Books: Lost in the Fog
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James De Mille >> Lost in the Fog
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"So we air, but that don't make any very great difference."
"Why, we ought to get in all the sooner, I should think."
"No; not much."
"Why not? I don't understand that."
"Wal, you see it's low tide now."
"The tides again!"
"Yes; it's allus the tides that you must consider here. Wal, it's
low tide now, an the tide's already on the turn, an risin. We've
got to anchor."
"Anchor!"
"Yes."
"What, again?"
"Yes, agin. Even so. Ef we didn't anchor we'd only be drifted up
again, ever so far, an lose all that we've ben a gainin. We're not
more'n a mile above Quaco Harbor, but we can't fetch it with wind
an tide agin us; so we've got to put out some distance an anchor.
It's my firm belief that we'll be in Quaco by noon. The next
fallin tide will carry us thar as slick as a whistle, an then we
can pursue our investigations."
The schooner now held on her course for about a mile away from the
shore, and then came to anchor. The boys had for a moment lost
sight of this unpleasant necessity, and had forgotten that they had
been using up the hours of the ebb tide while asleep. There was no
help for it, however, and they found, to their disgust, another day
of fog, and of inaction.
Time passed, and breakfast came. Solomon now had the satisfaction
of seeing them eat more, and gave manifest signs of that
satisfaction by the twinkle of his eye and the lustre of his ebony
brow. After this the time passed on slowly and heavily; but at
length eleven o'clock came, and passed, and in a short time they
were once more under way.
"We're going to Quaco now--arn't we?" asked Phil.
"Yes; right straight on into Quaco Harbor, fair an squar."
"I don't see how it's possible for you to know so perfectly where
you are."
"Young sir, there ain't a nook, nor a corner, nor a hole, nor a
stun, in all the outlinin an configoortion of this here bay but
what's mapped out an laid down all c'rect in this here brain. I'd
undertake to navigate these waters from year's end to year's end,
ef I was never to see the sun at all, an even ef I was to be
perpetooly surrounded by all the fogs that ever riz. Yea, verily,
and moreover, not only this here bay, but the hull coast all along
to Bosting. Why, I'm at home here on the rollin biller. I'm the
man for Mount Desert, an Quoddy Head, an Grand Manan, an all other
places that air ticklish to the ginrality of seafarin men. Why,
young sir, you see before you, in the humble an unassumin person of
the aged Corbet, a livin, muvin, and sea-goin edition of Blunt's
Coast Pilot, revised and improved to a precious sight better
condition than it's ever possible for them fellers in Bosting to
get out. By Blunt's Coast Pilot, young sir, I allude to a
celebrated book, as big as a pork bar'l, that every skipper has in
his locker, to guide him on his wanderin way--ony me. I don't have
no call to use sech, being myself a edition of useful information
techin all coastin matters."
The Antelope now proceeded quickly on her way. Several miles were
traversed.
"Now, boys, look sharp," said the captain; "you'll soon see the
settlement."
They looked sharp.
For a few moments they went onward through the water, and at length
there was visible just before them what seemed like a dark cloud
extending all along. A few minutes further progress made the dark
cloud still darker, and, advancing further, the dark cloud finally
disclosed itself as a line of coast. It was close by them, and,
even while they were recognizing it as land, they saw before them
the outline of a wharf.
"Good agin!" cried the captain. "I didn't come to the wharf I
wanted, but this here'll do as well as any other, an I don't know
but what it'll do better. Here we air, boys. Stand by thar, mate,
to let fall the jib."
On they went, and in a few minutes more the Antelope wore round,
and her side just grazed the wharf. The mate jumped ashore, lines
were secured, and the Antelope lay in safety.
"An now, boys, we may all go ashore, an see if we can hear anything
about the boat."
With these words Captain Corbet stepped upon the wharf, followed by
all the boys, and they all went up together, till they found
themselves on a road. There they saw a shop, and into this they
entered. No time was to be lost; the captain at once told his
story, and asked his question.
The answer was soon made.
Nothing whatever was known there about any boat. Two or three
schooners had arrived within two days, and the shopkeeper had seen
the skippers, but they had not mentioned any boat. No boat had
drifted ashore anywhere near, nor had any strange lad arrived at
the settlement.
This intelligence depressed them all.
"Wal, wal," said the captain, "I didn't have much hopes; it's jest
as I feared; but, at the same time, I'll ask further. An first and
foremost I'll go an see them schooners."
