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HERE AND NOW
THIRD EDITION
POWERFUL IDEAS IN
    EVERYDAY LI FE   Lewis Vaughn
                      •
         PREFACE    XXI
NOTES 451
GLOSSARY 457
CREDITS 461
INDEX of MARGINAL
     QUOTATIONS     463
                                                                            VII
Preface xxi
                    Philosophical Terrain 4
                         What Do You Believe? Your Philosophical Beliefs 5
                         Essay/Discussion Questions 7
              1.2 SOCRATES AND THE EXAMINED LIFE         8
                          Philosophers at Work: Plato    9
                          PLATO: The Republic 10
                          Philosophers at Work: The Pre-Socratics   12
                          Essay/Discussion Questions 14
              1.3 THINKING PHILOSOPHICALLY          14
                    Reasons and Arguments 15
                        Philosophy Lab 16
                        Philosophers at Work: Philosophy Takes
                          on Racism 20
                    Reading Philosophy 27
                        Philosophers at Work: Hypatia 29
                        Philosophers at Work: Early Women
                          Philosophe rs: Themistoclea, Arignote,
                          and Theano 31
                    Fallacious Reason ing 33
                         Philosophy Now: Philosophy in the News      34
                         Essay/Discussion Questions 40
              REVIEW NOTES     40
                          Writing to Understand: Arguing Your Own Views 42
              KEY TERMS   42
              ARGUMENT EXERCISES      43
                                                                             ix
x   Contents
                           PROBING QUESTIONS         SS
                           FOR FURTHER READING          SS
      Buddhism      109
          SUMEDHO: Buddha-Nature               11 2
      H induism     116
          Philosophy Now: The Caste System                 120
Daoism 123
                                    Locke    293
                                         LOCKE: An Essay Concerning Human
                                           Understanding 293
                                    Ber keley    299
                                         BERKELEY: Of the Principles of Human
                                           Knowledge 300
                                    Hume        303
                                         Philosophers at Work: David Hume 304
                                                                             Contents xv ii
                    Locke    370
                          LOCKE: Second Treatise of Government               371
                    Rawls    375
                          Philosophers at Work: John Locke            375
                          RAWLS: A Theory ofjustice 376
                          Writing to Understand: Criti quing Philosophica l
                           Views 378
                                      This third edition of Philosophy Here and Now stays true to the aspirations and char-
                                      acter of the first and second. From the beginning, the text has been designed to
                                      provide an extraordina ry amount of encouragement and guidance to students \vho
                                      are encountering philosophy for the first (and perhaps last) time. !rs ambitious aim is
                                      to get such students to take some big steps tO\vard understa nd ing, appreciating, and
                                      even doi ng philosophy. Philosophy Here and Now thus tries to do a great deal more
                                      than most other texts or readers. To foster a serious understanding of philosophy, it
                                      includes solid coverage of critical thinking skills and argument basics as well as guid-
                                      ance and practice in read ing philosophical works. Studenrs of course can appreciate
                                      the point and power of philosophy as they comprehend philosophical \vritings, but
                                      their app reciation blossoms when they see ho\v philosophical issues and reason ing
                                      play out in contemporary society and how philosophical insights apply to their O\vn
                                      lives. So the book's coverage and pedagogical features help students grasp philoso-
                                      phy's relevance and t imeliness. Studenrs learn how to do philosophy-to think and
                                      write philosophically-\vhen they get encouragement and practice in analyzing and
                                      critiquing their own vie\vS and those of the philosophers they study. To this end,
                                      Phiwsophy Here and Now emphasizes philosophical writi ng, reinforced with step-
                                      by-step coaching in how to \vrite argumentative essays and supported by multiple
                                      opportunities to hone basic skills.
                                           In add ition to these core elements, Philosophy Here and Now further engages
                                      today's learners \Vith abunda nt illustrations and color graphics; marginal notes,
                                      questions, and quotes; profiles of a diverse array of philosophers; and ample repre-
                                      sentation of non-Western and nont raditional sources.
               in the chapters. They include some classic stories such as "The Good Brahmin" by
               Volta ire, "The Ones Who Walk Away from Ornelas" by Ursula Le Gu in, and "They're
               Made Out of Meat" by Terry Bisson, as \veil as lesser-kno\vn fiction by notable writers
               like Arthur C. Clarke and William Golding. Each story is accompanied by discus-
               sion/essay questions designed to dra\v out irs philosophical implications.
               MAIN FEATURES
                 • A comprehensive introductory chapter that lays the groundwork for philo-
                   sophical thinking. Through examples drawn from philosophical literature and
                   everyday life, th is chapter explains clearly the nature and scope of philosophy
                   and ho\v it relates to students' lives. This much, of course, is \vhat any good text
                   in this field should do. But this first chapter also shows how to devise and evalu-
                   ate arguments and gu ides students in critically thinking, reading, and \vriting
                   about philosophical issues.
