Books: Lost in the Fog
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James De Mille >> Lost in the Fog
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After a time the wind went down, and the sail flapped idly against
the mast. Tom was in a fever of impatience, but could do nothing.
He felt himself to be once more at the mercy of the tides. The
wind had failed him, and nothing was left but to drift. All that
day he drifted, and night came on. Still it continued calm. Tom
was weary and worn out, but so intense was his excitement that he
could not think of sleep. At midnight the wind sprung up a little;
and now Tom determined to keep awake, so that the boat might not
again double on her track. He blamed himself for sleeping on the
previous night, and losing so much progress. Now he was determined
to keep awake.
His resolution was carried out. His intense eagerness to reach
some shore, no matter where, and his fear of again losing what he
had gained, kept sleep from his eyes. All that night he watched
his boat. The wind blew fitfully, sometimes carrying the boat on
rapidly, again dying down.
So the next morning came.
It was Thursday.
It was Monday night when he had drifted out, and all that time he
had been on the deep, lost in the fog.
And now, wearied, dejected, and utterly worn out, he looked around
in despair, and wondered where this would end. Fog was everywhere,
as before, and, as before, not a thing could be seen.
Hours passed on; the wind had sprang up fresh, and the boat went on
rapidly.
Suddenly Tom sprang upright, and uttered a loud cry.
There full before him he saw a giant cliff, towering far overhead,
towards which the boat was sailing. At its base the waves were
dashing. Over its brow trees were bending. In the air far above
he heard the hoarse cries of sea-gulls.
In his madness he let the boat drive straight on, and was close to
it before he thought of his danger. He could not avoid it now,
however, for he did not know how to turn the boat. On it went, and
in a few moments struck the beach at the base of the cliff.
The tide was high; the breeze was moderate, and there was but
little sun. The boat was not injured by running ashore there. Tom
jumped out, and, taking the rope in his hands, walked along the
rough and stony beach for about a hundred yards, pulling the boat
after him. There the cliff was succeeded by a steep slope, beyond
which was a gentle, grass-grown declivity. Towards this he bent
his now feeble steps, still tugging at the boat, and drawing it
after him.
At length he reached the grassy slope, and found here a rough
beach. He fastened the boat securely to the trunk of a tree that
grew near.
Then he lifted out the box of biscuit, and over this he threw the
sail.
He stood for a few moments on the bank, and looked all around for
signs of some human habitation; but no signs appeared. Tom was too
exhausted to go in search of one. He had not slept for more than
thirty hours. The country that he saw was cleared. Hills were at
a little distance, but the fog which hung all around concealed
everything from view. One look was enough.
Overwhelmed with gratitude, he fell upon his knees, and offered up
a fervent prayer of thankfulness for his astonishing escape.
Then fatigue overpowered him, and, rolling himself up in the sail,
he went to sleep.
VIII.
Off in Search.--Eager Outlook.--Nothing but Fog.--Speaking a
Schooner.--Pleasant Anecdotes.--Cheer up.--The Heart of Corbet.
After the arrival of Bruce and Bart, Captain Corbet did not delay
his departure much longer. The vessel was already afloat, and
though the tide was still rising, yet the wind was sufficiently
favorable to enable her to go on her way. The sails were soon set,
and, with the new boat in tow, the Antelope weighed anchor, and
took her departure. For about two hours but little progress was
made against the strong opposing current; yet they had the
satisfaction of reaching the mouth of the river, and by ten
o'clock, when the tide turned and began to fall, they were fairly
in the bay. The wind here was ahead, but the strong tide was now
in their favor, and they hoped for some hours to make respectable
progress.
During this time they had all kept an anxious lookout, but without
any result. No floating craft of any kind appeared upon the
surface of the water. Coming down the river, the sky was
unclouded, and all the surrounding scene was fully visible; but on
reaching the bay, they saw before them, a few miles down, a lofty
wall of light-gray cloud. Captain Corbet waved his hand towards
this.
"We're in for it," said he, "or we precious soon will be."
"What's that?" asked Phil.
"Our old friend--a fog bank. You'd ought to know it by this time,
sure."
There it lay, a few miles off, and every minute brought them
nearer. The appearance of the fog threw an additional gloom over
the minds of all, for they saw the hopeless character of their
search. Of what avail would it be to traverse the seas if they
were all covered by such thick mists? Still nothing else was to be
done, and they tried to hope for the best.
"Any how," said Captain Corbet, "thar's one comfort. That thar fog
may go as quick as it come. It ony needs a change of wind. Why,
I've knowed it all vanish in half an hour, an the fog as thick as
it is now."
