes.
“Good by, boys,” wailed Captain Corbet.
“Good by,” murmured the aged Solomon.
“Good by! Good by!” cried all the boys.
“We’ll meet soon,” said Captain Corbet.
“O, yes—in a few weeks,” cried Tom.
And so with frequent good bys the boat moved slowly from the beach, and slowly passed over the water till the forms of the aged Solomon and the ancient mariner were gradually lost to view.
CHAPTER XXVI.
The tide was coming up; some time had elapsed since the Antelope had sank, and it had sufficed for the ebb of the tide and its return to its flood. The wind also was light, and as they sought to get out of Scott’s Bay, they had the tide against them, and very little wind to favor them. At first they moved rather along the line of the shore than away from it, and though they lost sight of the figures on the beach, they did not therefore make any very great progress.
Scott’s Bay is enclosed in a circle of land formed by the Nova Scotia coast, which here rises high above the Bay of Fundy, and throws out a long, circling arm, terminating in a rugged, storm-beaten, and sea-worn crag, known as Cape Split. It was necessary to double this cape, and then go up the Strait of Minas to Parrsboro’, which place was at the head of the strait, inside Minas Basin, and rig opposite Cape Blomidon. In order to do this, either the wind or the tide ought to favor the navigator; but, unfortunately, on the present occasion, they were not thus favored.
“I had an idee,” said Bennie, after a long silence, “I had an idee that the wind would come up a leetle stronger out here, but it don’t seem to; an now I’ve a notion that it’s goin to turn. If so we’ll be delayed,