Here followed a long silence, which the boys did not break, for they did not know what to say to soothe the woes of the afflicted captain. At length he looked up, and went on in a tone of sadness, in which might be detected something like resentment.
“Fust opinions is alius krect. You mind, boys, what I told you on the briny deep. I said that the heart of Mr. Long was as hard as the neither milestone. Terew, when, on that eventfooil trile, he riz up for me, an fit down my fiendish prosecooter, an gently tetched him up on the roar by that tremenjuous outbust abeout the babby; when all that was a happenin, I did think I’d a leetle mis-jedged him. But did I? No. I come to show a parient’s gratitood by presentin before him my most perecious treasoor. An what was the result? What? Why, he met me with his habitooil hardheartedness. I found him stiff as a marbial statoot, cold an freezin as a icicle, rugged an onfeelin as a rocky precipious!”
As he ended, he rose from his chair. The boys now gathered about him, and asked him to come up to Bart’s room, just overhead, and let them see his infant. They addressed consoling words to him, and sought to smooth down his ruffled feelings.
But Captain Corbet shook his head.
“No, boys,” said he, “thankee kindly. You’re all right,—’tain’t you, ’tain’t your fault,—but I feel sore. There’s somethin opperessive in this here intellectooil atmosphiour. I must seek elsewhere for comfort to my ruffled busom. Thankee kindly, boys. Some other time, not now—some other time.”
Saying this, the aged captain left the room, and descended the stairs, and took his departure. The boys watched his venerable figure till it paased out of sight; and the slow pace, and bent head, and mournful mood of their beloved navigator touched all their hearts with a common feeling of sympathy.
As Captain Corbet’s retreating figure disappeared from view, the boys turned away, and walked slowly along the front of the Academy, with a vague idea of taking a walk up to the camp. But before they had gone any great distance they met Dr. Porter.
“Boys,” said he, “you’ll be glad to know that your French relics are all labelled, and are now ready to be taken to the Museum.”
“May we take them there, sir?”
“O, yes.”
“When?”
“Now, if you like. I’ll go back to the house, and let you have them.”
Saying this the doctor turned back towards the house, followed by the boys.
They found the articles all neatly labelled, and their names written upon each label as discoverers and donors. All looked delighted except Bart. He read the label on the bone, and there was an expression on his face which did not escape the notice of the doctor.
“What’s the matter, Bart?” he asked. “You don’t seem pleased.”
“Why, sir,” said Bart, “I didn’t think that this bone belonged to—to that.”
“Why, what did you think that it did belong to?”
“Well, sir, I thought that it belonged to the owner of the house.”
“The owner of the house!” said the doctor, with a laugh. “Well, not directly. It belonged to his horse, as I think, but Mr. Simmons thinks it was his cow. That is the only way in which it ever belonged to him.”
Bart looked ineffably disgusted.
“Then it’s no use putting an old cow bone in the Museum,” said he.
“O, yes,” said the doctor. “It was found beside the plough, and perhaps belonged to the horse or ox that dragged it. From that point of view it is a very interesting relic.”
Bart said no more, and soon the boys retired on their way to the Museum, bearing their treasures with them.
“Boys,” said Bruce, “it will never do for us to carry these things up without making some demonstration or other. It isn’t every day that we are presenting things to the Museum that we’ve dug out of the ground.”
“That’s a capital idea,” cried Bart, who by this time had recovered from the shock of his disappointment.
“So I say,” said Arthur; “but what shall we do?”
“O, let’s have a speech, and a poem, and a procession,” said Phil.
“Yes,” said Tom, “Bruce can make the speech, and Bart can make the poem.”
This was agreed upon, and it was decided that the ceremony should come off immediately before tea-time. They had an hour yet, and that gave them ample time. Soon the news spread abroad, and all the boys flocked to the spot. Bruce ascended the portico, and stood there with the French relics at his feet.
Bruce had not had much time for preparation; but then he was very quick at impromptu speeches, and the occasion did not demand anything more than this. Bart stood near, scribbling something in his memorandum-book.
After arranging the things in an effective row, and putting all the coins inside the iron pot, Bruce commenced.
Holding up the iron pot, and rattling the coins, he began by giving a humorous description of their search after it. Without going very deeply into the real particulars of the case, he introduced into his burlesque narrative quite a number of the actual facts. After finishing this description, he showed the identical pot of money which they had exhumed, and it was passed round from hand to hand.
Bruce then exhibited the ploughshare, and the other irons. The plough, he assured them, belonged to the first settler on this classic spot. The bolts had fastened it together, and the chain had drawn it through the ground. It was this plough, of which these were the interesting relics, that had reclaimed the hill from its original wilderness state, and made possible the existence of that great and glorious school to which they at present had the proud privilege of belonging.