"But sometimes it lasts long--don't it?"
"I should think it did. I've knowed it hang on for weeks."
At this gloomy statement the boys said not a word.
Soon after the schooner approached the fog bank, and in a little
while it had plunged into the midst of its misty folds. The chill
of the damp clouds, as they enveloped them, struck additional chill
to their hearts. It was into the midst of this that poor Tom had
drifted, they thought, and over these seas, amidst this impenetrable
atmosphere, he might even now be drifting. In the midst of the deep
dejection consequent upon such thoughts, it was difficult for them
to find any solid ground for hope.
The wind was moderate, yet adverse, and the schooner had to beat
against it. As she went on each tack, they came in sight of the
shores; but as time passed, the bay widened, and Captain Corbet
kept away from the land as much as possible. All the time the boys
never ceased to maintain their forlorn lookout, and watched over
the sides, and peered anxiously through the mist, in the hope that
the gloomy waters might suddenly disclose to their longing eyes the
form of the drifting boat and their lost companion.
"I tell you what it is, boys," said Captain Corbet, after a long
and thoughtful silence; "the best plan of acting in a biz of this
kind is to pluck up sperrit an go on. Why, look at me. You mind
the time when that boat, that thar i-dentical, individdle boat,
drifted away onst afore, with youns in it. You remember all about
that,--course. Well, look at me. Did I mourn? Did I fret? Was I
cast down? Nary down; not me. I cheered up. I cheered up Mr.
Long. I kep everybody in good sperrits. An what was the result?
Result was, you all turned up in prime order and condition, a
enjyin of yourselves like all possessed, along with old O'Rafferty.
"Again, my friends," he continued, as the boys made no remark,
"consider this life air short an full of vycissitoods. Ups an
downs air the lot of pore fallen hoomanity. But if at the fust
blast of misforten we give up an throw up the game, what's the good
of us? The question now, an the chief pint, is this--Who air we,
an whar air we goin, an what air we purposin to do? Fust, we air
hooman beins; secondly, we air a traversin the vast an briny main;
and thirdly, we hope to find a certain friend of ourn, who was
borne away from us by the swellin tide. Thar's a aim for us--a
high an holy aim; an now I ask you, as feller-critters, how had we
ought to go about it? Had we ought to peek, an pine, an fret, an
whine? Had we ought to snivel, and give it up at the fust? Or had
we ought, rayther, to be up an doin,--pluck up our sperrits like
men, and go about our important work with energy? Which of these
two, my friends? I pause for a reply."
This was quite a speech for Captain Corbet, and the effort seemed
quite an exhaustive one. He paused some time for a reply; but as
no reply was forthcoming, he continued his remarks.
"Now, see here," said he; "this here whole business reminds me of a
story I once read in a noospaper, about a man up in this here
identical river, the Petticoat Jack, who, like a fool, pulled up
his boat on the bank, and wont off to sleep in her. Wal, as a
matter of course, he floated off,--for the tide happened to be
risin,--an when he woke up out of his cool an refreshin slumbers,
he found himself afar on the briny deep, a boundin like 'a thing of
life,' o'er the deep heavin sea. Besides, it was precious foggy,--
jest as it is now,--an the man couldn't see any more'n we can.
Wal, the story went on to say, how that thar man, in that thar
boat, went a driftin in that thar fashion, in that thar fog; an he
drifted, an drifted, an derifted, for days an days, up an down, on
one side an t'other side, an round every way,--an, mind you, he
hadn't a bit to eat, or to drink either, for that matter,--'t any
rate, the paper didn't mention no such thing; an so, you know, he
drifted, an d-e-e-e-rifted,--until at last he druv ashore. An now,
whar d'ye think he druv?"
The boys couldn't think.
"Guess, now."
The boys couldn't guess.
"D'ye guv it up?"
They did.
"Wal, the paper said, he druv ashore at Grand Manan; but I've my
doubts about it."
The captain paused, looked all around through the fog, and stood
for a moment as though listening to some sound.
"I kine o' thought," said he, "that I detected the dash of water on
the shore. I rayther think it's time to bring her round."
The vessel was brought round on another tack, and the captain
resumed his conversation.
"What I was jest sayin," he continued, "reminds me of a story I
onst heard, or read, I forget which (all the same, though), about
two boys which went adrift on a raft. It took place up in Scott's
Bay, I think, at a ship-yard in that thar locality.