                 • Critical thinking questions that correspond to relevant passages in the main
                   text or readings. These questions, located in the margins of the text, invite stu-
                   dents to ponder the implications of the material and to th ink critically about
                   the assumptions and arguments found there. The questions are numbered and
                   highlighted and easily lend themselves to both \vriting assignments and class
                   discussion. The point of their marginal placement is to prompt students to think
                   carefully and analytically as they read.
                 • Four types of text boxes that demonstrate the value and relevance of philoso-
                   phy in the modern world:
                     • "Philosophy Now"-These boxes contain news items and research reports
                        that illustrate ho\v each chapter's philosophical issues permeate everyday life.
                        They demonstrate that philosophical concerns arise continually in science,
                        society, ethics, religion, politics, medicine, and more. Each box ends \vith
                        questions that prompt critical thinking and philosophical reflection.
                     • "What Do You Believe?"-Prompting student engagement and reflec-
                        tion, these boxes explore issues related to the chapter's topics and challenge
                        students' beliefs.
                     • "Philosophers at Work'' -These boxes profile the lives and wo rk of com-
                        pelling figures in philosophy, past and present, Western and non-Western or
                        nontraditional, men and women. Some feature philosophers from the past
                        \vhose story adds a human and historical dimension to the ideas discussed in
                        the chapter, and some profile contemporary thinkers who are grappling \vith
                        the important issues of the day. The point of these features is, of course, to
                        sho\v that philosophy is very much a living, relevant enterprise.
                     • " Philosophy Lab"-These boxes present simple thought experiments chal-
                        lenging students to think through scenarios that can reveal deeper philo-
                        sophical insights or perspectives.
                 • In-depth coverage of philosophical writing includes step-by-step coaching in
                   argument basics and multiple opportunities to hone critical thinking skills.
                                                                                           Preface   xx11 1
ANCILLARIES
               The Oxford University Press Ancillary Resou rce Center {ARC) {www.oup-a rc.com/
               vaughn-philosophy-here-and-no\v) houses a \vealth of instructor resources, includ-
               ing an Instructor's Manual with sample syllabi, read ing summaries, essay/discussion
               questions, suggested Web links, and a glossary of key terms from the text; a Com-
               puterized Test Bank \Vith fifty or more multiple-choice and true/false questions per
               chapter {also available as a traditional "pencil-and-paper" Test Bank in the Instruc-
               tor's Manual); and PowerPoint lecture outlines.
                    A companion website {www.oup.com/us/vaughn) contains study materials for
               students, including level-one and level-nvo practice quizzes with multiple-choice
               and true/false questions taken from the Test Bank, essay/discussion questions, read-
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
               A text like th is is not possible \Vithout the help of a lot of talented and consci-
               entious people. At the top of the list are my fine editors at Oxford University
               Press-most notably Robert Miller and Meg Botteon, as well as Alyssa Palazzo
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   The rest of the boys waked at about the same time that Bart did,
and he soon rejoined them below. The smell of broiled ham was
wafted over the ship. Great was the wonder of Bruce, Arthur, Tom,
and Phil at their present situation, and even greater was their
wonder at seeing the repast which Solomon had already spread out
upon the quarter-deck.
   For Solomon had been working like a beaver.
   He had forced open the cabin door, and let out all the water. He
had then obtained some coal, which, though wet, burned merrily in
the galley stove, and had found the cooking utensils, which he had
fortunately conveyed to the cabin when he had first been driven
from the galley.
   The biscuit were, of course, soaked and saturated with salt water;
but Solomon declared that they were made to be soaked before
cooking, and that the salt water was “jes as good as fresh—ebry
mite.” So he fried these in butter, and sprinkled over them some
pepper, which was in the sea-chest, and which, with all the other
contents of the chest, had not been injured. Ham, and toasted
cheese, and potted meats, and tea and coffee, together with other
articles too numerous to mention, formed the breakfast; and it is
scarce necessary to say that the boys did full justice to it.
   After breakfast they began to consider what next they should do.
The land was close by, about half a mile away. The line of coast
extended far away towards the left, but on the right it ended in a
headland. The sea was very quiet, but on the shore before them
there was a heavy surf, the result of the past storm. They saw
farther away to the left a smooth beach, where a landing might be
easily effected, and another place towards the right where there was
very little surf. This last seemed the best place for attempting a
landing.
   The shore was not very attractive. In some places rocky cliffs
arose, crowned at the summit with spruce and birch; in other places
there were slopes covered with the same sort of trees. There was no
sign whatever of any house, or of any cultivation, or of any pasture
land, or of any clearing. The forest seemed unbroken.
