



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




The Ocean Waifs, by Captain Mayne Reid.

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This is a fairly remarkable book.  The scene opens with several small
vessels drifting about on the ocean.  There had been a fire, followed
by an explosion aboard a vessel carrying slaves.  Most of the crew were
pretty nasty people, but there were two pairs of people who become the
heroes of this story.  One of these is Ben Brace and a sixteen year old
boy seaman, whom he had rescued from being eaten by the thirty or so
crew members who had found enough spars, timber, sails, ropes and
barrels to construct a large raft, though rather badly made, because
these men were consoling themselves with a rum-barrel.  At a distance
floated the ship's gig, with the captain, the mate, the carpenter and
three other men.  Finally, there is a construction, hardly more than a
large barrel, containing Snowball, an African ship's cook of the
Coromantee tribe, together with a little girl of eight or ten.  Luckily
these get together with Ben Brace and the boy William, and it is their
adventures that the story is mainly about.  The author is a natural
historian, and he tells us lots of interesting things about the fish
and other denizens of the deep.  Naturally the whole thing comes right
in the end, with the wicked perishing, and the good being picked up
by a whale-ship.
________________________________________________________________________
THE OCEAN WAIFS, BY CAPTAIN MAYNE REID.



CHAPTER ONE.

THE ALBATROSS.

The "vulture of the sea," borne upon broad wing, and wandering over the
wide Atlantic, suddenly suspends his flight to look down upon an object
that has attracted his attention.

It is a raft, with a disc not much larger than a dining-table,
constructed out of two small spars of a ship,--the dolphin-striker and
spritsail yard,--with two broad planks and some narrower ones lashed
crosswise, and over all two or three pieces of sail-cloth carelessly
spread.

Slight as is the structure, it is occupied by two individuals,--a man
and a boy.  The latter is lying along the folds of the sail-cloth,
apparently asleep.  The man stands erect, with his hand to his forehead,
shading the sun from his eyes, and scanning the surface of the sea with
inquiring glances.

At his feet, lying among the creases of the canvas, are a handspike, a
pair of boat oars, and an axe.  Nothing more is perceptible of the raft,
even to the keen eye of the albatross.

The bird continues its flight towards the west.  Ten miles farther on it
once more poises itself on soaring wing, and directs its glance
downward.

Another raft is seen motionless upon the calm surface of the sea, but
differing from the former in almost everything but the name.  It is
nearly ten times as large; constructed out of the masts, yards, hatches,
portions of the bulwarks, and other timbers of a ship; and rendered
buoyant by a number of empty water-casks lashed along its edges.  A
square of canvas spread between two extemporised masts, a couple of
casks, an empty biscuit-box, some oars, handspikes, and other maritime
implements, lie upon the raft; and around these are more than thirty
men, seated, standing, lying,--in short, in almost every attitude.

Some are motionless, as if asleep; but there is that in their prostrate
postures, and in the wild expression of their features, that betokens
rather the sleep of intoxication.  Others, by their gestures and loud,
riotous talk, exhibit still surer signs of drunkenness; and the tin cup,
reeking with rum, is constantly passing from hand to hand.  A few,
apparently sober, but haggard and hungry-like, sit or stand erect upon
the raft, casting occasional glances over the wide expanse, with but
slight show of hope, fast changing to despair.

Well may the sea-vulture linger over this group, and contemplate their
movements with expectant eye.  The instincts of the bird tell him, that
ere long he may look forward to a bountiful banquet!

Ten miles farther to the west, though unseen to those upon the raft, the
far-piercing gaze of the albatross detects another unusual object upon
the surface of the sea.  At this distance it appears only a speck not
larger than the bird itself, though in reality it is a small boat,--a
ship's gig,--in which six men are seated.  There has been no attempt to
hoist a sail; there is none in the gig.  There are oars, but no one is
using them.  They have been dropped in despair; and the boat lies
becalmed just as the two rafts.  Like them, it appears to be adrift upon
the ocean.

Could the albatross exert a reasoning faculty it would know that these
various objects indicated a wreck.  Some vessel has either foundered and
gone to the bottom, or has caught fire and perished in the flames.

Ten miles to the eastward of the lesser raft might be discovered truer
traces of the lost ship.  There might be seen the _debris_ of charred
timbers, telling that she has succumbed, not to the storm, but to fire;
and the fragments, scattered over the circumference of a mile, disclose
further that the fire ended abruptly in some terrible explosion.

Upon the stern of the gig still afloat may be read the name _Pandora_.
The same word may be seen painted on the water-casks buoying up the big
raft; and on the two planks forming the transverse pieces of the lesser
one appears _Pandora_ in still larger letters: for these were the boards
that exhibited the name of the ship on each side of her bowsprit, and
which had been torn off to construct the little raft by those who now
occupy it.

