Chapter Thirty Two.
A Ring Performance.
It might be supposed that the shark would have rushed instantaneously upon its antagonist, regardless of aught save making a meal of him. But no, the zygaena, notwithstanding its great voracity, like the rest of its tribe, is endowed with certain instincts of caution. The sea-tiger, as well as that of the land, can tell instinctively whether the object of its attack is likely to become an easy prey, or turn out a dangerous adversary.
Some such—shall we call it an idea?—seemed to enter the unshapely skull of the hammer-head,—suggested no doubt by the bold attitude which Snowball had assumed. In all likelihood, had the negro been making away, instead of swimming towards it, and showing signs of a desire to escape, its onset would have been made on the instant.
As it was, the shark saw itself vis-à-vis to an adversary nearly as large as itself and quite as courageous; and it is possible also that its pilot-fish,—a brace of which had advanced close to Snowball’s snout, and after submitting his dusky carcass to a brief examination returned to their master,—it is just possible that these emissaries had reported to their patron, that the game he was in pursuit of must be approached with caution.
At all events something had been communicated that produced a sudden change in the tactics of the zygaena. Instead of rushing recklessly on to the attack,—or even keeping up the swimming pace by which it had hitherto been making its approach,—on arriving within some half-score fathoms of Snowball’s face, it gradually slackened speed, until its brown, fan-like fins, gently oscillating along its sides seemed no longer to propel its body through the water.
Moreover, on drawing nearer, it swerved slightly from its course,—as if with the design either of attacking its adversary in the rear, or passing him altogether!
Strange enough, the two parasites appeared to direct this movement: for both kept swimming alongside the zygaena, one of them opposite each of its huge eyeballs.
The negro seemed slightly perplexed by this unexpected manoeuvre. He had anticipated an instantaneous attack, and had made every preparation to receive and repel it. He had even taken the knife from his teeth, and was holding it tightly clutched in his right hand, ready to deal his deadly blow.
The shyness of the shark produced a disappointment.
Something besides: for it now occurred to Snowball that the cunning zygaena was trying to pass him, with the design of making a razzia towards the helpless party in his rear.
The moment this suspicion arose to him he turned short in the water, and struck out in a direction that would enable him to head the shark, and, if possible, intercept it.
Whether the creature intended to pursue his original plan of attacking the sailor and his charge, or whether he was manoeuvring to turn the Coromantee, it mattered not. In either case Snowball was pursuing the correct strategy. He knew that if his supple antagonist could once get round to his rear, his chances of safety for himself or the others would be sadly diminished. Should the zygaena once get past him and continue on towards the sailor, swift swimmer as Snowball was, he could have no chance of overtaking a fish.
At this crisis a thought occurred to him which promised to avert the calamity he most dreaded,—that is, the shark getting past him, and continuing on to the others. The thought found expression in speech.
“Ho! Massa Brace!” he cried, once more taking the steel from between his teeth. “Swim roun’ to de right. Keep a-gwine in de circle. For de Lord sake, keep ahind me, or you loss fo’ sartin!”
The sailor scarcely needed the counsel. He saw the danger before Snowball had spoken, and had already commenced the movement which the Coromantee was requesting him to make.
Once more the tableau changed. The dramatis persona in their relative positions first formed an isosceles triangle, then a scalene, afterwards a right line. Now all were moving in a circle, or rather in three circles concentric to one another; the sailor, with his charge, revolving round the centre, Snowball in mid radius, while the shark, flanked by his satellites, went gliding along the outer circumference, his lurid eyes glaring continually inward, as if watching for an opportunity to break the line so carefully guarded by the Coromantee!
For full five minutes was this “ring” performance kept up, without any great alteration occurring in the relative positions of the parties. But it was a game in which the outside player had all the advantage; for, although the zygaena had by far the greater distance to traverse, what was but sport to it was fatigue and the danger of drowning to its adversaries.
Had its skull been of a different formation, and filled with a better set of brains, it would have endeavoured to keep up that game, without in the least degree changing the mode of playing it. In due time, its chief antagonist, Snowball, must have cried quarter or gone to the bottom; and far sooner must have sunk the weighted swimmer in his wake.
But sharks, like other creatures both aquatic and terrestrial, have their moments of impatience and anger; and the zygaena, yielding to these passions, common to both piscine and human nature, at length determined to break through the rules of the game, and bring the play to an abrupt termination.
In obedience to this impulse, it suddenly swerved from its circular course, and, heading towards the spot where Ben Brace, with Lilly Lalee clinging to his shoulder, was performing his shorter revolutions, it made a reckless and determined rush for the centre,—equally regardless of the admonition of its brace of monitors and the cold steel of the Coromantee, gleaming clear under the water through which it would have to make its way. So near had it to pass to the negro’s flat nose that its glutinous skin would be almost in contact with his prominent lips, and with his outstretched hand he need have no difficulty in striking his slippery antagonist.
Had Snowball been anticipating this change of tactics, he could not have acted more adroitly, or with greater promptness. As the zygaena was gliding onward, and just as its rough pectoral passed within an inch of his nose, he suddenly returned the knife between his teeth, and, simultaneously using both hands and limbs, he sprang upward in the waiter, and, with a vigorous effort, launched himself on its back!
