argument between pat and captain corbet.—meeting between captain corbet and the antelope.—pat alone with the baby.—corbet becomes an exile, and vanishes into a fog bank.
pat walked briskly, and in due time arrived at captain corbet’s house. he knocked at the door.
“come in,” said a voice.
he entered, and found himself face to face with the one whom he wished to see. the aged navigator was seated near a cradle, gently tilting the rocker with his foot, and thus giving to it an easy and agreeable motion. there was a smile of peace on corbet’s mild countenance, which deepened into a smile of welcome as he recognized pat.
“why, how d’ye dew?” he exclaimed. “railly, i’m delighted to see you. take a cheer.”
“thank ye, kindly,” said pat; “but it’s a hurry i’m in, and i’ve jist brought a message for you from the b’ys.”
“the boys?”
“yis. they want you at the wharf.”
“me?”
“yis; it’s dyin to see you they are.”
“the boys—dyin to see me at the wharf?” repeated captain corbet, slowly.
“it’s that same they are doin, and they sint me to bring you down.”
“wal, that’s a pity, now,” said captain corbet. “i’m railly pained. i wish i could go. but you see the old ’oman’s out; gone to see a nevey of hern that’s jest took down with the influenzy, an i’m alone, an’ got to take car’ of the babby.”
“ah, sure now an ye must go,” said pat, entreatingly. “look at me; sure an didn’t i run all the way up from the wharf for ye.”
“wal, railly now, i’d do anythin to oblige the boys, but you see thar’s the babby, a delicate creatur, an’ the old ’oman away. but what do the boys want to see me for?”
“sure, an it’s for matthers av the greatest importance intoirely, so it is.”
“but thar’s no use for me to go down, i tell you. you go down, and get them to come up.”
“och, sure an the businiss won’t allow thim to come up at all, at all.”
“o, yes, it will. ’tain’t likely they have anything so dreadful important but what some of them can come here.”
“but i tell ye this businiss must be transacted on the wharf,” said pat, earnestly. “it’s on the wharf it must be done, so it is.”
“the wharf? i don’t see that exactly. what is the business?”
“why, why—it’s—it’s a kind av a—a—tis-timonial, sure; an there you have it.”
“a testimonial?—railly—wal, now, that’s rail kind. but couldn’t the boys come up here—or postpone it?”
“sorra a bit of that same culd they do,” said pat. “it’s all got to be done on the wharf, and this evenin so it has.”
“on the wharf?”
“sure, it’s jist that same, so it is.”
“an this evenin?”
“sorra a time else.”
“what kin it be?” said captain corbet, meditatively, lost in wonder at the mystery that surrounded pat’s message. he leaned his head upon his hand, while his foot still jogged the cradle, and sat for a time lost in thought.
but pat’s impatience could not endure the delay.
“o, come along,” said he; “sure it’s all one to you.”
“but i can’t,” said the captain. “you forget the babby.”
“i’ll tell you what to do,” said pat, as a bright thought struck him; “bring the baby wid you.”
captain corbet stared for a moment at pat in silent horror.
“what!” he cried, “bring him with me! expose that per-recious head to the evenin damp! why, d’ye think i’m made of iron?”
pat at this gave up, and began to despair of moving corbet from his house.
“if ye o’ny knowed,” said he, at last, resuming his effort,—“if ye o’ny knowed what it was, ye’d go fast enough.”
“knowed what it was? why, didn’t you say what it was?”
“not me, sure.”
“yes, you did.”
“niver a bit of it.”
“you said it was a testimonial.”
“well, an did i tell you what kind of a testimonial it wor? not me.”
“wal, tell me now.”
“will ye go if i do?”
“how can i go?”
“take the baby along wid ye, sure. it’s aisy enough.”
“that thar’s not possible. i’ll tell you. wait, and p’aps the ole ’oman ’ll be hum soon.”
“wait? but we can’t wait. it must be done the night.”
“what?”
“sure, the businiss.”
“the testimonial? why can’t it be kept?”
“you see, it’s a kind av a present; something that ye’ll value next to yer child, so ye will.”
“dew tell. wal, now, railly; why, what upon airth kin that be?” said captain corbet, whose curiosity began to be more excited than it had hitherto been.
“i’m not allowed to tell,” said pat, mysteriously.