He then went off with the boys in search of the schooners just
mentioned. These were found without difficulty. One had come from
up the bay, another from St. John, and a third from Eastport. None
of them had encountered anything like a drilling boat. The one
from up the bay afforded them the greatest puzzle. She must have
come down the very night of Tom's accident. If he did drift down
the bay in his boat, he must have been not very far from the
schooner. In clear weather he could not have escaped notice; but
the skipper had seen nothing, and heard nothing. He had to beat
down against the wind, and anchor when the tide was rising; but,
though he thus traversed so great an extent of water, nothing
whatever attracted his attention.
"This sets me thinkin," said the captain, "that, perhaps, he mayn't
have drifted down at all. He may have run ashore up thar. Thar's
a chance of it, an we must all try to think of that, and cheer up,
as long as we can."
Leaving the schooners, the captain now went through the settlement,
and made a few inquiries, with no further result. Nothing had been
heard by any one about any drifting boat, and they were at last
compelled to see that in Quaco there was no further hope of gaining
any information whatever about Tom.
After this, the captain informed the boys that he was going back to
the schooner to sleep.
"I haven't slep a wink," said he, "sence we left Grand Pre, and
that's more'n human natur can ginrally stand; so now I'm bound to
have my sleep out, an prepare for the next trip. You boys had
better emply yourselves in inspectin this here village."
"When shall we leave Quaco?"
"Wal, I'll think that over. I haven't yet made up my mind as to
what's best to be done next. One thing seems certain. There ain't
no use goin out in this fog, an I've half a mind to wait here till
to-morrow."
"To-morrow!"
"Yes,--an then go down to St. John."
"But what'll poor Tom be doing?"
"It's my firm belief that he's all right," said Captain Corbet,
confidently. "At any rate, you'd better walk about now, an I'll
try an git some sleep."
As there was nothing better to be done, the boys did as he
proposed, and wandered about the village. It was about two miles
long, with houses scattered at intervals along the single street of
which it was composed, with here, and there a ship-yard. At one
end was a long, projecting ledge, with a light-house; at the other
there was a romantic valley, through which a stream ran into the
bay. On the other side of this stream were cliffs of sandstone
rocks, in which were deep, cavernous hollows, worn by the waves;
beyond this, again, was a long line of a precipitous shore, in
whose sides were curious shelves, along which it was possible to
walk for a great distance, with the sea thundering on the rocks
beneath. At any other time they would have taken an intense
enjoyment in a place like this, where there were so many varied
scenes; but now their sense of enjoyment was blunted, for they
carried in their minds a perpetual anxiety. None the less, however,
did they wander about, penetrating up the valley, exploring the
caverns, and traversing the cliffs.
They did not return to the schooner till dusk. It would not be
high tide till midnight, and so they prolonged their excursion
purposely, so as to use up the time. On reaching the schooner they
were welcomed by Captain Corbet.
"I declar, boys," said he, "I'm getting to be a leetle the biggest
old fool that ever lived. It's all this accident. It's onmanned
me. I had a nap for two or three hours, but waked at six, an ever
sence I've been a worretin an a frettin about youns. Sence that
thar accident, I can't bar to have you out of my sight, for I fear
all the time that you ar gettin into mischief. An now I've been
skeart for two mortal hours, a fancyin you all tumblin down from
the cliffs, or a strugglin in the waters."
"O, we can take care of ourselves, captain," said Bart
"No, you can't--not you. I wouldn't trust one of you. I'm getting
to be a feeble creetur too,--so don't go away agin."
"Well, I don't think we'll have a chance in Quaco. Arn't we going
to leave to-night?"
"Wal, that thar is jest the pint that I've been moosin on. You see
it's thick; the fog's as bad as ever. What's the use of going out
to-night? Now, ef we wait till to-morrow, it may be clear, an then
we can decide what to do."
At this proposal, the boys were silent for a time. The experience
which they had formed of the bay and its fogs showed them how
useless would be any search by night, and the prospect of a clear
day, and, possibly, a more favorable wind on the morrow, was very
attractive. The question was debated by all, and considered in all
its bearings, and the discussion went on until late, when it was
finally decided that it would be, on the whole, the wisest course
to wait until the following day. Not the least influential of the
many considerations that occurred was their regard for Captain
Corbet. They saw that he was utterly worn out for want of sleep,
and perceived how much he needed one night's rest. This finally
decided them.
