The answer to this question plunged the good Corbet from the comfort in which he had settled himself, down into the depths of anxiety and worriment.
“What! Not back yit?” he said. “You don’t say so. Is this railly so?”
“Yes.”
“What! all yesterday, an all last night?”
“Yes.”
“An no word of partin—and no directions as to where they went, an when they’d return?”
“Not a word.”
“An nobody seen them go?”
“No.”
“An nobody’s seen anythin of them at all?”
“No, nothing.”
“An you don’t even know whether they’re in danger or safety?”
“No.”
“Nor even whether they’re on land or water?”
“No.”
Captain Corbet shook his head slowly and sadly, and turned away with the profoundest dejection and melancholy depicted upon his venerable yet expressive features.
“Tom and I think they’ve gone off fishing,” continued Bruce, who had told the tale of woe; “but Arthur and Phil are afraid that they’ve gone off in a boat, and have met with some accident. They’re determined to go off to hunt them up, and we’ve concluded to go too, as we don’t care about staying behind doing nothing; though, at the same time, we don’t believe they’ve come to any harm, and we think they’ll be coming after us. We thought we’d let you know; and perhaps we’d better put off in the Antelope, unless you think a small boat would be better.”
“O, yes,” said Arthur, “let’s go in a small boat. The Antelope won’t do. There’ll be another calm, and we’ll have to stand still and do nothing.”
“We could get one of these whalers,” said Phil, pointing to a number of boats at the wharf.
These boats were sharp at each end, and were therefore called “whalers” on account of their shape, and not because they were ever used, or ever intended to be used, against whales. They were large and capacious and well ballasted; while, at the same time, they were not too large to be rowed, in case of calms or head winds.
“O, bother the whalers,” said Tom; “let’s stick to the Antelope, whatever we do. Whenever we leave the Antelope, we’re sure to come to grief. Besides, I don’t like to have to stuff myself into a little open boat. I like to move about, and walk up and down, and change my position.”
“So do I, for that matter,” said Phil; “but then, you know, we may be caught in a calm, as we were last night.”
“O, there’s lots of wind now.”
“But it mightn’t last.”
“Then, if it don’t, we can take to the boat.”
“What, our little row-boat?”
“Yes; why not?”
“Why, we can’t go any distance in her; she’s too small.”
“O, let’s get a whaler,” said Arthur, “and then we’ll be ready for wind or calm.”
“Well,” said Bruce, “if I thought that Bart and Pat were really out anywhere in the bay, I’d say, take a whaler; but as I consider this expedition a wild-goose chase, I go in for comfort, and vote for the Antelope.”
“Well, we won’t do anything; that’s all; and if they are in danger, we’ll be sorry for it.”
“O, I’ll run the risk.”
“We’re a tie,” said Phil. “Let’s give Captain Corbet the casting vote. Come, captain, what do yon say about it? Do you think they’re on land or water? and do you advise a whaler or the Antelope?”
“Me?” said Captain Corbet, mournfully. “Me? Wal, for my part, I’ve come to believe the wust. I believe them two air at this moment on some lone rock of the deep, gazin in despair upon the waste of water, and lookin wildly in all directions for help. And so it ever hath been, and ever shall be. Amen. For my part, I’m free to say, that I never see, nor never hear tell of, nor never even dreamt of the likes of you. If you get out of my sight for one moment, you’re sure to be engaged in reskin your lives about nothin. An I’ll give up. If Providence restores them two, I hereby declar solemn, that it’s my fixed intention to start right straight off for hum; never to stop at one single place, nor even to go near any land, till I touch the wharf at Grand Pré. What this here’s goin to end in beats me; and this last business doos beat my grandmother. As for you, I advise you to stick to the Antelope, and sail under the old flag. Them’s my sentiments.”
This advice of Captain Corbet was accepted as his decision, and so it was resolved to set off in the Antelope, and cruise round the bay. Such a search was, of course, not very promising; but Arthur and Phil had a vague idea that in the course of the cruise they would see the two missing ones making signals of distress from some lonely island, and that thus they might be rescued. As for Captain Corbet, he still remained melancholy, though not at all despairing; for though he insisted that the boys were in some danger, he yet believed that they would be rescued from it.