   The boys were now as ignorant of the country as they had been
when they first saw it. Each still held the same opinion which he had
announced before.
   Phil thought that it was Newfoundland.
   Tom, that it was Prince Edward’s Island.
   Bart, that it was some part of Nova Scotia, or Cape Breton.
   Pat, that it was the Magdalen Islands.
   Bruce, that it was the coast of New Brunswick, somewhere near
the Miramichi.
   And Arthur, that it was Gaspé, not far from the Bay de Chaleur.
   Thus, although this particular spot seemed desolate enough, no
one gave any thought to that, for they all supposed that inhabitants
could be found within no very great distance. .
   After some deliberation, it was at length concluded to go ashore.
The strips of wood which Solomon had already, with wise
forethought, procured, were easily shaped into very respectable
paddles by means of a hatchet and a knife.
   They then determined to secure themselves from want while
ashore, and this they did by putting into the boat one of the barrels
of biscuit and the chest of provisions.
   Then they all embarked and pulled away. They paddled along
without difficulty towards the beach on the right, where the surf
seemed less. On approaching this, they found a cove formed by a
gully among the hills, and at one end there were grassy banks, near
which a stream of fresh water flowed into the sea.
   Here they landed.
                             XVII.
  The Lookout over the Sea.—The missing Ship.—Where are the
Boys?—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—Where are the
Boys?—Where are the Boys?—Where are the Boys?—An elaborate
Calculation.—Dragging the Anchor.—A Chart on the Cabin Table.—
Writ in Water.—Hope.—The Antelope sails ‘North by East.—Corbet
watches the Horizon.—Midday.—Despair.—Corbet crushed!
  C
         aptain Corbet had arrived at the place where he supposed
         he had left the Petrel, and on looking about saw no signs of
         her, he was filled with despair. The wind had been blowing
all night long, and the sea had been rising to an extent that might
have justified the deepest anxiety; he had been upheld only by the
thought that he was bringing relief to the boys; and this solitary
consolation was taken from him by the first glance that he cast
around.
   This was the fifth day since he had left them. He had gone,
proposing and expecting to be back in two days, or in three at
farthest. But he had gone much farther than he had at first
intended, and hence had left them longer than he had said.
   And where were they now?
   In vain he strained his eyes. The only sail on the water was that
schooner: possibly some fisherman cruising about in this direction.
   Where were the boys?
   Where were the boys that had been committed to his care,—the
boys who had been intrusted to him,—the boys who had confided in
him,—the boys who had placed their young lives in his keeping?
   Where were the boys?
   Where were the boys whom he had left; whom he had promised
to return for so promptly?
  He had led them into difficulty, and left them there!
  He had led them into starvation—that was his first fault. How they
had suffered during those days of calm! He had led them to that
waterlogged vessel! He had gone on board with them; he had
caused them to put a confidence in that wrecked ship which was not
justifiable.
  Worst of all, he had left them!
  And now that he thought of it, what was that ship? She might
have been not water-logged—but sinking! The thought filled him
with horror. A sinking ship! and he had left them there!
  No; she was not a sinking ship—he knew that.
  He remembered the length of time that he had seen her from a
distance. He recalled the time he had been on board, and all the
observations which he had made. Water-logged she certainly was,
but not sinking—no, not sinking. Timber ships never sink. They
cannot sink. A timber ship is like a solid wooden ship low down in
the water, but absolutely unsinkable.
  This thought brought some consolation to him in his despair.
  But as he looked out over the sea, as he saw the swelling waves,
as he felt the Antelope toss, and leap, and plunge about, and as he
recalled the long night that had passed, with its storms and billows,
he trembled for the boys in the water-logged ship.
  And again the old question came back,—
  Where were the boys?
  Where were the boys whom he had left in the water-logged ship?
He himself had anchored that ship in these waters, hard and fast;
but now, as he looked about far over the seas, he saw no sign of
any ship, or of any floating thing save that distant fishing schooner.
What did this mean?
  Again and again he asked this question, and again and again he
shrank back from the answer that suggested itself.
  He tried to console himself by thinking of the buoyancy of wood in
general, and of timber ships in particular. Alas! these efforts were all
in vain. For he remembered how rough the sea had been; and he
saw all around him even now the swelling waves. That ship had
already been torn and shattered by storms. That ship had been
forsaken by captain and crew. They had believed that she was about
to founder. Was this belief, then, so far wrong as he had supposed?
She was like a raft, torn and dislocated, which any fresh movement
of the water might shatter to pieces. Perhaps in the storm that had
fallen upon her in his absence the waves had wrought their will upon
her. Perhaps they had torn her to pieces in their wrath, and
scattered all her timbers afar over the surface of the deep. Perhaps
the only vestige of the Petrel which his eyes might ever see, might
be some floating timbers drifting past, and bearing to him the only
message which could ever come to the land of the living from the
lost boys.
