The Pirate Story Megapack: 25 Classic and Modern Tales

by Robert E. Howard

  This suggestion, which came from Bruce, was at once acted on. Bart and Tom took the oars. Bruce took a hatchet which had been flung into the boat, and tying a line to it, used this as a sounding lead.

  “Row gently,” said he.

  The boys did so, following Bruce’s direction, while, holding his sounding-line, he tested the bottom. After a little while he had satisfied himself.

  “It shoals in this direction,” said he. “Row straight on a dozen strokes.”

  They did so.

  Bruce sounded again.

  “All right,” said he. “Row on.”

  They rowed farther.

  Bruce sounded again. The bottom was much shallower.

  They rowed farther.

  But now no sounding was any longer necessary, for there, straight before them, looming through the now lessening fog, they all descried the welcome sight of land.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  At the sight of land a cry of joy burst forth from all in the boat, and Bart and Tom bent to their oars with all their force. As they drew nearer, they saw, to their intense delight, that this strange land was no wilderness, no desolate shore, but an inhabited place, with cultivated fields, and pasture land, and groves. One by one, new features in the landscape revealed themselves. There was a long beach, with a grand sweep that curved itself away on either side, till it joined steep or precipitous shores. Behind this were fields, all green with verdure, and a scattered settlement, whose white houses, of simple, yet neat construction, looked most invitingly to these shipwrecked wanderers. At one end of the winding beach rose the fabric of a large ship in process of construction.

  Nearer they came, and yet nearer. The tide was high on the beach, and the waters almost touched the green fields that fringed the shore with alder bushes. Here a boat was drawn up, and beyond this stood a neat farm-house. On a fence nets were hanging, showing that the occupant of this house united the two callings of farmer and fisher. Beyond the settlement, the land rose into high hills, which were covered with forest trees, and from these had been wafted that aromatic breeze which had first made known to them the neighborhood of land.

  All this time the breeze had been slightly increasing, and the fog had been steadily diminishing. Now the shores appeared in fuller outline. Looking back over their course, they could see the masts of the Antelope, where they projected above the water. They could see that they had drifted into a bay, and the Antelope had sunk into its shallowest part.

  There was something in this scene which appeared to them strangely and most unaccountably familiar. All had the same feeling, yet not one of them expressed it. Each imagined that it was his own fancy; and so disturbed had their minds been for the past few days, that they felt unwilling now to indulge this fancy. Yet every moment the fancy grew stronger, and brought fresh wonder with it. In this way they rowed along, and every moment brought the boat nearer and nearer to the shore.

  At length they saw a man come forth from the house before them, and advance towards the beach. His face was turned towards them; he was staring at them most intently. As the boat advanced, he advanced; and thus the two parties approached. Every moment revealed more and more of the opposite party to each.

  Bart and Tom were rowing, and thus had their backs turned to the shore and their faces towards the sea outside. Here the fog was fast dispelling; and as it fled, there opened up mile after mile of the coast, and the sea horizon. There, on that horizon, there came forth out of the fog to their eyes a solitary object, that appeared to float upon the sea. It revealed itself more and more; and first, magnified and distorted by the mist, it seemed like a lofty table land of cloud then like a giant rock, but at length resolved itself into a wooded island with precipitous sides. There it lay full before them.

  As it thus revealed itself, Tom uttered a wild shout. Bart instantly uttered another.

  “Boys! Boys! Look! Look! Hurrah! Hur-ra-a-a-a-a-a-ah! Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!!”

  But at that very instant there arose a wild out cry—a clamor worse than theirs—from all the others in the boat. Solomon gave a yell, Captain Corbet started up, and ceased to stroke his legs. Bruce, Arthur, Phil, and Pat, with one wild cry, started erect to their feet, regardless of the swaying and rocking of the boat. And “Hurrah!” they cried. “Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!! Hurra-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-ah!!!”

  “Scott’s Bay! Ile Haute!” cried Tom and Bart.

  “Scott’s Bay! Benny Grigg!” cried all the others.