In the next instant he was seen,—or might have been seen,—with one hand, the left, firmly grasping the bony protuberance of the zygaena’s left eye, his muscular fingers deeply imbedded in the socket, while his right, clutching the long knife, was inflicting a series of stabs against the side of his adversary, now flashing high in the air, now gleaming under water, going up and down with all the measured regularity of a trip-hammer.
When it pleased the Coromantee to dismount from his slippery saddle, the zygaena floated by his side,—a carcass stained with its own blood, that for fathoms around encrimsoned the azure waters of the ocean!
Chapter Thirty Three.
The Chase of the Catamaran.
As we have said, little William, standing near the stern of the Catamaran, had watched the spectacle with suspended breath. It was only after seeing the zygaena float lifeless on the water, and becoming satisfied that Snowball had come out of the struggle safe as well as victorious, that the boy gave utterance to a shout. Then, unable longer to restrain himself, he raised a cry of joyful exultation.
It was neither prolonged nor repeated. It had scarce passed his lips, ere it was succeeded by another of very different import. This was the very opposite to a shout of joy: rather was it a cry of consternation. That little drama of the ocean, of which he had been the sole spectator, was not yet over. There was another act to come of equally thrilling interest with that just ended,—an act in which he himself would be called upon to play an important part along with the others.
It had already commenced; and the wild cry which escaped from the lips of the sailor-lad announced his first perception of the new phase into which the drama had entered.
Absorbed in the contemplation of the combat between Snowball and the shark, he had hitherto remained unobservant of a circumstance of the most alarming character,—one that threatened not only the destruction of the Coromantee, but Ben Brace as well, and Lilly Lalee, and in time little William himself,—in short, of the whole party.
The lives of all were at that moment in the hands of the sailor-lad, or if not in his hands, then were all of them doomed to certain destruction.
You may be wondering what strange circumstance this was, fraught with such a terrible contingency. There was nothing mysterious in or about it. It was simply that the Catamaran, carrying its large spread sail, was drifting to leeward, and rapidly increasing the distance between itself and the swimmers.
Relieved from the anxiety with which he had regarded the conflict, little William at once became aware of this new danger,—hence his cry of consternation. Ben Brace either perceived it at the same instant, or else the shout of his protégé had drawn his attention to it; for, quick succeeding the latter, the voice of the sailor went rolling across the water in words of direction intended for the ears of little William.
“Will’m! Will’m!” shouted he, raising his lips above the surface so as to enunciate more distinctly. “For marcy’s sake, lad, lay hold on the steerin’ oar. Try to tack round, or we’re lost one an’ all o’ us!”
At the same instant Snowball sputtered out some very similar orders; but being sadly out of breath from his exertions in the long-continued struggle with the zygaena, what proceeded from his mouth less resembled words than the snorting of a porpoise; and was, in truth, altogether unintelligible.
Little William needed no instructions,—neither to hear nor understand them. He had perceived the danger, and, with intuitive promptness, had commenced taking measures to avoid it. Partly guided by his own thoughts and partly by the directions of Ben Brace, he sprang suddenly towards the steering-oar; and, grasping it in both hands, he worked with all his might to bring the Catamaran about. After a time he succeeded in getting her head as close to the wind as such a craft was capable of sailing, but it soon became evident to him that the manoeuvre would be of little or no avail. Although the raft did not make leeway quite as much as before, still with its great sail, rudely bent as it was, she made sufficient to preserve the distance from the swimmers; and, as William anxiously observed, still slightly increasing. Even Snowball, who, after giving the coup de grâce to the zygaena, had struck direct towards the Catamaran,—even he, unencumbered by aught save his wet shirt and trousers, although easily passing the others in his course, did not appear to gain an inch upon the runaway raft.
It was an anxious time for all parties; and the anxiety reached its height when they perceived, as one and all soon did, that the unmanageable craft was keeping its distance, if not gaining a greater.
That state of things could not continue long. Both the swimmers had already begun to show signs of flagging. Snowball, sea-duck that he was, might have held out a good while; but the sailor, weighted with Lalee, must soon “go under.” Even Snowball could not swim forever; and, unless some incident should arise to change the character of this aquatic chase, and arrest the Catamaran in her leeward course, sooner or later must the Coromantee become also the prey of the all-swallowing ocean.
For several minutes—they seemed hours to all—did the struggle continue between man and Catamaran, without any very great advantage in favour of either. It is true some change had taken place in the relative positions of the parties. The Coromantee, at starting in pursuit of the raft, had been some fathoms in the wake of Ben Brace and his protégé. They were now in his wake, falling, alas! still farther behind him. Unfortunately for all, Snowball, while increasing his distance from them, was not lessening it from the Catamaran; and therefore the advantage he was gaining over the sailor could be of no use, so long as the raft proved swifter as a sailer than he was as a swimmer.
Snowball’s original idea in striking out in pursuit of the Catamaran was to get aboard; and, by making a better use of the steering-oar than he had hitherto done, to bring the craft back within saving distance of the exhausted swimmer. Confident in his natatory powers, he had at first believed this feat to be not only possible, but probable and easy. It was only after several minutes spent in the pursuit, and the distance between him and the Catamaran seemed to grow greater instead of less, that the negro really began to feel anxiety about the result.