Early on the following morning they were all up, and eager to see
if there was any change in the weather. The first glance around
elicited a cry of admiration from all of them. Above, all was
clear and bright. The sun was shining with dazzling lustre; the
sky was of a deep blue, and without a cloud on its whole expanse;
while the wide extent of the bay spread out before them, blue like
the sky above, which it mirrored, and throwing up its waves to
catch the sunlight. A fresh north wind was blowing, and all the
air and all the sea was full of light and joy.
The scene around was in every respect magnificent. The tide was
low, and the broad beach, which now was uncovered by the waters,
spread afar to the right and left in a long crescent that extended
for miles. On its lower extremity it was terminated by a ledge of
black rocks, with the light-house before spoken of, while its upper
end was bounded by cavernous cliffs of red sandstone, which were
crowned with tufted trees. Behind them were the white houses of
the village, straggling irregularly on the borders of the long
road, with here and there the unfinished fabric of some huge ship;
while in the background were wooded hills and green sloping fields.
Out on the bay a grander scene appeared. Far down arose a white
wall, which marked the place where the fog clouds were sullenly
retreating; immediately opposite, and forty miles away over the
water, arose the long line of the Nova Scotia coast, which bounded
the horizon; while far up arose Cape Chignecto, and beside it
towered up the dark form of a lonely island, which they knew, in
spite of the evident distortion of its shape, to be no other than
Ile Haute.
The wondrous effects which can be produced by the atmosphere were
never more visible to their eyes than now. The coast of Nova
Scotia rose high in the air, dark in color, apparently only half
its actual distance away, while the summit of that coast seemed as
level as a table. It seemed like some vast structure which had
been raised out of the water during the night by some magic power.
Ile Haute arose to an extraordinary height, its summit perfectly
level, its sides perfectly perpendicular, and its color a dark
purple hue. Nor was Cape Chignecto less changed. The rugged cliff
arose with magnified proportions to a majestic height, and took
upon itself the same sombre color, which pervaded the whole of the
opposite coast.
Another discussion was now begun as to their best plan of action.
After talking it all over, it was finally decided to go to St.
John. There they would have a better opportunity of hearing about
Tom; and there, too, if they did hear, they could send messages to
him, or receive them from him. So it was decided to leave at about
eleven o'clock, without waiting for high tide; for, as the wind was
fair, they could go on without difficulty. After coming to this
conclusion, and learning that the tide would not be high enough to
float the schooner until eleven, they all took breakfast, and
stimulated by the exhilarating atmosphere and the bright sunshine,
they dispersed down the village towards the light-house.
By ten o'clock they were back again. The tide was not yet up, and
they waited patiently.
"By the way, captain," asked Bart, "what's become of Solomon?"
"Solomon? O, he took a basket an went off on a kine o' foragin
tower."
"Foraging?"
"Yes. He said he'd go along the shore, and hunt for lobsters."
"The shore? What shore?"
"Why, away up thar," said the captain, pointing towards the
headland at the upper end of the village.
"How long since?"
"Wal, jest arter breakfast. It must hev ben afore seven."
"It's strange that he hasn't got back."
"Yes; he'd ought to be back by this time."
"He can't get any lobsters now; the tide is too high."
"That's a fact."
They waited half an hour. The rising tide already touched the
Antelope's keel.
"Solomon ought to be back," cried Bart, starting up.
"That's so," said Captain Corbet.
"I'm afraid something's happened. He's been gone too long. Two
hours were enough."
The boys all looked at one another with anxious faces.
"If he went up that shore," said Bart, "he may have got caught by
the tide. It's a very dangerous place for anybody--let alone an
old man like him."
"Wal, he did go up thar; he said partic'lar that he wanted to find
somethin of a relish, an would hunt up thar. He said, too, he'd be
back by nine."
"I'm certain something's happened," cried Bart, more anxiously
than before. "If he's gone up there, he's been caught by the
tide."
Captain Corbet stared, and looked uneasy.
"Wal, I must say, that thar's not onlikely. It's a bad place, a
dreadful bad place,--an him an old man,--a dreadful bad place.
He'd be down here by this time, ef he was alive."
"I won't wait any longer," cried Bart. "I must go and see. Come
along, boys. Don't let's leave poor old Solomon in danger. Depend
upon it, he's caught up there somewhere."
"Wal, I think you're right," said Captain Corbet, "an I'll go too.
But ef we do go, we'd better go with some preparations."
"Preparations? What kind of preparations?"
"O, ony a rope or two," said Captain Corbet; and taking a coil of
rope over his arm, he stepped ashore, and all the boys hurried
after him.