  “Scott’s-Grigg.”

  “Benny-Haute.”

  “Ile-Bay.”

  “Benny-Bay.”

  “Ile-Grigg.”

  “Scott’s Haute.”

  Such was the medley of cries that arose from all, shouting and yelling at once. While all the time there stood on the shore the man that had come down to meet them; who first had started and stared with amazement,—and who then, recognizing them all, and seeing the masts of the sunken schooner beyond, understood the whole situation, and rejoiced over it accordingly—showing his joy, indeed, in a less noisy and demonstrative manner than theirs, but in a way which was thoroughly characteristic.

  For Benny suddenly turned, and started off to the house on a full run. Then he disappeared.

  The boat drew nearer.

  Benny appeared once more.

  The boat touched the beach.

  At that very instant Benny touched the beach also, and, plunging into the water, began shaking hands with every one of them, in the most violent, and vehement manner.

  “Come along! Come along! Come right up! Come along! Don’t mind the boat. I’ll see to that. Come along to the house. Blowed if I ever see the likes o’ this in all my born days! Come along!”

  Such was the welcome of Benny Grigg.

  And in this way Benny dragged them all up to his house. Here he gave them another welcome, characterized by a lavish hospitality, and a warm-hearted friendliness that was truly delightful to his guests; in all of which he was seconded by Mrs. Benny. The table that was spread before them was loaded down with everything that the house could furnish, and the shipwrecked guests ate with an appetite such as is only known to those who have labored hard and fasted long.

  After which Benny questioned them all closely, and made them tell him how it was that they had come here. Great was his astonishment, but greater still his amusement. Though it had so nearly been a tragedy, to hear it seemed like a comedy. There is but one step between the sublime and the ridiculous—the terrible and the grotesque—tragedy and comedy. Benny chose to regard it all from the lighter point of view, and accordingly he laughed with unrestrained hilarity, and made merry with exceeding mirth.

  But after the story was all told, he grew more serious, and, producing a well-worn chart, he explained to them his theory as to their wanderings. He pointed out to them the probable place where the Antelope had struck, described the character of the tides and currents, and showed how it was that, with such a wind, and under such circumstances, they, very naturally, had drifted into this particular part of the Bay of Fundy. Benny’s explanation was indeed so very lucid, and so satisfactory, that they all expressed their regrets at not having known this before, in which case they would have been saved from much anxiety.

  When they arrived at Scott’s Bay it was high tide, but by the time that they had finished their story and the conversation that had been caused by it, the tide was far down on the ebb. On going forth they could see that the deck of the Antelope had been uncovered by the retreating waters. In two or three hours more the tide would be at the lowest ebb, and they could see that it would be possible for them to visit the sunken schooner. It lay about a mile away from the beach, between which and her there extended long mud flats, which could easily be traversed at low water.

  They waited till the tide was low, and then they all walked down to her.

  There she lay—the Antelope—the vessel that had carried them so far, through strange seas, amid so many dangers and perils—the vesse
l associated with so many memories. They climbed on board. They saw that her hold was still full of water; for, though the crevices were numerous, and wide enough to let in the sea, they could not let it out with sufficient rapidity to keep pace with the fall of the tide. Still, the water streamed out in small jets, or trickled out, drop by drop, in a hundred places, affording them a very impressive sight of the true condition of the Antelope, and of the danger against which they had struggled so long and so laboriously.

  “If the water’d ony get out of her,” said Captain Corbet, in a melancholy voice, “she might float ashore.”

  “Yes,” said Benny, “she might float, perhaps, as far as the shore, but no farther, ’Tain’t no manner of uthly use a tryin to repair that thar craft, cos she’s ben an gone an got done for. She’s wore out, the wustest kind. That thar vessel ain’t wuth a tryin to repair her. It’s a mussy she held out so long, an didn’t go to pieces all of a suddent, somewhars in the middle of the sea.”

  To this Captain Corbet made no reply. He felt keenly the truth of the remark, and could see that the Antelope was indeed beyond the reach of human aid.