Beyond doubt the lost ship was the _Pandora_.



CHAPTER TWO.

SHIP ON FIRE.

The story of the _Pandora_ has been told in all its terrible details.  A
slave-ship, fitted out in England, and sailing from an English port,--
alas! not the only one by scores,--manned by a crew of ruffians, scarce
two of them owning to the same nationality.  Such was the bark
_Pandora_.

Her latest and last voyage was to the slave coast, in the Gulf of
Guinea.  There, having shipped five hundred wretched beings with black
skins,--"bales" as they are facetiously termed by the trader in human
flesh,--she had started to carry her cargo to that infamous market,--
ever open in those days to such a commodity,--the barracoons of Brazil.

In mid-ocean she had caught fire,--a fire that could not be
extinguished.  In the hurry and confusion of launching the boats the
pinnace proved to be useless; and the longboat, stove in by the falling
of a cask, sank to the bottom of the sea.  Only the gig was found
available; and this, seized upon by the captain, the mate, and four
others, was rowed off clandestinely in the darkness.

The rest of the crew, over thirty in number, succeeded in constructing a
raft; and but a few seconds after they had pushed off from the sides of
the ship, a barrel of gunpowder ignited by the flames, completed the
catastrophe.

But what became of the _cargo_?  Ah! that is indeed a tale of horror.

Up to the last moment those unfortunate beings had been kept under
hatches, under a grating that had been fastened down with battens.  They
would have been left in that situation to be stifled in their
confinement by the suffocating smoke, or burnt alive amid the blazing
timbers, but for one merciful heart among those who were leaving the
ship.  An axe uplifted by the arm of a brave youth--a mere boy--struck
off the confining cleats, and gave the sable sufferers access to the
open air.

Alas! it was scarce a respite to these wretched creatures,--only a
choice between two modes of death.  They escaped from the red flames but
to sink into the dismal depths of the ocean,--hundreds meeting with a
fate still more horrible: for there were not less than that number, and
all became the prey of those hideous sea-monsters, the sharks.

Of all that band of involuntary emigrants, in ten minutes after the
blowing up of the bark, there was not one above the surface of the sea!
Those of them that could not swim had sunk to the bottom, while a worse
fate had befallen those that could,--to fill the maws of the ravenous
monsters that crowded the sea around them!  At the period when our tale
commences, several days had succeeded this tragical event; and the
groups we have described, aligned upon a parallel of latitude, and
separated one from another by a distance of some ten or a dozen miles,
will be easily recognised.

The little boat lying farthest west was the gig of the _Pandora_,
containing her brutal captain, his equally brutal mate, the carpenter,
and three others of the crew, that had been admitted as partners in the
surreptitious abstraction.  Under cover of the darkness they had made
their departure; but long before rowing out of gun-shot they had heard
the wild denunciations and threats hurled after them by their betrayed
associates.

The ruffian crew occupied the greater raft; but who were the two
individuals who had intrusted themselves to that frail embarkation,--
seemingly so slight that a single breath of wind would scatter it into
fragments, and send its occupants to the bottom of the sea?  Such in
reality would have been their fate, had a storm sprung up at that
moment; but fortunately for them the sea was smooth and calm,--as it had
been ever since the destruction of the ship.

But why were they thus separated from the others of the crew: for both
man and boy had belonged to the forecastle of the _Pandora_?

The circumstance requires explanation, and it shall be briefly given.
The man was Ben Brace,--the bravest and best sailor on board the
slave-bark, and one who would not have shipped in such a craft but for
wrongs he had suffered while in the service of his country, and that had
inducted him into a sort of reckless disposition, of which, however, he
had long since repented.

The boy had also been the victim of a similar disposition.  Longing to
see foreign lands, he had _run away to sea_; and by an unlucky accident,
through sheer ignorance of her character, had chosen the _Pandora_ in
which to make his initiatory voyage.  From the cruel treatment he had
been subjected to on board the bark, he had reason to see his folly.
Irksome had been his existence from the moment he set foot on the deck
of the _Pandora_; and indeed it would have been scarce endurable but for
the friendship of the brave sailor Brace, who, after a time, had taken
him under his especial protection.  Neither of them had any feelings in
common with the crew with whom they had become associated; and it was
their intention to escape from such vile companionship as soon as an
opportunity should offer.

The destruction of the bark would not have given that opportunity.  On
the contrary, it rendered it all the more necessary to remain with the
others, and share the chances of safety offered by the great raft.
Slight as these might be, they were still better than those that might
await them, exposed on such a frail fabric as that they now occupied.
It is true, that upon this they had left the burning vessel separate
from the others; but immediately after they had rowed up alongside the
larger structure, and made fast to it.

