When it came to the last drawing,—for there needed to be only one more,—there was a pause in the proceedings, such as usually precedes an expected climax.
It was accompanied by silence; so profound that, but for the noise made by the waves as they dashed against the hollow hogsheads, a pin might have been heard if dropped upon the planking of the raft. In the sound of the sea there was something lugubrious: a fit accompaniment of the unhallowed scene that was being enacted by those within hearing of it. One might have fancied that spirits in fearful pain were confined within the empty casks, and that the sounds that seemed to issue out of them were groans elicited by their agony.
The two men, one of whom was doomed to die, stood face to face; the others forming a sort of circle around them. All eyes were bent upon them, while theirs were fixed only upon each other. The reciprocated glance was one of dire hostility and hate,—combined with a hope on the part of each to see the other dead, and then to survive him.
Both were inspired by a belief—in the presence of such an unexpected contingency it was not unreasonable—that Fate had singled them out from their fellows to stand in that strange antagonism. They were, in fact, convinced of it.
Under the influence of this conviction, it might be supposed that neither would offer any further opposition to Fate’s decree, but would yield to what might appear their “manifest destiny.”
As it was, however, fatalism was not the faith of either. Though neither of them could lay claim to the character of a Christian, they were equally unbelievers in this particular article of the creed of Mahomet; and both were imbued with a stronger belief in strength or stratagem than in chance.
On the first-mentioned the Irishman appeared most to rely, as was evidenced by the proposal he made upon the occasion.
“I dar yez,” said he, “to thry which is the best man. To dhraw them buttons is an even chance between us; an’ maybe the best man is him that’ll have to die. By Saint Pathrick! that isn’t fair, nohow. The best man should be allowed to live. Phwat do yez say, comrades?”
The proposal, though unexpected by all, found partisans who entertained it. It put a new face upon the affair. It was one that was not more than reasonable.
The crew, no longer interested in the matter,—at least, so far as their own personal safety was concerned,—could now contemplate the result with calmness; and the instinct of justice was not dead within the hearts of all of them. In the challenge of the Irishman there appeared nothing unfair. A number of them were inclined to entertain it, and declared themselves of that view.
The partisans of Le Gros were the more numerous; and these remained silent,—waiting until the latter should make reply to the proposal of his antagonist.
After the slight luck he had already experienced in the lottery,—combined with several partial defeats erst inflicted upon the man who thus challenged him,—it might have been expected that Le Gros would have gladly accepted the challenge.
He did not. On the contrary, he showed such an inclination to trust to chance that a close observer of his looks and actions might have seen cause to suspect that he had also some reliance upon stratagem.
No one, however, had been thus closely observing him. No one—except the individual immediately concerned—had noticed that quick grasp of hands between him and one of his partisans; or, if they had, it was only to interpret it as a salute of sympathy, extended towards a comrade in a situation of danger.
In that salute, however, there passed between the two men something of significance; which, if exhibited to the eyes of the spectators, would have explained the indifference to death that from that moment characterised the demeanour of Le Gros.
After that furtive movement, he no longer showed any hesitancy as to his course of action; but at once declared his willingness, as well as his determination, to abide by the decision of the drawing.
“Sacré!” cried he, in answer to the challenge of the Irishman; “you don’t suppose, Monsieur Irlandais, that I should fear the result as you propose it? Parbleu! nobody will believe that. But I’m a believer in Fortune,—notwithstanding the scurvy tricks she has often served me—even now that she is frowning upon me black as ever. Neither of us appears to be in favour with her, and that will make our chances equal. So then, I say, let us try her again. Sacré! it will be the last time she can frown on one of us,—that’s certain.”
As O’Gorman had no right to alter the original programme of the lottery, of course the dissenting voices to its continuance were in the minority; and the general clamour tailed upon fate to decide which of the two men was to become food for their famishing companions.
Le Gros still held the bag containing the two buttons. One of them should be black, the other red. It became a subject of dispute, which was to make the draw. It was not a question of who should draw first, since one button taken out would be sufficient. If the red one came out, the drawer must die; if the black, then the other must become the victim.
Some proposed that a third party should hold the bag, and that there should be a toss up for the first chance. Le Gros showed a disposition to oppose this plan. He said that, as he had been intrusted with the superintendence so far, he should continue it to the end. They all saw,—so urged he,—that he had not benefited by the office imposed upon him; but the contrary. It had brought nothing but ill-luck to him; and, as everybody knew, when a run of ill-luck once sets in, there was no knowing where it might terminate. He did not care much, one way or the other: since there could be no advantage in his holding the bag; but as he had done so all through,—as he believed to his disadvantage,—he was willing to hold on, even if it was death that was to be his award.
The speech of Le Gros had the desired effect. The majority declared themselves in favour of his continuing to hold the bag; and it was decided that the Irishman should make choice of the penultimate button.