  The boys all climbed on board of the beloved, though battered old craft, to take a last look and a last farewell. It was with unconcealed sadness that they looked around. They could not go down into the cabin, or the hold, for the water was there; yet the deck was enough to remind them of that eventful past which they had experienced here. This was the schooner that had borne them on their cruise around Minas Bay; which had taken them around the Bay of Fundy when Tom was lost; which had afterwards taken them to the Bay de Chaleur. This was the schooner for whose appearance they had so watched and waited on board the water-logged Petrel, and which had lately borne them over so many miles of watery sea, through so many leagues of fog. And this was the end.

  Captain Corbet it was that first broke the solemn silence.

  “It air gone,” he said; “the derream hev bust! The berright derream of fortin, of wealth, an of perosperity. Gone, tew, air the ole Antelope—companion of my toils, my feelins, an my fame. Boys, you hev ben the confidants of my feelins towards this here Antelope, an knows how I loved her, yea, even as the apple of my aged eye! I stood here, not long sence, by yon rudder, fixed firm an solemn; resolved to perish with her; ready to sink into the deep blue sea. From that fate I was spared; yet still my feelins air the same; the heart’s the same—’twill ne’er grow cold. An now I feel to mourn. I feel that I am indeed a growin old. The days of my navigatin air brought to an end. Henceforth the briny deep will be traversed by the aged Corbet no more forever. From this time I retire from the heavin biller, an take refooge in my own vine an fig tree. My navigatin arter this’ll be, with my belessed babby in my arms, up an down the room. The only storms that await me now, an the only squalls, air to be of a sterictly domestic characture. Weak human natur, boys, might be tempted to repine, an to indulge in vain lamintations over this here; but the time hev passed. I’ve made my lamintation, an that’s enough. I’ll lament no more. Peace to her ashes. Let her lie, an may no rude hand go a disturbin of the beloved Antelope in her last restin-place. Let her lie buried here beneath the ocean. Let the billowy main sound her requem, an chant her foon’ral dirge. An now, farwell! an may you be happy! Good by, Antelope—ole friend—an receive, as your last legacy an benediction, the belessin of the mournful Corbet!”

  He ceased. Silence followed, and in that silence they all retired from the Antelope, and returned to the shore.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  On reaching the shore they found it necessary to take into consideration the course of action that was now most advisable.

  “We’ve got a few weeks yet of vacation, boys,” said Bart, “and if we want to enjoy ourselves, we’d better get out of this as fast as possible.”

  “We ought, at any rate, to write to our fathers and mothers,” said Phil; “I don’t know what they’ll think.”

  “Write!” said Bruce; “we’d better hurry off home our own selves, and not send letters. For my part, I’m ready to start off this evening for Grand Pré.”

  “Grand Pré? But why Grand Pré?” asked Arthur.

  “O, I don’t know,” said Bruce: “what other way is there to go? We’ll have to get away from this, of course; and it seems most natural to cross the mountain to Grand Pré, and then go on by stage. Bart could leave us at Windsor, and take the steamer for St. John.”

  “Sure an the stage goes the other way altogether,” said Pat.

  “How’s that?”

  “Why, down the valley to Annapolis; an the steamer starts from that to St. John, so it does; an’ it’s twice as near, so it is.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is. St. John is only sixty mile from Annapolis, and it’s more’n a hundred an twinty from Windsor.”

  “But Annapolis is seventy or eighty miles from this place, and Windsor’s only thirty.”

  “At any rate, it’s easier goin by the way of Annapolis.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Yes, it is; you go down the valley, so you do, an the other way you have to go up.”

  “Pooh! nonsense! The Annapolis valley isn’t a hill. The fact is, from here to St. John it’s easier to go by the way of Windsor.”

  “It’s further thin.”

  “Yes,” said Phil, “it’s a hundred and fifty miles by the way of Windsor, and only a hundred and forty-seven by the way of Annapolis.”

  “For my part,” said Bart, “I don’t fancy either way. What’s the use of talking about a hundred and fifty miles, when you need only go half that distance?”