"I feel kine o' safer with a kile o' rope,--bein a seafarin man,"
he remarked. "Give a seafarin man a rope, an he'll go anywhar an
do anythin. He's like a spider onto a web."
X.
Tom ashore.--Storm at Night.--Up in the Morning.--The Cliffs and
the Beach.--A startling Discovery.--A desert Island.--A desperate
Effort.--Afloat again.
Tom slept soundly for a long time in the spot where he had flung
himself. The sense of security came to the assistance of his
wearied limbs, and lulled him into profounder slumbers. There was
nothing here that might rudely awaken him--no sudden boat shocks,
no tossings and heavings of waves, no hoarse, menacing thunders of
wrathful surges from rocky shores; nor were there distressing
dreams to harass him, or any anxieties carried from his waking
hours into the land of slumbers to annoy and to arouse. From
Monday night until this time on Thursday, he had known but little
sleep, and much fatigue and sorrow. Now the fatigue and the sorrow
were all forgotten, and the sleep was all his own. Not a thought
had he given to the land which he had reached so strangely. It was
enough for him that he felt the solid ground beneath his feet.
For hours he slept there, lying there like a log, wrapped in the
old sail, moving not a limb, but given up altogether to his
refreshing slumber. At length he waked, and, uncovering his head,
looked around. At first he thought that he was in the boat, then
he grew bewildered, and it was only after a persistent effort of
memory that he could recollect his position.
He looked all around, but nothing was visible. There was nothing
around him but darkness, intense and utter. It was like the
impenetrable veil that had enshrouded him during the night of his
memorable voyage. He could not see where his boat was. A vague
idea which he had of examining its fastening was dismissed. He
felt hungry, and found the biscuit box lying under one corner of
the sail. A few of these were sufficient to gratify his hunger.
Nothing more could be done, and he saw plainly that it would be
necessary for him to wait there patiently until morning. Once
more, therefore, he rolled himself up in the sail, and tried to go
to sleep. But at first his efforts were vain. The first fatigue
had passed away, and now that he had been refreshed by sleep, his
mind was too much occupied by thoughts of his past voyage to be
readily lulled to sleep again. He could not help wondering what
Captain Corbet and the boys were doing. That they were searching
for him everywhere he well knew, but which direction they had
chosen he could not tell. And what was the place whither he had
drifted? He felt confident that it was the mouth of the
Petitcodiac, and could not help wondering at the accuracy of his
course; yet, while wondering, he modestly refrained from taking the
credit of it to himself, and rather chose to attribute it to the
wind and tide. It was by committing himself so completely to their
guidance, he thought, that he had done so well.
In the midst of such thoughts as these, Tom became aware of the
howling of the wind and the dash of the waters. Putting forth his
head, he found that there was quite a storm arising; and this only
added to his contentment. No fear had he now, on this solid
ground, of rising wind or swelling wave. Even the fog had lost its
terrors. It was with feelings like these that he once more covered
up his head from the night blast; and not long after he was once
more asleep.
When he next awaked, it was day. Starting to his feet, he looked
around him, and shouted for joy. The sky was clear. The sun was
rising, and its rays, coming from over the distant hills, were
glittering over the surface of the water. The wind had changed.
The fog had dispersed.
No sooner had he seen this than he was filled with curiosity to
know where he was. This did not look much like the mouth of the
Petitcodiac. He stared around with a very strange sensation.
Immediately beside him, where he was standing, the easy slope went
back for a hundred yards or so, covered with short, wild grass,
with here and there a stunted tree. Turning round, he saw the land
rising by a steep acclivity towards the heights which bordered on
the sea in such tremendous cliffs. Over the heights, and along the
crest of those cliffs, were flying great flocks of sea-gulls, which
kept up one incessant chorus of harsh, discordant screams. In
front of him spread out a broad sheet of water, on the opposite
side of which arose a lofty line of coast. Into this there
penetrated a long strait, beyond which he could see broad waters
and distant shores--a bay within a bay, approached by this strait.
On each side of the strait were lofty, towering cliffs; and on one
side, in particular, the cliffs were perpendicular, and ran on in a
long and unbroken wall. The extremity of the cliff nearest him was
marked by a gigantic mass of broken rock, detached from the main
land, and standing alone in awful grandeur.
What place was this? Was this the mouth of the Petitcodiac? Was
that broad bay a river? Was he still dreaming, or what did it all
mean? And that gigantic fragment severed from a cliff, which thus
stood guard at the entrance of a long strait, what was that? Could
it be possible? Was there indeed any other broken cape, or could
it be possible that this was Cape Split?