   Where were the boys?
   Where, O, where were the boys whom he had led into danger, and
then madly deserted?—doubly deserted, in fact; first, when he sailed
away, leaving them on board the wrecked ship, and secondly, in that
worse desertion, when he had gone away so thoughtlessly, so
wickedly, and so madly, from the Magdalen Islands to the Miramichi
River? How could he have ever thought of it? What could have so
infatuated him as to lead him so far away from those helpless boys
in their desperate position?
   Where were the boys?
   O, where were the boys? And what had they thought of him?
What misery had they not suffered! What despair! How often must
they have watched for his return! And day had succeeded to day,
and night to night, but he had never come! While they were
watching for his appearance, he was calmly sailing away, or was
loitering in distant ports, leaving them to their terrific fate!
   Where were the boys?
   What was their fate?
   What had become of that ship?
    She had been anchored fast. She was gone now. Gone! Gone
were those boys, for whom he would have laid down his life; but
whom, nevertheless, he had deserted and betrayed. And he—what
could he do? Where could he go? Where could he search for them?
Over what seas could he sail? With what hope? Was there any hope?
Hope! Alas! what hope could he form when he looked out over these
foaming waves, and felt the Antelope quiver beneath the force of
their assault?
    These, or something very much like these, were the thoughts that
filled the soul of the unhappy, the despairing Corbet, as he rolled his
venerable eyes over the wide waste of waters, and saw that the
Petrel was gone. It was a moment full of deeper misery and keener
anguish than any which the good captain had ever known in the
whole course of his life, though that life had by no means been
without its sufferings. Yet among all the sufferings and sorrows of a
life full of vicissitudes, it had never fallen to his lot to experience
such a misfortune as this,—to reproach himself so keenly, so
severely, and yet so justly. Whatever the fate of the boys might have
been, he knew perfectly well that he, and he alone, was the cause;
nor could he plead, even to his own conscience, the excuse that his
motives were right. For his motives were not right, and he knew it.
His motives had been nothing better than wild desires for sudden
wealth. True, he had only wished that wealth for his “babby;” but
that did not in the least mitigate his offence. At the very least, he
had been guilty of carelessness so gross that it was hardly inferior to
downright, deliberate crime.
    So the poor captain’s anguish of soul was extreme, and utter, as
well it might be. So keen, indeed, was his suffering, that his hair
might have turned white from its severity,—a circumstance not
unusual,—but in the captain’s case it was not possible, since, as is
well known, his hair was already as gray as it well could be, and
therefore the good Captain Corbet could only suffer in secret, and
occasionally wipe away the tears that dropped from his eyes with
the sleeve of his venerable coat.
   At length the thought occurred to him that perhaps he had not
come to the right place.
   To his mind, the thought was well nigh inconceivable; yet, after
all, it was barely possible, and in his despair he caught at this straw.
After all, navigation by dead reckoning is not the most accurate way
in the world of working one’s way along; and Captain Corbet felt this
in an obscure and shadowy sort of way; so it need not be wondered
at if he sought relief in the thought that he had possibly gone astray.
   So he called upon Wade to take the helm, while he went below to
make some elaborate calculations.
   He did it in this way.
   He first got a mug of water.
   Then he seated himself by the cabin table.
   Then he dipped the fore finger of his right hand in the water.
   Then, with this finger, he traced certain mysterious marks upon
the table.
   Now, these mysterious marks were designed by this ancient
mariner to represent nothing less than the coasts surrounding the
Gulf of St. Lawrence. To an unprejudiced observer, this idea would
never have suggested itself; but to the mind of the venerable
Corbet, these marks were as plain and as intelligible as the finest
outlines of the Admiralty charts engraved in steel, and bristling with
names of places. In his mind’s eye he could see everything. He could
see Prince Edward’s Island, Cape Breton, Newfoundland, Gaspé, the
Bay de Chaleur, Miramichi, and the Magdalen Islands. There, too, full
and fair, in the centre of the scene, a big wet spot, made most
emphatically with his thumb, showed him the spot where he had left
the Petrel.
   And this was Captain Corbet’s chart, and this was his mode of
navigating, and this was the scientific method which he adopted in
order to work his way out of a difficulty. Quadrant, sextant, and
other instruments of that character he did not need; he trusted to
his own head, and to his finger.