Finally, he exhibited the bone. Dr. Porter, he said, thought it was the bone of a horse; while Mr. Simmons thought that it once had belonged to a cow, or perhaps an ox. For his part, he had a theory of his own. He thought that it was the bone of that nightmare that had been making such a disturbance among them during the last week. That bone was now going into the Museum, and he was confident that the peculiar animal to which it belonged would never trouble the school again.
As Bruce ended, he was greeted with three cheers. Three more followed for the plough; three for the pot of money; and three for the bone.
After this, Bart arose with his memorandum-book, in which he had been diligently scribbling.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “after the able, polished, elegant, eloquent, ornate, and thoroughly exhaustive address from my learned friend, who has just sat down, it would be quite out of my power to say anything. Besides, I’m appointed to give the poem. The subject is connected with one of the articles before us. I mean the bone. Dr. Porter has one theory; Mr. Simmons another; my learned friend has a third. For my part, I have my own theory, which I adopted at the moment of its discovery, and which I still maintain. This, gentlemen, is the subject of my poem.”
After which Bart read the following from his memorandum-book:—
“O, I’m the bone of a Parley Yoo
That settled
in Minas Bay,
That dammed the marshes, and
cleared the woods,
And called the place Grand
Pré.
"And the grain it riz, and the
settlement growed,
And werry content were we,
With our cattle and pigs, and bosses and gigs,
And beautiful scenerie.
"And there it was nothing but Nong-tong-paw,
Et cetera, from morning to night,
And Mercy, madame, and Wee, moo-soo,—
We were all so werry polite.
"But the Britishers came, and druv us off;
So I took to my heels, and ran,
And one of them chased me, and quick I went
For rather an elderly man.
"And he had a gun, and I had none;
And he fired that gun at me;
And
he shot my leg, and off it dropped,
Which was
rather a bother, you see.
"But I seized
my leg, and I hopped away,
As quick as quick
could be,
And the Britisher loaded his gun
agin,
For another shot at me.
"But I dodged the Britisher in the woods,
And took the leg that was shot,
And buried it under the apple tree,
In this werry identical spot.
"And I’m the werry identical bone
Of the leg of the Parley Yoo
That
was buried beneath the apple tree,
And dug up
again by you!”
This closed the proceedings.
A procession was then formed, headed by the “B. O. W. C.,” who led the way to the Museum.
There they deposited the exhumed Acadian relics; and, if they haven’t been taken away, they’re lying there still.
The Boys in the Museum.—The Doctor’s Lecture.—The Acadians.—Louisbourg.—A
Journey to the Wharf.—The Antelope.—Captain Pratt.
THE
presence of Dr. Porter in the Museum repressed to some extent the
merriment of the boys, and the newly-arrived articles were deposited in a
conspicuous place, where they could not fail to attract attention. The
Museum had grown up slowly under the joint care of the doctor and Mr.
Simmons, the former of whom devoted himself to the archæological, and the
latter to the mineralogical department. With each of these gentlemen it
was a hobby. The delight of the doctor at these exhumed French relics has
already been described; and, at the present time, their formal assignment
to their proper location here served to stimulate his enthusiasm, and
started him off upon a favorite theme of his—the exiled Acadians.
About these he had much to say. He showed all the relics which he had
slowly accumulated here; he told many stories of discoveries of his own;
and finally, going to a small chest, he drew forth some papers.
“I promised to show you some of these,” said he, “when we were over on the North Mountain. Everything in the banishment of the Acadians was hard and harsh, and cannot be thought of now without indignation. Not the least repulsive thing about this business is the way in which they were sent off. Many people suppose that they were sent away in the large ships of the British fleet. That was not the case. They were packed in a number of small vessels hired at Boston; most of them were schooners. The whole thing was taken under contract by a Boston firm—Messrs. Ap-thorp & Hancock. All their bills which they sent in to the Nova Scotia government are now in the archives, and I have copies of them. See; here is one for a specimen.”
And he showed the following, which the boys passed from hand to hand:—
“Ah, boys,” said the doctor, mournfully, “how much of human anguish may we read there! how many broken hearts! how much despair appears before us in those remorseless figures! Think of the name of Hancock being associated with a thing like that. “Neutralls” they were—two hundred and thirty “neutralls” at so much per head. Perhaps among those poor exiles, contracted for at so much per head by that Boston firm, there was some Evangeline looking over the sea, with her white lips and her eyes of despair.