"These two unfortunate children, it seems, had made a raft in a
playful mude, an embarkin on it they had been amoosin theirselves
with paddlin about by pushin it with poles. At length they came to
a pint where poles were useless; the tide got holt of the raft, an
the ferrail structoor was speedily swept onward by the foorus
current. Very well. Time rolled on, an that thar raft rolled on
too,--far over the deep bellew sea,--beaten by the howlin storm, an
acted upon by the remorseless tides. I leave you to pictoor to
yourselves the sorrow of them thar two infant unfortunits, thus
severed from their hum an parients, an borne afar, an scarce enough
close on to keep 'em from the inclemency of the weather. So they
drifted, an drifted, an de-e-rifted, until at last they druv
ashore; an now, whar do you think it was that they druv?"
The boys couldn't say.
"Guess now."
The boys declined.
"Try."
They couldn't.
"Name some place."
They couldn't think of any.
"D'ye guv it up?" asked the captain, excitedly.
They did.
"Well, then," said he, in a triumphant tone, "they druv ashore on
Brier Island; an ef that thar ain't pooty tall driftin, then I'm a
Injine."
To this the boys had no reply to make.
"From all this," continued the captain, "you must perceive that
this here driftin is very much more commoner than you hev ben
inclined to bleeve it to be. You also must see that thar's every
reason for hope. So up with your gizzards! Pluck up your
sperrits! Rise and look fortin an the footoor squar in the face.
Squar off at fortin, an hav it out with her on the spot. I don't
want to hev you go mopin an whinin about this way. Hello!"
Captain Corbet suddenly interrupted his remarks by an exclamation.
The exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance of a sail
immediately to windward. She was coming up the bay before the
wind, and came swiftly through the fog towards them. In passing on
her way, she came astern of the Antelope.
"Schooner, ahoy!" cried Captain Corbet; and some conversation took
place, in which they learned that the stranger was the schooner
Wave, from St. John, and that she had not seen any signs whatever
of any drifting boat.
This news was received sadly by the boys, and Captain Corbet had to
exert his utmost to rouse them from their depression, but without
much effect.
"I don't know how it is," said he, plaintively, "but somehow your
blues air contiguous, an I feel as ef I was descendin into a
depression as deep as yourn. I don't remember when I felt so
depressed, cept last May--time I had to go off in the Antelope with
taters, arter I thought I'd done with seafarin for the rest of my
life. But that thar vessel war wonderously resussutated, an the
speouse of my buzzum druv me away to traverse the sea. An I had to
tar myself away from the clingin gerasp of my weepin infant,--the
tender bud an bulossum of an old man's life--tar myself away, an
feel myself a outcast. Over me hovered contennooly the image of
the pinin infant, an my heart quivered with responsive sympathy.
An I yearned--an I pined--an I groaned--an I felt that life would
be intoll'ble till I got back to the babby. An so it was that I
passed away, an had scace the heart to acknowledge your youthful
cheers. Wal, time rolled on, an what's the result? Here I air.
Do I pine now? Do I peek? Not a pine! Not a peek! As tender a
heart as ever bet still beats in this aged frame; but I am no
longer a purray to sich tender reminiscinsuz of the babby as onst
used to consume my vitals."
Thus it was that the venerable captain talked with the boys, and it
was thus that he sought, by every possible means, to cheer them up.
In this way the day passed on, and after five or six hours they
began to look for a turn of tide. During this time the schooner
had been beating; and as the fog was as thick as ever, it was
impossible for the boys to tell where they were. Indeed, it did
not seem as though they had been making any progress.
"We'll have to anchor soon," said the captain, closing his eyes and
turning his face meditatively to the quarter whence the wind came.
"Anchor?"
"Yes."
"What for?"
"Wal, you see it'll soon be dead low tide, an we can't go on any
further when it turns. We'll have wind an tide both agin us."
"How far have we come now?"
"Wal, we've come a pooty considerable of a lick now--mind I tell
you. 'Tain't, of course, as good as ef the wind had ben favorable,
but arter all, that thar tide was a pooty considerable of a tide,
now."
"How long will you anchor?"
"Why, till the next tarn of tide,--course."
"When will that be?"
"Wal, somewhar about eleven o'clock."
"Eleven o'clock?"
"Yes."
"Why, that's almost midnight."
"Course it is."
"Wouldn't it be better to cruise off in the bay? It seems to me
anything is better than keeping still."