The latter offered no opposition to this arrangement. There appeared no valid grounds for objecting to it. It was a simple toss of heads and tails,—“Heads I win, and tails you lose”; or, to make use of a formula more appropriate to the occasion, “Heads I live, and tails you die.” With some such process of reasoning current through the brain of Larry O’Gorman, he stepped boldly up to the bag; plunged his fist into its obscure interior; and drew forth—the black button!
The red button remained in the bag. It was a singular circumstance that it should be the last; but such strange circumstances will sometimes occur. It belonged to Le Gros. The lottery was over; the Frenchman had forfeited life.
It seemed idle for him to draw the button out; and yet, to the astonishment of the spectators, he proceeded to do so.
“Sacré!” he exclaimed, “the luck’s been against me. Eh bien!” he added, with a sangfroid that caused some surprise, “I suppose I must make a die of it. Let me see the accursed thing that’s going to condemn me!”
As he said this, he held up the bag in his left hand,—at the same time plunging his right into its dark interior. For some seconds he appeared, to grope about, as if he had some difficulty in finding the button. While fumbling in this fashion he let go the mouth of the wallet, which he had been holding in his left hand,—adroitly transferring his hold to its bottom. This was done apparently for the purpose of getting the button into a corner,—in order that he might lay hold of it with his fingers.
For some moments the bag rested upon his left forearm, while he continued his hunt after the little piece of horn. He appeared successful at length; and drew forth his right hand, with the fingers closed over the palm, as if containing something,—of course the dread symbol of death. Stirred by a kind of curiosity, his comrades pressed mechanically around, and stood watching his movements.
For an instant he kept his fist closed, holding it on high to that all might see it: and then, slowly extending his fingers, he exhibited his spread palm before their eyes. It held the button that he had drawn forth from the bag; but, to the astonishment of all, it was a black one, and not the red token that had been expected!
There were but two men who did not partake of this surprise. One was Le Gros himself,—though, to all appearance, he was the most astonished individual of the party,—the other was the man who, some minutes before, might have been observed standing by his side, and stealthily transferring something from his own fingers to those of the Frenchman.
This unexpected termination of the lottery led to a scene of terrific excitement. Several seized hold of the bag,—jerking it out of the hand of him who had hitherto been holding it. It was at once turned inside out; when the red button fell upon the planking of the raft.
Most of the men were furious, and loudly declared that they had been cheated,—some offering conjectures as to how the cheat had been accomplished. The confederate of Le Gros—backed by the ruffian himself—suggested that there might have been no deception about the matter, but only a mistake made in the number of buttons originally thrown into the bag. “Like enough,—damned like enough!”—urged Le Gros’s sharping partner; “there’s been a button too many put into the bag,—twenty-seven instead of twenty-six. That’s how it’s come about. Well, as we all helped at the counting of ’em, therefore it’s nobody’s fault in particular. We’ll have to draw again, and the next time we can be more careful.”
As no one appeared able to contradict this hypothesis, it passed off, with a number, as the correct one. Most of the men, however, felt sure that a trick had been played; and the trick itself could be easily conjectured. Some one of the drawers had procured a button similar to those inside the bag; and holding this button, had simply inserted his hand, and drawn it out again.
Out of twenty-six draws it would have been impossible to fix upon the individual who had been guilty of the cheat, though there were not a few who permitted their suspicions to fall on Le Gros himself. There had been observed something peculiar in his mode of manipulation. He had inserted his hand into the wallet with the fist closed; and had drawn it out in similar fashion. This, with one or two other circumstances, looked suspicious enough; but it was remembered that some others had done the same; and as there was not enough of evidence to bring home the infamous act to its perpetrator, no one appeared either able or willing to risk making the accusation.
Yes, there was one who had not yet declared himself; nor did he do so until some time had elapsed after the final and disappointing draw made by the master of the ceremonies. This man was Larry O’Gorman.
While the rest of the crew had been listening to the arguments of the Frenchman’s confederate,—and one by one signifying their acquiescence,—the Irishman stood apart, apparently busied in some profound mental calculation.
When at length all seemed to have consented to a second casting of lots, he roused himself from his reverie; and, stepping hastily into their midst, cried out in a determined manner, “No—
“No, yez don’t,” continued he, “no more drawin’, my jewels, till we’ve had a betther undherstandin’ ov this little matther. That there’s been chatin’ yez are all agreed; only yez can’t identify the chate. Maybe I can say somethin’ to point out the dirty spalpeen as hasn’t the courage nor the dacency to take his chance along wid the rest ov us.”
This unexpected interpolation at once drew the eyes of all parties upon the speaker; for all were alike interested in the revelation which O’Gorman was threatening to make.
Whoever had played foul,—if it could only be proved against him,—would be regarded as the man who ought to have drawn the red button; and would be treated as if he had done so. This was tacitly understood; even before the suggestion of such a course had passed the lips of anyone. Those who were innocent were of course desirous of discovering the “black sheep,”—in order to escape the danger of a second drawing,—and, as these comprehended almost the entire crew, it was natural that an attentive ear should be given to the statement which the Irishman proposed to lay before them.