In the midst of this conversation, they were interrupted by the appearance of the landlord. He had just returned from that journey up the country, which had prevented him from accompanying them to Aspotogon on the previous day. He had learned at the inn the state of affairs, and had at once come down to the wharf. The boys, on the other hand, knowing that he had been up the country, thought it possible that he might have seen or heard something of their missing friends; and therefore, no sooner had he made his appearance, than they all hurried to meet him, and poured upon him a whole torrent of questions.
The landlord’s answer was a complete defeat of all their hopes. He had seen nothing of Bart and Pat, and had heard nothing of them. He had known nothing of their departure, and nothing of their absence, until a few moments before, on his arrival home. He himself had to question them to find out the facts of the case.
Of the facts of the case, however, they themselves were, unfortunately, quite ignorant. They had nothing to communicate but fancies, conjectures, and speculations, more or less plausible, such as they had just been discussing. To these the landlord listened with the profoundest attention and the deepest gravity, and then considered them all in succession.
“I can’t say,” said he, at length, “that I see any danger for them in any way. Praps they’ve gone in a boat, an praps they’ve gone fishing. If they’ve gone in a boat, why, there hasn’t been wind enough to capsize a walnut-shell. An as to getting on an island, I don’t see how their boat could drift away, unless they made it go, and actually shoved it off on purpose. You must remember that this bay ain’t like the Bay of Fundy. There ain’t any tides or currents here worth mentioning. The tide only rises and falls six or seven feet, and the currents are so trifling that they ain’t worth considering. If these boys have got on an island and been left there, it’s a puzzle to me how on earth they managed it. Then, again, there are boats and schooners passing backward and forward almost all the time, and if they had got ashore anywhere, they’d have been got off by this time. So it’s my opinion that they haven’t gone off in a boat, but that they’ve gone fishing. If they’ve gone fishing, it’s the most likely thing in the world for them to go off a good bit, and not be able to get back the same day. The only trouble about this is,—that they wouldn’t be likely to go away on foot; and if they got a wagon, they’d be most likely to take it from the hotel; but that’s just what they haven’t done. So there’s a fresh puzzle on top of the others.”
“O, I think they’d be just as likely to walk as not.”
“Well, then, there’s another puzzle. Where could they go? They never made any inquiries. We had a long talk the night before last, but not a word was said about fishing. If they’d been intending to go fishing, they’d have asked; wouldn’t they? Of course they would. That stands to reason.”
“O, I dare say they got up early, and a sudden notion took them, and they started off without having any particular place in view.”
“Well, that’s not unlikely,” said the landlord; “and if they did, why, all I’ve got to say is, they’d have a precious
long walk of it, for there isn’t any really decent fishing within less than nine or ten miles; and so, if they walked that, and then went up stream, why, by the time they’d finished, they’d have walked ten miles more; and so, all together, they’d make a precious good day’s work of it,—work enough, in fact, to make them rather indifferent about hurrying back here—especially when they’d have to do it on foot.”
“I suppose they’d find houses to stop at.”
“O, yes, there are houses enough; but it depends on what direction they went. In some places, they’d have to camp out for the night.”
“Well, they understand that well enough,” said Tom. “Bart and Pat can put up as neat a camp as any two fellows going.”
CHAPTER XVII.
The remarks of the landlord served to weaken the belief of Arthur and Phil in their theory of the boat, and they began to doubt the expediency of setting off in the Antelope. The easy way also in which the landlord met the difficulties of the case, and accounted for everything, had a very great effect in diminishing, if not in destroying, the anxiety which they had begun to feel. They had nothing to offer in reply, and they naturally gave up their proposal. They began to think that the absentees might make their appearance at any moment, and that under the circumstances it would be very unwise to start off on a long, uncertain, and unprofitable cruise in the Antelope. And thus it was that the whole party came to the conclusion to remain where they were, and wait for Bart and Pat.
With this intention they all went back to the inn. On arriving there, they found a man who had just come to the house, and was waiting to find the landlord. He looked like one of those half farmers, half fishers, who live about Mahone Bay; and the boys would not have paid any attention to him, had they not been startled by his first words.
