Chapter Seventy Seven.
A whispered Conspiracy.
Although most of the men had surrendered themselves to such slumber as they might obtain, the silence was neither profound nor continuous. At times no sounds were heard save the whisperings of the breeze, as it brushed against the spread canvas, or a slight “swashing” in the water as it was broken by the rough timbers of the craft.
These sounds were intermingled with the loud breathing of some of the sleepers,—an occasional snore,—and now and then a muttered speech the involuntary utterance of someone dreaming a dreadful dream.
At intervals other noises would arise, when one or more of the waking castaways chanced to come together, to hold a short conversation; or when one of them, scarce conscious of what he did, stumbled over the limbs of a prostrate comrade,—perhaps awaking him from a pleasant repose to the consciousness of the painful circumstances under which he had been enjoying it.
Such occurrences usually led to angry altercations,—in which threats and ribald language would for some minutes freely find vent from the lips both of the disturbed and the disturber; and then both would growlingly subside into silence.
At that hour, when the night was at its darkest, and the fog at its thickest, two men might have been seen,—though only by an eye very close to where they were,—in a sitting posture at the bottom of the mast. They were crouching rather than seated; for they were upon their knees, with their bodies bent forward, and one or both of their hands resting upon the planks.
The attitude was plainly not one of repose; and anyone near enough to have observed the two men, or to have heard the whispered conversation that was being carried on between them, would have come to the conclusion that sleep was far from their thoughts.
In that deep darkness, however, no one noticed them; and although several of their companions were lying but a few feet from the bottom of the mast, these were either asleep or too distant to hear the whisperings that passed between the two men kneeling in juxtaposition.
They continued to talk in very low whispers,—each in turn putting his lips close to the ear of the other; and while doing so the subject of their conversation might have been guessed at by their glances, or at least the individual about whom they conversed.
This was a man who was lying stretched along the timbers, not far from the bottom of the mast, and apparently asleep. In fact he must have been asleep, as was testified by the stentorian snores that occasionally escaped from his wide-spread nostrils.
This noisy slumberer was the Irishman, O’Gorman,—one of the parties to that suspended fight, to be resumed by day break in the morning. Whatever evil deeds this man may have done during his life,—and he had performed not a few, for we have styled him only the least guilty of that guilty crew,—he was certainly no coward. Thus to sleep, with such a prospect on awaking, at least proved him recklessly indifferent to death.
The two men by the mast,—whose eyes were evidently upon him,—had no very clear view of him where he lay. Through the white mist they could see only something like the shape of a human being recumbent along the planks; and of that only the legs and lower half of the body. Even had it been daylight they could not, from their position, have seen his head and shoulders; for both would have been concealed by the empty rum-cask, already mentioned, which stood upon its end exactly by the spot where O’Gorman had rested his head.
The Irishman, above all others, had taken a delight in the contents of that cask,—so long as a drop was left; and now that it was all gone, perhaps the smell of the alcohol had influenced him in choosing his place of repose.
Whether or not, he was now sleeping on a spot which was to prove the last resting-place of his life. Cruel destiny had decreed that from that slumber he was never more to awaken!
This destiny was now being shaped out for him; and by the two individuals who were regarding him from the bottom of the mast.
“He’s sound asleep,” whispered one of them to the other. “You hear that snore? Parbleu! only a hog could counterfeit that.”
“Sound as a top!” asserted the other.
“C’est bon!” whispered the first speaker, with a significant shrug of the shoulders. “If we manage matters smartly, he need never wake again. What say you, comrade?”
“I agree to anything you may propose,” assented the other. “What is it?”
“There need be no noise about it. A single blow will be sufficient,—if given in the right place. With the blade of a knife through his heart, he’ll not make three kicks. He’ll never know it till he’s in the next world. Peste! I could almost envy him such an easy way of getting out of this!”
“You think it might be done without making a noise?”
“Easy as falling overboard. One could hold something over his mouth, to keep his tongue quiet; while the other—You know what I mean?”
The horrid act to be performed by the other was left unspoken,—even in those confidential whisperings.
“But,” replied the confederate, objectingly, “suppose the thing done,—how about matters in the morning? They’d know who did it. Leastwise, their suspicions would fall upon us,—upon you to a certainty, after what’s happened. You haven’t thought of that?”
“Haven’t I? But I have, mon ami!”
“Well; and what?”
“First place. They’re not in the mind to be particular,—none of them,—so long as they get something to eat. Secondly; if they should kick up a row, our party is the strongest; and I don’t care what comes of it. We may as well all die at once, as die by bits.”
“That’s true enough.”
“But there’s no fear of any trouble from the others. I’ve got an idea that’ll prevent that. To save appearances, he can commit suicide.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bah! camarade! how dull you are. The fog has got into your skull. Don’t you know the Irlandais has got a knife, and a sharp one. Peste! I know it. Well,—perhaps it can be stolen from him. If so, it can also be found sticking in the wound that will deprive him of life. Now do you comprehend me?”
“I do,—I do!”
“First, to steal the knife. Go you: I daren’t: it would look suspicious for me to be seen near him,—that is, if he should wake up. You may stray over that way, as if you were after nothing particular. It’ll do no harm to try.”
“I’ll see if I can hook it then,” responded the other. “What if I try now?”