All stood gazing upon him with expectant eyes. In those of Le Gros and his confederate there was a different expression. The look of the Frenchman was more especially remarkable. His jaws had fallen; his lips were white and bloodless; his eyes glared fiend-like out of their sunken sockets; while the whole cast of his features was that of a man threatened with some fearful and infamous fate, which he feels himself unable to avert.
As O’Gorman gave utterance to the last words of his preparatory speech, he fixed his eyes steadfastly upon the Frenchman. His look confirmed every one in the belief that the allusion had been to the latter.
Le Gros at first quailed before the Irishman’s glance; but, perceiving the necessity of putting a bold front on the matter, he made an endeavour to reciprocate it.
“Sacré bleu!” he exclaimed. “Monsieur Irlandais why do you look at me? you don’t mean to insinuate that I’ve acted unfairly?”
“The divil a bit,” replied the Irishman. “If it’s insinivation yez be talkin’ about, the divil a bit ov that do I mane. Larry O’Gorman isn’t agoin’ to bate about the bush wan way or the tother, Misther Laygrow. He tells ye to yer teeth that it was yer beautiful self putt the exthra button into the bag,—yez did it, Misther Laygrow, and nobody else.”
“Liar!” vociferated the Frenchman, with a menacing gesture. “Liar!”
“Kape cool, Frenchy. It isn’t Larry the Galwayman that’s goin’ to be scared at yer blusther. I repate,—it was you yourself that putt that button into the bag.”
“How do you know that, O’Gorman?” “Can you prove it?”
“What proof have you?” were questions that were asked simultaneously by several voices,—among which that of the Frenchman’s confederate was conspicuous.
“Phwy, phwat more proof do yez want, than phwat’s alriddy before yez? When I had me hand in the wallet, there wasn’t only the two buttons,—the divil a more. I feeled thim both while I was gropin’ about to make choice betwixt them; an if there had been a third, I wud a feeled that too. I can swear by the holy cross of Saint Pathrick there wasn’t wan more than the two.”
“That’s no proof there wasn’t three,” urged the friend of Le Gros. “The third might have been in a wrinkle of the bag, without your feeling it!”
“The divil a wrinkle it was in, except the wrinkles in the palm of that spalpeen’s fist! That’s where it was; and I can tell yez all who putt it there. It was this very chap who is so pit-a-pat at explainin’ it. Yez needn’t deny it, Bill Bowler. I saw somethin’ passin’ betwixt yerself and Frenchy,—jest before it come his turn to dhraw. I saw yer flippers touchin’ van another, an’ somethin’ slippin’ in betwane them. I couldn’t tell phwat it was, but, by Jaysus! I thought it quare for all that. I know now phwhat it was,—it was the button.”
The Irishman’s arguments merited attention; and received it. The circumstances looked at the least suspicious against Le Gros. To the majority they were conclusive of his guilt.
The accusation was supported by other evidence. The man who had preceded O’Gorman in the drawing positively avowed that he could feel only three buttons in the bag; while the one before him, with equal confidence, asserted that when he drew, there were but four. Both declared that they could not be mistaken as to the numbers. They had separately “fingered” each button in the hope of being able to detect that which was bloodstained, and so avoid bringing it forth.
“Ach!” ejaculated the Irishman, becoming impatient for the conviction of his guilty antagonist; “phwat’s the use ov talkin’. Frenchy’s the wan that did it. That gropin’ an fumblin’ about the bottom of the wallet was all pretince. He had the button in his shut fist all the time, an’ by Jaysus! he’s entitled to the prize, the same as if he had dhrawn it. It’s him that’s got to die!”
“Canaille! liar!” shouted Le Gros; “if I have, you—”
And as the words issued from his lips he sprang forward, knife in hand, with the evident design of taking the life of his accuser.
“Kape cool!” cried the latter, springing out of reach of his assailant; and with his own blade bared, placing himself on the defensive. “Kape cool, ye frog-atin’ son av a gun, or ye’ll make mate for us sooner than ye expected, ay, before yez have time to put up a pater for yer ugly sowl, that stans most disperately in nade ov it.
“Now,” continued the Irishman, after he had fairly placed himself in an attitude of defence; “come an whiniver yer loike. Larry O’Gorman is riddy for ye, an’ another av the same at yer dhirty back. Hoch,—faugh-a-ballah,—hiloo,—whallabaloo!”
The strange ceremonial upon the raft,—hitherto carried on with some show of solemnity,—had reached an unexpected crisis.
A second appeal to the goddess of Fortune was no longer thought of. The deadly antagonism of the two chief castaways—Le Gros and O’Gorman—promised a result likely to supply the larder of that cannibal crew, without the necessity of their having recourse to her decrees.
