Pat made no reply, but went on as before, solemnly and methodically.
“Pat,” cried Tom, “what in the world are you waiting for? Hurry up! What are you doing?”
“Sure it’s tyin meself to the mast, I am,” said Pat.
“What,” cried Bruce, “tying yourself to the mast! What nonsense! What do you mean?”
“Sure it’s the right thing to do,” said Pat. “It’s what they allers does, so it is, wheniver a ship gits wracked. Sure I know; and I advise you to do the same.”
“He’s tying himself to the mast!” cried Phil. “He’s mad. He’s insane. Some of us’ll have to drag him on board.”
“Pat,” cried Bart, “come along. Are you crazy? The Antelope’s sinking! What do you mean? Stop that. If you tie yourself to the mast, you’ll go down with her. What nonsense! Drop that rope, and come with us.”
“Sure it’s safer here,” said Pat, calmly, “than on that bit of a boat, so it is.”
“But the Antelope’s sinking.”
“Sure, don’t I know it? Meself does.”
“But you’ll go down in her, if you do that.”
“Arrah, what are you talking about? In shipwracks, doesn’t everybody tie themselves to the mast?”
“What in the world shall we do?” cried Bart, in despair. “He’s crazy. I never saw anything like it. He’s got a craze about tying himself to the mast. Don’t you remember how he did the very same on board the Petrel?”
“We’ll have to go and untie him,” said Bruce.
“Only see how he’s fastening and knotting the rope,” said Tom.
“We’ll have to seize him, and bring him here by main force,” said Arthur.
But from these thoughts they were now diverted by the appearance of Solomon. He had been very busy for about a quarter of an hour, and was now pulling away at a rope, as though the salvation of the whole party depended upon the successful accomplishment of his design.
“Solomon,” cried Bart, “hurry, hurry! Come along! Hurry! The Antelope’s going down fast! Hurry, and bring Pat along with you. The captain’s waiting till you leave the Antelope. Hurry!”
“I’se jest a histin up dis yer cookin-stove,” said he. “Ben tyin de ropes roun it ebery which way, an jes got her ready to be put into de boat.”
“The what!” cried Arthur.
“De cookin-stove,” said Solomon, gravely.
“He’s mad!” cried Bruce. “He’s gone crazy. Pat and Solomon have both gone mad with excitement or terror.”
“You jes gib a left here, an help dis ole man put dis yer cookin-stove aboard de boat, an den you’ll be all right.”
“Solomon! Solomon!” cried Bart, “what horrible nonsense! What do you mean by talking about putting a cooking-stove on board the boat? Come along. Be quick.”
“Tell you what,” said Solomon, “dis yer stove am a nessary succumstance. How you s’pose you get you meals cooked? Mus hab a cookin-stove. Mus so. You got water to bile, and things to cook.”
“Nonsense,” cried Bart. “Can’t you see that it’ll sink the boat?”
“But what’ll you do?” said Solomon. “You’ll suffer if you don’t take it. You mus hab a cookin-stove. Mus so!”
At this obstinate persistence in such unaccountable folly the boys were in despair. The schooner was sinking lower and lower every minute, and there were those on board of her, wasting precious time and chattering nonsense. What could be the meaning of this? Had terror deprived them of their senses? It seemed so. There was Captain Corbet, absorbed in his own thoughts, evidently quite forgetful of the present danger, and unconscious of the scene around him. There was Wade, with his heavy face gaping from the windlass, where he had seated himself. There was Pat, still tying himself to the mast; and there was Solomon, toiling away at the cooking-stove. It was like a small floating lunatic asylum. They might well feel puzzled and bewildered.
But suddenly one part of this very difficult problem was solved of its own accord. Solomon had not been very careful in the selection of his hoisting apparatus. He had picked up some bits of rope, and fastened them around the cooking-stove for slings, and into this he had passed the hook from the schooner’s tackle. He pulled and labored away, hoisting the heavy stove, and succeeded in raising it about half way above the hatches. A few more pulls, and it would have been on the deck. But there’s many a slip ’twixt cup and lip; and so it was destined to prove in this case. For at the very moment when the stove hung thus suspended, the slings suddenly gave way, and with a rush the heavy mass descended, falling with a loud crash to the bottom, and with a force that seemed sufficient to break through the Antelope’s bottom. There it lay—a ruin!
Solomon stood and stared in silence at the scene. At length, drawing a long breath, he raised his head and looked at the boys.
“Dar,” said he; “dat ar’s allus de way; troubles neber comes single. Dis yer shows dat de end am come. Smash goes de cookin-stove, an shows dat dis yer scursium’s a goin to tumminate in clam-ty. Dar ain’t a goin to be no more eatin in dis yer party; dat’s all done up.”