“The sooner the better. With the knife in our possession, we’ll know better how to act. Get it, if you can.”
The last speaker remained in his place. The other, rising into an erect attitude, stepped apart from his fellow-conspirator, and moved away from the mast,—going apparently without any design. This, however, led him towards the empty rum-cask,—alongside of which the Irishman lay asleep, utterly unconscious of his approach.
Chapter Seventy Eight.
A foul Deed done in a Fog.
It is scarce necessary to tell who were the two men who had been thus plotting in whispers. The first speaker was, of course, the Frenchman, Le Gros,—the other being the confederate who had assisted him in the performance of his unfair trick in the lot-casting.
Their demoniac design is already known from their conversation,—nothing more nor less than to murder O’Gorman in his sleep!
The former had two motives prompting him to this horrid crime,—either sufficiently strong to sway such a nature as his to its execution. He had all along felt hostility to the Irishman,—which the events of that day had rendered both deep and deadly. He was wicked enough to have killed his antagonist for that alone. But there was the other motive, more powerful and far more rational to influence him to the act. As above stated, it had been finally arranged that the suspended fight was to be finished by the earliest light of the morning. Le Gros knew that the next scene in that drama of death was to be the last; and, judging from his experience of the one already played, he felt keenly apprehensive as to the result. He had been fully aware, before the curtain fell upon the first act, that his life could then have been taken; and, conscious of a certain inferiority to his antagonist, he now felt cowed, and dreaded the final encounter.
To avoid it, he was willing to do anything, however mean or wicked,—ready to commit even the crime of murder!
He knew that if he should succeed in destroying his adversary,—so long as the act was not witnessed by their associates,—so long as there should be only circumstantial evidence against him,—he would not have much to fear from such judges as they. It was simply a question as to whether the deed could be done silently and in the darkness; and that question was soon to receive an answer.
The trick of killing the unfortunate man with his own knife,—and making it appear that he had committed self-destruction,—would have been too shallow to have been successful under any other circumstances; but Le Gros felt confident that there would be no very strict investigation; and that the inquest likely to be held on the murdered man would be a very informal affair.
In any case, the risk to him would be less than that he might expect on the consummation of the combat,—the finale of which would in all probability, be the losing of his life.
He was no longer undecided about doing the foul deed. He had quite determined upon it; and the attempt now being made by his confederate to steal the knife was the first stop towards its perpetration.
The theft was too successfully accomplished. The wretch on getting up to the rum-cask, was seen to sit down silently by its side; and, after a few moments passed in this position he again rose erect, and moved back towards the mast. Dark as was the night, Le Gros could perceive something glittering in the hand of his accomplice, which he knew must be the coveted weapon.
It was so. The sleeper had been surreptitiously disarmed.
For a moment the two men might have been seen standing in juxtaposition; and while thus together the knife was furtively transferred from the hand of the accomplice into that of the true assassin.
Then both, assuming a careless attitude, for a while remained near the mast, apparently engaged in some ordinary conversation. An occasional shifting of their position, however, took place,—though so slight that, even under a good light, it would scarce have been observed. A series of these movements, made at short intervals, ended in bringing the conspirators close up to the empty hogshead; and then one of them sat down by it. The other, going round it, after a short lapse of time, imitated the example of his companion by seating himself on the opposite side.
Thus far there was nothing in the behaviour of the two men to have attracted the attention of their associates on the raft,—even had the latter been awake. Even so, the obscurity that surrounded their movements would have hindered them from being very clearly comprehended.
There was no eye watching the assassins, as they sat down by the side of their sleeping victim; none fixed upon them as both simultaneously leant over him with outstretched arms,—one holding what appeared a piece of blanket over his face, as if to stifle his breath,—the other striking down upon his breast with a glittering blade, as if stabbing him to the heart.
The double action occupied scarce a second of time. In the darkness, no one appeared to perceive it, except they were its perpetrators. No one seemed to hear that choking, gurgling cry that accompanied it; or if they did, it was only to shape a half conjecture, that some one of their companions was indulging in a troubled dream!
The assassins, horror-stricken at what they had done, skulked tremblingly back to their former position by the mast.
Their victim, stretched on his back, remained motionless upon the spot where they had visited him; and anyone standing over him, as he lay, might have supposed that he was still slumbering!
Alas! it was the slumber of death!
Chapter Seventy Nine.
Dousing the Glim.
We left the crew of the Catamaran in full occupation,—“smoking” shark-flesh on the back of a cachalot whale.
To make sure of a sufficient stock,—enough to last them with light rations for a voyage, if need be, to the other side of the Atlantic,—they had continued at the work all day long, and several hours into the night. They had kept the fire ablaze by pouring fresh spermaceti into the furnace of flesh which they had constructed, or rather excavated, in the back of the leviathan; and so far as that kind of fuel was concerned, they might have gone on roasting shark-steaks for a twelvemonth. But they had proved that the spermaceti would not burn to any purpose without a wick; and as their spare ropes were too precious to be all picked into oakum, they saw the necessity of economising their stock of the latter article. But for this deficiency, they might have permitted the furnace-lamp to burn on during the whole night, or until it should go out by the exhaustion of the wick.