“Still,” continued the doctor, after some silence, “the English didn’t have it all their own way. There were several occasions in which the Aca-dians were able to baffle them. One place was at the head of the Bay of Fundy, the River Pelilcodiac. Here the French were in league with the Indians, as indeed they were throughout the whole of Canada and Acadie; and when a detachment of troops was sent there to capture them, they retreated to the woods. The troops made a descent at one place, where they found twenty-five women and children. These they were merciless enough to make prisoners. Then they went through the country devastating it, and seeking thus to ruin the poor fugitives. It was villanous work. They burned more than two hundred and fifty houses and a church. At last the French made an attack on them, and they were forced to retreat. Had the French shown a little more enterprise, they could have destroyed them; as it was, the troops got off without much loss. There was another instance when the French got the better of their enemies. It was a vessel that was carrying over two hundred of them from Annapolis to Carolina. The French rose, and got command of the vessel, and put into the River St. John. The English heard of it, and sent a vessel after them with British soldiers disguised as French. But the fugitives discovered the trick, and not being able to cope with their enemies, they set fire to the vessel, and escaped to the woods.
“There was a great deal of abominable cruelty in different parts. Wherever they could not make prisoners, they burned their houses, in the hope of starving them to death. Whole districts were thus devastated. The descendants of these peopie remember all this yet, and can tell many a tale of misery. Many of the exiles gradually worked their way back, and found new homes for themselves in other parts of the country, and their descendants are scattered all about the coasts of Nova Scotia and New Brunswick. They are curiously like their ancestors. Simple, innocent, joyous, peaceful, there is but little crime among them; and though they are not so progressive as we are, yet they have other qualities which may compensate for the absence of our more practical faculties. They are certainly very stationary; so much so, indeed, that some acute observers declare that they have not advanced so much as their kindred in France. They say that our Aca-dians are more like the French peasantry of a hundred years ago than the French themselves are at the present day. This is particularly the case in the more remote districts, such as the Bay de Chaleur. I have often been there myself, and every time I visit one of their villages in that district, I recall some of the descriptions of the Grand Pré Acadians in Longfellow’s Evangeline.”
Here the doctor began to tell some anecdotes, and then went on speaking of other things, until at length he stopped in front of a rusty cannonball, which lay on a table in the middle of the room.
“Here,” said he, “is something which I received a few days ago, and I think it is almost equal to the Acadian plough.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a cannon-ball from Louisbourg; and though I don’t know, of course, for certain, yet I have made up my mind that it is a relic of the first siege.”
“How can you tell, sir,” asked Bruce, “whether it is the first siege or the second.”
“O, for that matter, I can’t tell at all very clearly; only the spot where this was found makes it more likely to have been fired at the first than the second. Besides, the first siege is far more interesting to us, since it was the act of British Provincials, and an exploit quite unparalleled in its way.”
“Why, sir, I always thought that the second siege was one of the greatest achievements in war. Were there any generals in the first equal to Wolfe, or any other men equal to Boscawen, and Rodney, and Amherst?”
“I’m glad you put it in that way,” replied the doctor. “No; in the first expedition there are no names so brilliant as these. Pepperell was a merchant, and a colonel in the militia. Whether that makes his exploit the more glorious or not, I leave you to judge. But this much is true, that about the first siege there was a reckless dash, and gallantry, and romantic heroism which we cannot find in the second. Mind you, it was all the work of a lot of farmers, fresh from the plough, raw militia, and how they could get such a plan into their heads I cannot imagine, I have often thought that it was their very ignorance that emboldened them. It was principally the work of Massachusetts, though the other New England Provinces took some share in it. The idea was started there, and the governor took it up very earnestly. So they raised four thousand men and a fleet of thirteen vessels, which was a wonderful thing to be done by so thinly peopled and so young a community. At first they intended to have the cooperation of the British fleet, but the commodore declined; and it was only after he had sailed to Boston under orders from the British government, and found the New England expedition gone, that he followed them, and so took part in it; for Governor Shirley and the New England militiamen resolved to go on, whether the commodore helped them or not; and so they did go on. But it was all right in the end, for the British fleet came up with them, and they went on in company to their destination.