“why, railly! why, how extra particular! but come now, tell a leetle of it.”
“i can’t,” said pat; “but if you want to know, ye must go to the wharf.”
“somethin,” mused captain corbet. “somethin you say that i’ll vally nex to my babby. why, what upon airth kin it be? i declare i never was so cur’ous in my hull life; an you wun’t tell.”
“no,” said pat.
“wun’t?”
“no.”
“honor bright?”
“honor bright.”
“wal, what kin i dew?” cried captain corbet. “i can’t leave the infant’s bedside. i couldn’t take ten steps away, and leave him here. what kin i do?”
“i’ll tell you,” cried pat, at last, after some silence, and with an air of desperate determination. “i’ll stay wid him, and you go down.”
“you stay?”
“yis, mesilf. he’s asleep. he won’t wake. i’ll rock him. it’ll be all right. and you hurry down, an hurry back.”
captain corbet looked a long time in doubt at pat, meditating over this singular proposal.
“wal,” said he, at last, “railly—it’s desput kind in you—but—a feyther’s feelins—air desput delicate things—but as you say—he’s asleep—bress his pooty face!—an he’ll stay asleep—and you’ll rock him—an watch over his infant slumbers. and i’m desput cur’ous—and so—why, railly, i declar’ ef i hain’t got half a mind to go—jest to please the boys.”
“do,” said pat, earnestly; “an make haste about it, too, for they’re dyin wid impatience, so they are.”
captain corbet gave an uneasy glance all around.
“ah, come now, hurry up,” urged pat, “an don’t be all night about it.”
“i feel dreadful oneasy,” said captain corbet, “about’ what i’m agoin for to do.”
“onaisy, is it? nonsense! won’t i be here? am i a injin?”
“you’ll be kerful then—will ye?” said captain corbet, anxiously.
“sure an i will.”
“an watch him?”
“av coorse. but sure an he’s sleepin like a lamb; he’ll need no care or watchin.”
“an you think i railly may ventoor, jest to please the boys.”
“o, yis, av coorse; on’y don’t wait any longer.”
captain corbet drew a deep breath, as though to summon up all his fortitude for the ordeal before him.
“wal,” he said, “i will. i’ll make the plunge. but be kerful; watch. an of he stirs, rock him; an ef he stirs more, rock him harder; but ef he stirs more, so as to be likely to wake, you must sing to him; an ef he actilly doos wake, then you’ll have to take him up and nuss him. ef he still con-tennoos to wail,”—and here the captain’s voice faltered,—“you must walk up and down with him; ef he don’t stop then, sing and play with the furnitoor; and finally, ef nothin else’ll quiet him, thar’s his bowl an his bessed supper on the table, an you must feed him. but how can i bar to leave him, and trust all this to you—?”
“o, nonsense!” cried pat; “sure an he won’t wake at all, at all; an if he does, i’ll do everythin that you say, an more by the same token.”
“you will?”
“av coorse.”
“then i think i may ventoor,” said captain corbet.
“do, an be quick. ah, now, none of that,” cried pat, as the fond father stooped over the cradle of his infant. “sure ye’ll wake him, so ye will. hurry off.”
“wal, i was just goin to kiss him—but p’aps i’d better not,—so i’ll go.”
and with these words captain corbet tore himself away from the cradle, and left the house.
he walked with rapid strides, yet his breast was a prey to contending feelings. on the one hand, he was exceedingly curious to know what it was that the boys had for him, and he was also anxious to gratify them; but then, on the other hand, he was disturbed about his baby, and full of fear lest some evil might befall him during his absence. his progress, which at first was rapid, soon slackened, and then grew slower, and finally stopped altogether. he turned irresolutely, and looked back. but all was still. this encouraged him to resume his journey. again and again he turned and looked back, and each time he was reassured. at last he descended the hill, and his home could no longer be seen. even then he stopped, and looked back several times, as though he expected that a cry from his deserted infant might meet his ears. but no cry came, and he went on. at length he came to the village, and finding himself thus far committed to his journey, he concluded that it would be better to make haste, so as to be back as soon as possible. with this resolve he set off at a run, and soon reached the wharf.