As they were not yet quite satisfied with the supply of broiled shark-meat, they had resolved to take a fresh spell at roasting on the morrow; and in order that the wick should not be idly wasted, they had “doused the glim” before retiring to rest.
They had extinguished the flame in a somewhat original fashion,—by pouring upon it a portion of the liquid spermaceti taken out of the case. The light, after giving a final flash, had gone out, leaving them in utter darkness.
But they had no difficulty in finding their way back to the deck, of their craft, where they designed passing the remainder of the night. During the preceding days they had so often made the passage from Catamaran to cachalot, and vice versa, that they could have gone either up or down blindfolded; and indeed they might as well have been blindfolded on this their last transit for the night, so dense was the darkness that had descended over the dead whale.
After groping their way over the slippery shoulders of the leviathan, and letting themselves down by the rope they had attached to his huge pectoral fin, they made their supper upon a portion of the hot roast they had brought along with them; and, washing it down with a little diluted “canary,” they consigned themselves to rest.
Better satisfied with their prospects than they had been for some time past, they soon fell asleep; and silence reigned around the dark floating mass that included the forms of cachalot and Catamaran.
At that same moment a less tranquil scene was occurring scarce ten miles from the spot; for it is scarce necessary to say that the light seen by the ruffians on the great raft—and which they had fancifully mistaken for a ship’s galley-fire,—was the furnace fed by spermaceti on the back of the whale.
The extinction of the flame had led to a scene which was reaching its maximum of noisy excitement at about the time that the crew of the Catamaran were munching their roast shark-meat and sipping their canary. This scene had continued long after every individual of the latter had sunk into a sweet oblivion of the dangers that surrounded them.
All four slept soundly throughout the remainder of the night. Strange to say, they felt a sort of security, moored alongside that monstrous mass, which they would not have experienced had their frail tiny craft been by itself alone upon the ocean. It was but a fancied security, it is true: still it had the effect of giving satisfaction to the spirit, and through this, producing an artificial incentive to sleep.
It was daylight before any of them awoke,—or it should have been daylight, by the hour: but there was a thick fog around them,—so thick and dark that the carcass of the cachalot was not visible from the deck of the Catamaran, although only a few feet of water lay between them.
Ben Brace was the first to bestir himself. Snowball had never been an early riser; and if permitted by his duties, or the neglect of them either, he would have kept his couch till midday. Ben, however, knew that there was work to be done, and no time to be wasted in idleness. The captain of the Catamaran had given up all hopes of the return of the whaler; and therefore the sooner they could complete their arrangements for cutting adrift from the carcass, and continuing their interrupted course towards the west, the better would be their chance of ultimately reaching land.
Snowball, sans cérémonie, was shaken out of his slumbers; and the process of restoring him to wakefulness also awoke little William and Lilly Lalee,—so that the whole crew were now up and ready for action.
A hasty déjeuner à la matelot served for the morning repast; after which Snowball and the sailor, accompanied by the boy, climbed once more upon the back of the cachalot to resume the operations which had been suspended for the night; while the girl, as usual, remained in charge of the Catamaran.
Chapter Eighty.
Suspicious Sounds.
The ex-cook, in the lead of those who ascended to the summit of the carcass, had some difficulty in finding his kitchen; but, after groping some time over the glutinous epidermis of the animal, he at length laid his claws upon the edge of the cavity.
The others joined him just as he had succeeded in inserting a bit of fresh wick; and soon after a strong flame was established, and a fresh spitful of shark-steaks hung frizzling over it.
Nothing more could be done than wait until the meat should be done. There was no “basting” required,—only an occasional turning of the steaks and a slight transposition of them on the harpoon spit,—so that each should have due exposure to the flame.
These little culinary operations needed only occasional attention on the part of the cook. Snowball, who preferred the sedentary pose, as soon as he saw his “range” in full operation, squatted down beside it. His companions remained standing.
Scarcely five minutes had passed, when the negro was seen to make a start as if some one had given him a kick in the shin. Simultaneously with that start the exclamation “Golly!” escaped from his lips.
“What be the matter, Snowy?” interrogated Brace.
“Hush! Hab ye no hear nuffin’?”
“No,” answered the sailor,—little William chiming in with the negative.
“I hab den,—I hab hear someting.”
“What?”
“Dat I doan know.”
“It’s the frizzlin’ o’ those shark-steaks; or, maybe, some sea-bird squeaking up in the air.”
“No, neyder one nor todder. Hush! Massa Brace, I hab hear some soun’ ’tirely diffrent,—somethin’ like de voice ob human man. You obsarb silence. Maybe we hear im agen.”
Snowball’s companions, though inclined to incredulity, obeyed his injunction. They might have treated it with less regard, had they not known the Coromantee to be gifted with a sense of hearing that was wonderfully acute. His largely-developed ears would have proved this capacity; but they knew that he possessed it, from having witnessed many exhibitions of it previous to that time. For this reason they yielded to his double solicitation,—to remain silent and listen.
At this moment, to the surprise of Ben Brace and William, and not a little to the astonishment of the negro, a tiny voice reached them from below,—which they all easily recognised as that of Lilly Lalee.
“O Snowball,” called out the girl, addressing herself to her especial protector, “I hear people speaking. It’s out upon the water. Do you not hear them?”