In this companionship they had continued for several days and nights,
borne backward and forward by the varying breezes; resting by day on the
calm surface of the ocean; and sharing the fate of the rest of the
castaway crew.

What had led to their relinquishing the companionship?  Why was Ben
Brace and his _protege_ separated from the others and once more alone
upon their little raft?

The cause of that separation must be declared, though one almost
shudders to think of it.  It was to save the boy _from being eaten_ that
Ben Brace had carried him away from his former associates; and it was
only by a cunning stratagem, and at the risk of his own life, that the
brave sailor had succeeded in preventing this horrid banquet from being
made!

The castaway crew had exhausted the slender stock of provisions received
from the wreck.  They were reduced to that state of hunger which no
longer revolts at the filthiest of food; and without even resorting to
the customary method adopted in such terrible crises, they unanimously
resolved upon the death of the boy,--Ben Brace alone raising a voice of
dissent!

But this voice was not heeded.  It was decided that the lad should die:
and all that his protector was able to obtain from the fiendish crew,
was the promise of a respite for him till the following morning.

Brace had his object in procuring this delay.  During the night, the
united rafts made way under a fresh breeze; and while all was wrapped in
darkness, he cut the ropes which fastened the lesser one to the greater,
allowing the former to fall astern.  As it was occupied only by him and
his _protege_, they were thus separated from their dangerous associates;
and when far enough off to run no risk of being heard, they used their
oars to increase the distance.

All night long did they continue to row against the wind; and as morning
broke upon them, they came to a rest upon the calm sea, unseen by their
late comrades, and with ten miles separating the two rafts from each
other.

It was the fatigue of that long spell of pulling--with many a watchful
and weary hour preceding it--that had caused the boy to sink down upon
the folded canvas, and almost on the instant fall asleep; and it was the
apprehension of being followed that was causing Ben Brace to stand
shading his eyes from the sun, and scan with uneasy glance the
glittering surface of the sea.



CHAPTER THREE.

THE LORD'S PRAYER.

After carefully scrutinising the smooth water towards every point of the
compass,--but more especially towards the west,--the sailor ceased from
his reconnoissance, and turned his eyes upon his youthful companion,
still soundly slumbering.

"Poor lad!" muttered he to himself; "he be quite knocked up.  No wonder,
after such a week as we've had o't.  And to think he war so near bein'
killed and ate by them crew o' ruffians.  I'm blowed if that wasn't
enough to scare the strength out o' him!  Well, I dare say he's escaped
from that fate; but as soon as he has got a little more rest, we must
take a fresh spell at the oars.  It 'ud never do to drift back to
_them_.  If we do, it an't only him they'll want to eat, but me too,
after what's happened.  Blowed if they wouldn't."

The sailor paused a moment, as if reflecting upon the probabilities of
their being pursued.

"Sartin!" he continued, "they could never fetch that catamaran against
the wind; but now that it's turned dead calm, they might clap on wi'
their oars, in the hope of overtakin' us.  There's so many of them to
pull, and they've got oars in plenty, they might overhaul us yet."

"O Ben! dear Ben! save me,--save me from the wicked men!"

This came from the lips of the lad, evidently muttered in his sleep.

"Dash my buttons, if he an't dreaming!" said the sailor, turning his
eyes upon the boy, and watching the movements of his lips.  "He be
talkin' in his sleep.  He thinks they're comin' at him just as they did
last night on the raft!  Maybe I ought to rouse him up.  If he be a
dreamin' that way he'll be better awake.  It's a pity, too, for he an't
had enough sleep."

"Oh! they will kill me and eat me.  Oh, oh!"

"No, they won't do neyther,--blow'd if they do.  Will'm, little Will'm!
rouse yourself, my lad."

And as he said this he bent down and gave the sleeper a shake.

"O Ben! is it you?  Where are they,--those monsters?"

"Miles away, my boy.  You be only a dreamin' about 'em.  That's why I've
shook you up."

"I'm glad you have waked me.  Oh! it was a frightful dream!  I thought
they had done it, Ben."

"Done what, Will'm?"

"What they were going to do."

"Dash it, no, lad! they an't ate you yet; nor won't, till they've first
put an end o' me,--that I promise ye."

"Dear Ben," cried the boy, "you are so good,--you've risked your life to
save mine.  Oh! how can I ever show you how much I am sensible of your
goodness?"

"Don't talk o' that, little Will'm.  Ah! lad, I fear it an't much use to
eyther o' us.  But if we must die, anything before a death like that.
I'd rather far that the sharks should get us than to be eat up by one's
own sort.--Ugh! it be horrid to think o't.  But come, lad, don't let us
despair.  For all so black as things look, let us put our trust in
Providence.  We don't know but that His eye may be on us at this minute.
I wish I knew how to pray, but I never was taught that ere.  Can you
pray, little Will'm?"