One or other,—perhaps both,—of these men must soon cease to live; for the determined attitude of each told, beyond mistaking, that his bared blade would not be again sheathed, except in the flesh of his adversary.
There was no attempt at intervention. Not one of their comrades interposed to keep them apart. There was friendly feeling,—or, to use a more appropriate phrase, partisanship,—on the side of each; but it was of that character which usually exists among the brutal backers of two “champions of the ring.”
Under other circumstances, each party might have regretted the defeat of the champion they had adopted; but upon that raft, the death of one or other of the combatants was not only desirable; but, rather than it should not occur, either side would have most gladly assented to see its especial favourite the victim.
Every man of that ruffian crew had a selfish interest in the result of the threatened conflict; and this far outweighed any feeling of partisanship with which he might have been inspired. A few may have felt friendlier than others towards their respective champions; but to the majority it mattered little which of the two men should die; and there were even some who, in the secret chambers of their hearts, would have reflected gleefully to behold both become victims of their reciprocal hostility. Such a result would cause a still further postponement of that unpopular lottery,—in which they had been too often compelled to take shares.
There was no very great difference in the number of the “friends” on either side. The partisans of the Frenchman would have far outnumbered those of his Irish adversary, but ten minutes before. But the behaviour of Le Gros in the lottery had lost him many adherents. That he had played the trick imputed to him was by most believed; and as the result of his unmanly subterfuge was of personal interest to all, there were many, hitherto indifferent, now inspired with hostility towards him.
Apart from personal considerations,—even amongst that conglomeration of outcasts,—there were some in whom the instinct of “fair-play” was not altogether dead; and the foul play of the Frenchman had freshly aroused this instinct within them.
As soon as the combatants had shown a fixed determination to engage in deadly strife, the crowd upon the raft became separated, as if by mechanical action, into two groups,—one forming in the rear of Le Gros, the other taking stand behind the Irishman.
As already stated, there was no great inequality between them in point of numbers; and as each occupied an end of the raft, the balance was preserved, and the stage upon which the death drama was about to be enacted—set horizontally—offered no advantage to either.
Knives were to be their weapons. There were others on the raft. There were axes, cutlasses, and harpoons; but the use of these was prohibited to either of the intended combatants: as nothing could be fairer than the sailor’s knife,—with which each was provided,—and no weapon in close combat could be used with more certain or deadlier effect.
Each armed with his own knife, released from its lanyard fastenings in order to be freely handled,—each with his foot planted in front of him, to guard against the onset of his adversary,—each with an arm upraised, at the end of which appeared six inches of sharp, glittering steel,—each with muscles braced to their toughest tension, and eyes glaring forth the fires of a mutual hatred,—a hostility to end only in death,—such became the attitude of the antagonists.
Behind each stood their respective partisans, in a sort of semicircle, of which the champion was in the centre,—all eagerly intent on watching the movements of the two men, one of whom—perhaps both—was about to be hurried into eternity.
It was a setting sun that was to afford light for this fearful conflict. Already was the golden orb declining low upon the western horizon. His disc was of a lurid red,—a colour appropriate to the spectacle it was to illumine. No wonder that both combatants instinctively turned their eyes towards the west, and gazed upon the god of day. Both were under the belief they might never more look upon that luminary!
The combatants did not close on the instant. The sharp blades shining in their hands rendered them shy of a too near approach, and for some time they kept apart. They did not, however, remain motionless or inactive. On the contrary, both were on the alert,—moving in short curves from one side to the other, and all the while keeping vis-à-vis.
At irregular intervals one of them would make a feint to attack; or by feigning a retreat endeavour to get the other off guard; but, after several such passes and counter-passes had been delivered between them, still not a scratch had been given,—not a drop of blood drawn.
The spectators looked on with a curious interest. Some showed not the slightest emotion,—as if they cared not who should be the victor, or which the victim. To most it mattered but little if both should fall; and there were even some upon the raft who, for certain secret reasons, would have preferred such a termination to the sanguinary struggle.
A few there were slightly affected with feelings of partisanship. These doubtless felt a deeper interest in the result, at least they were more demonstrative of it; and by words of exhortation and cries of encouragement endeavoured to give support to their respective champions.
There were spectators of a different kind, that appeared to take as much interest in the fearful affair as any of those already described. These were the sharks! Looking at them, as they swam around the raft,—their eyes glaring upon those who occupied it,—one could not have helped thinking that they comprehended what was going on,—that they were conscious of a deed of violence about to be enacted,—and were waiting for some contingency that might turn up in their favour!
Whatever the crisis was to be, neither the spectators in the sea, nor those upon it, would have long to wait for the crisis. Two men, mutually enraged, standing in front of each other, armed with naked knives; each desperately desirous of killing the other,—with no one to keep them apart, but a score of spectators to encourage them in their intent of reciprocal destruction,—were not likely to be long in coming to the end of the affair. It was not a question of swords, where skilful fencing may protract a combat to an indefinite period of time; nor of pistols, where unskilful shooting may equally retard the result. The combatants knew that, on closing within arms’ length, one or other must receive a wound that might in a moment prove mortal.