“Hush! Lilly Lally,” answered the negro, speaking down to his protégé in a sort of hoarse whisper; “hush, Lilly, pet; doan you ’peak above him Lilly Breff. Keep ’till, dat a good gal.”
The child, restrained by this string of cautionary appeals, offered no further remark; and Snowball, making a sign for his companions to continue silent, once more resumed his listening attitude.
Ben Brace and the boy, convinced by this additional testimony that the Coromantee must have heard something more than the frizzling of the shark-flesh, without saying a word, imitated his example, and eagerly bent their ears to listen.
They had not long to wait before becoming convinced that Snowball had heard something besides the spirting of the shark-steaks. They heard something more themselves. They heard sounds that could not be mistaken for those of the sea. They were the voices of Men!
They were still at some distance,—though, perhaps, not so distant as they seemed. The thick fog, which, as every one knows, has the effect of deadening sound, was to be taken into account; and, making allowance for this, the voices heard might not be such a great way off.
Whatever was the distance, it was constantly becoming less. The listeners could tell this, ere they had stood many minutes listening. Whoever gave utterance to those sounds—words they were—must be moving onward,—coming towards the carcass of the cachalot.
How were they coming? They could not be walking upon the water: they must be aboard a ship?
This interrogatory occurred to those who stood upon the whale. Could they have answered it in the affirmative, their own voices would soon have been uplifted in a joyous huzza; while the hail “Ship ahoy!” would have been sent through the sombre shadows of the mist, in the hope of its receiving an answer.
Why was the hail not heard? Why did the crew of the Catamaran stand listening to those voices without making challenge, and with looks that betokened apprehension rather than relief?
Six words that escaped from the lips of Ben Brace will explain the silence of himself and his companions, as well at the dissatisfied air that had impressed itself upon their faces. The six words were:—
“Dangnation! it be the big raft!”
Chapter Eighty One.
Unpleasant Conjectures.
“Dangnation! it be the big raft.”
Such was the singular speech that fell from the lips of the sailor, and with an accent that proclaimed it ominous. And why ominous? Why should the presence of that embarkation—known to them as the “big raft”—cause apprehension to the crew of the Catamaran?
So far as Ben Brace and little William were concerned, the question has been already answered. It may be remembered with what feelings of alarm they first listened to the voices of Snowball and Lilly Lalee,—heard in a similar manner during the darkness of the night,—and with what suspicious caution they had made their approach to the Coromantee in the middle of his casks. It may be remembered for what reason they were thus suspicious, for it was then given,—a dread on the part of William—and a great one, too—of being devoured by that cannibal crew; and on the part of his generous protector a fear of becoming a victim to their revenge.
The same motive for their fears still existed; and their apprehension of being approached by the raft was as unabated as ever.
Snowball’s dread of the Pandora’s people might not have been so acute, but for a certain circumstance that came before his mind. He had been made aware,—by sundry ill-usage he had received from the slaver’s captain and mate, just previous to the climax of the catastrophe,—that he was himself regarded as the author of it. He knew he had been; and he supposed that the thing must have become known to the rest of the crew. He had not encountered them afterwards; and well had it been for him,—for certainly they would have wreaked their vengeance upon him without stint Snowball had sense enough to be aware of this; and therefore his aversion to any further intercourse with the castaways of the lost ship was quite as strong as that of either Ben Brace or the boy.
As for Lilly Lalee, her fears were due to a less definite cause, and only arose from observing the apprehension of her companions.
“De big raff,” said Snowball, mechanically repeating the sailor’s last words. “You b’lieve ’im be dat, Massa Brace?”
“Shiver my timbers if I know what to think, Snowy! If it be that—”
“Ef ’im be dat, wha’ den?” inquired the Coromantee, seeing that Brace had stopped short in what he was going to say.
“Why, only that we’re in an ugly mess. There’s no reason to think they have picked up a stock o’ provisions, since we parted wi’ them. I don’t know how they’ve stuck it out,—that is, supposin’ it be them. They may have got shark-meat like ourselves; or they have lived upon—”
The sailor suddenly suspended his speech, glancing towards William, as if what he was about to say had better not reach the ears of the lad.
Snowball, however, understood him,—as was testified by a significant shake of the head.
“As for water,” continued the sailor, “they had some left; but not enough to have lasted them to this time. They had rum,—oceans o’ that,—but it ’ud only make things worse. True, they mout a caught some o’ the rain in their shirts and tarpaulins, as we did; but they weren’t the sort to be careful o’ it wi’ a rum-cask standin’ by; an’ I dar say, by this time, though they may have some’at to eat,—as you knows, Snowy,—they’ll be dyin’ for a drop o’ drink. In that case—”
“In dat case, dey rob us ob de whole stock we hab save. Den we perish fo’ sartin.”
“Sure o’ that, at least,” continued the sailor. “But they wouldn’t stop by robbin’ us o’ our precious water. They’d take everything; an’ most likely our lives into the bargain. Let us hope it ain’t them we’ve heard.”
“Wha’ you say, Master Brace? ’Pose ’um be de capten an’ dem odders in de gig? Wha’ you tink?”