"I can repeat the Lord's Prayer.  Would that do, Ben?"

"Sartain it would.  It be the best kind o' prayer, I've heerd say.  Get
on your knees, lad, and do it.  I'll kneel myself, and join with ye in
the spirit o' the thing, tho' I'm shamed to say I disremember most o'
the words."

The boy, thus solicited, at once raised himself into a kneeling
position, and commenced repeating the sublime prayer of the Christian.
The rough sailor knelt alongside of him, and with hands crossed over his
breast in a supplicating attitude, listened attentively, now and then
joining in the words of the prayer, whenever some phrase recurred to his
remembrance.

When it was over, and the "Amen" had been solemnly pronounced by the
voices of both, the sailor seemed to have become inspired with a fresh
hope; and, once more grasping an oar, he desired his companion to do the
same.

"We must get a little farther to east'ard," said he, "so as to make sure
o' bein' out o' their way.  If we only pull a couple of hours afore the
sun gets hot, I think we'll be in no danger o' meetin' _them_ any more.
So let's set to, little Will'm!  Another spell, and then you can rest as
long's you have a mind to."

The sailor seated himself close to the edge of the raft, and dropped his
oar-blade in the water, using it after the fashion of a canoe-paddle.
"Little Will'm," taking his place on the opposite side, imitated the
action; and the craft commenced moving onward over the calm surface of
the sea.

The boy, though only sixteen, was skilled in the use of an oar, and
could handle it in whatever fashion.  He had learnt the art long before
he had thought of going to sea; and it now stood him in good stead.
Moreover, he was strong for his age, and therefore his stroke was
sufficient to match that of the sailor, given more gently for the
purpose.

Propelled by the two oars, the raft made way with considerable
rapidity,--not as a boat would have done, but still at the rate of two
or three knots to the hour.

They had not been rowing long, however, when a gentle breeze sprung up
from the west, which aided their progress in the direction in which they
wished to go.  One would have thought that this was just what they
should have desired.  On the contrary, the sailor appeared uneasy on
perceiving that the breeze blew from the west.  Had it been from any
other point he would have cared little about it.

"I don't like it a bit," said he, speaking across the raft to his
companion.  "It helps us to get east'ard, that's true; _but_ it'll help
them as well--and with that broad spread o' canvas they've rigged up,
they might come down on us faster than we can row."

"Could we not rig a sail too?" inquired the boy.  "Don't you think we
might, Ben?"

"Just the thing I war thinkin' o', lad; I dare say we can.  Let me see;
we've got that old tarpaulin and the lying jib-sail under us.  The
tarpaulin itself will be big enough.  How about ropes?  Ah! there's the
sheets of the jib still stickin' to the sail; and then there's the
handspike and our two oars.  The oars 'll do without the handspike.
Let's set 'em up then, and rig the tarpaulin between 'em."

As the sailor spoke, he had risen to his feet; and after partially
drawing the canvas off from the planks and spars, he soon accomplished
the task of setting the two oars upright upon the raft.  This done, the
tarpaulin was spread between them, and when lashed so as to lie taut
from one to the other, presented a surface of several square yards to
the breeze,--quite as much sail as the craft was capable of carrying.

It only remained for them to look to the steering of the raft, so as to
keep it head on before the wind; and this could be managed by means of
the handspike, used as a rudder or steering-oar.

Laying hold of this, and placing himself abaft of the spread tarpaulin,
Ben had the satisfaction of seeing that the sail acted admirably; and as
soon as its influence was fairly felt, the raft surged on through the
water at a rate of not less than five knots to the hour.

It was not likely that the large raft that carried the dreaded crew of
would-be cannibals was going any faster; and therefore, whatever
distance they might be off, there would be no great danger of their
getting any nearer.

This confidence being firmly established, the sailor no longer gave a
thought to the peril from which he and his youthful comrade had escaped.
For all that, the prospect that lay before them was too terrible to
permit their exchanging a word,--either of comfort or congratulation,--
and for a long time they sat in a sort of desponding silence, which was
broken only by the rippling surge of the waters as they swept in pearly
froth along the sides of the raft.



CHAPTER FOUR.

HUNGER.--DESPAIR.

The breeze proved only what sailors call a catspaw, rising no higher
than just to cause a ripple on the water, and lasting only about an
hour.  When it was over, the sea again fell into a dead calm; its
surface assuming the smoothness of a mirror.

In the midst of this the raft lay motionless, and the extemporised sail
was of no use for propelling it.  It served a purpose, however, in
screening off the rays of the sun, which, though not many degrees above
the horizon, was beginning to make itself felt in all its tropical
fervour.