   It must be confessed that, on this occasion, these resources rather
failed him. The puzzle seemed insoluble. In vain he obliterated the
wet spot where he first stationed the Petrel. In vain he made
another dab with his thumb in a second place. He could not arrive at
any conclusion which was entirely satisfactory. He placed the mug of
water on the table, leaned his aged head in both hands, and sat
watching his chart in profound thought. A sudden sea struck the
Antelope. The good vessel leaped, as was natural, at such rough
treatment. As was natural, also, the mug of water leaped. Moreover,
it upset. The contents poured forth, and inundated the fable. The
chart was all obliterated.
   At this casualty Captain Corbet rose. He betrayed no excitement,
no passion. He did not swear, as some wrecked sea captains have
done. He did not even utter an exclamation. He simply took his aged
coat tail and wiped the water off the table very carefully, and then
with his other aged coat tail he dried it, and even polished it most
elaborately. The table had not been so clean for ever so long. It
seemed to be astonished at itself. Captain Corbet, meanwhile,
remained mild and patient. Sir Isaac Newton himself, after the
burning of his Principia by his immortal little dog Diamond, was not
more placid. Without a word, our captain went to the bucket,
replenished the mug, returned to the table, resumed his seat, and,
holding the mug in his left hand, under the table, to prevent a
recurrence of this mishap, he dipped the fore finger of his right hand
into the water, and proceeded to retrace upon the table the outline
of his chart. In a little while there appeared before his eyes, as plain
as before, the Gulf of St. Lawrence, with all the surrounding coasts—
Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Gaspé, Newfoundland,
the Magdalen Islands, and plain in the middle the dab of his
venerable thumb representing the spot where he had left the Petrel.
   But the problem remained insoluble. He was certain that he had
come back to the right spot. Again and again he traced, in a thin
line, made by his wet finger-nail, the course which he had taken;
first, from the Petrel to the Magdalen Islands, and, secondly, from
the Magdalen Islands to Miramichi, and, thirdly, from Miramichi to
the place where he now was. In each case his course had,
fortunately, been quite straight. Had there been head winds, it might
have been different; but, as it was, the straight course which he had
kept made the outlines on the table all the more simple, but at the
same time they made the problem all the more complex. The ship
was missing. He had left her at anchor. She could not sink. What,
then, had become of her?
   The first answer was the terrible one that she had gone to pieces
in the storm. But this was the very one from which he was seeking
to escape, and against which he sought refuge in such facts as her
strength and the stiffness of a timber cargo.
   But what other conclusion was there?
   That he had mistaken his way?
   Impossible!
   On the table before him the marks that he had made confirmed
him in the opinion that he was, if not on the identical spot where he
had left the Petrel, at least sufficiently near to be able to see her if
she still was here.
   Yet here she evidently was not.
   What, then, had become of her?
   To this only one answer remained, and in this he sought to find
comfort.
   She might have dragged her anchor, and might have thereby
drifted, under the pressure of the storm, far enough away to be out
of sight.
   But in what direction had she drifted?
   The wind had been south by east. He knew that well enough. This
one fact, then, showed him what course she would have taken when
adrift. .
   He wet his finger now for the last time. He planted it down upon
the place which he had marked as the position of the Petrel, and
then drew a line in the direction which he supposed might indicate
the course of her drift. Then he stopped to calculate the possible
distance which she might have traversed while dragging her anchor,
and made a mark to represent what, under this theory, might be her
present position.
   Then he drew a long breath.
   He then rose to his feet, and surveyed his chart for a few
moments with a thoughtful face.
   And now the time had come for action. He had at last a theory.
His mind was made up. He hurried upon deck, and, seizing the tiller,
headed the Antelope north by west, in the direction which he
conjectured the drifting ship to have taken.
   He had allowed between twenty and thirty miles for her drift. He
had calculated that a mile an hour would be a fair allowance for a
vessel that was dragging her anchor, and he did not think that the
wind had been strong enough to make her drag her anchor for more
than twenty hours, and certainly, as he thought, not more than
thirty, at the farthest. Upon this principle he acted, and when he
headed the Antelope north by west, he hoped to catch sight of the
lost ship before noon.
   For the Antelope, with a fair wind, could make as much as four or
five miles an hour; and, after making every allowance for currents,
or for leeway, she ought to do twenty miles between six o’clock in
the morning and midday. And so, full of confidence in the ability of
the Antelope to do her duty, Captain Corbet took his station at the
helm.
   Now that a gleam of hope had appeared, he was a different man.
The gleam became brighter and brighter, until at last it grew to be
positive sunshine. He forgot his recent despair. The more he thought
of his theory of the Petrel dragging her anchor, the more convinced
he was that it was correct, and the more certain he was that he
would ultimately catch sight of her.
   And so he kept on his course, with his eyes fixed on the horizon
before him, anxiously awaiting the time when he would descry the
masts of the lost vessel becoming gradually defined against the sky.
   Hour after hour passed.