It was this thought that—for some minutes after their squaring up to each other—had influenced them to keep at a wary distance.
The cries of their companions began to assume an altered tone. Mingled with shouts of exhortation could be heard taunts and jeers,—several voices proclaiming that the “two bullies were afraid of each other.”
“Go in, Le Gros! give him the knife!” cried the partisans of the Frenchman.
“Come, Larry! lay on to him!” shouted the backers of his antagonist.
“Bear a hand, both of you! go it like men!” vociferated the voice of some one, who did not seem particularly affected to the side of either.
These off-hand counsels, spoken in a varied vocabulary of tongues, seemed to produce the desired effect. As the last of them pealed over the heads of the spectators, the combatants rushed towards each other,—as they closed inflicting a mutual stab. But the blade of each was met by the left arm of his antagonist, thrown out to ward off the strokes and they separated again without either having received further injury than a flesh wound, that in no way disabled them. It appeared, however, to produce an irritation, which rendered both of them less careful of consequences: for in an instant after they closed again,—the spectators accompanying their collision with shouts of encouragement.
All were now looking for a quick termination to the affair; but in this they were disappointed. After several random thrusts had been given on both sides, the combatants again became separated without either having received any serious injury. The wild rage which blinded both, rendering their blows uncertain,—combined with the weakness of their bodies from long starvation,—may account for their thus separating for the second time, without either having received a mortal wound.
Equally innocuous proved the third encounter,—though differing in character from either of those that preceded it. As they came together, each grasped the right arm of his antagonist,—that which wielded the weapon,—in his left hand; and firmly holding one another by the wrists, they continued the strife. In this way it was no longer a contest of skill, but of strength. Nor was it at all dangerous, as long as the “grip” held good; since neither could use his knife. Either could have let go with his left hand at any moment; but by so doing he would release the armed hand of his antagonist, and thus place himself in imminent peril.
Both were conscious of the danger; and, instead of separating, they continued to preserve the reciprocal “clutch” that had been established between them.
For some minutes they struggled in this strange fashion,—the intention of each being to throw the other upon the raft. That done, he who should be uppermost would obtain a decided advantage.
They twisted, and turned, and wriggled their bodies about; but both still managed to keep upon their feet.
The contest was not carried on in any particular spot, but all over the raft; up against the mast, around the empty casks, among the osseous relics of humanity,—the strewed bones rattling against their feet as they trod over them. The spectators made way as they came nearer, nimbly leaping from side to side; while the stage upon which this fearful drama was being enacted,—despite the ballast of its water-logged beams, and the buoyancy of its empty casks,—was kept in a continual commotion.
It soon became evident that Le Gros was likely to get the worst of it, in this trial of strength. The muscular power of the Frenchman was inferior to that of his island antagonist; and had it been a mere contest of toughness, the former would have been defeated.
In craft, however, Le Gros was the Irishman’s superior: and at this crisis stratagem came to his aid.
In turning about, the Frenchman had got his head close to the sleeve of O’Gorman’s jacket,—that one which encircled his right wrist, and touched the hand holding the dangerous knife. Suddenly craning his neck to its fullest stretch, he seized the sleeve between his teeth, and held it with all the strength of his powerful jaws. Quick as thought, his left hand glided towards his own right; his knife was transferred to it; and the next moment gleamed beneath, threatening to penetrate the bosom of his antagonist.
O’Gorman’s fate appeared to be sealed. With both arms pinioned, what chance had he to avoid the blow? The spectators, silent and breathless, looked for it as a certain thing. There was scarce time for them to utter an exclamation, before they were again subjected to surprise at seeing the Irishman escape from his perilous position.
Fortunate it was for him, that the cloth of his pea-jacket was not of the best quality. It had never been, even when new; and now, after long-continued and ill-usage, it was almost rotten. For this reason, by a desperate wrench, he was enabled to release his arm from the dental grip which his antagonist had taken upon it,—leaving only a rag between the Frenchman’s teeth.
The circumstances had suddenly changed! the advantage being now on the side of the Irishman. Not only was his right arm free again; but with the other he still retained his hold upon that of his antagonist. Le Gros could only use his weapon with the left arm; which placed him at a disadvantage.
The shouts that had gone up to hail the Frenchman’s success—so late appearing certain—had become suddenly hushed; and once more the contest proceeded in silence.
It lasted but a few seconds longer; and then was it terminated in a manner unexpected by all.
Beyond doubt, O’Gorman would have been the victor, had it ended as every one was anticipating it would,—in the death of one or other of the combatants. As it chanced, however, neither succumbed in that sanguinary strife. Both were preserved for a fate equally fearful: one, indeed, for a death ten times more terrible.
As I have said, the circumstances had turned in favour of the Irishman. He knew it; and was not slow to avail himself of the advantage.