"No, young sir; it seems to me that jest now anythin is better than
tryin to cruise in the bay, with a flood tide a comin up. Why,
whar d'ye think we'd be? It would ony take an hour or two to put
us on Cape Chignecto, or Cape d'Or, onto a place that we wouldn't
git away from in a hurry,--mind I tell you."
To this, of course, the boys had nothing to say. So, after a half
hour's further sail, the anchor was dropped, and the Antelope
stopped her wanderings for a time.
Tedious as the day had been, it was now worse. The fog was as
thick as ever, the scene was monotonous, and there was nothing to
do. Even Solomon's repasts had, in a great measure, lost their
attractions. He had spread a dinner for them, which at other
times, and under happier circumstances, would have been greeted
with uproarious enthusiasm; but at the present time it was viewed
with comparative indifference. It was the fog that threw this
gloom over them. Had the sky been clear, and the sun shining, they
would have viewed the situation with comparative equanimity; but
the fog threw terror all its own around Tom's position; and by
shutting them in on every side, it forced them to think of him who
was imprisoned in the same way--their lost companion, who now was
drifting in the dark. Besides, as long as they were in motion,
they had the consciousness that they were doing something, and that
of itself was a comfort; but now, even that consolation was taken
away from them, and in their forced inaction they fell back again
into the same despondency which they had felt at Petitcodiac.
"It's all this fog, I do believe," said Captain Corbet. "If it
want for this you'd all cheer up, an be as merry as crickets."
"Is there any prospect of its going away?"
"Wal, not jest yet. You can't reckon on it. When it chooses to go
away, it does so. It may hang on for weeks, an p'aps months.
Thar's no tellin. I don't mind it, bein as I've passed my hull
life in the middle of fog banks; but I dare say it's a leetle tryin
to youns."
The repast that Solomon spread for them on that evening was scarce
tasted, and to all his coaxings and remonstrances the boys made no
reply. After the tea was over, they went on deck, and stared
silently into the surrounding gloom. The sight gave them no
relief, and gave no hope. In that dense fog twilight came on soon,
and with the twilight came the shadows of the night more rapidly.
At last it grew quite dark, and finally there arose all around them
the very blackness of darkness.
"The best thing to do," said Captain Corbet, "is to go to sleep.
In all kinds of darkness, whether intunnel or extunnel, I've allus
found the best plan to be to sleep it off. An I've knowed great
men who war of my opinion. Sleep, then, young sirs, while yet you
may, while yer young blood is warm, an life is fresh an fair, an
don't put it off to old age, like me, for you mayn't be able to do
it. Look at me! How much d'ye think I've slep sence I left Mud
Creek? Precious little. I don't know how it is, but bein alone
with you, an havin the respons'bility of you all, I kine o' don't
feel altogether able to sleep as I used to do; an sence our late
loss--I--wal, I feel as though I'd never sleep agin. I'm talkin an
talkin, boys, but it's a solemn time with me. On me, boys, rests
the fate of that lad, an I'll scour these here seas till he turns
up, ef I hev to do it till I die. Anxious? Yes, I am. I'm that
anxious that the diskivery of the lost boy is now the one idee of
my life, for which I forget all else; but allow me to say, at the
same time, that I fully, furmly, an conshuentiously bleve an affum,
that my conviction is, that that thar lad is bound to turn up all
right in the end--right side up--with care--sound in every respect,
in good order an condition, jest as when fust shipped on board the
good schooner Antelope, Corbet master, for Petticoat Jack, as per
bill ladin."
The captain's tones were mournful. He heaved a deep sigh as he
concluded, and relapsed into a profound and melancholy silence.
The boys waited on deck for some time longer, and finally followed
his advice, and sought refuge below. They were young and strong,
and the fatigue which they felt brought on drowsiness, which, in
spite of their anxiety, soon deepened into sleep. All slept, and
at length Captain Corbet only was awake. It was true enough, as he
had said, the fate of the lost boy rested upon him, and he felt it.
His exhortations to the boys about keeping up their courage, and
his stories about lost men who had drifted to a final rescue, were
all spoken more with reference to himself than to them. He sought
to keep up his own courage by these words. Yet, in spite of his
efforts, a profound depression came over him, and well nigh subdued
him. No one knew better than he the many perils which beset the
drifting boat in these dangerous waters--the perils of storm, the
perils of fog, the perils of thick darkness, the perils of furious
tides, the perils of sunken rocks, of shoals, and of iron-bound
coasts. The boys had gone to sleep, but there was no sleep for
him. He wandered restlessly about, and heavy sighs escaped him.