“It mout,” answered the sailor. “I warn’t thinkin’ o’ them. It mout be; an’ if so, we han’t so much to fear as from t’ other ’uns. They arn’t so hard up, I should say; or even if they be, there arn’t so many o’ ’em to bully us. There were only five or six o’ them. I should be good for any three o’ that lot myself; an’ I reckon you an’ Will’m here could stan’ a tussle wi’ the others. Ah! I wish it war them. But it arn’t likely: they had a good boat an’ a compass in it; and if they’ve made any use o’ their oars, they ought to be far from here long afore this. You’ve got the best ears, nigger: keep them well set, an’ listen. You know the voices o’ the ole Pan’s crew. See if you can make ’em out.”
During the above dialogue, which had been carried on in an undertone,—a whisper, in fact,—the mysterious voices had not been again distinguished. When first heard, they appeared to proceed from two or more men engaged in conversation; and, as we have said, were only very indistinct,—either from the speakers being at a distance or talking in a low tone of voice.
The Catamarans now listened, expecting to hear some words pronounced in a louder tone; and yet not wishing to hear them. Rather would they that those voices should never again sound in their ears.
For a time it seemed us if they were going to have this wish gratified. Full ten minutes elapsed, and no sound reached their ears, either of human or other voice.
This silence was at first satisfactory; but all at once a reflection came across the mind of Ben Brace, which gave a new turn to his thoughts and wishes.
What if the voices heard had come from a different sort of men? Why should they be those of the slaver’s castaway crew,—either the ruffians on the raft or the captain’s party in the gig? What, after all, if they had proceeded from the decks of the whaler?
The old whalesman had not thought of this before; and, now that he did think of it, it caused such a commotion in his mind, that he could hardly restrain himself from crying out “Ship ahoy!”
He was hindered, however, by a quick reflection that counselled him to caution. In case of its not being the whaler’s men that had been heard it must be those of the slaver; and the hail would but too certainly be the precursor to his own destruction, as well as that of his companions.
In a whisper he communicated his thoughts to Snowball, who became equally affected by them,—equally inclined to cry “Ship ahoy!” and alike conscious of the danger of doing so.
A strife of thought was now carried on in the bosoms of both. It was lamentable to reflect, that they might be close to a ship,—within hailing distance of her,—which could at once have rescued them from all the perils that surrounded them; and that this ship might be silently gliding past, shrouded from their sight under that thick fog,—in another hour to be far off upon the ocean, never to come within hailing distance again!
A single word—a shout—might save them; and yet they dared not utter it; for the same shout might equally betray, and lead to their destruction.
They were strongly tempted to risk the ambiguous signal. For some seconds they stood wavering between silence and “Ship ahoy!” but caution counselled the former, and prudence at length triumphed.
This course was not adopted accidentally. A process of reasoning that passed through the mind of the old whalesman,—founded upon his former professional experiences,—conducted him to it.
If it be the whale-ship, reasoned he, she must have come back in search of the cachalot. Her crew must have known that they had killed it. The “drogues” and flag proved that belief on their part, and the ex-whalesman knew that it would be well worth their while to return in search of the whale. It was this very knowledge that had sustained his hopes, and delayed him so long by its carcass. A whale, which would have yielded nearly a hundred barrels of spermaceti, was a prize not to be picked up every day in the middle of the ocean; and he knew that such a treasure would not be abandoned without considerable search having first been made to recover it.
All this was in favour of the probability that the voices heard had proceeded from the whale-ship; and if so, it was farther probable that in the midst of that fog, while bent upon such an errand, the crew would not care to make way; but, on the contrary, would “lay to,” and wait for the clearing of the atmosphere.
In that case the Catamarans might still expect to see the welcome ship when the fog should rise; and with this hope they came to the determination to keep silence.
The hour was still very early,—the sun scarce yet above the horizon. When that luminary should appear, his powerful rays would soon dissipate the darkness; and then, if not before, would they ascertain whether those voices had proceeded from the throats of monsters or of men.
Chapter Eighty Two.
An informal Inquest.
They did not have to stay for the scattering of the fog. Long before the sun had lifted that veil from off the face of the sea, the crew of the Catamaran had discovered the character of their neighbours. They were not friends, but dire enemies,—the very enemies they so much dreaded.
The discovery was not delayed. It was made soon after, and in the following manner:—
The three—Snowball, the sailor, and little William—had kept their place on the carcass of the cachalot, all three attentively listening,—the two last standing up, and the former in a reclining attitude, with his huge ear laid close to the skin of the whale,—as though he believed that to be a conductor of sound. There was no need for them to have been thus straining their ears: for when a sound reached them at length, it was that of a voice,—so harsh and loud, that a deaf man might almost have heard it.
“Sacré!” exclaimed the voice, apparently pronounced in an accent of surprise, “look here, comrades! Here’s a dead man among us!”
Had it been the demon of the mist that gave utterance to these speeches, they could not have produced a more fearful effect upon those who heard them from the back of the cachalot. The accent, along with that profane shibboleth, might have proceeded from anyone who spoke the language of France; but the tone of the voice could not be mistaken. It had too often rung in their ears with a disagreeable emphasis. “Massa Le Grow, dat am,” muttered the negro. “Anybody tell dat.”
Snowball’s companions made no reply. None was required. Other voices rose up out of the mist.
“A dead man!” shouted a second. “Sure enough. Who is it?”
“It’s the Irishman!” proclaimed a third. “See! He’s been killed! There’s a knife sticking between his ribs! He’s been murdered!”