Still retaining his grasp of Le Gros’s right wrist, he plied his own dexter arm with a vigour that promised soon to settle the affair; while the left arm of the Frenchman could offer only a feeble resistance, either by thrusting or parrying.
Their knife-blades came frequently in collision; and for a few passes neither appeared to give or receive a wound. This innocuous sparring, however, was of short continuance and ended by the Irishman making a dexterous stroke, by which his blade was planted in the hand of his antagonist,—transfixing the very fingers which were grasping the knife!
The weapon fell from his relaxed clutch; and passing through the interstices of the timber, sank to the bottom of the sea! A scream of despair escaped from the lips of the Frenchman, as he saw the blade of his antagonist about to be thrust into his body!
The thrust was threatened, but not made. Before it could be given, a hand interfered to prevent it. One of the spectators had seized the uplifted arm of the Irishman,—at the same time vociferating, in a stentorian voice—
“Don’t kill him! we won’t need to eat him! Look yonder! We’re saved! we’re saved!”
The man who had so unexpectedly interrupted the deadly duello, while giving utterance to his strange speech, kept one of his arms extended towards the ocean,—as if pointing to something he had descried above the horizon.
The eyes of all were suddenly turned in the direction thus indicated. The magic words, “We are saved!” had an immediate effect,—not only upon the spectators of the tragedy thus intruded upon, but upon its actors. Even rancour became appeased by the sweet sound; and that of the Irishman, as with most of his countrymen, being born “as the flint bears fire,” subsided on the instant.
He permitted his upraised arm to be held in restraint; it became relaxed, as did also his grasp on the wrist of his antagonist; while the latter, finding himself free, was allowed to retire from the contest.
O’Gorman, among the rest, had faced round; and stood looking in the direction where somebody had seen something that promised salvation of all.
“What is it?” inquired several voices in the same breath,—“the land?”
No: it could not be that. There was not one of them such a nautical ignoramus as to believe himself within sigh of land.
“A sail?—a ship?”
That was more likely: though, at the first glance, neither tail nor ship appeared upon the horizon, “What is it?” was the interrogatory reiterated by a dozen voices.
“A light! Don’t you see it?” asked the lynx-eyed individual, whose interference in the combat had caused this sudden departure from the programme. “Look!” he continued; “just where the sun’s gone down yonder. It’s only a speck; but I can see it plain enough. It must be the light from a ship’s binnacle!”
“Carrajo!” exclaimed a Spaniard; “it’s only a spark the sun’s left behind him. It’s the ignis fatuus you’ve seen, amigo!”
“Bah!” added another; “supposing it is a binnacle-lamp, as you say, what would be the use, except to tantalise us. If it be in the binnacle, in course the ship as carries it must be stern towards us. What chance would there be of our overhaulin’ her?”
“Par Dieu! there be von light!” cried a sharp-eyed little Frenchman. “Pe Gar! I him see. Ver true, vraiment! An—pe dam!—zat same est no lamp in ze binnacle!”
“I see it too!” cried another.
“And I!” added a third.
“Io tambien!” (I also) echoed a fourth, whose tongue proclaimed him of Spanish nativity.
“Ich sehe!” drawled out a native of the German Confederacy; and then followed a volley of voices,—each saying something to confirm the belief that a light was really gleaming over the ocean.
This was a fact that nobody—not even the first objectors—any longer doubted.
It is true that the light seen appeared only a mere sparkle, feebly glimmering against the sky, and might have been mistaken for a star. But it was just in that part of the heavens where a star could not at that time have been seen,—on the western horizon, still slightly reddened by the rays of the declining sun.
The men who speculated upon its appearance,—rude as they were in a moral sense,—were not so intellectually stupid as to mistake for a star that speck of yellowish hue, struggling to reveal itself against the almost kindred colour of the occidental sky.
“It isn’t a star,—that’s certain,” confidently declared one of their number; “and if it be a light aboard ship, it’s no binnacle-lamp, I say. Bah! who’d call that a binnacle glim, or a lamp of any kind? If’t be a ship’s light at all, it’s the glare o’ the galley-fire,—where the cook’s makin’ coffee for all hands.”
The superb picture of comfort thus called forth was too much for the temper of the starving men, to whom the idea was addressed; and a wild cry of exultation responded to the speech.
A galley; a galley-fire; a cook; coffee for all hands; lobscouse; plum-duff; sea-pies; even the much-despised pea-soup and salt junk, had been long looked upon as things belonging to another world,—pleasures of the past, never more to be indulged in!
Now that the gleam of a galley-fire—as they believed the light to be—rose up before their eyes, the spirits of all became suddenly electrified by the wildest imaginings; and the contest so lately carried on,—as well as the combatants engaged in it,—was instantaneously forgotten; while the thoughts, and eager glances, of every individual on the raft were now directed towards that all-absorbing speck,—still gleaming but obscurely against the reddish background of the sun-stained horizon.