“Solomon! Solomon!” cried Bart, “hurry up!”
“Solomon! Pat! Wade! Captain Corbet! Come! Quick! Hurry up! Quick!”
Such were the cries that now burst from those in the boat. They were floating close by the schooner, so as to be convenient for those who were yet on board. They had seen the destruction of the unfortunate cooking-stove, and were now eager to get away before the schooner should sink. But their patience was destined to be still further taxed, for Solomon continued to make observations on the fallen stove; and Pat went on winding the rope about himself and the mast; and Wade sat motionless on the windlass; and Captain Corbet stood in the same attitude as before,—in the attitude habitual with him, his hands mechanically grasping the tiller, and his mild eyes fixed before him, as though he was still steering the Antelope, and watching some shore ahead. But before him there was only fog; and what he might have seen was not visible to the material eye.
“No use” said Solomon. “Dese yer may go, but I’se boun to stay. De captain may go; an mas’r Wade, he may go; an Pat mus frow away dem ropes. But for me, I’se goin to stick to de ole Antelope.”
“But she’s sinking, and sinking fast,” cried Bart, with feverish impatience.
“Dar’s no odds to dis ole man. Ef I can’t stick to de Antelope, I don’t want to go no whars else. Dar’s somebody a waitin for me, an I ain’t a goin to ’spose mysef to her, no how.”
“But you’ll be drowned; you’ll be drowned. O, Solomon!” cried Bart, “cut Pat’s ropes, and make him come; and hurry.”
“Come, come, captain. Make haste. Cut Pat’s ropes, Solomon. Come, Wade. The schooner’ll go down in five minutes!”
“Don’t care!” said Solomon; “don’t care a mite. I’se dreadful fraid ob dat ar ole woman. I’d rader be drowned here dis yar way, dan be hammered to def wid a red-hot poker. Dat’s so; mind I tell you.”
The boys were now in an agony of impatience and anxiety. The waters were high in the hold of the Antelope. They could see, from where they stood in the boat, the dark gleam of the rising flood, and knew that any moment might now witness the last plunge of the schooner into the depths below. And so they shouted, and screamed, and called upon every one in succession of those who still so madly lingered behind. But their cries were unheeded; for those four on the deck of the Antelope made not the slightest movement in response.
When the boys had left the Antelope, the water in her hold was about four feet in depth. All the time since then it had been increasing; yet, after all, though the time seemed long to the anxious boys, not over a quarter of an hour had elapsed in reality.
CHAPTER XXII.
The waters continued to rise in the hold of the Antelope, and inch by inch the doomed schooner settled slowly down into the depths beneath. On the deck stood those four who still held aloof from the boat, and seemed to be animated by some insane or unintelligible motive. By the side of the schoone
r floated the boat, in which were Bruce, Arthur, Tom, Phil, and Bart. They were all standing up, and holding the Antelope’s rail, and shouting, bawling, yelling, entreating, threatening, and using every possible means to save their unfortunate companions.
Suddenly Bart drew his knife.
“Boys!” said he, “we’ll have to drag them off. Bruce and Arthur, come along. Tom and Phil, you mind the boat.”
With these words he jumped on board the Antelope, with his open knife in his hand. Bruce and Arthur leaped on board after him.
The sight of Bart, with his open knife, thus bounding on board the Antelope, astonished the other boys, who began to think that Bart, like the others, had also lost his senses; but they did as he said—Tom and Phil holding the boat to the side of the Antelope, and watching, while Bruce and Arthur followed Bart.
Bart first rushed to Pat.
“We’re not going to stand this. You’re ruining us all. If you don’t go aboard the boat, we’ll throw you overboard, and you’ll be glad to do it then. Bruce and Arthur, catch hold, and pitch Pat overboard if he don’t go to the boat.”
Speaking these words with breathless rapidity, Bart cut the rope with which Pat had bound himself, giving long slashes up and down. Bruce and Arthur seized him at the same moment, and as soon as the rope was severed, dragged him to where the boat was, ordering him on board, and threatening to throw him into the water if he refused. Pat was powerless. A few words of remonstrance were offered, but he was sternly silenced. He was thus overpowered, and so, yielding to necessity, he got on board the boat. There he seated himself in the stern, and, bowing his head, began a long, low, wailing Irish “keen,” which is a species of lamentation in the presence of death.