He hurried up the slope, and on reaching the top, saw that it
descended on the other side towards the water. This water was a
broad sheet, which extended for seven or eight miles, and was
terminated by a lofty coast that extended down the bay as far as
the eye could reach. One comprehensive glance was sufficient. He
saw it all, and understood it all. It was not the mouth of the
Petitcodiac River. It was the entrance to the Basin of Minas that
lay before him. There lay the great landmarks, seen under new
aspects, it is true, yet now sufficiently distinguishable. There
was the Nova Scotia coast. In yonder hollow was Scott's Bay. That
giant rock was Cape Split. The long channel was the Strait of
Minas, and the cliffs opposite were Cape d'Or and Cape Chignecto.
And now the recognition of all these places brought to him a great
and sudden shock.
For what was this place on which he stood? Was it any part of the
main land?
It was not.
He looked around.
It was an island.
He saw its lofty cliffs, its wooded crest, its flocks of sea-gulls,
its sloping east end, where he stood, running down to a low point.
He had seen them all at a distance before; and now that he stood
here, he recognized all.
He was on Ile Haute!
The moment that he recognized this startling fact, he thought of
his boat. He hurried to the beach. The tide was very low. To his
immense relief he found the fastening of the boat secure, and he
turned away at once, without any further examination, to think over
his situation, and consider the best plan for reaching the main
land. Making a comfortable seat for himself on the sail, he sat
down, and drawing out the box, he took some biscuit. Then feeling
thirsty, he went off in search of fresh water. Before he had
walked many paces he found a brook.
The brook was a small one, which ran from the lofty west end of the
island to the low land of the east, and thence into the bay. The
water was good, and Tom satisfied his thirst by a long draught.
Judging by the position of the sun, it was now about seven o'clock
in the morning; and Tom seated himself once more, and began to try
to think how it was that he should have come in a direction so
entirely different from the one which he had believed himself to be
taking. He had fully expected to land at Petitcodiac, and he found
himself far away on the other side of the bay. Yet a little
reflection showed him how useless it was to try to recall his past
voyage, and how impossible it was for him to account for it,
ignorant as he was of the true direction of the wind and of the
tide. He contented himself with marking a rude outline of his
course on his memorandum book, making allowance for the time when
he turned on that course; and having summed it all up to his own
satisfaction in a crooked line which looked like a slip-knot, he
turned his attention to more important matters.
There was one matter of first-rate importance which now pressed
itself upon his thoughts, and that was, how to escape from his
present situation. As far as he could see, there was no inhabitant
on the island, no house, no cultivation, and no domestic animal.
If there had been anything of that kind, they would be visible, he
knew, from the point where he was standing. But all was deserted;
and beyond the open ground in his neighborhood arose the east end,
wooded all over its lofty summit. From Captain Corbet's words, and
from his own observation, he knew that it was a desert island, and
that if he wished to escape he would have to rely altogether upon
his own resources.
With this conclusion he once more turned his attention to his
surroundings.
Nearest to him was Cape d'Or, about four miles away, and Cape
Split, which was some distance farther. Then there was the Nova
Scotia shore, which appeared to be seven or eight miles distant.
On the beach and within sight was the boat which offered a sure and
easy mode of passing over to the main land. But no sooner did he
recognize this fact than a difficulty arose. How was he to make
the passage? The boat had come ashore at high tide, and was close
up to the grassy bank. The tide was far down, and between the boat
and the water was a broad beach, covered with cobblestones, and
interspersed with granite boulders. It was too heavy a weight for
him to move any distance, and to force it down to the water over
such a beach was plainly impossible. On the other hand, he might
wait until the boat floated at high tide, and then embark. But
this, again, would be attended with serious difficulties. The
tide, he saw, would turn as soon as he should get fairly afloat,
and then he would have to contend with the downward current. True,
he might use his sail, and in that case he might gain the Nova
Scotia shore; but his experience of the tides had been so terrible
a one, that he dreaded the tremendous drift which he would have to
encounter, and had no confidence in his power of navigating under
such circumstances. Besides, he knew well that although the wind
was now from the north, it was liable to change at any moment; so
that even if he should be able to guide his boat, he might yet be
suddenly enveloped by a fog when but half way over, and exposed
once more to all those perils from which he had just escaped. The
more he thought of all these dangers, the more deterred he felt
from making any such attempt. Rather would he wait, and hope for
escape in some other way.
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