scarcely had he made his appearance when a wild cheer arose. at first the captain could see nothing but a crowd of boys, who gathered round him, shouting and cheering. partly inquisitive and partly bewildered, he looked from one to the other with inquiring yet puzzled glances, and said not a word. but the boys did not keep him long in suspense. thronging around him, they took his arms, and half led, half urged him onward to the river bank, where full before him floated the antelope. even then, perhaps, captain corbet might not have noticed the schooner, had it not been for the cries and gestures of the boys.
the effect of this sudden and unexpected sight, as he realized its meaning, was overwhelming. he started, he stared, he rubbed his eyes, he looked at the boys, then at the antelope, then at the boys again, and then once more at the antelope. he could not speak a word. he stared in utter amazement. his belief in her complete and hopeless loss had been perfect; and now to see her floating before him was an overwhelming sight that deprived him of the power of speech. his emotion was so great that his aged form trembled visibly. he burst into tears; and then turning towards the boys without speaking a word, he went around among them, shaking hands with every one of them most earnestly.
“thar,” said he, at last, as he drew a long breath, “i don’t think i ever in all my born days saw a day like this here. an who did it? did youns do it all—every bit?”
“we did some of it,” said bart; “but it was captain pratt that did the most of it. if it hadn’t been for him, it couldn’t have been done at all.”
“captain pratt? bless his benevolent sperrit; take me to him. whar is he? i want to thank him.”
“o, he’s up in the village somewhere.”
“an so this was the occasion you wanted me for? wal, railly. and here’s the antelope—an here am i gazing upon her well-remembered form!”
captain corbet spoke these words meditatively, and then made an effort to climb on board. this he soon succeeded in doing. thereupon he feasted his eyes upon the schooner, examining her in every part.
“muddy,” said he, solemnly. “muddy, yet lively, and fit for more vyges, so soon as you get rigged up and repaired.”
“boys,” he continued, after a long silence, standing on the deck of the antelope, and addressing his young friends,—“boys, you onman me, an the aged corbet relapses intew a kine o’ second childhood, for i hed given her up for lost. i hed seen in her ruination a warnin to me that i was to desert forevermore the rolling ocean, and confind myself to hum. but this here day an hour shows me that i have vyges yet in store, an my feelins now are ony purest jy. for the antelope bore me o’er the briny deep for over twenty year, in sickness and health, with taters, an i always counted on our livin an dyin together. her loss, when i thought her lost, was terewly a sunderation of my heartstrings. i felt her dume was mine. but now i see her raised up out of her muddy bed of mortial illness, an brought up, and set right side up, to walk the waters like a creetur of life, with taters. boys, emotion overcomes me. boys, adoo! boys, other feelins swell within my busum. boys, thar is one at home that demands my return,—one known to most of ye,—about whom i feel dreadful anxious, bein as i’ve ben and left him in onexperienced hands, an me not knowin but he’s cryin his perecious eyes out this moment. boys, adoo! you have a parient’s gratitood!”
with these words the venerable corbet left the schooner, and after shaking hands with a few of them, hurried home as fast as he could, while the boys, feeling now that their work was at length complete, returned to the school.
meanwhile pat had been left alone with the baby.
pat knew nothing whatever about the care of babies, and had volunteered the charge of this one out of the kindness of his heart, never supposing that he would be called on to display any of the qualities of a nurse. in this, as in many other cases, ignorance made him rash in his enterprise.
for about half an hour all went on well; and pat, after jogging the cradle for a little while, grew tired, and amused himself with looking around the room.
but from these pursuits he was roused by a movement on the part of the baby. back, then, he darted to the cradle, with a vague fear that the baby would wake, and began rocking it vigorously. but such very vigorous treatment as this, instead of lulling the wakeful infant back again to the land of sleep, only roused him the more.
pat, therefore, cherishing in his memory all of captain corbet’s directions, did as he had been ordered, and rocked the cradle harder.
but the baby only grew wider awake, and began to murmur and fret.
“woroo!—this’ll niver do, at all, at all,” said pat. “he towld me to sing if it grew worse,—so sing it is, and here goes.”
whereupon pat began a wild, shrill, crooning chant, about some personage named biddy malone, whose eventful history, however, he was not able to complete, for the baby, waking wide up, began to cry very vociferously.