“They landed at Gabarus Bay, south of Louis-bourg, and behind the town. It was the thirtieth of April, very early in the season, cold and foggy. The French were there already to dispute the landing, but they outwitted them most dexterously. It was cold, and boisterous, and foggy, as I have said, and never did any men have harder work in getting their arms and stores on shore; but all this was accomplished at last. The next day, Major Vaughn, with four hundred men, went past the city up to the harbor, and set on fire some warehouses. They made a great smoke, and the soldiers in the Royal Battery, one of the chief works, spiked the guns, and fled in a panic. On the following day, Vaughn, with thirteen men, came near the fort, and, as it seemed to be deserted, they advanced cautiously, and finally entered it. They hadn’t any flag; so one of the soldiers climbed the flag-staff with his red coat in his teeth, and nailed this to the staff as a flag. Vaughn then sent word to General Pepperell, ‘May it please your honor to be informed that, by the grace of God and the courage of thirteen men, I entered the Royal Battery about nine o’clock, and am waiting for reenforcements.’ But before reenforcements could come, the French at Louisbourg had seen them, and sent a hundred men in boats to regain possession. Vaughn and his men, however, were ready for them, and the little band gave them so warm a reception, that they actually drove them back, and held possession till reënforcements came. Then the Royal Battery’s guns were remounted, some new ones brought, and all these were turned upon the city, and this battery did not a little towards the final capture.
“It strikes me that this was an uncommonly plucky thing to do,” continued the doctor, “and this incident is but one among many. The whole siege is full of such exploits. The character of the besieging army was odd in the extreme. The lads worked like oxen at their duties, toiling away in the surf, and in the swamp, and in the woods, and yet at the same time presenting an appearance of disorder that was shocking to the martinets who were present. In front they fought like tigers, but in the rear each man did what seemed right in his own eyes. In front there was bombarding; in the rear frolicking, racing, wrestling, and pitching quoits, running after the shot from the fortress, so as to get the bounty that was offered. These honest lads knew nothing at all about engineering, or regular approaches. The engineers who were present spoke of parallels and zigzags; but the militiamen laughed at what they called their outlandish gibberish, and made their approaches to the enemy in their own homespun way. How do you think they contrived to do it? Why, by making a bold advance by night, and throwing up an earthwork, and intrenching themselves before morning. In this way they continued their advance, to the utter confusion of the professional engineers. The fact is, the audacity of pure courage meets with astonishing successes. L’audace, l’audace toujours l’audace, is a French saying, which was exemplified before the eyes of Frenchmen throughout all this first siege. The commandant at Louisbourg thought there was an army of thirteen thousand men besieging him, and all the time the army amounted to less than four thousand farmers.
“And so the men carried on their siege, with their valor and their laughter, their heroism and their sport, their sufferings and their mirth; fighting in front, frolicking in the rear; enjoying life like boys, but facing death like men. And that was the way they took Louisbourg. When the gallant fellows marched into the stronghold which they had captured, then first they seemed to have an adequate idea of their undertaking. They looked around upon the formidable batteries, the granite walls, the intricate gate-ways, and the mighty ramparts, and were half appalled at the immensity of their success. And, indeed, the success may well be called immense. It was a wonderful thing, when we think who it was that achieved it. The success is all the more striking when we consider the vast preparations that were made for the second siege. That second siege does not seem to me to be at all equal to the first in point of romantic interest; and then again, the fact that there was a second siege is of itself a. stigma on the British government, for so readily giving back to the French what had been so gallantly won. The blood of those brave fellows had all been shed in vain; the work had all to be done over again, and more blood had to be shed before that mistake could be rectified. But when that mistake was rectified, and Louisbourg was taken a second time, there was a very different minister at the head of affairs; the struggle with the French was begun on a gigantic scale, and did not end until the French power on this continent had been crushed under the ruins of Quebec.”
With these words the doctor ended his remarks; and as it was now late, the boys all retired to their respective rooms, where they passed the remainder of the evening in study.
It usually takes several days for boys to settle down fairly to school work at the beginning of any new term; and so, after this vacation, it was some time before the school work could be fairly grappled with. The remembrance of the events of the past days was strong in the minds of all, and for a time prevented that application which was desirable. A stronger effort than usual was required in order to force the mind to its task, and a longer time was needed in order to master that task.
On the third day after the school had recommenced, the boys of the B. O. W. C. were discussing the important question of the disposal of their time for that afternoon. School was already over. The other boys had scattered in different directions; some to the dike lands, some to the fields, and some to the woods.
“Where shall we go, boys?” asked Bart.
“To the woods,” said Phil,
“To Gaspereaux,’ said Arthur.
“A game of cricket,’ said Tom.
“No, boys,” said Bruce; “let’s go down and see what’s become of the old Antelope.”
“That’s the idea,” said Bart, “the glorious old Antelope. Let’s have one last look at her. By this time, perhaps, she is half covered with mud. It was a soft place, I think, where she was lying, and she will soon be buried out of sight; so let’s have one final look at her before we lose sight of her forever.”