This anxiety kept increasing as the minutes passed, and the broad stretch of blue water between him and the Catamaran appeared to grow no narrower, strike out as he would with all the strength of his sinewy arms, and kick as he might with all the muscular energy that lay in his stout legs.
His anxiety became anguish, when, after one of his most vigorous efforts, he believed, or fancied, that all had been in vain, and that the Catamaran had actually gained upon him. Whether fancy or not, it produced conviction in his mind that to overtake the craft was impossible; and all at once he discontinued the attempt. He did not, however, remain stationary in the water. Far from that. On abandoning the pursuit of the Catamaran, he turned like an otter, and looked back in the direction from which he had come. In this direction, nearly two hundred fathoms distant, two dark objects, so close together as to seem one, were visible over the “curl” of the water.
They were just visible to an eye elevated several inches above the surface; and Snowball was obliged to buoy himself into an erect attitude,—like a seal taking a survey of the circle around it, or a dog pitched unexpectedly into a deep pond,—before he could see them.
He saw them, however; he knew what they were; and, without a moment’s pause or hesitation, he recommenced cleaving the water in a line leading directly towards them.
The mind of the Coromantee, hitherto distracted by conflicting emotions, had now but one thought. It was less purpose than a despairing instinct. It was to support the child who had been intrusted to him—the Lilly Lalee—above water as long as he should have strength; and then to go down along with her into that vast, fathomless tomb, that leaves no trace and carries no epitaph!
Chapter Thirty Four.
The Sail out of Sight.
The sea-cook and the sailor were now swimming towards each other. It is true that Ben was not making very rapid way, nor did Snowball return on his course with any great alacrity. Despair had rendered the latter somewhat irresolute; and he scarcely knew why he was swimming back, unless it was to be drowned in company with the others; for drowning now appeared their inevitable fate.
Slowly as both swam, they soon came together,—the countenances of both, as they met, exhibiting that fixed, despairing look which bespeaks the utter extinction of hope.
The Catamaran was now at such a distance, that even could she have been suddenly arrested in her course, and brought to an anchor, it was doubtful whether either Snowball or the sailor could have reached her by swimming. The raft itself and the water-casks lashed around it were no longer to be seen. Only the white sail, that like a bit of fleecy cloud, equally fleeting, was fast lessening to a speck upon the distant horizon. No wonder that hope had forsaken them!
The sailor wondered that the sail was still set. During the first moments, while endeavouring to come up with the craft, he had shouted to William to let go the halliards. He had kept repeating this order, until his voice, already hoarse and faltering, grew almost inarticulate from sheet exhaustion of breath, and the rail, moreover, had drifted to such a distance that it was not likely the lad could hear him. Under this impression he had at length discontinued his feeble cries, and swam on in slow and gloomy silence, wondering why William had not obeyed his injunctions, feeling chagrin at his not doing so, and with good reason, since the lowering of the sail might have still given them some chance of overtaking the craft.
It was just as the sailor had given over calling out, and relapsed into sullen silence, that Snowball was seen returning towards him. It was an additional argument for despair this abandonment of the chase on the part of the Coromantee. When such a swimmer had given it up, Ben knew it was hopeless.
In a moment after they met face to face. The glance exchanged between them was mutually understood without a word spoken by either. Each tacitly read in the eyes of the other the dread destiny that awaited them,—near, and soon to be fulfilled,—drowning!
Snowball was the first to break the terrible silence.
“You nigh done up, Massa Ben,—you muss be! Gib me de lilly gal. You Lally! you lay hold on ma shoulder, and let Massa Brace ress a bit.”
“No,—no!” protested the sailor, in a despairing tone. “It bean’t no use. I can carry her a bit longer. ’Tain’t much longer as any o’ us ’ll be—”
“Sh! Massa Brace,” interrupted the negro, speaking in a suppressed whisper, and looking significantly towards the child. “Hope dar ’s no danger yet,” he added, in a voice intended for the ear of Lalee. “We oberhaul de Catamaran by ’m by. De wind change, and bring dat craff down on us. ’Peak in de French, Massa Ben,” he continued, at the same time adroitly adopting a patois of that language. “De pauvre jeune fille don’t understan’ de French lingo. I know it am all ober wi’ boaf you an’ me, and de gal, too but doan let her know it to de lass minute. It be no use to do dat,—only make her feel wuss.”
“Eh bien! all right!” muttered Ben, indiscriminately mingling his French and English phrases. “Pauvre enfant! She shan’t know nothin’ from me o’ what be afore her. Lord a marcy on all o’ us! I don’t see the raft any more! Whar be it? Can you see it, Snowball?”
“Gorramity, no!” replied the black, raising himself up in the water to get a better view. “Gone out o’ de sight altogedder! We nebba see dat Catamaran any more,—no, nebba!”