Thus the time passed with him until near midnight. Then he roused
the mate, and they raised the anchor and hoisted the sails. It was
now the turn of tide, and the waters were falling again, and the
current once more ran down the bay. To this current he trusted the
vessel again, beating, as before, against the head wind, which was
still blowing; and thus the Antelope worked her way onward through
all that dark and dismal night, until at last the faint streaks of
light in the east proclaimed the dawn of another day.
Through all that night the boys slept soundly. The wind blew, the
waves dashed, but they did not awake. The anchor was hoisted, and
the sails were set, but the noise failed to rouse them. Weariness
of body and anxiety of mind both conspired to make their sleep
profound. Yet in that profound sleep the anxiety of their minds
made itself manifest; and in their dreams their thoughts turned to
their lost companion. They saw him drifting over the stormy
waters, enveloped in midnight darkness, chilled through with the
damp night air, pierced to the bone by the cold night wind;
drifting on amid a thousand dangers, now swept on by furious tides
towards rocky shores, and again drawn back by refluent currents
over vast sunken sea-ledges, white with foam. Thus through all the
night they slept, and as they slept the Antelope dashed on through
the waters, whose foaming waves, as they tumbled against her sides
and over her bows, sent forth sounds that mingled with their
dreams, and became intermingled with poor Tom's mournful cries.
IX.
Awake once more.--Where are we?--The giant cliff.--Out to Sea.--
Anchoring and Drifting.--The Harbor.--The Search.--No Answer.--
Where's Solomon?
Scarce had the streaks of light greeted Captain Corbet's eyes, and
given him the grateful prospect of another day, when the boys
awaked and hurried up on deck. Their first act was to take a
hurried look all around. The same gloomy and dismal prospect
appeared--black water and thick, impenetrable fog.
"Where are we now, Captain?" asked Bruce.
"Wal, a con-siderable distance down the bay."
"What are you going to do?"
"Wal--I've about made up my mind whar to go."
"Where?"
"I'm thinkin of puttin into Quaco."
"Quaco?"
"Yes."
"How far is it from here?"
"Not very fur, 'cordin to my calc'lations. My idee is, that the
boat may have drifted down along here and got ashore. Ef so, he
may have made for Quaco, an its jest possible that we may hear
about him."
"Is this the most likely place for a boat to go ashore?"
"Wal, all things considered, a boat is more likely to go ashore on
the New Brunswick side, driftin from Petticoat Jack; but at the
same time 'tain't at all certain. Thar's ony a ghost of a chance,
mind. I don't feel over certain about it."
"Will we get to Quaco this tide?"
"Scacely."
"Do you intend to anchor again?"
"Wal, I rayther think I'll hev to do it. But we'd ought to get to
Quaco by noon, I calc'late. I'm a thinkin--Hello! Good
gracious!"
The captain's sudden exclamation interrupted his words, and made
all turn to look at the object that had called it forth. One
glance showed an object which might well have elicited even a
stronger expression of amazement and alarm.
Immediately in front of them arose a vast cliff,--black, rocky,
frowning,--that ascended straight up from the deep water, its
summit lost in the thick fog, its base white with the foaming waves
that thundered there. A hoarse roar came up from those breaking
waves, which blended fearfully with the whistle of the wind through
the rigging, and seemed like the warning sound of some dark, drear
fate. The cliff was close by, and the schooner had been steering
straight towards it. So near was it that it seemed as though one
could have easily tossed a biscuit ashore.
But though surprised, Captain Corbet was not in the least confused,
and did not lose his presence of mind for a moment. Putting the
helm hard up, he issued the necessary commands in a cool, quiet
manner; the vessel went round, and in a few moments the danger was
passed. Yet so close were they, that in wearing round it seemed as
though one could almost have jumped from the stern upon the rocky
shelves which appeared in the face of the lofty cliff.
Captain Corbet drew a long breath.
"That's about the nighest scratch I remember ever havin had," was
his remark, as the Antelope went away from the land. "Cur'ous,
too; I don't see how it happened. I lost my reckonin a little.
I'm a mile further down than I calc'lated on bein."
"Do you know that place?" asked Bart.
"Course I know it."
"It's lucky for us we didn't go there at night."
"Yes, it is rayther lucky; but then there wan't any danger o' that,
cos, you see, I kep the vessel off by night, an the danger couldn't
hev riz. I thought we were a mile further up the bay; we've been a
doin better than I thought for."
"Shall we be able to get into Quaco any sooner?"
"Wal, not much."
"I thought from what you said that we were a mile nearer."
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