The Pirate Story Megapack. R.M. Ballantyne

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      Captain Corbet smiled as before, and nodded, and said,—

      “O, it’s all right; all right. Don’t mind me. I’m all right. I know what I’m about.”

      At this the Antelope gave a very unpleasant roll, and settled heavily on one side; then her bows sank down, and a big wave rolled over it.

      “She’s sinking!” cried Tom, in a voice of horror. The other boys were silent. They seemed petrified.

      But the Antelope struggled up, and gradually righted herself. Her deck was nearer the level of the sea than ever. This last incident, however, had been sufficient to shake the nerves of one of those two on board. As she settled on one side, Solomon sprang back, and, as the wave rolled over her bows, he gave one jump over the side and into the sea. He sank under, but a moment afterwards his woolly head emerged, and he struck out for the boat. There a dozen arms were outstretched to save him, and he was finally hauled in.

      “Drefful times dese,” said he, as his teeth chattered, either from terror or from cold. “Drefful times. Didn’t ’gage in dis yer vessel to go swimmin about de Atlantic Oceum. Queer way to serve as cook—dis yer way. An dar ain’t a dry stitch ob clothin about—dat’s so; an what ebber I’se a goin to do beats me. S’pose I’se got to set here an shibber de next tree weeks. Catch me ebber a ’barkin aboard sich a schooner as dis yer. Any ways, I ain’t goin to sail in dis yer Antelope agin. Cotch me at it—dat’s all.”

      But the boys heard nothing of this.

      All their attention was now taken up with Captain Corbet.

      He stood at the stern at his usual post, holding the tiller with both hands. He looked at the boys.

      “Boys,” said he, “I’m the last aboard.”

      “O, Captain Corbet! Come, come. Make haste!” they cried.

      He shook his venerable head.

      “This here,” said he, “boys, air the act an the doin of Fate. I did hope that the Antelope an me’d grow old, an finally die together, though not on the briny deep. It hev allus ben a favorite idee to me, that the lives of both of us, me and the Antelope, was kind o’ intermingled, an that as we’d ben lovely an pleasant in our lives, in death we’d be not divided. For the Antelope an me’s knowed each other long, an lived, an ben happy together, in fair weather an foul. The Antelope’s allus ben faithful and terew. She’s had all my confidences. She’s allus been gentle an kind, and you’ll never, never find a better friend than the old Antelope. Many’s the time she’s bore me through sleet an snow. Many’s the time she’s borne me through fog an rain. Many’s the time she’s bore me past rocks an reefs. So long as I stuck to old Fundy, so long the Antelope was safe an sound. I used to boast as to how I could navigate old Fundy. I was wrong. ’Twan’t me; it was the Antelope that navigated; for I never had a sexton aboard, nor a quadruped, nor a spy-glass, nor any of them newfangled gimcracks, savin an except a real old-fashioned, apostolic compass, as is mentioned by Paul in the Acts. And why? Why, cos the Antelope was allus able to feel her own way through rain an fog, an frost an snow—past shoals, an flats, an reefs, an was allus faithful. But, in a evil hour, I took her out of her native waters. I led her afar over the deep blue sea, up to the Gulf of St. Lawrence. There our woes began. But even there the Antelope was terew an tender. But it was too much. We come back. She had never ben thar before. She lost her way. Then she found it. We got to Sable Island an Chester. Then we put out agin. An then agin she lost her way. It was my fault, not hern. She lost her way in this fog, an she went aground. She couldn’t help it. In Fundy she never ran aground, ’cept when nessary; an it was me that brought her to this. An now what hev I got to do? I’ve got this to do—that if I’ve led my Antelope to ruin, I won’t survive her. No. We’ve been lovely an pleasant in our lives, an in death we ain’t goin to be divided.”

      The boys did not hear one half of this, but interrupted the speaker constantly with their entreaties that he would save himself. Captain Corbet, however, was too much taken up with his own thoughts to notice what they said. He was like one who soliloquizes.

      “O, captain!” cried Bart, with a final effort; “think of your wife—think of your, your, a—baby—”

      “My babby!” said Captain Corbet. “My babby! Ah, young sir, when you mention my babby, you don’t know that you tetch a cord in this parentual heart that throbs responsive. That thar is the strongest emotion that inspires this aged breast; but, young sir, dooty air powerfuller than love, an even that pe-recious infant has less claims on me at this moment than my Antelope. For my Antelope has ben the friend that’s ben faithful in thousand perls; that’s ben my refuge an my solace in times of persecution. Yes, young sirs, in the days when a bold an violent woman disturbed my peace, by dashin a pail full of cold water over my head—at such times the Antelope hav took me to her heart; an can I ever cease to be affectionate an kind to thee, who’s ben so terewly kind to me—my Antelope? No, no; young sirs. Go, an tell my beloved one—my offspring—my inspired babby—that his parent, the aged Corbet, died a marchure’s death; died like a hero, a standin’ at his post; which post was the rudder-post of the Antelope. Tell him that; an tell him, tew, that, though dooty bound the feyther to the Antelope, yet still that feyther’s last thoughts was of his belessed babe.”

      At this point the Antelope gave another lurch, and rolled far over. Captain Corbet stopped abruptly, and stiffened his sinews, and clutched the tiller with a tighter grasp. The boys looked on with horror in their faces and in their hearts.

      It was a moment of awful expectation.

      They had cried, and bawled, and yelled till they were hoarse. They had prayed and entreated Captain Corbet to save himself. All in vain.

      But now the time for entreaty had passed.

      Suddenly the Antelope rolled back, and then her bows sank. A huge wave rolled over her, followed by others, which foamed from bow to stern. Then all the sea settled itself over the sinking schooner.

      The Antelope was going down!

      The hull disappeared!

      The rail sank under water!

      But Captain Corbet stood at his post, erect, rigid, his hands clasping the tiller. Beneath him the Antelope sank down into the sea. Around him the waters rolled.

      They rolled about his knees; about his thighs; about his waist. His venerable hair fluttered in the breeze; his eyes were fixed, with a rapt and abstracted air, on vacancy.

      The boys looked on in horror. Instinctively they pushed the boat back out of the reach of the waters that ingulfed the Antelope, so as to avoid being carried down into that vortex.

      The waters rolled about the form of the aged navigator, and so he descended with his beloved Antelope, till they were above his waist.

      The boys could no longer cry to him. They were petrified with horror. They sat, with white faces, awaiting the end.

      CHAPTER XXIII.

      A painful thing it was to see the Antelope thus sinking into the sea; to view the waters thus rolling over her familiar form from bows to stern; to see the boiling foam of the ingulfing billows; but how much more terrible it was to see the sacrifice of a human life; the voluntary self-destruction of a human being, and of one, too, who had been their guide, their revered and beloved friend! They had no cause for self-reproach. They had done all that they could. His own will had brought him to this. СКАЧАТЬ