This proposal was in the highest degree satisfactory to the other boys, and soon they started down the road to the place where the Antelope lay. On reaching the place, they found that it was high tide, and the ill-fated schooner lay in the same place where they had seen her last, far over on her side, with her masts pointing downward. The tide had risen so high that it covered more than half of her, leaving only part visible. The upper parts of her masts also were covered. At such a melancholy spectacle the boys stood for some time in solemn silence. Another schooner lay not far away, at a wharf, but they felt no curiosity about her. All their thoughts were taken up with the Antelope.
“And so this is the end of her,’ said Bruce, solemnly.
“Hic jacet, as Captain Corbet said,’ remarked Phil.
“Who would have thought that her end was so near?” said Arthur.
“And think,” said Tom, “of the old craft, after escaping so many perils, meeting her fate here at her own wharf.”
“It’s the old saying realized,” said Bart,—“the sailor shipwrecked within sight of home.”
“But I say, Bart, she doesn’t seem to have sunk any deeper in the mud—does she?” said Bruce.
“No,” said Bart. “I expected by this time that she would be as deep as that in mud, not in water.”
“She’s afloat,” said Tom.
“No, she isn’t; she doesn’t move,” said Bruce.
“No; she’s perfectly steady, and fixed in the mud,” said Bart. “There’s no floating, about her.”
“She’ll break up soon, I suppose,” said Phil.
“O, I don’t know,” said Bart. “If she were exposed to a heavy sea she would; but here in this quiet harbor she will either sink altogether in the mud, or else lie rotting away for years, a mournful and melancholy spectacle.”
While the boys were looking thus sadly upon the schooner, a man emerged from the cabin of the other vessel at the wharf, and going ashore, proceeded as though on his way to the village. The boys did not notice this man till he was close to them, and then there was a shout of joyful recognition.
“Captain Pratt!”
Yes, that stout, bluff, red-faced, jovial captain stood there before their eyes, evincing as much pleasure at the sight of them, as they did at the sight of him. He wrung their hands heartily all round, laughing all the time, and asking them how they got home, and whether they ran ashore more than a dozen times in doing so.
“I come here,” said he, “arter taters. I got a tater freight to Boston, and I’m goin to fill up right straight off. And it’s right glad I am to see you all again. I thought mebbe I’d see some of you over here, and come here instead of goin to another place where I could have got a better freight.”
The captain was very voluble, very noisy, and very jolly. He made all the boys come on board his vessel, and give an account of their adventures after leaving him. They did so, and he listened with deep attention, varied from time to time by peals of laughter.
“Wal, boys,” said he at last, “I’m a goin right straight off to Boston as soon as I get my cargo in. Ain’t there any of you that wants to go? I’ll take any of you, or all of you. Come now.”
The boys thanked him, but excused themselves, and explained that they couldn’t go very easily, as the school had now begun, and they were all hard at work at their studies.
“Sorry for that,” said Captain Pratt. “I’m too late, I see. Perhaps I’ll have another chance with you. At any rate, I’ll promise you a better vessel than the one you had on your cruise. Of all the old tubs—But where is she now. Has Corbet got a tater freight?”
At this question the boys said nothing, but looked silently and with melancholy glances over the stern to where the form of the Antelope was half visible above the water. Captain Pratt saw their glances.
“What craft’s that there?” he asked.
“That,” said Bart, “is the gallant craft that you just asked about—the one that we had in our cruise—the Antelope.”
“That!” cried Captain Pratt; and starting up, he walked astern, and took a long look at the schooner. The boys followed him. They said nothing, but looked at the Antelope along with Captain Pratt.
Inspection of the Schooner.—Captain Pratt to the Rescue.—His
Engines and his Industry.—Up she rises!—Who’ll go for Captain
Corbet?
CAPTAIN Pratt was the first to break the
silence.
“Wal,” said he, at last, “whar’s Corbet?”
“He’s home.”
“Home? Why don’t he do something?”
“Why, what can he do?”
“Do? Everything.”
“He says the schooner’s lost.”
“Lost!”
“Yes.”
“Did he say so himself?”
“He said the schooner was ‘a gone sucker.’ Those were his own words.”
“And didn’t he try to do anything?”
“No.”
“What—didn’t even try?”
“No.”
“Wal, I declare! I never did think that Corbet had much brains; but this beats everything. To go and let his schooner go to destruction in this way, and not even try to save her, is a little beyond what I expected even of him. But how did it happen?”
The boys told him.
“And so,” said Captain Pratt, “he came here next day, and found the schooner lying here, and did nothing—jest sot down and lamented over her. Why, what’s the man made of? He’s about the only man I ever heard of that could sit still and see his property perish.”
“But all the people in the village thought it was lost.”
“Of course. If he said so, they believed him. If he did nothing, why should they try to do anything? If a man won’t help himself, you don’t suppose other people’s goin to help him—do you?”