Ben no longer required his companion to take a hand at the oar.  Not but
that their danger of being overtaken was as great as ever; for although
they had made easterly some five or six knots, it was but natural to
conclude that the great raft had been doing the same; and therefore the
distance between the two would be about as before.

But whether it was that his energy had become prostrated by fatigue and
the hopelessness of their situation, or whether upon further reflection
he felt less fear of their being pursued, certain it is he no longer
showed uneasiness about making way over the water; and after once more
rising to his feet and making a fresh examination of the horizon, he
stretched himself along the raft in the shade of the tarpaulin.

The boy, at his request, had already placed himself in a similar
position, and was again buried in slumber.

"I'm glad to see he can sleep," said Brace to himself, as he lay down
alongside.  "He must be sufferin' from hunger as bad as I am myself, and
as long as he's asleep he won't feel it.  May be, if one could keep
asleep they'd hold out longer, though I don't know 'bout that bein' so.
I've often ate a hearty supper, and woke up in the mornin' as hungry as
if I'm gone to my bunk without a bite.  Well, it an't no use o' me
tryin' to sleep as I feel now, blow'd if it is!  My belly calls out loud
enough to keep old Morphis himself from nappin', and there an't a morsel
o' anything.  More than forty hours have passed since I ate that last
quarter biscuit.  I can think o' nothing but our shoes, and they be so
soaked wi' the sea-water, I suppose they'll do more harm than good.
They'll be sure to make the thirst a deal worse than it is, though the
Lord knows it be bad enough a'ready.  Merciful Father!--nothin' to
eat!--nothin' to drink!  O God, hear the prayer little Will'm ha' just
spoken and I ha' repeated, though I've been too wicked to expect bein'
heard, `_Give us this day our daily bread_'!  Ah! another day or two
without it, an' we shall both be asleep forever!"

The soliloquy of the despairing sailor ended in a groan, that awoke his
young comrade from a slumber that was at best only transient and
troubled.

"What is it, Ben?" he asked, raising himself on his elbow, and looking
inquiringly in the face of his protector.

"Nothing partikler, my lad," answered the sailor, who did not wish to
terrify his companion with the dark thoughts which were troubling
himself.

"I heard you groaning,--did I not?  I was afraid you had seen them
coming after us."

"No fear o' that,--not a bit.  They're a long way off, and in this calm
sea they won't be inclined to stir,--not as long as the rum-cask holds
out, I warrant; and when that's empty, they'll not feel much like movin'
anywhere.  'Tan't for them we need have any fear now."

"O Ben!  I'm so hungry; I could eat anything."

"I know it, my poor lad; so could I."

"True! indeed you must be even hungrier than I, for you gave me more
than my share of the two biscuits.  It was wrong of me to take it, for
I'm sure you must be suffering dreadfully."

"That's true enough, Will'm; but a bit o' biscuit wouldn't a made no
difference.  It must come to the same thing in the end."

"To what, Ben?" inquired the lad, observing the shadow that had
overspread the countenance of his companion, which was gloomier than he
had ever seen it.

The sailor remained silent.  He could not think of a way to evade giving
the correct answer to the question; and keeping his eyes averted, he
made no reply.

"I know what you mean," continued the interrogator.  "Yes, yes,--you
mean that we must die!"

"No, no, Will'm,--not that; there's hope yet,--who knows what may turn
up?  It may be that the prayer will be answered.  I'd like, lad, if
you'd go over it again.  I think I could help you better this time; for
I once knew it myself,--long, long ago, when I was about as big as you,
and hearin' you repeatin' it, it has come most o' it back into my
memory.  Go over it again, little Will'm."

The youth once more knelt upon the raft, and in the shadow of the spread
tarpaulin repeated the Lord's Prayer,--the sailor, in his rougher voice,
pronouncing the words after him.

When they had finished, the latter once more rose to his feet, and for
some minutes stood scanning the circle of sea around the raft.

The faint hope which that trusting reliance in his Maker had inspired
within the breast of the rude mariner exhibited itself for a moment upon
his countenance, but only for a moment.  No object greeted his vision,
save the blue, boundless sea, and the equally boundless sky.

A despairing look replaced that transient gleam of hope, and, staggering
back behind the tarpaulin, he once more flung his body prostrate upon
the raft.

Again they lay, side by side, in perfect silence,--neither of them
asleep, but both in a sort of stupor, produced by their unspoken
despair.



CHAPTER FIVE.

FAITH.--HOPE.

How long they lay in this half-unconscious condition, neither took note.
It could not have been many minutes, for the mind under such
circumstances does not long surrender itself to a state of tranquillity.