The additional accent of despair with which these words were uttered was scarce perceptible. Had there been a hope, it would have been shattered by the disappearance of the raft,—whose white sail was now no longer visible against the blue background of the horizon. But all hope had previously been abandoned; and this new phase of the drama produced but slight change in the minds of its chief actors. Death was already staring them in the face with that determination which promised no prospect of avoiding it, and none was cherished. The only change that occurred was in the action. The swimmers no longer directed themselves in a particular course. There was none for them to follow. With the disappearance of the sail they no longer knew in what direction to look for the raft. For all they now knew of it, it might have gone to the bottom, leaving them alone upon the bosom of the limitless ocean.
“No use swimmin’ on’ards!” said Ben, despairingly. “It’ll only waste the bit of strength that be left us.”
“No use,” assented the negro. “Less lay to, and float on de water. Dat be easier, and we can keep up de longer. Do, Massa Ben,—gib me de gal. You mo’ tired dan I. Come, lilly Lally, you grasp hold on ma shoulder! Dat’s de bess way. Come, now,—come, dear lilly gal.”
And as Snowball spoke, he swam close alongside the girl and, gently detaching her hand from the shoulder of the sailor, transferred its feeble grasp to his own.
Ben no longer offered resistance to this generous action on the part of his old comrade: for, in truth, he stood in dire necessity of the relief; and, the transfer having been effected, both continued to float upon the water, sustaining themselves with no more effort than was absolutely necessary to keep their heads above the surface.
Chapter Thirty Five.
Waiting for Death.
For several minutes the wretched castaways of the Catamaran remained in their perilous position,—almost motionless in the midst of the deep blue water,—precariously suspended upon its surface,—suspended between life and death!
Under any circumstances the situation would have been trying to the stoutest nerves,—even under circumstances where a hope of deliverance might have been indulged in. Without this it was awful.
Neither black man nor white one any longer contemplated the danger of death: both believed in its certainty.
How could they doubt it?
Had either been standing upon the scaffold, with the condemned cap drawn over his eyes and the rope adjusted around his neck, he could not have felt surer of the nearness of his end.
Both believed it to be simply a question of time; an hour or two,—perhaps not so much, since the fatigues and struggles through which they had just passed had already made sad inroads upon their strength,—but an hour or two at most, and all would be over. Both must succumb to the laws of Nature,—the laws of gravitation,—or rather of specific gravity,—and sink below the surface,—down, down into the fathomless and unknown abysm of the ocean. Along with them, sharing their sad fate, Lilly Lalee,—that pretty, uncomplaining child, the innocent victim of an ill-starred destiny, must disappear forever from a world of which she had as yet seen so little, and that little of the least favourable kind.
Throughout the whole affair the girl had shown but slight signs of the terrible affright that, under the circumstances, might have been expected. Born in a land and brought up among a people where human life was lightly and precariously held, she had been often accustomed to the spectacle of death,—which to some extent robs it of its terrors. At all events, they who are thus used appear to meet it with a more stoical indifference.
It would be a mistake to suppose that the girl appeared indifferent. Nothing of the sort. She exhibited apprehension,—fear sufficient; but whether her mind was overwhelmed by the extreme peril of the situation, or that she was still ignorant of its being extreme, certain it is that her behaviour, from beginning to end, was characterised by a calmness that seemed supernatural, or at all events superhuman. Perhaps she was sustained by the confidence she had in the brace of brave protectors swimming alongside of her,—both of whom, even in that extreme hour, carefully refrained from communicating to her the belief which they themselves in all fulness entertained,—that their lives were fast approaching to a termination.
The minds of both were fully imbued with this conviction, though not in the same degree of fulness. If possible, the white man felt more certain of the proximity of his end than did the negro. It is not easy to tell why it was so. The reason may, perhaps, be found in the fact, that the latter had been so often on the edge of the other world, had so often escaped entering it, that, despite the impossibility of escaping from his present peril,—to all appearance absolute,—there still lingered in his breast some remnant of hopefulness.
Not so with the sailor. From the bosom of Ben Brace every vestige of hope had vanished. He looked upon life as no longer possible. Once or twice the thought had actually entered his mind to put an end to the struggle, and, along with it, the agony of that terrible hour, by suspending the action of his arms, and suffering himself to sink to the bottom of the sea. He was only restrained from the suicidal act, by the influence of that instinct of our nature, which abhors self-destruction, and admonishes, or rather compels us, to abide the final moment when death comes to claim us as its own.
Thus, by different circumstances, and under different influences, were the three castaways of the Catamaran sustained upon the surface of the water,—Lilly Lalee by Snowball,—Snowball, by the slightest ray of hope still lingering in a corner of his black bosom,—the sailor by an instinct causing him to refrain from the committal of that act which, in civilised society, under all circumstances, is considered as a crime.
Chapter Thirty Six.
A Chest at Sea.
All conversation had come to an end. Even the few phrases at intervals exchanged between Snowball and the sailor,—the solemn import of which had been zealously kept from the child by their being spoken in French—were no longer heard.
The swimmers, now wellnigh exhausted, had for a long interval preserved this profound silence, partly for the reason of their being exhausted, and partly that no change had occurred in the circumstances surrounding them,—nothing that required a renewal of the conversation. The awe of approaching death,—now so near, that twenty minutes or a quarter of an hour might be regarded as the ultimate moment,—held, as if spellbound, the speech both of Snowball and the sailor.