   The Antelope sailed on.
   Midday came.
   The Antelope had traversed the distance which her commander
had allotted for the utmost possible drift of the Petrel.
   Yet not the slightest sign of the Petrel had appeared.
   The hopes upon which Captain Corbet had been relying gradually
sank under him. When midday came, and the masts of the Petrel did
not appear, hope sank away, and despondency came, and
despondency deepened into despair.
   All that he had felt at early dawn, when he first looked abroad
upon the seas and found her not, now came back to him,—all the
self-reproach, all the remorse, all the anguish of soul.
   He stood at the helm, and let the Antelope pass onward, but there
was no longer any hope in his mind. He was overwhelmed, and now
even the possibility of finding her seemed to be taken away.
   All this time the wind had gone on increasing in violence, and the
sea had risen more and more. For himself and for the Antelope
Captain Corbet did not care; but the lowery sky and the stormy sea
seemed terrible to him, for they spoke to him of the lost boys, and
told a tale of horror.
                             XVIII.
   The venerable but very unfortunate, Corbet—The Antelope lies to.
—Emotions of her despairing Commander.—Night and Morning.—The
Fishing Schooner,—An old Acquaintance appears, and puts the old,
old Question.—Corbet overwhelmed.—He confesses all.—Tremendous
Effect on Captain Tobias Ferguson.—His Selfcommand.—Considering
the Situation.—Wind and Tide.—Theories as to the Position of the
lost Ones.—Up Sail and after.—The last Charge to Captain Corbet.
  T
         HE unfortunate Corbet thus found himself in a state of
         despair. The situation, indeed; could not possibly be worse.
         The ship was gone; and where? Who could tell? Certainly
not he. He had exhausted all his resources. From the cabin table he
was unable to elicit any further information, nor could his aged brain
furnish forth intellectual power which was at all adequate to the
problem before it. He was alone. He had none to help him. With
Wade he did not offer to take counsel, feeling, perhaps, that Wade
would be about as useful in this emergency as the Antelope’s pump.
  Meanwhile the storm increased, and Captain Corbet felt himself
unable to contend with it. The tattered old sails of the Antelope were
double-reefed, but seemed every moment about to fly into ribbons.
There was no object in keeping his present course any longer; and
so he decided, in view of the storm and his own indecision, to lie to.
And now the Antelope tossed, and pitched, and kicked, and bounded
beneath Captain Corbet,
                    "like a steed
                 That knows its rider,”
  and Wade went below, and took refuge in sleep; and the good,
the brave, yet the unhappy Corbet took up his position upon the
windlass, and bestriding it, he sat for hours peering into space.
There were no thoughts whatever in his mind. He tried not to
speculate, he attempted not to solve the problem; but there was,
deep down in his soul, a dark, drear sense of desolation, a woful
feeling of remorse and of despair. Nothing attracted his attention on
that wide sea or troubled sky; not the waste of foaming waters, not
the giant masses of storm clouds, nor yet that fishing schooner,
which, only a few miles off was also, like the Antelope, lying to.
Captain Corbet did not notice this stranger; he did not speculate
upon the cause of her presence; he did not see that she was the
identical vessel that he had noticed before, and therefore did not
wonder why it was that he had been followed so long and so
persistently.
   So he sat on the windlass, and gazed forth into illimitable space.
   And the long, long hours passed away.
   Evening came.
   Deepening into night.
   Night, and storm, and darkness came down, and the Antelope
tossed, and plunged, and kicked, and jumped; yet the sleepless
Corbet remained on deck, occasionally shifting his position, but still
overwhelmed by has misery.
   Towards midnight the storm abated. Corbet waited a few hours
longer, and then stole below, hoping to forget his misery and relieve
his fatigues by a little sleep.
   In vain.
   The air of the cabin seemed to suffocate him. Sleep was
impossible. His distressing thoughts seemed to drive him into a
fever; he tried hard and for a long time to overcome them, and
finally succeeded in getting a short nap.
   By this time it was dawn, and the good captain rose, and went
upon deck, feeling dejected and miserable.
   He looked out over the waters, and noticed that the strange
schooner was bearing down straight towards him. She was coming
bows on, so that at first he did not know her from any other vessel;
but at length she came up, and hove to close by, disclosing the
symmetrical hull, the beautiful lines, the slender, tapering masts, and
the swelling, snow-white canvas of the Fawn. At the same moment
he saw a boat drop alongside, and into this leaped Captain Tobias
Ferguson, who at once pulled to the Antelope, and in a few minutes
stood on board.