This scene appeared to produce some effect upon Wade. It roused him from his lethargy. It seemed as though this man was a mere machine; and though in ordinary circumstances he was able of going through certain routine duties, in any extraordinary case he was utterly helpless, and his dull and inert nature became hopelessly imbecile. But now an idea of his situation seemed at last to have penetrated to his brain, and accordingly, rising to his feet, he went to the boat. Then he slowly and solemnly passed over the Antelope’s side, and took his seat near Pat. He looked at the others with a dull stare, and then turning to Pat, he remarked, in a low, confidential tone.
“My name’s Wade, an my ole ’oman’s name’s Gipson; an you’ll not find many o’ that name in this country. No, sir.”
After which he heaved a sigh, and relapsed into himself. As to Pat, he took no notice of this confidence imparted to him, but went on with his Irish lamentation.
“Ow—O-o-o-o-ow—to only think—this bit ov a boat sure—an in the wide an impty say—an me a bindin meself to the only safety; for the ship-wracked sayman must always bind himsilf to a mast. And, O-o-o-o-o-o-o-w, but it was a bitter, crool thing, so it was, to tear a poor boy from his solitary rifuge—an dhrive him here into a bit ov a boat—to sail over the impty say—an from the last rifage—where safety was, an O-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-ow! but it’s the croolty ov it that braks me heart!”
The summary treatment with which the boys had disposed of Pat, was not to be applied to Solomon, or to Captain Corbet. They tried to coax these, and persuade them.
Solomon, however, was obdurate.
“My ’vice to you, boys, an you, in tiklar, mas’r Bart,” said he, “is to clar out ob dis yer sinkin schooner, ef yer don want to git a duckin ob de wustest sort. She’s a goin down—you’d betta believe—dat’s so.”
“O, come, come, Solomon; we can’t wait. You’re making us all risk our lives,” said Bart, imploringly, coaxing him as he would coax an insane man. “Come along; don’t keep us here. The schooner’ll sink and drag the boat down, if we don’t keep farther away.”
“Darsn’t,” said Solomon. “Couldn’t, darsn’t—no how.”
“O, come.”
“Darsn’t—fraid ob dat ar ole woman, wid de broomstick, de tongs, de fence-pole, an de red-hot gridiron. Tell you what, it stings—it does, dreadful—it does so—”
“O, come. She shall never trouble you. Never.”
“Who’s to go skewrity fer dat ar statement? Nobody can skewer her. No. Better be drownded, dan walloped to def with hay-forks. Nobody can skewer dat ar ole woman, dough; gracious sakes, she knows how to skewer me ebery time she lay hand on a pitchfork or a meat-skewer. Yah, yah, yah!”
At this ill-timed levity Bart and the others turned away in despair and disgust.
They hurried aft.
There stood the venerable Corbet. As they drew near he gave a start, and a smile came over his reverend countenance.
“Wal, boys,” said he, in a tone of kindly welcome, “how d’ye do? Pleased to see you.”
He spoke precisely as if he was receiving a call from some favorite guests. The tone pained the boys, and distressed them greatly.
“Captain,” said Bruce, hurriedly, “the Antelope’s sinking. A moment more and you’ll be lost. Come with us in the boat. Come.”
And, laying his hand on the captain’s arm, he sought to drag him away.
But the captain quietly though firmly, disengaged himself.
“Excuse me, young sir,” said the venerable navigator, very politely; “but I’m captain of this here craft; an, being sich, I ain’t got no call to leave her till the last man. You git to your boat, an I’ll retire when the time comes.”
The captain spoke with dignity. He announced a principle which involves the highest duty of every commander of a ship, and the boys knew it. His dignity overawed them.
“But come now, captain,” said Bart, “there isn’t a moment to lose.”
“I ain’t a goin ever to hev it written on my tume,” said the captain, in a calm voice, “that me—Captain Corbet—ever desarted his post, or forgot his umble dooty as commander of a vessel. No, the Antelope’ll see that her captain’s jist as much principle an honor as any of them swell navigators that sail in clipper ships over the boosom of the briny deep.”
At this moment there was a long-drawn, bubbling, gurgling sound, that came up from the hold of the Antelope, and startled the boys exceedingly.
“Come, come, captain,” cried Bruce. “She’s sinking now. There isn’t a moment to spare.”
“Wal, boys, you jist hurry off into that thar boat, an don’t mind me. I know my dooty. You can’t expect me to leave this here deck till the last man. It don’t signify argufyin. Hurry off.”
At this moment there was another sound; something between a gasp and a gurgle. It seemed like the death-rattle of the Antelope.
“She’s going down, boys!” cried Bart.
Involuntarily they retreated towards the boat. But here they paused yet again, for there was a brief respite, and the Antelope was yet afloat.
“Won’t you come, captain?” cried Bart.