As they continued to gaze, the tiny spark seemed to increase, not only in size, but intensity; and, before many minutes had elapsed, it proclaimed itself no longer a mere spark, but a blaze of light, with its own luminous halo around it. The gradual chastening of colour in the western sky, along with the increased darkness of the atmosphere around it, would account for this change in the appearance of the light. So reasoned the spectators,—now more than ever convinced that what they saw was the glare of a galley-fire.
As soon as they were satisfied that the bright spark upon the horizon was a burning light, every individual on the raft became inspired with the same impulse,—to make for the spot where the object appeared. Whether in the galley or not,—and whether the glow of a fire or the gleam of a lamp,—it must be on board a ship. There was no land in that part of the ocean; and a light could not be burning upon the water, without something in the shape of a ship to carry it.
That it was a ship, no one for a moment doubted. So sure were they, that several of the men, on the moment of making it out, had vociferated, at the top of their voices, “Ship ahoy!”
The voices of none of them were particularly strong just then. They were weak, in proportion to their attenuated frames; but had they been ten times as strong as they were, they could not have been heard at such a distance as that light was separated from the raft.
It was not less than twenty miles from them. In the excited state of their senses,—arising from thirst, starvation, and all the wild emotions which the discovery itself had roused within them,—they had formed a delusive idea of the distance; many of them fancying that the light was quite near!
There were some among them who reasoned more rationally. These, instead of wasting their strength in idle shouting, employed their time in impressing upon the others the necessity of making some exertion to approach the light.
Some thought that much exertion would not be required; as the light appeared to be approaching them. And, in truth, it did appear so; but the wiser ones knew that this might be only an optical illusion,—caused by the sea and sky each moment assuming a more sombre hue.
These last—both with voice and by their example—urged their companions to use every effort towards coming up with what they were sure must be a ship.
“Let us meet her,” they said, “if she’s standing this way; if not, we must do all we can to overtake her.”
It needed no persuasion to put the most slothful of the crew upon their mettle. A new hope of life,—an unexpected prospect of being rescued from what most of them had been contemplating as almost certain death,—inspired all to the utmost effort; and with an alacrity they had never before exhibited in their raft navigation,—and a unanimity of late unknown to them,—they went to work to propel their clumsy craft across the ocean.
Some sprang to the oars, while others assisted at the sail. For days the latter had received no attention; but had been permitted to hang loosely from the mast,—flopping about in whatever way the breeze chanced to blow it. They had entertained no idea of what course they ought to steer in; or if they did think of a direction, they had not sufficient decision to follow it. For days they had been drifting about over the surface of the sea, at the discretion of the currents.
Now the sail was reset, with all the trimness that circumstances would admit of. The sheets were drawn home and made fast; and the mast was stayed taut, so as to hinder it from slanting.
As the object upon which they were directing their course was not exactly to leeward, it was necessary to manage the sail with the wind slightly abeam; and for this purpose two men were appointed to the rudder,—which consisted of a broad plank, poised on its edge and hitched to the stern timbers of the raft. By means of this rude rudder, they were enabled to keep the raft “head on” towards the light.
The rowers were seated along both sides. Nearly every individual of the crew, who was not occupied at the sail or steering-board, was employed in propelling. A few only were provided with oars; others wielded handspikes, capstan-bars, or pieces of split plank,—in short, anything that would assist in the “pulling,” if only to the value of a pound.
It was,—or, at all events, they thought it was,—a life and death struggle. They were sure that a ship was near them. By reaching her they would be saved; by failing to do so they would be doomed. Another day without food would bring death, at least to one of them; another day without water would bring worse than death to almost every man of them.
Their unanimous action, assisted by the broad sail, caused the craft, cumbersome as it was, to make considerable way through the water,—though by far too slow to satisfy their wishes. At times they kept silent; at times their voices could be heard mingled with the plunging of the oars; and too often only in profane speech.
They cursed the craft upon which they were carried,—its clumsiness,—the slowness with which they were making way towards the ship,—the ship itself, for not making way towards them: for, as they continued on, those who formerly believed that the light was approaching them, no longer held to that faith. On the contrary, after rowing nearly an hour, all were too ready to agree in the belief that the ship was wearing away.
Not an instant passed, without the eyes of some one being directed towards the light. The rowers, whose backs were turned upon it, kept occasionally twisting their necks around, and looking over their shoulders,—only to resume their proper attitudes with countenances that expressed disappointment.
There were not wanting voices to speak discouragement. Some declared that the light was growing less; that the ship was in full sail, going away from them; and that there would not be the slightest chance of their coming up with her.
These were men who began to feel fatigued at the oar.
There were even some who professed to doubt the existence of a ship, or a ship’s light. What they saw was only a bright spot upon the ocean,—some luminous object—perhaps the carcass of some phosphorous fish, or “squid,” floating upon the surface. They had many of them seen such things; and the conjecture was not offered to incredulous ears.