   The last time that he had seen Captain Ferguson he had looked
upon him in the light of a busybody, a vexatious and too inquisitive
spy, a persecutor and a tormentor. But now circumstances had
changed so utterly, and Captain Corbet’s sufferings both of mind and
body had been so acute, that the once dreaded Ferguson appeared
to him almost equal to some Heaven-sent deliverer. His wan face
flushed with joy; he could not speak; tears burst from his eyes; and
seizing Ferguson’s hand in both of his, he clasped it tight.
   Ferguson darted over him one swift, keen glance that took in
everything, but made no comment upon the emotion that was so
visible.
   “Well,” said he, “we’re bound to meet again. The fact is, I was
bound not to lose sight of you. I tell you I got those boys on my
brain, and couldn’t get them out no how. I knew you were going to
find them, or to try to find them. I believed they were all in danger,
and so I up sail and followed. And a precious hard job that following
was. Why, it was like making a race-horse follow a snail. I had to
turn back every other mile or so, and go away. I saw you lie to
yesterday, so I lay to; and here I am this morning, right side up, and
ready to repeat my question, Where are the boys? So come, now,
old man; no humbug, no shuffling. You’re in a fix. I know it well
enough. You’ve lost the boys. Very well. I’ll help you find ’em. So,
now, make a clean breast of it, and tell me all about it from the very
beginning.”
   Saying this, Ferguson seated himself on the taffrail, and drawing
forth a cigar, lighted it, and waited for Captain Corbet to begin.
   But for Captain Corbet there was the difficulty. How could he
begin? How could he tell the miserable story of his madness and his
folly? of the ignorant confidence of the poor boys? of his culpable
and guilty negligence, doubly guilty, since he had deserted them not
only once in leaving the ship, but a second time in sailing away from
the Magdalen Islands? And for what purpose? Even had he reached
the ship with the sails, could he really have saved her? Yet here
stood his inquisitor, and this time his questions must be answered.
   “Wal,” began Captain Corbet, in a tremulous voice, “I left em—”
   “Yes.”
   “I—I—left—left—em—”
   “Well?”
   “I ‘—I—left em, you know.”
   “So you said three times; but I knew that before. The question is,
Where?”
   “Aboard a ship.”
   “Aboard a ship?”
   “Yes.”
   “What ship? Where?
   “Somewhar’s about here.”
   “About here? But what ship?”
   “She—she—she—was—she—she was—wa-wa-water-logged.”
   At this Ferguson started to his feet, almost leaping in the air as he
did so. For a moment he regarded the unhappy Corbet with an
expression of mingled horror and incredulity.
   “You don’t mean it!” he said, at length.
   Captain Corbet sighed.
   “What?” cried Ferguson. “Were you mad? Were they mad? Were
you all raving, stark, staring distracted? What were you all thinking
of? A water-logged ship! Why, do you mean to stand there in your
boots, look me in the face, and tell me that about the boys?”
   Captain Corbet trembled from head to foot.
  “A water-logged ship! Why, you might as well tell me you pitched
them all overboard and drowned them.”
  Captain Corbet shuddered, and turned away.
  Ferguson laid his hand upon his shoulder.
  “Come,” said he, more quietly, “you couldn’t have been such a
fool! You must have considered that the boys had some chance.
What sort of a ship was she? What was her cargo?”
  “Timber,” said the mournful Corbet in a melancholy wail.
  Ferguson’s face brightened.
  “You’re sure of that?”
  “Gospel sure.”
  “Not deals, now, or laths, or palings, or pickets, or battens, or
anything of that sort?”
  “I saw the timber—white pine.”
  “Well, that’s better; that gives them a chance. I’ve heard say that
a timber ship’ll float for years, if she’s any kind of a ship at all; and
so, perhaps, this one is drifting.”
  Captain Corbet shook his head.
  “Why not?” asked Ferguson, noticing the movement.
  “I anchored her.”
  “Anchored her?”
  “Yes.”
  “Anchored what? The timber ship?”
  “Yes.”
  “Anchored her? That’s queer! And where?”
  “Why, somewhars about twenty mile or so back.”
  “Somewhere about twenty mile or so back!” repeated Ferguson.
“Why, the man’s mad! See here, old man; what do you mean by
anchoring hereabouts? Did you try soundings?”
  “Wal, n-n-no.”
   “Are you aware that the bottom is several miles down below, and
that all the chains and ropes of that ship, if they were all tied
together in one line, wouldn’t begin to reach half way?”
   “Wal, now, railly, I hadn’t any idee. I jest kine o’ dropped anchor
to hold the ship till I got back.”
   “Well, old man,” said Ferguson, “I’ve got a very good general idea
of your proceedings; but I want a few more particulars, so that I can
judge for myself about the poor lads. So I’ll trouble you to make a
clean breast of it, and in particular to let me know why you kept so
close when I asked you about it before. Close? Why, if you’d been
decoying those boys out there on purpose to get rid of them, you
couldn’t have fought shyer of my questions than you did.”