“That’s his own knife,” suggested some one. “I know it; because it once belonged to me. If you look you’ll find his name on the haft. He graved it there the very day he bought it from me.”
There was an interval of silence, as if they had paused to confirm the suggestion of the last speaker.
“You’re right,” said one, resuming the informal inquest. “There’s his name, sure enough,—Larry O’Gorman.”
“He’s killed himself!” suggested a voice not hitherto heard. “He’s committed suicide!”
“I don’t wonder at his doing so,” said another, confirmingly. “He expected to have to die anyhow; and I suppose he thought the sooner it was off his mind the better it would be for him.”
“How’s that?” inquired a fresh speaker, who appeared to dissent from the opinions of those that had preceded him. “Why should he expect to die any more than the rest of us?”
“You forget, mate, that the fight was not finished between him and Monsieur Le Gros?”
“No, I don’t forget it. Well?”
“Well, yourself!”
“It don’t follow he was to be the next to die,—not as I can see. Look at this, comrades! There’s been foul play here! The Irishman’s been stabbed with his own knife. That’s plain enough; but it is not so sure he did it himself, Why should he? I say again, there’s been foul play?”
“And who do you accuse of foul play?”
“I don’t accuse anyone. Let them bring the charge, as have seen something. Somebody must know how this came about. There’s been a murder. Can anyone tell who did it?”
There was a pause of silence of more than a minute in duration. No one made answer. If anyone knew who was the murderer, they failed to proclaim it.
“Look here, mates!” put in one, whose sharp voice sounded like the cry of a hyena, “I’m hungry as a starved shark. Suppose we suspend this inquest, till we’ve had breakfast. After that we can settle who’s done the deed,—if there’s been anyone, except the man himself. What say ye all?”
The horrid proposal was not replied to by anyone. The loud shout that succeeded it sprang from a different cause; and the words that were afterwards uttered had no reference to the topic under consideration.
“A light! a light!” came the cry, vociferated by several voices.
“It’s the light we saw last night. It’s the galley-fire! There’s a ship within a hundred yards of us!”
“Ship ahoy! ship ahoy!”
“Ship ahoy! what ship’s that?”
“Why the devil don’t you answer our hail?”
“To the oars, men! to the oars. Sacré-dieu! The lubbers must be asleep. Ship ahoy! ship ahoy!”
There was no mistaking the signification of these speeches. The sailor and Snowball exchanged glances of despair. Both had already looked behind them. There, blazing fiercely up, was the fire of spermaceti, with the shark-steaks browning in its flame. In the excitement of the moment they had forgotten all about it. Its light, gleaming through the fog, had betrayed their presence to those upon the raft; and the order issued to take to the oars, with the confused plashing that quickly followed, told the Catamarans that the big raft was about to bear down upon them!
Chapter Eighty Three.
Slipping the Cable.
“Dar coming on!” muttered Snowball. “Wha’ we better do, Massa Brace? Ef we stay hya dey detroy us fo’ sartin.”
“Stay here!” exclaimed the sailor, who no longer spoke in whispers, since such would no longer avail. “Anything but that. Quick, Snowy,—quick, Will’m! Back down to the deck o’ our craft. Let’s make all speed, and cast off from the karkiss o’ the whale. There be time enough yet; and then it’ll be, who’s got the heels. Don’t be so bad skeeart, Snowy. The ole Catamaran be a trim craft. I built her myself, wi’ your help, nigger; an’ I’ve got faith in her speed. We’ll outsail ’em yet.”
“Dat we will, Massa Brace,” assented Snowball, as, close following the sailor, he glided down the rope on to the deck of the Catamaran, where little William had already arrived.
It was the work of only a few minutes to cut the tiny cable by which the little embarkation had been attached to the fin of the cachalot, and push the craft clear of its moorings.
But, short as was the time, during its continuance the sun had produced a wonderful change in that oceanic panorama.
The floating fog, absorbed by his fervid rays, had almost disappeared from the deep, or at all events had become so dissipated that the different objects composing that strange tableau in the proximity of the dead cachalot could all be seen by a single coup d’oeil; and were also in sight of one another.
There was the huge carcass itself, looming like a great black rock above the surface of the sea. Just parting from its side was the little Catamaran, with its sail set, and its crew,—consisting of two men and a boy,—the little Portuguese girl appearing as a passenger,—the two men energetically bending to the oars while the boy held hold of the rudder.
Scarce a hundred yards astern was the larger embarkation,—supporting its score of dark forms,—some seated, and straining at the oars,—some steering,—others attending to the sail; and one or two standing by the head, shouting directions to the rest,—all apparently in wonder at the tableau thus suddenly disclosed, and uncertain what to make of it, or what course to pursue!
The occupants of the great raft were infinitely more astonished than those of the Catamaran. On the part of the latter there was no longer any astonishment. On recognising the voices taking part in that ceremonious inquest they had comprehended all. The surprise they had at first felt was now changed into terror.