They were at length suddenly roused from it,--not, however, by any
thought from within,--but by an object striking on their external
senses, or, rather, upon the sense of sight.  Both were lying upon their
backs, with eyes open and upturned to the sky, upon which there was not
a speck of cloud to vary the monotony of its endless azure.

Its monotony, however, was at that moment varied by a number of objects
that passed swiftly across their field of vision, shining and
scintillating as if a flight of silver arrows had been shot over the
raft.  The hues of blue and white were conspicuous in the bright
sunbeams, and those gay- creatures, that appeared to belong to
the air, but which in reality were denizens of the great deep, were at
once recognised by the sailor.

"A shoal o' flyin'-fish," he simply remarked, and without removing from
his recumbent position.

Then at once, as if some hope had sprung up within him at seeing them
continue to fly over the raft, and so near as almost to touch the
tarpaulin, he added, starting to his feet as he spoke--

"What if I might knock one o' 'em down!  Where's the handspike?"

The last interrogatory was mechanical, and put merely to fill up the
time; for as he gave utterance to it he reached towards the implement
that lay within reach of his hands, and eagerly grasping raised it
aloft.

With such a weapon it was probable that he might have succeeded in
striking down one of the winged swimmers that, pursued by the bonitos
and albacores, were still leaping over the raft.  But there was a surer
weapon behind him,--in the piece of canvas spread between the upright
oars; and just as the sailor had got ready to wield his huge club, a
shining object flashed close to his eyes, whilst his ears were greeted
by a glad sound, signifying that one of the vaulting fish had struck
against the tarpaulin.

Of course it had dropped down upon the raft: for there it was, flopping
and bounding about among the folds of the flying-jib, far more taken by
surprise than Ben Brace, who had witnessed its mishap, or even little
William, upon whose face it had fallen, with all the weight of its
watery carcass.  If a bird in the hand be worth two in the bush, by the
same rule a fish in the hand should be worth two in the water, and more
than that number flying in the air.

Some such calculation as this might have passed through the brain of Ben
Brace; for, instead of continuing to hold his handspike high flourished
over his head, in the hope of striking another fish, he suffered the
implement to drop down upon the raft; and stooping down, he reached
forward to secure the one that had voluntarily, or, rather, should we
say, involuntarily, offered itself as a victim.

As it kept leaping about over the raft, there was just the danger that
it might reach the edge of that limited area, and once more escape to
its natural element.

This, however naturally desired by the fish, was the object which the
occupants of the raft most desired to prevent; and to that end both had
got upon their knees, and were scrambling over the sail-cloth with as
much eager earnestness as a couple of terriers engaged in a scuffle with
a harvest rat.

Once or twice little William had succeeded in getting the fish in his
fingers; but the slippery creature, armed also with its spinous
fin-wings, had managed each time to glide out of his grasp; and it was
still uncertain whether a capture might be made, or whether after all
they were only to be tantalised by the touch and sight of a morsel of
food that was never to pass over their palates.

The thought of such a disappointment stimulated Ben Brace to put forth
all his energies, coupled with his greatest activity.  He had even
resolved upon following the fish into the sea if it should prove
necessary,--knowing that for the first few moments after regaining its
natural element it would be more easy of capture.  But just then an
opportunity was offered that promised the securing of the prey without
the necessity of wetting a stitch of his clothes.

The fish had been all the while bounding about upon the spread
sail-cloth, near the edge of which it had now arrived.  But it was fated
to go no farther, at least of its own accord; for Ben seeing his
advantage, seized hold of the loose selvage of the sail, and raising it
a little from the raft, doubled it over the struggling captive.  A stiff
squeeze brought its struggles to a termination; and when the canvas was
lifted aloft, it was seen lying underneath, slightly flattened out
beyond its natural dimensions, and it is scarcely necessary to say, as
dead as a herring.

Whether right or no, the simple-minded seaman recognised in this
seasonable supply of provision the hand of an overruling Providence; and
without further question, attributed it to the potency of that prayer
twice repeated.

"Yes, Will'm, you see it, my lad, 'tis the answer to that wonderful
prayer.  Let's go over it once more, by way o' givin' thanks.  He who
has sent meat can also gie us drink, even here, in the middle o' the
briny ocean.  Come, boy! as the parson used to say in church,--let us
pray!"

And with this serio-comic admonition--meant, however, in all due
solemnity--the sailor dropped upon his knees, and, as before, echoed the
prayer once more pronounced by his youthful companion.



CHAPTER SIX.

FLYING-FISH.

The flying-fish takes rank as one of the most conspicuous "wonders of
the sea," and in a tale essentially devoted to the great deep, it is a
subject deserving of more than a passing notice.