   Upon this Captain Corbet proceeded, as Ferguson called it, to
“make a clean breast of it.” He began at the first, told about their
failure in provisions, their discovery of the ship, and his project of
saving her. He explained all about his reticence on the subject at the
Magdalen Islands, and the cause of his voyage to Miramichi. All this
was accompanied with frequent interruptions, expressive of self-
reproach, exculpation, remorse, misery, and pitiable attempts at
excusing his conduct.
   Ferguson listened to all without expressing any opinion, merely
asking a question for information here and there; and at the close of
Captain Corbet’s confession, he remained forborne a considerable
time buried in profound reflection.
   “Well,” said he, “the whole story is one that won’t bear criticism. I
won’t begin. If I did, you’d hear a little of the tallest swearing that
ever came to your ears. No, old man; I’ve got a wicked temper, and
I won’t get on that subject. The thing that you and me have got to
do is, to see what can be done about those boys, and then to do it
right straight off. That’s what we’ve got to do; and when I say we, I
mean myself, for you appear to have done about as much mischief
as is needful for one lifetime.”
   Ferguson now began to pace the deck, and kept this up for about
half an hour, at the end of which time he resumed his seat on the
taffrail. Captain Corbet watched him with wistful eyes, and in deep
suspense; yet there was already upon his venerable face somewhat
less of grief, for he felt a strange confidence in this eager, energetic,
active, strong man, whose pertinacity had been so extraordinary,
and whose singular affection for the boys had been so true and so
tender.
   “I’m beginning,” said Ferguson, at length, “I’m beginning to see
my way towards action, and that’s something; though whether it’ll
result in anything is more than I can begin to say.
   “In the first place, I go on the theory that this timber ship didn’t
sink; that she stood this blow as solid as though she was carved out
of a single stick.
   “In the second place, I scout your idea of anchoring her. That is
rank, raving insanity. To anchor a ship in three miles of water! Old
man, go home; you have no business on the sea.
   “So she’s been drifting; yes, drifting. She was drifting when you
found her, and drifting when you left her. Where she was you can’t
tell, seeing that you can’t take an observation, and didn’t take one.
So we’re all astray there, and I can only calculate her probable
position from the course you took to the Magdalen Islands, and the
time occupied in making the trip by that astonishing old tub of
yours, that disgraces and ridicules the respectable name of Antelope.
   “Very well. Now say she’s afloat, and has been drifting. The
question is, Where has she drifted to? She probably was found by
you somewhere about here. That was about a week ago. Well, after
the calm was over, then came a wind. That wind was a south-easter.
It got up at last into a storm, like the blow last night.
   “Now, there are two things to be considered.
   “First, the wind.
   “Second, the current.
   “First, as to the wind. It was a steady southeaster for nearly a
week, ending in a hard blow. That wind has had a tendency to blow
her over in that direction—over there, nor’-west. In that direction
she must have been steadily pushed, unless there was something to
prevent, some ocean currents or other.
   “And this brings us to the next point—the currents.
   “Now, over there, about thirty miles south of this, there is a
current setting out into the Atlantic from the River St. Lawrence; and
up there, thirty miles to the north, there is considerable of a current,
that runs up into the Straits of Belle Isle. Just round about here
there is a sort of eddy, or a back current, that flows towards the
Island of Anticosti. Now, that happens to be the identical place
towards which the wind would carry her. So, you see, granting that
the Petrel has remained afloat, the wind and the currents must both
have acted on her in such a way as to carry her to that desert island,
that horrible, howling wilderness, that abomination of desolation,
that graveyard of ships and seamen—Anticosti.”
   At this intelligence, Captain Corbet’s heart once more sank within
him.
   “Anti—Anticosti!” he murmured, in a trembling voice.
   “Yes, Anticosti. And I ain’t surprised, not a bit surprised,” said
Ferguson. “I said so. I prophesied it. I was sure of it. I read it in
their faces at Magdalen. When I saw that rotten old tub, and those
youngsters, something told me they were going to wind up by
getting on Anticosti. When I saw you come back to Magdalen, I was
sure of it. I followed you to Miramichi to find out; and ever since I’ve
been following you, I’ve had Anticosti in my mind, as the only place I
was bound to.”
   Captain Corbet drew a long breath.
   “Wal,” said he, “at any rate, it’s better for them than bein—bein—
at—at the bottom of the sea.”
   “’Tain’t any better, if they’ve been smashed against the rocks of
Anticosti in last night’s gale,” retorted Ferguson, who was not willing
that Captain Corbet should recover from his anxiety too soon.
   “But mayn’t she—mayn’t she—catch?”
   “Catch?”