“And do you think, after all, that she could have been saved?”
“Course she could.”
“And she wasn’t lost?”
“Course she wasn’t.”
“Could she be saved now?”
“Course she can.”
“What! and she isn’t lost, after all?”
“Course she isn’t.”
At this astounding intelligence the boys looked at one another in silent amazement.
“Why, look here,” said Captain Pratt; “what happened to that there schooner often happens to others. It’s a mighty unpleasant thing to happen; but schooners do get over it, after all. I’ve helped friends out of similar scrapes, and have sot several schooners right side up in worse places than this.. There’s nothing so very bad about this. The position is a good one for working in, too; and the mud here isn’t so soft as it is in other places around here by a long chalk. But whatever got into Corbet’s head I can’t imagine. It beats me.”
“Can you really save her then, after all—you yourself?”
“Course I can—only not single-handed. I’d want some help.”
“And will you?”
“Course I will, with the above proviso. Captain Pratt’s a man that’s always ready to help a neighbor, and though this here neighbor doesn’t seem altogether inclined to help himself, yet I’m ready to do what I can.”
At the generous offer of Captain Pratt the joy of the boys was inexpressible. They at once poured forth a torrent of questions as to when he could begin his work, and where, and how, and what they could do to help him, and whether they could do anything at all; which questions being all asked at once could not be immediately answered.
“You see, boys,” said Captain Pratt, “I’ll need some help.”
“We’ll do what we can.”
“That’s right. I’ll have to rely on you. I’ve only got two men in the schooner, and we can’t do all. If you know any men about the village, send them or bring them along. Send for Corbet, too.”
“O, we want to have it all done without Captain Corbet knowing anything about it till it’s all over.”
“Why not let him come, and take his share in the work?”
“O, it would be better fun to get him down here, and let him see his vessel afloat.”
“Fun, you call it! Wal, I won’t dispute about words. At any rate, it ought to teach him a lesson.”
“But when can we begin?—now?”
“Now?” replied Captain Pratt, with a smile. “Wal—hardly—not just now, I should say. You see the vessel’s partly in the mud, and a good deal in the water, and it would be rather difficult to get at her so as to go to work.”
“How long will it be before we can begin?”
“Not till the tide leaves her.”
“That will be after dark.”
“Yes, this evening; but to-morrow morning the tide will be out, and everything can be done then.”
“But then we shall be in school.”
“So you will. Well, it’ll have to be managed without you. But, after all, you won’t be wanted till the evening. My men and I can do all the fixins. We’ll get everything ready when the tide is out, and then in the evening, when you come, you will be able to help without getting up to your eyes in mud.”
“O, well, we’ll all be down.”
“How many can you muster? A dozen boys like you will be enough.”
“O, we can muster more than that, if you wish it. We will bring down the whole school.”
“All right then. You see it will be about eight men’s work. I and my men make three, and you lads ought to make up the rest. It’ll be mostly pullin that you’ll be wanted for.”
“Pulling?”
“Yes—histin. I’ll rig some tackle for you. Besides, I’ll have to get the vessel clear of mud at low tide. There can’t be much in her here.”
“Why, we thought, from what Captain Corbet said, that by this time she would be sunk so deep that she would be half buried in the mud, and half full of it.”
“Nonsense! The mud just here on this slope isn’t very deep. Six or eight inches of mud is about all she’d sink in. Two or three hours’ work will clear all that away, and then all that is left for us to do is to get her right side up, and I’ll rig the tackle for that.”
“I must say, Captain Pratt,” said Bart, “it’s un commonly good in you to take so much time and trouble.”
“O, as for that,” said Captain Pratt, “neighbors must be neighborly, and seafarin men most so. Besides, I hain’t got anything in particular to do to-morrow, and I’d like very well to turn a hand to this. But I don’t see yet why Corbet should go and be such a precious old goose. The vessel ain’t worth much, but she’s worth settin right side up; that I’ll maintain.”
The captain then proceeded to explain his plan of action to the boys more minutely, so that at last they perceived how very simple and feasible it was, and wondered now that Captain Corbet should have given up his vessel so readily, without making any effort, where an effort would have been so very easy.
“I understand now, I think,” said Bart, “why Captain Corbet gave up the vessel. It was the babby. He wanted to be able to devote himself altogether to his domestic cares.”
After spending some further time the boys took their departure, with the understanding that they were to return on the following day after school, with all the boys that they could muster.