There were no other sounds to interrupt the silence of that solemn moment,—at least none worthy of being mentioned. The slightest ripple of the water, stirred by a zephyr breeze, as it played against the bodies of the languid swimmers, might have been heard, but was not heeded. No more did the scream of the sea-mew arrest the attention of any of them, or if it did, it was only to add to the awe which reigned above and around them.
In this moment of deep silence and deepest misery, a voice fell upon the ears of the two swimmers that startled both of them, as if it had been a summons from the other world. It sounded sweet as if from the world of eternal joy. There was no mystery in the voice; it was that of the Lilly Lalee.
The child, sustained upon the shoulder of the buoyant black, was in such a position that her eyes were elevated over the surface of the water several inches above those either of him who supported her, or the sailor who swam by her side. In this situation she had a better view than either; and, as a consequence of this advantage, she saw what was visible to neither,—a dark object floating upon the surface of the sea at no great distance from the spot where the exhausted swimmers were feebly struggling to sustain themselves.
It was the announcement of this fact that had fallen with such startling effect upon the ears of the two men, simultaneously rousing both from that torpor of despair which for some time had held possession of them.
“Who you see, Lilly Lally? Who you see?” exclaimed Snowball, who was the first to interrogate the girl. “Look at ’im ’gain,—look, good lilly gal!” continued he, at the same time making an effort to elevate the shoulder which gave support to his protégé.
“Wha be it? I ain’t de raff,—de Catamaran? Eh?”
“No, no,” replied the child. “It isn’t that. It’s a small thing of a square shape. It looks like a box.”
“A box? how come dat? A box! what de debbel!”
“Shiver my timbers if ’tain’t my old sea-kit,” interrupted the sailor, rearing himself aloft in the water like a spaniel in search of wounded waterfowl.
“Sure as my name’s Ben Brace it be that, an’ nothing else!”
“Your sea-chess?” interrogated Snowball, elevating his woolly cranium above the water, so as also to command a view. “Golly! I b’lieve it am. How he come dar? You leff ’im on de raff?”
“I did,” replied the sailor. “The very last thing I had my hands upon, afore I jumped overboard. Sure I bean’t mistaken,—ne’er a bit o’ it. It be the old kit to a sartainty.”
This conversation was carried on in a quick, hurried tone, and long before it ended,—in fact at the moment of its beginning,—the swimmers had once more put themselves in motion, and were striking out in the direction of the object thus unexpectedly presented to their view.
Chapter Thirty Seven.
An improvised Life-Preserver.
Whether it should turn out to be the sea-chest of Ben Brace or no, it appeared to be a chest of some sort; and, being of wood, buoyantly floating on the water, it promised to help in supporting the swimmers,—now so utterly exhausted as to be on the point of giving up, and going to the bottom.
If the sailor had entertained any doubts as to the character of the object upon which they were advancing, they were soon brought to an end. It was a sea-chest,—his own,—to him easy of identification. Well knew he that close-fitting canvas cover, which he had himself made for it, rendered waterproof by a coat of blue paint,—well knew he those hanging handles of strong sennit, he had himself plaited and attached to it; and, as if to provide against any possible dispute about the ownership of the chest, were the letters “B.B.,”—the unmistakable initials of Ben Brace,—painted conspicuously upon its side, just under the keyhole, with a “fouled anchor” beneath, with stars and other fantastic emblems scattered around,—all testifying to the artistic skill of the owner of the kit.
The first thought of the sailor, on recognising his chest, was that some misfortune had happened to the raft, and that it had gone to pieces.
“Poor little Will’m!” said he. “If that be so, then it be all over wi’ him.”
This belief was but of short duration, and was followed by a reflection of a more pleasant kind.
“No!” he exclaimed, contradicting his first hypothesis, “It can’t be that. What could ’a broke up the raft? There ’s been no wind, nor rough weather, as could ’a done it. Ha! I have it, Snowy. It’s Will’m ’s did this. He’s throwed over the chest in the behopes it might help float us. That’s how it’s got here. Huzza for that brave boy! Let’s cling on to the kit. There may be hope for us yet.”
This suggestion was superfluous: for the idea of clinging to the kit was intuitive, and had entered the minds of both swimmers on their first perceiving it. It was with that view they had simultaneously set themselves in motion, and commenced swimming towards it.
The chest certainly offered an attractive object to men circumstanced as they were at that moment,—something more than a straw to be clutched at. It was floating bottom downwards, and lid upwards,—just as it might have been placed opposite Ben’s own bunk in the forecastle of a frigate,—and it appeared to be kept steadily balanced in this position by the weight of some iron cleeting along the bottom, which acted as ballast. Otherwise the chest sat so high upon the water, as to show that it must either be quite empty or nearly so; for the sennit handles at each end, which were several inches below the level of the lid, hung quite clear above the surface.
These handles offered the most salient points to seize upon; so tempting, too, that it was not necessary for the sailor to suggest that Snowball should lay hold of one, while he himself sought the support of the other.
This arrangement appeared to offer itself tacitly to the Instinct of each; and, on arriving near the chest, they swam to opposite ends,—and each laid hold of a handle, as soon as he came within the proper distance to grasp it.