“O, all right,” said Captain Corbet, waving his hand; “all right. You jest get aboard the boat. Don’t you mind me. Remember, I’m the captain, an I’ve got to be the last man.”
This seemed to the boys like a promise to follow them.
“Come along, boys,” said Bart. “He’ll get into the boat if we do. He wants to be last.”
Saying this, the three boys clambered over the Antelope’s side, and it was with a feeling of relief that they found themselves once more in the boat.
“Now, captain,” cried Bruce, “hurry up. Come, Solomon. Captain, make Solomon come on board, and then you’ll be the last man.”
Captain Corbet smiled, and made no reply. As for Solomon, he merely muttered something about “dat ar ole woman” and “gridiron.”
The Antelope was low in the water. The deck was near the level of the sea. Instinctively, Tom, who was holding the rail, pushed away, and the boat moved off a little distance. Yet they could not leave those two infatuated men to their fate, though the instinct of self-preservation made them thus move away slightly.
“Captain! Solomon! Captain! Solomon! Make haste! O, make haste!” Suc
h were the cries that now came from those in the boat.
Captain Corbet smiled as before, and nodded, and said,—
“O, it’s all right; all right. Don’t mind me. I’m all right. I know what I’m about.”
At this the Antelope gave a very unpleasant roll, and settled heavily on one side; then her bows sank down, and a big wave rolled over it.
“She’s sinking!” cried Tom, in a voice of horror. The other boys were silent. They seemed petrified.
But the Antelope struggled up, and gradually righted herself. Her deck was nearer the level of the sea than ever. This last incident, however, had been sufficient to shake the nerves of one of those two on board. As she settled on one side, Solomon sprang back, and, as the wave rolled over her bows, he gave one jump over the side and into the sea. He sank under, but a moment afterwards his woolly head emerged, and he struck out for the boat. There a dozen arms were outstretched to save him, and he was finally hauled in.
“Drefful times dese,” said he, as his teeth chattered, either from terror or from cold. “Drefful times. Didn’t ’gage in dis yer vessel to go swimmin about de Atlantic Oceum. Queer way to serve as cook—dis yer way. An dar ain’t a dry stitch ob clothin about—dat’s so; an what ebber I’se a goin to do beats me. S’pose I’se got to set here an shibber de next tree weeks. Catch me ebber a ’barkin aboard sich a schooner as dis yer. Any ways, I ain’t goin to sail in dis yer Antelope agin. Cotch me at it—dat’s all.”
But the boys heard nothing of this.
All their attention was now taken up with Captain Corbet.
He stood at the stern at his usual post, holding the tiller with both hands. He looked at the boys.
“Boys,” said he, “I’m the last aboard.”
“O, Captain Corbet! Come, come. Make haste!” they cried.
He shook his venerable head.
“This here,” said he, “boys, air the act an the doin of Fate. I did hope that the Antelope an me’d grow old, an finally die together, though not on the briny deep. It hev allus ben a favorite idee to me, that the lives of both of us, me and the Antelope, was kind o’ intermingled, an that as we’d ben lovely an pleasant in our lives, in death we’d be not divided. For the Antelope an me’s knowed each other long, an lived, an ben happy together, in fair weather an foul. The Antelope’s allus ben faithful and terew. She’s had all my confidences. She’s allus been gentle an kind, and you’ll never, never find a better friend than the old Antelope. Many’s the time she’s bore me through sleet an snow. Many’s the time she’s borne me through fog an rain. Many’s the time she’s bore me past rocks an reefs. So long as I stuck to old Fundy, so long the Antelope was safe an sound. I used to boast as to how I could navigate old Fundy. I was wrong. ’Twan’t me; it was the Antelope that navigated; for I never had a sexton aboard, nor a quadruped, nor a spy-glass, nor any of them newfangled gimcracks, savin an except a real old-fashioned, apostolic compass, as is mentioned by Paul in the Acts. And why? Why, cos the Antelope was allus able to feel her own way through rain an fog, an frost an snow—past shoals, an flats, an reefs, an was allus faithful. But, in a evil hour, I took her out of her native waters. I led her afar over the deep blue sea, up to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. There our woes began. But even there the Antelope was terew an tender. But it was too much. We come back. She had never ben thar before. She lost her way. Then she found it. We got to Sable Island an Chester. Then we put out agin. An then agin she lost her way. It was my fault, not hern. She lost her way in this fog, an she went aground. She couldn’t help it. In Fundy she never ran aground, ’cept when nessary; an it was me that brought her to this. An now what hev I got to do? I’ve got this to do—that if I’ve led my Antelope to ruin, I won’t survive her. No. We’ve been lovely an pleasant in our lives, an in death we ain’t goin to be divided.”
The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales Page 73