The men on the raft were still under the influence of astonishment; and no wonder. The apparition that had so suddenly loomed up before their eyes,—at first obscurely seen through the fog, but gradually becoming more distinct,—was enough to cause any amount of surprise. Such a grouping of strange objects in such a situation! The huge carcass of a whale,—a fire upon its back, with bright flames blazing upward,—a crane over the fire with the curious flitches suspended from it,—a raft, in some respects resembling their own, supported by empty casks, and carrying a sail, with four human beings seen upon its deck,—all these formed a series of phenomena, or facts, that was enough to have excited the surprise of the most indifferent observers. Some of the men were even speechless with wonder, and so continued for a time, while others gave vent to their astonishment in loud shouts and excited gesticulations.
That first order issued by Le Gros—for it was his voice that had been heard giving it—had no other object than to cause a rapid movement towards the dark mass, or rather the beacon seen blazing upon its summit. The order had been instantly obeyed; for there was an instinctive apprehension on the part of all that, as before, the light might again vanish from their view.
As they drew nearer, however, and the fog continued to disperse, they obtained a fairer view. Their surprise was not much diminished, though their comprehension of the objects before them became rapidly clearer.
The retreat of the Catamarans—for the movements of the latter proclaimed this design—was of itself suggestive; and, perhaps, more than aught else, enabled those from whom they were retreating to comprehend the situation.
At first they could not even conjecture who they were that occupied the little raft. They saw four human beings upon it; but the mist was still thick enough to hinder them from having a clear view of either their forms, faces, or features. Through the filmy atmosphere to recognise them was impossible. Had there been but two, and had the embarkation that carried them been a mere platform of planks, they might have shaped a conjecture. They remembered that upon such a structure Ben Brace and the boy had given them the slip; and it might be them. But who were the two others? And whence came the six water-casks, the sail, and other paraphernalia seen upon the escaping craft?
They did not stay to waste time in conjectures. It was enough for them to perceive that the four individuals thus seen were trying to get out of their reach. This was prima facie proof that they had something worth carrying along with them; perhaps water!
Some one made use of the word. It was like proclaiming a reprieve to a wretch upon the scaffold about to be launched into eternity. It caused such excitement in the minds of the motley crew—all of them suffering from extreme thirst—that, without further hesitancy, they bent eagerly to their oars,—putting forth the utmost effort of their strength in chase of the Catamaran.
Chapter Eighty Four.
Chapter Lxxxiv.
The Chase.
Half pulling, half trusting to the sail, in a few seconds they were alongside the carcass of the cachalot. They saw what it was and divined how it came to be there; though still puzzled by the pyrotechnic display exhibited on its summit.
As they passed under the shadow of the huge mass some proposed that they should stay by it,—alleging that it would furnish food for all; but this proposal was rejected by the majority.
“Pardieu!” exclaimed the directing voice of Le Gros; “we have food a plenty. It’s drink we want now. There’s no water upon the whale; and there must be some in possession of these runaways, whoever they be. Let us first follow them! If we overhaul them, we can come back. If not, we can return all the same!”
This proposal appeared too reasonable to be rejected. A muttered assent of the majority decided its acceptance; and the raft, yielding to the renewed impulse of the rowers, swept past the carcass,—leaving both the black mass and the blazing beacon astern.
As if further to justify the course of action he had counselled, Le Gros continued—
“No fear about our finding the dead fish. This fog is clearing away. In half an hour there won’t be a trace of it. We shall be able to make out the carcass if the whale twenty miles off,—especially with the smoke of that infernal fire to guide us. Pull like the devil! Be sure of it, there’s water in one of those casks we see. Only think of it,—water!”
It scarce needed the repetition of this magic word to stimulate his thirsty companions. They were already pulling with all their strength.
For about ten minutes the chase continued,—both the pursued and the pursuer equally enveloped in vapour. They were less than two hundred yards apart, and virtually within view,—though not so near as to distinguish one another’s features. Each crew could make out the forms of the other; but only to tell that they were human beings clad in some sort of costume.
In this respect the Catamarans had the advantage. They knew who were their pursuers; and all about them.
The latter were still in a state of ignorance as to who were the four individuals so zealously endeavouring to avoid an interview with them. They could perceive that only two of them were full-grown men, and that the other two were of smaller size; but this gave them no clew for the identification of the fugitives.
Of course it did not occur to any of them to think over the rest of the Pandora’s people; and even if it had, there was no one who would have for a moment supposed that either the black cook, Snowball, or the little Portuguese pickaninny,—rarely seen upon the slaver’s deck,—could be among the survivors.
Such a conjecture never occurred to any of the ruffians upon the great raft; and therefore they were continuing the chase still ignorant of the identity of those who seemed so desirous of escaping them.
It was only after the fog had floated entirely away,—or grown so thin as to appear but transparent film,—that the pursuers identified those they were pursuing.
Then did their doubts cease and their conjectures come to a termination.
Of the four forms distinguishable upon the deck of the escaping craft, there was one that could not be mistaken.
That huge, rounded bust covered with its sable epidermis—for the negro had stripped to his work,—surmounted by a spherical occiput,—could belong to no living creature but the ex-cook of the Pandora. It was Snowball to a certainty!
A general shout proclaimed the recognition; and for some moments the air was rent with the voices of his ci-devant comrades calling upon the Coromantee to “come to an anchor.”
“Lie to, Snowball!” cried several of his old comrades. “Why have you cut your cable in that fashion? Hold on till we come up. We mean you no harm!”