By seven o’clock on the following morning, Captain Pratt was at work at the Antelope. The tide had retreated far enough to allow of an investigation of her condition, though the water which had filled her at the last tide had not run out of her. His first work was to bore a few auger holes along the lower part of her deck, to let all the water run out. The Antelope was not, after all, so very deep in the mud as had been supposed by the boys. It had covered her taffrail some inches, but this could be shovelled away without any very severe exertion; and it was to this that Captain Pratt and his men first directed their energies. Two hours’ work sufficed for them to clear away all this, after which they turned their attention to other things. First of all, as the water had now run out, Captain Pratt stopped up the auger holes tightly, and then prepared to close the hatchways. This was a work of extreme difficulty. The hatches which belonged to the schooner had floated away long ago, and it was necessary to make new ones. This was at length done by working up some stuff that was on board Captain Pratt’s vessel, which they then proceeded to fasten to the hatchways of the Antelope. The position in which the schooner lay made it excessively difficult. She was on her side on a slope in such a way that her deck overhung them somewhat as they worked, so that they labored at a great disadvantage; however, they persevered, and at length had the satisfaction of seeing that the new hatches were fastened in with sufficient firmness to suit their purposes, and were judged to be sufficiently water-tight for the present emergency.
The work thus far, important though it was, had been essentially preliminary; and now the machinery had to be arranged for the immediate work of raising the fallen vessel to her proper position. Captain Pratt and his men took a number of spars from their schooner, and selecting three of them, bound their ends together, and stood these three like a tripod, as near to the schooner as possible, and close by the foremast. Three more bound together in a similar way were placed near the mainmast. From the top of each of these a tackle-block was suspended, and a line also was passed from each, and run around a tree which stood about a dozen yards away from the edge of the bank. Another line passed from each tackle-block, and was fastened around each mast of the schooner.
Captain Pratt’s design was now evident.
First of all he had cleared away the mud that had covered the taffrail of the schooner, and emptied her of water; then he had battened down the hatches so that at the next rising tide no water should enter her; and finally he had rigged the tackle-blocks so as to hoist up the schooner to an erect position by means of the united efforts of all that could be mustered. But the schooner, as she now lay, could not be raised by such means. It was necessary to have additional help, and that help was to be found in the rising tide. When the water should rise so as to be deep enough for the schooner to float in, the task of pulling her up to an erect position would be comparatively easy.
Captain Pratt’s labors were energetically performed, and finally, just as he had completed his tackle arrangements, the tide began to flow around the schooner.
In another hour the water was high around her; still another, and the tide was at its fullest height, and Captain Pratt began to look anxiously for the boys.
Meanwhile the boys on the hill had all heard of the proposed enterprise, and, from the largest to the smallest, were filled with intense excitement. They chafed impatiently against the restraints of the school, and waited with extreme difficulty for the closing hour. At last it came; and then, with loud shouts, and screams, and laughter, the whole school set off at a run for the scene of action, which they reached just as Captain Pratt began to feel impatient.
“Hooray!” shouted the gallant captain, as he saw them pouring down towards the wharf. “Here you are,—and lots of you, too. You’re just in time, too. The tide’s up, the tackle is rigged, and all we’ve got to do now is to go to work.”
The boys looked hastily around, and though they could not see all that had been done, yet they could comprehend the purpose of the tackle which they saw before them, and had no doubt whatever that the undertaking would be perfectly successful.
“Now, boys,” said Captain Pratt, “you can’t all bear a hand, but you small boys’ll have to be satisfied with lookin on. I’ll choose the biggest to help me, and show you where you’ve got to pull.”
Saying this, he selected from among the boys: Bruce, Arthur, Bart, Tom, Phil, Jiggins, Muckle, Sammy Ram Ram, Johnny Blue, Billymack, Bogud, and Pat, and these he stationed at the tackle which was attached to the foremast, while he himself and his two men went to the lines which were attached to the mainmast.
“Now, boys,” said he, “it’s no use to pull every which way. Pull together as I give the word. Mind—it’s a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together. I’ll sing, and you pull at the chorus—-that’s the way.”
Saying this, Captain Pratt burst forth with a rude song, which was,
"Up she rises;
Hi ho,
cheerly, men!
Heave her up;
Hi ho, cheerly, men!
All
together;
Hi ho, cheerly, men!
Heave with a will;
Hi ho,
cheerly, men!”
And at every cry, “Hi ho, cheerly, men,” Captain Pratt and his men gave a pull, and the boys, watching him, pulled also. At first they were a little irregular, but they soon caught the time, and pulled as regularly as the men. And thus, with a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull all together, they sought to raise up the fallen schooner.