“It’s about a couple o’ lads,” said he, “jest like them there. I’m afraid there’s somethin gone wrong with ’em.”
At the mention of “a couple o’ lads jest like them there,” all the boys started, and gathered round the stranger with eager and anxious curiosity.
“Ye see,” continued the man, “it was yesterday morn’n,—an them two come a knockin at my door about sunrise, or not much arter, and asked the way to Oak Island.”
“Oak Island!” repeated the landlord, in a strange voice. The other boys noticed his tone, but as they knew nothing whatever of the character of Oak Island, they were of course unable to understand the cause of it, or the meaning of those words.
“It seems they was a huntin up the way there,” continued the man. “They had a boat with them.”
“A boat?” said the landlord; “a sail-boat, or row-boat?”
“A sail-boat,” said the man. “They were strangers—that was evident; and they wanted to find Oak Island. Wal, I showed them the island, for it can be seen plain enough from my door. My name’s Roach, an I live on the shore up there. So we had some talk about the treasure, an they asked me if I believed. An I says, ‘Yes, I do.’ For at first they thought I didn’t believe. But I did, an I do. And I says to them, says I, ‘Flesh an blood won’t never lay hands on that thar treasure till there’s a sacrifice of human life took place.’ That’s what I says, in so many words. Wal, some more words followed, an then them two went on an steered to the island.
“Wal, I don’t know how it was, but I kep a thinkin about them two all day long. At last I fell a wonderin why they didn’t come back. There wasn’t no sign of any boat a comin back from that island. They was on it, I knowed; an why they staid on it I couldn’t make out. It began to bother me. An all the time I couldn’t help thinkin of what I told em, an the words kep a ringin in my ears as to how that there’s got to be a sacrifice of human life before the treasure’s riz out of the hole whar the pirates buried it. An I couldn’t get them words out o’ my head. An what’s more, I got a thinkin that them two lads was kine o’ connected with them words,—jest as if it was a sort o’ prophecy like, that I’d gone an spoke,—not knowin, an not intendin it, you know, but givin a prophecy all the same,—as is generally the case, you know; for often it happens that them that prophesies hain’t got no intention of so doin, an hain’t got no reel idee of the meanin of what they’re sayin. An that was jest the case with me, an it was only afterwards that these thoughts come.
“Wal, all day long I was in this state, an felt dreadful anxious, an more an more so as the day went by. It was yesterday. An I see no signs of that thar boat a comin back. An when evenin come I begun to feel pooty skeart, an I’d a gone off then but darsn’t, for fear of the ghosts of them old pirates that prowl around on the island arter dark. I didn’t close my eyes all last night, or sleep a wink, for thinkin o’ them two lads. It seemed to me that I’d been kine o’ to blame—though whar the blame was, no one can say, for I was as innocent of blame as a babe unborn. But so it was, an I couldn’t sleep. Wal, this morn’n I was up before dawn, an into my boat, an off for the island. I got thar about sunrise.
“Wal, I landed thar, on Oak Island, an the fust thing I see was that thar identical boat that the boys had—the very one. I couldn’t mistake it; an it lay hauled up on the beach, an tied thar. But thar wasn’t any sign of any boys anywhars. I called, an shouted, but no answer come. Wal, then I walked up some distance, an looked all around everywhars. ’Tain’t much of an island in size; so I soon walked all round it; but I didn’t see nothin of them thar lads. I looked at one or two of them pits that’s ben dug thar, but didn’t see anythin but water. I kep a screamin an a shoutin all the time, but thar wasn’t any answer at all. Thar was the boat on the beach,—but whar was the boys? I couldn’t see em, I couldn’t find em; and though I called for em, they didn’t answer.