From the earliest periods of ocean travel, men have looked with
astonishment upon a phenomenon not only singular at first sight, but
which still remains unexplained, namely, a fish and a creature believed
to be formed only for dwelling under water, springing suddenly above the
surface, to the height of a two-storey house, and passing through the
air to the distance of a furlong, before falling back into its own
proper element!

It is no wonder that the sight should cause surprise to the most
indifferent observer, nor that it should have been long a theme of
speculation with the curious, and an interesting subject of
investigation to the naturalist.

As flying-fish but rarely make their appearance except in warm
latitudes, few people who have not voyaged to the tropics have had an
opportunity of seeing them in their flight.  Very naturally, therefore,
it will be asked what kind of fish, that is, to what _species_ and what
_genus_ the flying-fish belong.  Were there only one kind of these
curious creatures the answer would be easier.  But not only are there
different species, but also different "genera" of fish endowed with the
faculty of flying, and which from the earliest times and in different
parts of the world have equally received this characteristic
appellation.  A word or two about each sort must suffice.

First, then, there are two species belonging to the genus _Trigla_, or
the Gurnards, to which Monsieur La Cepede has given the name of
_Dactylopterus_.

One species is found in the Mediterranean, and individuals, from a foot
to fifteen inches in length, are often taken by the fishermen, and
brought to the markets of Malta, Sicily, and even to the city of Rome.
The other species of flying gurnard occur in the Indian Ocean and the
seas around China and Japan.

The true _flying-fish_, however, that is to say, those that are met with
in the great ocean, and most spoken of in books, and in the "yarns" of
the sailor, are altogether of a different kind from the gurnards.  They
are not only different in genus, but in the family and even the order of
fishes.  They are of the genus _Exocetus_, and in form and other
respects have a considerable resemblance to the common pike.  There are
several species of them inhabiting different parts of the tropical seas;
and sometimes individuals, in the summer, have been seen as far north as
the coast of Cornwall in Europe, and on the banks of Newfoundland in
America.  Their natural habitat, however, is in the warm latitudes of
the ocean; and only there are they met with in large "schools," and seen
with any frequency taking their aerial flight.

For a long time there was supposed to be only one, or at most two,
species of the _Exocetus_; but it is now certain there are several--
perhaps as many as half a dozen--distinct from each other.  They are all
much alike in their habits,--differing only in size, colour, and such
like circumstances.

Naturalists disagree as to the character of their flight.  Some assert
that it is only a leap, and this is the prevailing opinion.  Their
reason for regarding it thus is, that while the fish is in the air there
cannot be observed any movement of the wings (pectoral fins); and,
moreover, after reaching the height to which it attains on its first
spring, it cannot afterwards rise higher, but gradually sinks lower till
it drops suddenly back into the water.

This reasoning is neither clear nor conclusive.  A similar power of
suspending themselves in the air, without motion of the wings is
well-known to belong to many birds,--as the vulture, the albatross, the
petrels, and others.  Besides, it is difficult to conceive of a leap
twenty feet high and two hundred yards long; for the flight of the
_Exocetus_ has been observed to be carried to this extent, and even
farther.  It is probable that the movement partakes both of the nature
of leaping and flying: that it is first begun by a spring up out of the
water,--a power possessed by most other kinds of fish,--and that the
impulse thus obtained is continued by the spread fins acting on the air
after the fashion of parachutes.  It is known that the fish can greatly
lighten the specific gravity of its body by the inflation of its
"swim-bladder," which, when perfectly extended, occupies nearly the
entire cavity of its abdomen.  In addition to this, there is a membrane
in the mouth which can be inflated through the gills.  These two
reservoirs are capable of containing a considerable volume of air; and
as the fish has the power of filling or emptying them at will, they no
doubt play an important part in the mechanism of its aerial movement.

One thing is certain, that the flying-fish can turn while in the air,--
that is, diverge slightly from the direction first taken; and this would
seem to argue a capacity something more than that of a mere spring or
leap.  Besides, the wings make a perceptible noise,--a sort of
rustling,--often distinctly heard; and they have been seen to open and
close while the creature is in the air.

A shoal of flying-fish might easily be mistaken for a flock of white
birds, though their rapid movements, and the glistening sheen of their
scales--especially when the sun is shining--usually disclose their true
character.  They are at all times a favourite spectacle, and with all
observers,--the old "salt" who has seen them a thousand times, and the
young sailor on his maiden voyage, who beholds them for the first time
in his life.  Many an hour of _ennui_ occurring to the ship-traveller,
as he sits upon the poop, restlessly scanning the monotonous surface of
the sea, has been brought to a cheerful termination by the appearance of
a shoal of flying-fish suddenly sparkling up out of the bosom of the
deep.