  “Half that distance? How?”

  “Why, across the bay.”

  “Across the bay? O! Why, that completely alters the case,” said Bruce.

  “Of course.”

  “Sure, but how can we go on fut across the bay? or by stage?” objected Pat.

  “There don’t seem to be any schooner here,” said Arthur, looking all around.

  All the others did the same, searching narrowly the whole line of coast. Nothing, however, was visible of the nature of a vessel. Boats there were, however, in plenty, quite commodious too, but none of them sufficiently large to take them so far as St. John.

  “I’m afraid, Bart, your idea of getting to St. John by water won’t do,” said Bruce. “You’d better make up your mind to come along with us.”

  “O, I’ll go, of course, along with you; we must stick together as long as we can; but we must settle, first of all, which is the best way to go. You’ll find it most convenient to come to St. John. You can go from there up the bay, and then go over to Prince Edward Island, easier than by any other route.”

  “Well, I don’t know but that we can, at least as easy as any other way, and so I’ve no objection; but won’t it be best to go to Windsor, or, if you prefer it, to Annapolis?”

  “Well, let’s find out, first of all, whether there is any chance of going by a more direct way. Old Bennie can tell us all about it.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Tom, who had thus far taken no part in the discussion, “let’s ask old Bennie; he can tell us what’s best to do.”

  With these words the boys walked on faster towards where old Bennie was sauntering about with Captain Corbet and Solomon. At the first mention of their wish Bennie energetically refused to say anything about it.

  “You’ve got to stay here, boys—you’ve got to, you know; an thar’s no use talkin, an that’s all about it—thar now.”

  This the good Bennie said over and over again, persisting in it most obstinately. At length Bart managed to secure his attention long enough to convey to him an idea of the circumstances in which they were, and especially the regard which they had for their respective parents. At the mention of this Bennie’s obstinacy gave away.

  “Wal, thar, boys”, said he, “that thar does knock me, an I give up. The fact is, when I regard you, and think on what you’ve ben a doin on, an how you’ve ben adoin of it, an what sort of a craft y
ou’ve ben a navigatin in, I feel as though the parients an guardins of sech as youns had ort to be pitied.”

  In fact, Bennie’s commiseration for these anxious parents was so great that he changed his tactics at once, and instead of trying to keep the boys with him, he exhibited the utmost eagerness to hasten their departure.

  “You can’t go straight off to St. John, boys, from this place, for there ain’t a schooner in jest now; but there’s a way of goin that’ll take you to that place faster, mebbe, than you could go if you went direct in a sailin craft. It’s to get off to the nighest place where the steamer touches.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Parrsboro’.”

  “Parrsboro’? and how far is it?”

  “O, only a few miles; it’s only jest round thar;” and Bennie swung his arm round over towards the right, indicating a vast extent of the earth’s surface.

  “O, we all know Parrsboro’ perfectly well,” said Bart; “but when can we catch the steamer there?”

  “Why, tomorrow, some time, at about half tide. The steamer comes up tonight, and goes down tomorrow. So, if you go to Parrsboro’ an take the steamer thar, you’ll be able to be in St. John quicker than if you went any other way.”

  This intelligence at once settled the question completely. They all saw that to go by land part of the way would take up much longer time. Parrsboro’ was so near that it needed only to be mentioned for them all to adopt at once this plan. The only question now remaining was how to get there.

  “Wal, there ain’t no trouble about that,” said Bennie. “Thar’s my boat—a nice, clean, roomy one; and I’ll engage to put you over in Parrsboro’ quick sticks. ’Tain’t big enough, quite, to take you to St. John; not because she couldn’t go there, for I’d a precious sight sooner cross the bay—yes, or the Atlantic Ocean—in her than in that old Antelope; but because she hain’t got good sleepin accommodations in case we was to be delayed, as would be very probable. She’s ony an open boat—a beautiful one for sailin in by day, an in fine weather, but not overly good for long vyges for reasons above mentioned, as you’ll observe, young gentlemen.”