“sure an it’s all up wid me!” said pat. “what-iver i’ll do not a one of me knows, at all, at all. he said if he got worse to take him up. i don’t know about it,—but—how and iver, here goes.” so stooping down, with the best intentions in the world, pat took the baby up in his arms, and put it on his knee, in the hope that this plan might succeed in sending it off to sleep.
but it didn’t succeed any better than the other plans, for whether the baby was fastidious and didn’t like pat’s treatment, or whether pat handled him too roughly, or whether he was hungry and wanted food, or ill and wanted nursing,—whichever of these it was,—certain it is that the moment pat took him up he sent forth a cry that struck terror to pat’s soul, and made the welkin ring.
“och, murther! murther!” said pat. “what iver’ll i do at all wid it? an me to be here for more than two good hours! whis-s-sh, then, i tell ye! arrah, will ye niver be quiet? what’ll i do at all, at all. sure an he said to walk about wid it. that same i’ll do this minute.”
so pat rose from the chair and proceeded to walk about the room. but the new treatment did no good. on the contrary, the baby cried harder.
it is to be feared that pat’s handling was rougher than what the baby had been accustomed to, and that pat’s patience being quite exhausted, prevented any gentleness in his treatment of his ten—der charge. and so it was that the baby bawled, and pat groaned, and was completely at his wit’s end.
“och, but it’s nearly dead an kilt i am,” cried pat, at last. “what was it that he said to do next? he said to sing, and knock the furniture about, so he did. it’s the racket that’ll soothe him,—deed an it is,—and that’s what i’ll thry.”
with this pat began another song, a little livelier than the last; and walking about the room, he began to knock upon the furniture. he upset two chairs, he beat upon a tin pan, he rapped the poker against the stove-pipe, he rattled the leaf of the table, he kicked over a small table and several stools, he rolled tin kettles about the floor, until at last the room presented an appearance that made it seem as if a mad bull had been there kicking indiscriminately. but notwithstanding pat’s efforts, he could not succeed. the baby, who at first had been silent for a few moments, perhaps from astonishment, now began louder, wilder, and more passionate cries, till the noise from those small lungs drowned the uproar that pat was making.
“och, murther!” cried pat, at last. “sure it’s bothered i am, and dead bate intirely. whativer i’ll do now it ud take more’n me to tell. sure an i’ve made all the noise i know. what’ll i do now? there’s the feed; he said so, he did, an i’ll thry it.”
it was pat’s last resort, and he tried it. the bowl was there where captain corbet had pointed it out. pat seized it, and taking the spoon, offered it to the baby. but the baby treated his offer with scorn. he opened his mouth indeed, but it was only to let forth a yell so loud, so long, and withal so passionate, that the spoon fell from pat’s hands upon the floor, while the bowl which he had been trying to balance on his knee, followed with a crash.
pat jumped up, still holding the baby, and walked wildly about, singing at the top of his voice, and renewing the useless racket. he went to the door and looked wildly down the road, hoping to see some signs of captain corbet, though time had not yet elapsed sufficient for him to reach the schooner. then he returned to the room. then he tried the cradle again, then walking, and again the cradle, and then once more walking.
so the time passed.
at length, on looking down the road, he saw a female. she was walking up it, and would soon come near the house. on this woman he hung all his hopes. perhaps she was mrs. corbet herself. the thought filled him with joy. if not, if she was a stranger, he determined to arrest her, and make her soothe the frantic child.
the house stood back from the road about fifty yards. pat watched through the window the motions of the approaching female, himself unseen. she drew nearer. at last her ears caught the cries of the baby. her brows contracted. she walked faster. she reached the gate. she turned in.
“i’t’s herself!” cried pat.
he sprang to the cradle, and laid the screaming child inside. then he sprang to the back door, and, closing it, stood outside, peeping through the key-hole to see the result.
the woman entered with surprise on her face. she looked all around. she called “corbet! corbet!” in an angry voice. but no corbet replied. then she went to the cradle, and took the baby in her arms, looking around with wonder in her eyes. then she soothed the baby, which speedily became quiet.