Snowball did hold on; though not in the sense that his former associates desired. On the contrary, their request only stimulated him to fresh exertions, to avoid the renewal of an acquaintance which he knew would certainly end in his ruin.
The Coromantee was not to be cajoled. With Ben Brace by his side, muttering wholesome counsel, he lent a deaf ear to the proposal of the pursuers; and only answered it by pulling more energetically at his oar.
What had been only a request, now became a demand,—accompanied by threats and protestation. Snowball was menaced with the most dire vengeance; and told of terrible punishments that awaited him on his capture.
Their threats had no more influence than their solicitations; and they who had given utterance to them arriving after a time, at this conviction, ceased talking altogether.
Snowball’s silent, though evidently determined, rejection of their demands had the effect of irritating those who had made them; and stimulated by their spite with more energy than ever did they bend themselves to the task of overtaking the fugitive craft.
Two hundred yards still lay between pursuer and pursued. Two hundred yards of clear, unobstructed ocean. Was that distance to become diminished, to the capture of the Catamaran; or was it to be increased, to her escape?
Chapter Eighty Five.
Nearer and Nearer.
Were the Catamarans to escape or be captured? Though not propounded as above, this was the question that occupied the minds of both crews,—the pursued and the pursuing.
Both were doing their very utmost,—the former to make their escape, the latter to prevent it; and very different were the motives by which the two parties were actuated. The occupants of the lesser raft believed themselves to be rowing and sailing for their lives; and they were not far astray in this belief; while those upon the larger embarkation were pulling after them with the most hostile intentions,—to rob them of everything they had got,—even their lives included.
So went they over the wide ocean: the pursued exerting themselves under the influence of fear; the pursuer, under that of a ferocious instinct.
In sailing qualities the Catamaran was decidedly superior to the larger raft; and had the wind been only a little fresher she would soon have increased the distance between herself and her pursuer.
Unfortunately it was a very gentle breeze that was blowing at the time; and therefore it was a contest of speed that would most likely have to be decided by the oars. In this respect the Catamaran laboured under a great disadvantage,—she could only command a single pair of oars; while, taking into account the various implements—capstan-bars and handspikes—possessed by her competitor, nearly a dozen oars might be reckoned upon. In fact, when her crew had got fairly settled down to the chase, quite this number of men could be seen acting as rowers.
Though their strokes were by no means either regular or efficient, still did they produce a rate of speed greater than that of the Catamaran; and the crew of the latter saw, to their dismay, that their pursuers were gaining upon them.
Not very rapidly, but sufficiently so to be perceived, and to inspire them with the dread belief, that in course of time they would be overtaken.
Under this belief, men of a despairing turn of mind would have ceased to exert themselves, and yielded to a fate that appeared almost certain to ensue.
But neither the English sailor nor the Coromantee sea-cook were individuals of the yielding kind. They were both made of sterner stuff,—and even when the chase was undoubtedly going against them, they were heard muttering to each other words of encouragement, and a mutual determination never to lay down their oars, so long as six feet of water separated them from their unpitying pursuers.
“No,” ejaculated the sailor, “it ’ud be no use. They’d show us no more marcy than so many sharks. I know it by their ways. Don’t lose a stroke, Snowy. We may tire ’em out yet.”
“Nebba fear fo’ me, Massa Brace!” replied the Coromantee. “A keep pullin’ so long’s de be a poun’ o’ trength in ma arms, or a bit o’ breff in ma body. Nebba fear!”
It might appear as though the crew of the Catamaran were now contending against fate, and without hope. This, however, was not the case; for there was still something like a hope to cheer them on, and nerve them to continue their exertions. What was it?
The answer to this interrogatory would have been found by anyone who could have looked upon the sea,—at some distance astern of the chase.
There might have been observed an appearance upon the water, which betokened it different from that through which they were making their way.
It resembled a dark, shadowy line, extending athwart the horizon. It might not have attracted the notice of an ordinary observer, but to the eye of Ben Brace,—as he sat by his oar facing it,—that dark line had a peculiar signification.
He knew that it denoted rougher water, and a stiffer breeze than that blowing upon them; and from this, as well as the clouds fast gathering astern, he knew there was a wind coming from that quarter.
He had imparted his observation to Snowball, and it was this that continued to inspire them with a hope of ultimate escape. Both believed that, with a strong wind in their favour, they would have the advantage of the pursuer; and so, while still bending all their energies to the propulsion of the Catamaran, they kept their eyes almost continually fixed upon the sea astern,—even with a more anxious glance than that with which they regarded their pursuers.
“If we can keep out o’ their way,” muttered he to his fellow oarsman, “only twenty minutes longer! By that time yonder breeze ’ll be down on us; and then we’ll ha’ some chance. There be no doubt but they’re gainin’ on us now. But the breeze be a gainin’ on them,—equally, if not faster. O if we only had a puff o’ yonder wind! It be blowin’ fresh and strong. I can see it curlin’ up the water not three knots astarn o’ the big raft. Pull for your life, Snowy. Shiver my timbers! they be a gainin’ on us faster than ever!”
There was a despairing tone in these last words, that told how fearful appeared their situation to the captain of the Catamaran; and the sign of assent made by Snowball in reply,—an ominous shake of the head,—showed that the ex-cook shared the apprehensions of his comrade.