These surmises produced discontent,—which in time would have exhibited itself in the gradual dropping of the oars, but for a circumstance which brought this climax about, in a more sudden and simultaneous manner,—the extinction of the light.
It went out while the eyes of several were fixed upon it; not by any gradual disappearance,—as a waning star might have passed out of sight,—but with a quick “fluff;”—so one of the spectators described it,—likening its extinction to “a tub of salt-water thrown over the galley-fire.”
On the instant of its disappearance, the oars were abandoned,—as also the rudder. It would have been idle to attempt steering any longer. There was neither moon nor stars in the sky. The light was the only thing that had been guiding them; and that gone, they had not the slightest clue as to their course. The breeze was buffeting about in every direction; but, even had it been blowing steadily, every one of them knew how uncertain it would be to trust to its guidance,—especially with such a sail, and such a steering apparatus.
Already half convinced that they had been following an ignis fatuus,—and half resolved to give over the pursuit,—it needed only what had occurred to cause a complete abandonment of their nocturnal navigation.
Once more giving way to despair,—expressed in wild wicked words,—they left the sail to itself, and the winds to waft them to whatever spot of the ocean fate had designed for the closing scene of their wretched existence.
The night was a dark one; by a Spanish figure of speech, comparable to a “pot of pitch.” It was scarce further obscured by a thick fog that shortly after came silently over the surface of the ocean, enveloping the great raft along with its ruffian crew.
Through such an atmosphere nothing could be seen,—not even the light, had it continued to burn.
Before the coming on of the fog, they had kept a look-out for the light,—one or other remaining always on the watch. They had done so, with a sort of despairing hope that it might reappear; but, as the surrounding atmosphere became impregnated with the filmy vapour, this dreary vigilance was gradually relaxed, and at length abandoned altogether.
So thick fell the fog during the mid-hours of the night, that nothing could be seen at the distance of over six feet from the eye. Even they who occupied the raft could only distinguish those who were close by their side; and each appeared to the others as if shrouded under a screen of grey gauze.
The darkness did not hinder them from conversing. As nearly all hope of succour from a supposed ship had been extinguished, along with that fanciful light, it was but natural that their thoughts should lapse into some other channel; and equally so, that they should turn back to that from which they had been so unexpectedly diverted.
Hunger,—keen, craving hunger,—easily transported them to the spectacle which the sheen of that false torch had brought to an unsatisfactory termination; and their minds now dwelt on what would have been the different condition of affairs, had they not yielded to the delusion.
Not only had their thoughts reference to this theme, but their speeches; and in the solemn hour of midnight,—in the midst of that gloomy vapour, darkly overshadowing the great deep,—they might have been heard again discussing the awful question, “Who dies next?”
To arrive at a decision was not so difficult as before. The majority of the men had made up their minds as to the course that should be pursued. It was no longer a question of casting lots. That had been done already; and the two who had not yet drawn clear—and between whom the thing still remained undecided—were undoubtedly the individuals to determine the matter.
Indeed, there was no debate. All were unanimous that either Le Gros or O’Gorman should furnish food for their famishing companions,—in other words, that the combat, so unexpectedly postponed, should be again resumed.
There was nothing unfair in this,—except to the Irish man. He had certainly secured his triumph, when interrupted. If another half-second had been allowed him, his antagonist would have lain lifeless at his feet.
Under the judgment of just umpires this circumstance would have weighed in his favour; and, perhaps, exempted him from any further risk; but, tried by the shipwrecked crew of a slaver,—more than a moiety of whom leaned towards his antagonist,—the sentence was different; and the majority of the judges proclaimed that the combat between him and Le Gros should be renewed, and continued to the death.
The renewal of it was not to take place on the moment. Night and darkness both forbade this; but the morning’s earliest light was to witness the resumption of that terrible strife.
Thus resolved, the ex-crew of the Pandora laid themselves down to sleep,—not quite so calmly as they might have done in the forecastle of the slaver; for thirst, hunger, and fears for a hopeless future,—without saying anything of a hard couch,—were not the companions with which to approach the shrine of Somnus. As a counterpoise, they felt lassitude both of mind and body, approaching to prostration.
Some of them slept. Some of them could have slept within the portals of Pluto, with the dog Cerberus yelping in their ears!
A few there were who seemed either unable to take rest or indifferent to it. All night long some one or other—sometimes two at a time—might be seen staggering about the raft, or crawling over its planks, as if unconscious of what they were doing. It seemed a wonder that some of them—semi-somnambulists in a double sense—did not fall overboard into the water. But they did not. Notwithstanding the eccentricity of their movements, they all succeeded in maintaining their position on the raft. To tumble over the edge would have been tantamount to toppling into the jaws of an expectant shark, and getting “scrunched” between no less than six rows of sharp teeth. Perhaps it was an instinct—or some presentiment of this peril—that enabled these wakeful wanderers to preserve their equilibrium.