This kept the chest properly balanced; and although the weight they added to it caused it to sink several inches in the water, to their great joy its top still stood well above the surface. Even when the light form of Lilly Lalee lay resting along the lid, there were still several inches between the water line and its upper edge,—the only place where sea-water could possibly find admission into the kit of the English sailor.
Chapter Thirty Eight.
Conjectures about the Catamaran.
In less than three minutes after coming in contact with the kit, the three castaways formed a group, curious and peculiar. On the right of the chest was the sailor, his body stretched transversely along its end, with his left arm buried to the elbow in the sennit loop forming its handle. Half of his weight being thus supported by the buoyant box, it was only necessary for him to keep his right arm in regular motion to sustain himself above the surface. This, even wearied as he was, he was enabled to accomplish without difficulty: for the new position was one rather of rest than of labour.
At the opposite end of the chest, in a pose precisely similar, the sea-cook had placed himself,—the only difference being in the uses respectively made of their arms. Snowball’s right arm was the one thrust through the handle, his left being left free for swimming.
As already hinted, Lilly Lalee had been transferred from Snowball’s shoulder to a more elevated position,—upon the top of the chest where, lying upon her breast, and grasping the projecting edge of the lid, she was enabled to keep her place without any exertion.
It is not necessary to say that this change in the situation and circumstances of the party had also produced a change in their prospects. It is true that death might have appeared as inevitable as ever. They were still at its door,—though not quite so near entering as they had been but a few minutes before. With the help of the capacious chest—forming, as it did, a famous life-preserver—they might now sustain themselves for many hours above the surface,—in fact, as long as hunger and thirst would allow them. Their holding out would be simply a question of strength; and had they been only assured of a supply of food and drink, they might have looked forward to a long voyage performed in this singular fashion: that is, provided the sea around them should keep clear of storms and sharks.
Alas! the approach of one or the other of these perils was a contingency to be looked for at any moment, and to be dreaded accordingly.
Just at that moment they were not thinking of either, nor even of the probability of perishing by hunger or its kindred appetite,—thirst. The singular coincidence that the chest should come floating that way, just when they were on the point of perishing, had produced a remarkable effect on the minds both of the sailor and the sea-cook, begetting not positive conviction, but a pleasant presentiment that there might be other and more permanent succour in store for them; and that, after all, they were not destined to die by drowning,—at least not just then Hope,—sweet, soothing hope!—had again sprung up in the bosom of both; and, along with it the determination to make a further effort for the saving of their lives. They could now exchange both speech and counsel with perfect freedom; and they proceeded to discuss the situation.
The presence of the chest required explanation. The theory, which at first sight of it had suggested itself to its owner (that the raft had gone to pieces and that the kit was one of the scattered fragments) was not tenable, nor was it entertained for a moment. There had been no convulsion, either of winds or waves, to destroy the Catamaran; and this curiously-fashioned fabric, in all its fantastic outlines, must still be intact and afloat somewhere upon the surface of the sea.
It is true they could see nothing of it anywhere; neither could Lilly Lalee, who, from her more elevated position, was instructed to survey the circle of the horizon,—a duty which the child performed with the greatest care.
If the craft had been anywhere within the distance of a league or two, the large lateen sail should have been sufficiently conspicuous to have caught the eye of the girl. But she saw it not. She saw nothing,—so ran her report,—but the sea and sky.
From this it might have been inferred (even supposing the Catamaran to be still afloat) that it must have drifted to such a distance as to have destroyed all chance of their ever overtaking it. But the sage seaman did not give way to this form of reasoning. His conjectures were of a more consolatory character,—founded upon certain data which had presented themselves to his mind. On reflection, he came to the conclusion that the presence of the sea-chest upon the bosom of the blue water was no accidental circumstance, but a design,—the design of little William.
“I be sure o’t, Snowy,” said he; “the lad ha’ chucked the kit overboard, knowin’ as how we mout overhaul it, when we could not come up wi’ the Catamaran. The chest war amidships, when I parted from it. It couldn’t a’ got into the water o’ itself no-howsomever; besides, it war full o’ heavy things, and now I’m sartin it be empty,—else how do it float so? Sure he must a’ whammelled it upside down, and spilled out the things afore he pitched it overboard. It was thoughtful o’ him; but he be just the one for that. I’ve seed him do some’at similar afore. Only think o’ the dear boy!”
And Ben, after this burst of enthusiasm, for a moment indulged his admiration in silence.
“Dat’s all berry likely,—berry likely,” was the rejoinder of the Coromantee.
“I know what he did next,” said Ben, continuing the thread of his conjectures.
“Wha’ you tink, Massa Brace?”
“He tuk in sail. I don’t know why he didn’t do it sooner; for I called to him to do that, an’ he must ha’ heerd me. I’ve jest got a idea that the fault was not his’n. When I hauled up that bit o’ canvas, I’ve a sort o’ recollection o’ puttin’ a ugly knot on the haulyards. Maybe he warn’t able, wi’ his little bits o’ digits, to get the snarl clear, as fast as mout a’ been wished; an’ that’ll explain the whole thing. Sartin he got down the sail at last,—eyther by loosin’ the belay, or cuttin’ the piece o’ rope, and that’s why there be no canvas in sight. For all that, the Catamaran can’t be so fur off. She hadn’t had time to a’ drifted to such a great distance,—’specially if the sail were got down the time as we missed it.”