“Wal, I went back to the beach, an then I stood an tried to think what I’d best do. Somethin had happened. I knowed that the best thing to do was to make haste an try to let the friends of them lads know how things was. I knowed that they was strangers in these parts, an that they’d come from Chester. I thought I’d find out about em here at the inn, an that the best an quickest way would be to come right straight off to this place, an see if I couldn’t larn somethin about em, or find some friends o’ thairs that’d come with me back again, an find out, for sure an sartin, what it was that had happened. An what troubled me most all the time, and troubles me now, is them very words that I said to em as to how that it was necessary that thar must be a sacrifice of human life. For I’m kine o’ feared that it’s turned out true, an that them’s the very ones that was destined to be that sacrifice. They’ve got into some trouble, I know—but how it was I don’t know, an whether it was in the day time, or at night. This is what I want to find out.”
“What did the boys look like?” asked the landlord, as the man ceased.
“Wal, jest sech lookin lads as these—not overly well dressed, in fact a leetle mite shabby; but one of them was a gentleman’s son,—no doubt o’ that; an the other was a bright-lookin lad enough.”
“It’s Bart and Pat. There’s no doubt of that,” said Bruce.
“And what sort of a boat was it?”
“O, an ordinary Chester boat, with a sail, as I said.”
“Is the boat on the beach of Oak Island yet?”
“Course it is. I left it where it was. But air them thar boys a stoppin here? Do you know them?”
“Yes,” said the landlord, in a husky voice; and he stood in silence for a few moments, with his eyes cast down.
Upon the boys this information had produced an effect which was at once distressing and puzzling. It was distressing, from the fact that this stranger more than hinted at some possible evil befalling their two companions; and his gloomy allusions to his prophecy about the “sacrifice of human life,” together with the expression of his own anxiety, produced a corresponding effect upon all of them. But it was also puzzling, for they could not imagine what there was on this Oak Island to attract Bart and Pat; or, if there was any attraction in it, how Bart and Pat had found it out. Various expressions made use of, however, s
uch as his allusions to “pirates” and “treasure,” served to make them suspect that this Oak Island might be the very place, in search of which they had come to Chester, the place indicated by the story of the governor of Sable Island; that somehow Bart and Pat had made this discovery, and had remained behind, while they went to Aspotogon for the express purpose of finding out the place for themselves.
In this suspicion they were right, and it was confirmed by the landlord.
“I see it,” he exclaimed, suddenly. “I have it.”
“What?” asked Bruce.
“Why, I know now why they didn’t go with you.”
“Why?”
“Why, because they wanted to go to Oak Island.”
“Oak Island? But what is there in Oak Island?”
“Enough to attract any one. I told them about it the evening of the day you came—all about the pirates, and how Kidd buried his treasure there, and how it was found out, and the different attempts made to raise it. It’s too long a story now. You can hear it some other time. But I told it to them, and they’ve gone wild with excitement to visit the island themselves. That’s it. Yes, that’s it. But I didn’t think they’d clear out this way. What made them do it? They made a great secret of it. What was the use of that? And now what in the world has become of them?”
“They went to that thar island,” said Roach, “an they’ve never left it.”
“Are you sure you went all over it?”
“Sure? Of course.”
“And the boat was on the beach?”
“Yes; an it’s thar yet. An if them lads belong to this here party, then my advice is, you’d better hurry off an find out what’s become o’ them. I’m dreadful anxious still, an want to know the wust. An I’m afeard that if we find out anything, it’ll be the very wust.”
To this disheartening remark there was no reply made. The boys all felt the same. Arthur and Phil, who had at first felt anxious about the absentees, now felt a worse anxiety; while Bruce and Tom, who had explained away their absence, now knew not what to say or to think. Although the evident superstition of the man Roach lessened somewhat the value of his testimony, still they could not conceal from themselves the fact, that there were grave reasons for alarm,—such as the boat on the shore, and the failure of his cries to reach the ears of the boys. Where could they be, that in a circuit of the island, this visitor had not been able to see them, or to make his cries heard? What could have happened to them? What sort of dangers could have presented themselves? The dangers which had been suggested by the superstitious fancy of Roach had no terrors in their eyes, and no weight in their minds,—at least in broad day. But there might be other dangers, of a material kind, of which they knew nothing. What did he mean by those “pits” full of water? What pits? They could not guess at this, for they had not heard the landlord’s story, and Oak Island was all an unknown ground to them.
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 69