The schooner felt it. Already the mud had been detached from its grasp, and the water which flowed around formed an additional assistant, buoying it up, and supporting it as they pulled. The clinging mud was the only thing to contend with. The first pull loosened its hold somewhat, the second and third did this still more, and finally the fourth raised the masts above the surface of the water. Again and again they pulled, and higher and higher came the masts, until at last, when high up in the air, all further pulling was rendered unnecessary by the schooner, which threw herself upon her keel in the water, and thus righted herself of her own accord. She did not sit very fair, it is true, for the mud which had accumulated on one side of her hold gave her a lop-sided appearance; but that mattered little to the boys. It was enough triumph to them that she was afloat, and so they celebrated their triumph in long, loud cheers.
Having thus righted the schooner, Captain Pratt prepared to secure her in a proper manner.
“We’ve righted her, boys,” said he, “and now let’s take care that she shan’t be wronged.”
With this end in view, lines were fastened from the schooner to the shore, and Captain Pratt finally pronounced her free from danger.
The boys now crowded around the Antelope to see what marks she bore of her late calamities. There she floated before them, her masts and rigging plastered with mud, yet afloat, and able once more to plough the seas after her own fashion. A few among them managed to scramble on board, the righted schooner. The scene around was not particularly attractive. The mud still clung close to the deck and rigging, and even Captain Pratt’s work around the hatches was already coated over with thick slime. The scene was not an attractive one, and they did not remain there long.
“She wants cleanin,” remarked Captain Pratt, after a long survey,—“that’s a fact; an what’s more, she wants corkin—no doubt,—an a good coat o’ tar. She wants new spars, an riggin, an chains, an anchors,—a new deck, too, and pumps wouldn’t be out of the way; and for that matter, while they were about it, they might as well put a new hull onto her. By that time she’d be fit to carry taters, and Corbet might make a little money out of her. But it would cost a good bit to do all that, and so I dar say Corbet’ll sail her as she stands,—if he sails her at all. Arter all, he might as well, bein as she’s jest as good now as ever she was. She never was much; but then she’s been lucky, and did well enough for Corbet. It would be kind of onnateral to see him aboard of any other craft than this here.”
“Boys,” said Bart, “something ought to be done in honor of this great occasion; and above all, we ought to make up some way to bring Corbet face to face with his restored Antelope. Shall we tell him at once, and let him come down?”
“No, let’s leave it till he finds out. Let’s give him a shock of surprise.”
“But how will we know anything about his surprise, unless we are here on the spot at that great meeting between Corbet and his lost but restored schooner?”
“O, we’ll have to manage it so as to be here when he comes down to see it.”
“We ought to arrange some plan.”
“Shall we let him know what has happened, or get him to come down here for something else?”
“O, we ought to get him to come for something else, and then his surprise will be all the greater.”
“But what else?”
“That we’ll have to think over.”
“We ought to make haste about it, then.”
“Yes, we ought to decide before the end of the week.”
“The end of the week! Nonsense! Why not to-day?”
“To-day?”
“Of course. Now’s the time. We must get him down to-day, while we’re all here. If we don’t, he’ll be certain to hear all about it before tomorrow from some one else.”
“Yes, of course.”
“To-day’s the time.”
“Yes, to-day. We’re all here. I want to see the meeting. I wouldn’t lose the sight for anything.”
“Well—what shall we get up to bring him here?”
“O, let’s send word that Captain Pratt wants to see him on very particular business.”
“That won’t bring him, especially if he’s got the babby. He wouldn’t come down before when the business was still more important.”
“We couldn’t send some word about a potato freight, I suppose.”
“No, for three reasons; first, because it isn’t the truth; secondly, because he believes that he has no schooner; and thirdly, because he is indifferent to potato freights.”
“Well, what shall we tell him, then?”
This conversation went on, every one speaking at once; but no one being able to think of any plausible message to send to Captain Corbet which should be true, and at the same time not disclose the actual facts. At last they concluded that it was impossible to make up such a message; and as the time was passing, they determined to send for him at all hazards.
But who would go?
Pat at once offered, much to the relief of all the others, who wanted to be on the spot when Captain Corbet arrived. Pat, however, was very good-natured, and didn’t at all mind the long walk, but promised to be back in an hour, along with Captain Corbet.
“Don’t tell him about the schooner, unless you have to,” said Bruce.
“Sure an what’ll I tell him, thin?”
“O, tell him anything at all, so long as it’s the truth, and no humbug, you know. Just tell him in a general way something or other.”
“Somethin or other in a gineral way?” repeated Pat.
“Yes, something that’ll make him come down, you know; and don’t tell him about the schooner, unless you have to.”
“Deed, thin, an I won’t. I’ll tell him somethin in gineral, an nothin in particular.”
“But no humbug, you know.”
“No—surely not; it’s mesilf that won’t.”
And with these words Pat took himself off.