“Dat am true. I miss de sail all ob a sudden,—jess as if it had come down, yard an’ all, straight slap bang.”
“Well, then, Snowy,” continued the sailor, in a tone of increased cheerfulness, “if’t be as we conjecture, the craft ain’t far ahead o’ us yet. Maybe only a knot or two; for one can’t see far over the water who happens to be neck-deep under it as we be. In any case she be sure to be lying to leuart o’ us; and, without the sail, she won’t drift faster than we can swim, nor yet so fast. Let us do the best we can to make a mile or two’s leeway; an’ then we’ll know whether the old Cat’s still crawling about, or whether she’s gin us the slip altogether. That’s the best thing we can do,—ain’t it?”
“De berry bess, Massa Brace. We can’t do nuffin’ better dan swim down de wind.”
Without further parley, the two set themselves to the task thus proposed; and one striking with his right hand, the other with his left,—both buffeting the waves with equal vigour and resolution,—they were soon sweeping onward with a velocity that caused the sea to surge along the sides of the chest, until the froth rose to the fingers of Lilly Lalee as she lay grasping its lid!
Chapter Thirty Nine.
Down the Wind.
They had not proceeded very far, when a cry from the girl caused them to suspend their exertions. While the others were occupied in propelling the chest, Lalee, kneeling upon the lid, had been keeping a lookout ahead. Something she saw had elicited that cry, which was uttered in a tone that betokened, if not joy, at least some sort of gratification.
“Wha is it, Lilly Lally?” interrogated the black, with an air of eagerness; “you see someting. Golly! am it de Cat’maran?”
“No,—it is not that. It’s only a barrel floating on the water.”
“Only a ba’l,—what sort o’ a ba’l you tink ’im?”
“I think it’s one of the empty water-casks we had tied to the raft. I’m sure it is: for I see ropes upon it.”
“It is,” echoed Ben, who, having poised himself aloft, had also caught sight of the cask. “Shiver my timbers! it do look like as if the Cat had come to pieces. But no! Tain’t that has set the cask adrift. I set it all now. Little Will’m be at the bottom o’ this too. He has cut away the lashin’s o’ the barrel, so as to gie us one more chance, in the case o’ our not comin’ across the chest. How thoughtful o’ the lad! Just like ’im, as I said it war!”
“We bess swim for de cask an’ take ’im in tow,” suggested the sea-cook; “no harm hab ’im ’longside too. If de wind ’pring up, de ole chess be no use much. De cask de berry ting den.”
“You’re right, Snowy! we musn’t leave the cask behind us. If the kit have served us a good turn, the other ’ud be safer in a rough sea. It be dead ahead, so we may keep straight on.”
In five minutes after, they were alongside the cask,—easily recognised by its rope lashings, as one of those they had left attached to the raft. The sailor at the first glance saw that some of the chords encircling it had been cut with a knife, or other sharp instrument,—not severed with any degree of exactitude, but “haggled,” as if the act had been hurriedly performed.
“Little Will’m again! He’s cut the ropes wi’ the old axe, an’ it were blunt enough to make a job for him! Huzza for the noble lad!”
“Tay!” cried Snowball, not heeding the enthusiastic outburst of the sailor. “You hold on to de chess, Massa Brace, while I climb up on de cask, and see what I can see. May be I may see de Catamaran herseff now.”
“All right, nigger. You had better do that. Mount the barrel, an’ I’ll keep a tight hold o’ the kit.”
Snowball, releasing his arm from the sennit loop, swam up to the floating cask; and, after some dodging about, succeeded in getting astride of it.
It required a good deal of dexterous manoeuvring to keep the cask from rolling, and pitching him back into the water. But Snowball was just the man to excel in this sort of aquatic gymnastics; and after a time he became balanced in his seat with sufficient steadiness to admit of his taking a fair survey of the ocean around him.
The sailor had watched his movements with a sage yet hopeful eye: for these repeated indications of both the presence and providence of his own protégé had almost convinced him that the latter would not be very distant from the spot. It was nothing more than he had prepared himself to expect, when the Coromantee, almost as soon as he had steadied himself astride of the water-cask, shouted, in a loud voice—
“The Cat’maran!—the Cat’maran!”
“Where?” cried the sailor. “To leuart?”
“Dead in dat same direcshun.”
“How fur, cookey? how fur?”
“Not so fur as you might hear de bos’n’s whissel; not more dan tree, four length ob a man-o’-war cable.”
“Enough, Snowy! What do you think best to be done?”
“De bess ting we can do now,” replied the negro, “am for me to obertake dat ere craff. As you said, de sail am down; an’ de ole Cat no go fasser dan a log o’ ’hogany wood in a calm o’ de tropic. If dis child swim affer, he soon come up; and den wif de oar an’ de help ob lilly Willy, he meet you more dan half-way,—dat fo’ sartin.”
“You think you can overtake her, Snowball?”