“it’s mrs. corbet!” muttered pat. “it’s herself! i’m safe! i’m free! i’ll run! hurroo!”
and with these words he skipped away, and never stopped till he reached his own room.
that evening the boys, on their return to the hill, were very curious to know how pat had fared with the baby. captain corbet had hinted that he had left his child under pat’s care, and many conjectures had been made as to the success of the new nurse. pat, however, shunned the public eye for that evening, so that it was not until the following day that they had a chance of asking him about his experience. at first pat fought them off, and returned evasive answers; but gradually he disclosed all. the curiosity of the boys then turned towards the meeting that may have taken place between the indignant mrs. corbet and the innocent captain on his return. but of the nature of that meeting they were destined to remain in ignorance. all was left to conjecture, and such powerful imaginations as theirs supplied them with many vivid fancy sketches of scenes wherein figured the justly irate wife, and the injured, yet forbearing, corbet.
time passed on, until at length one afternoon a thrill of excitement was thrown over the playground by the appearance of corbet himself. like all popular favorites, he was received with an uproarious greeting. he accepted the tribute with a mild and pensive countenance, and by his manner showed that something unusual was going to take place. what that was they soon learned. with a moistened eye, and not without emotion, he informed them that he was shortly about to leave them, and had come down for the especial purpose of bidding them good by.
this announcement was received with astonishment and sorrow. upon further questioning they learned that he was going to take a cargo of potatoes to boston.
“yes, boys,” said he, mournfully, “the aged corbet must again become a wanderer with taters, his home the heavin billow, an his destination bosting. an individool of his years mought have hoped to rest his aged bones under his own roof a nussin of his babby; but fate an the wife of his boosum stud clean agin it, tickerlarly the latter, bein a high sperrit an given to domineerin. so it hev kem abeout that sence the resurrection of the schewner she have fairly druv me from my natyve hearthstun, to temp the dangerous wave, an cross the briny main. hence my departoor with taters. all air ready. my boat air on the shore, an my bark air on the sea. not that i regret the restoration of the schewner. i may be sundered far from my babby, but this i will say, that in the cabing of the antelope reigns peace! ef i can’t press my babby in my parential arms, i can hold his image in my pinin boosum. besides, i can make money for his footoor years, which, sence i’ve ben disappinted in the frenchman’s money-hole, ain’t to be sneezed at. ony when any of youns goes an gits married, as some of you may some time dew,—take the word of an exile, and look out for temper!”
here captain corbet paused, and appeared somewhat agitated. he then prepared to bid them farewell. but the boys would not listen to this. his farewell should take place elsewhere. he was going to leave on the next day; and as that day was saturday, they promised to be down at the wharf to see him off.
the schooner was to sail in the afternoon, and all the boys were on the spot punctually, immediately after dinner. soon corbet made his appearance. the meek, the gentle, and the venerable navigator looked upon them all with a mournful smile.
“you know the song you made, boys?” said he, sadly,
"should captain corbet be forgot,
a sailing o’er the sea,”—
wal—don’t forget me.”
“never,” cried bart, as he grasped his hand in farewell. the melancholy captain then went round, and shook hands with all of them in silence. then he went on board of his schooner. the antelope had been renovated. all the traces of her mishap had been obliterated. a coat of neat coal tar covered her fair outlines. another coat of grease adorned her tapering masts. sundry patches were here and there visible on her flowing sails. that hold which had once carried the boys over minas bay was now filled with potatoes. the tide was high and on the turn. the wind was fair. corbet took the helm. the man wade, whose old ‘oman’s name was gipson, who had been mate on their memorable cruise, sailed now with captain corbet in the following capacities:—
1st mate,
2d mate,
steward,
carpenter,
cook,
cabin boy,
boatswain,
boatswain’s mate,
crew.
the lines were cast off.
the antelope caught the breeze, and yielding at the same moment to the tide, she moved away from the land, and down the tortuous channel of mud creek.
the boys followed along the banks of the creek till they reached its mouth. here they stood in silence.
outside, a thick veil of fog covered the water, and hid all the scene from view.
the antelope sailed on, and, passing the boys, entered the water beyond. the boys tossed up their hats, and breaking the solemn silence, sent over the water loud shouts of good by.
the shout reached the ears of the captain. he turned. his mild face was visible for a few moments as he waved his hand again and again in token of adieu.
then he turned again.
and so the boys stood there watching, until at last the antelope entered a thick fog bank, and bore the captain slowly away from their gaze.