“I be sartin ob dat ere. You tay here wif Lilly Lally. Keep by de chess and de cask boaf,—for de latter am better dan de former. No fear, I soon bring de Cat’maran long dis way, once I get ’board o’ her.”
So saying, the negro gave the cask a “cant” to one side, slipped off into the water; and, with a final caution to his comrade to keep close to the spot where they were parting, he stretched out his muscular arms to their full extent, and commenced surging through the water,—snorting as he went like some huge cetacean of the tribe of the Mysticeti.
Chapter Forty.
Launching the Life-Preserver.
It is scarce necessary to say that, during all this time. Little William, on board the Catamaran, was half wild with anxious thoughts. He had obeyed the first instructions shouted to him by Ben Brace, and taken to the steering-oar; but, after struggling for some time to get the craft round, and seeing that his efforts were of no avail, he dropped it to comply with the still later orders given by the sailor: to let loose the halliards and lower the sail. Ben had wondered, and with a slight feeling of chagrin, why this last order had not been executed,—at least more promptly,—for at a later period he knew the sail had been lowered; but Ben was of course ignorant of the cause of the delay.
His conjecture, however, afterwards expressed, when he half-remembered having put “a ugly knot on the haulyards”; which he, little William, “maybe warn’t able to get clear as fast as mout a been wished,” was perfectly correct; as was also the additional hypothesis that the sail had been got down at last, “either by loosin’ the belay or cuttin’ the piece o’ rope.”
The latter was in reality the mode by which the sailor-lad had succeeded in lowering the sail.
As Ben had conjectured, the belaying loop had proved too much for the strength of William’s fingers; and, after several fruitless efforts to untie the knot, he had at length given it up, and, seizing the axe, had severed the halliard by cutting it through and through.
Of course the sail came down upon the instant; but it was then too late; and when William again looked out over the ocean, he saw only the ocean itself, with neither spot nor speck to break the uniformity of its boundless bosom of blue.
In that glance he perceived that he was alone,—he felt for the first time that he was alone upon the ocean!
The thought was sufficient to beget despair,—to paralyse him against all further action; and, had he been a boy of the ordinary stamp, such might have been the result. But he was not one of this kind. The spirit which had first impelled him to seek adventure by sea, proved a mind moulded for enterprise and action. It was not the sort of spirit to yield easily to despair; nor did it then.
Instead of resigning himself up to fate or chance, he continued to exert the powers both of his mind and body, in the hope that something might still be done to retrieve the misfortune which had befallen the crew of the Catamaran. He again returned to the steering-oar; and, hastily detaching it from the hook upon which it had been mounted as a rudder, he commenced using it as a paddle, and endeavoured to propel the raft against the wind.
It is scarce necessary to say that he employed all his strength in the effort; but, notwithstanding this, he soon became convinced that he was employing it in vain. The huge Catamaran lay just as Snowball had characteristically described her,—“like a log o’ ’hogany wood in a calm ob de tropic.”
Even worse than this; for, paddle as he would, the sailor-lad soon perceived that the raft, instead of making way against the wind, or even holding its ground, still continued to drift rapidly to leeward.
At this crisis another idea occurred to him. It might have occurred sooner, had his mind not been monopolised with the hope of being able to row the raft to windward. Failing in this, however, his next idea was to throw something overboard,—something that might afford a support to the swimmers struggling in the water.
The first object that came under his eyes promising such rapport was the sea-kit of the sailor. As already stated, it was amidships,—where its owner had been exploring it. The lid was open, and little William perceived that it was wellnigh empty; since its contents could be seen scattered on all sides, just as the sailor had rummaged them out, forming a paraphernalia of sufficient variety and extent to have furnished the forecastle of a frigate.
The sight of the chest, with its painted canvas covering, which Little William knew to be water-tight, was suggestive. With the lid locked down, it might act as a buoy, and serve for a life-preserver. At all events, no better appeared to offer itself; and, without further hesitation, the lad slammed down the lid, which fortunately had the trick of locking itself with a spring, and, seizing the chest by one of the sennit handles, he dragged it to the edge of the raft, gave it a final push, and launched it overboard into the blue water of the ocean.
Little William was pleased to see that the kit, even while in the water, maintained its proper position,—that is, it swam bottom downwards. It floated buoyantly, moreover, as if it had been made of cork. He was prepared for this; for he remembered having listened to a conversation in the forecastle of the Pandora, relating to this very chest, in which Ben Brace had taken the principal part, and in which the sea-going qualities of his kit had been freely and proudly commented upon. William remembered how the ci-devant man-o’-war’s-man had boasted of his craft, as he called the kit, proclaiming it “a reg’lar life-buoy in case o’ bein’ cast away at sea,” and declaring that, “if ’t war emp’y,—as he hoped it never should be,—it would float the whole crew o’ a pinnace or longboat.”
It was partly through this reminiscence that the idea of launching the chest had occurred to little William; and, as he saw it receding from the stern of the Catamaran, he had some happiness in the hope, that the confidence of his companion and protector might not be misplaced; but that the vaunted kit might prove the preserver, not only of his life, but of the life of one who to little William was now even dearer than Ben Brace. That one was Lilly Lalee.