The flying-fish appear to be the most persecuted of all creatures.  It
is to avoid their enemies under water that they take _fin_ and mount
into the air; but the old proverb, "out of the frying-pan into the
fire," is but too applicable in their case, for in their endeavours to
escape from the jaws of dolphins, albicores, bonitos, and other petty
tyrants of the sea, they rush into the beaks of gannets, boobies,
albatrosses, and other petty tyrants of the sky.

Much sympathy has been felt--or at all events expressed--for these
pretty and apparently innocent little victims.  But, alas! our sympathy
receives a sad shock, when it becomes known that the flying-fish is
himself one of the petty tyrants of the ocean,--being, like his near
congener, the pike, a most ruthless little destroyer and devourer of any
fish small enough to go down his gullet.

Besides the two _genera_ of flying-fish above described, there are
certain other marine animals which are gifted with a similar power of
sustaining themselves for some seconds in the air.  They are often seen
in the Pacific and Indian oceans, rising out of the water in shoals,
just like the _Exoceti_: and, like them, endeavouring to escape from the
albicores and bonitos that incessantly pursue them.  These creatures are
not fish in the true sense of the word, but "molluscs," of the genus
_Loligo_; and the name given to them by the whalers of the Pacific is
that of "Flying Squid."



CHAPTER SEVEN.

A CHEERING CLOUD.

The particular species of flying-fish that had fallen into the clutches
of the two starving castaways upon the raft was the _Exocetus evolans_,
or "Spanish flying-fish" of mariners,--a well-known inhabitant of the
warmer latitudes of the Atlantic.  Its body was of a steel-blue, olive
and silvery white underneath, with its large pectoral fins (its wings)
of a powdered grey colour.  It was one of the largest of its kind, being
rather over twelve inches in length, and nearly a pound in weight.

Of course, it afforded but a very slight meal for two hungry stomachs,--
such as were those of Ben Brace and his boy companion.  Still it helped
to strengthen them a little; and its opportune arrival upon the raft--
which they could not help regarding as providential--had the further
effect of rendering them for a time more cheerful and hopeful.

It is not necessary to say that they ate the creature without cooking
it; and although under ordinary circumstances this might be regarded as
a hardship, neither was at that moment in the mood to be squeamish.
They thought the dish dainty enough.  It was its quantity--not the
quality--that failed to give satisfaction.

Indeed the flying-fish is (when cooked, of course) one of the most
delicious of morsels,--a good deal resembling the common herring when
caught freshly, and dressed in a proper manner.

It seemed, however, as if the partial relief from hunger only aggravated
the kindred appetite from which the occupants of the raft had already
begun to suffer.  Perhaps the salt-water, mingled with the saline juices
of the fish, aided in producing this effect.  In any case, it was not
long after they had eaten the _Exocetus_ before both felt thirst in its
very keenest agony.

Extreme thirst, under any circumstances, is painful to endure; but under
no conditions is it so excruciating as in the midst of the ocean.  The
sight of water which you may not drink,--the very proximity of that
element,--so near that you may touch it, and yet as useless to the
assuaging of thirst as if it was the parched dust of the desert,--
increases rather than alleviates the appetite.  It is to no purpose,
that you dip your fingers into the briny flood, and endeavour to cool
your lips and tongue by taking it into the mouth.  To swallow it is
still worse.  You might as well think to allay thirst by drinking liquid
fire.  The momentary moistening of the mouth and tongue is succeeded by
an almost instantaneous parching of the salivary glands, which only glow
with redoubled ardour.

Ben Brace knew this well enough; and once or twice that little William
lifted the sea-water on his palm and applied it to his lips, the sailor
cautioned him to desist, saying that it would do him more harm than
good.

In one of his pockets Ben chanced to have a leaden bullet, which he gave
the boy, telling him to keep it in his mouth and occasionally to chew
it.  By this means the secretion of the saliva was promoted; and
although it was but slight, the sufferer obtained a little relief.

Ben himself held the axe to his lips, and partly by pressing his tongue
against the iron, and partly by gnawing the angle of the blade,
endeavoured to produce the same effect.

It was but a poor means of assuaging that fearful thirst that was now
the sole object of their thoughts,--it might be said their only
sensation,--for all other feelings, both of pleasure or pain, had become
overpowered by this one.  On food they no longer reflected, though still
hungry; but the appetite of hunger, even when keenest, is far less
painful than that of thirst.  The former weakens the frame, so that the
nervous system becomes dulled, and less sensible of the affliction it is
enduring; whereas the latter may exist to its extremest degree, while
the body is in full strength and vigour, and therefore more capable of
feeling pain.

They suffered for several hours, almost all the time in silence.  The
words of cheer which the sailor had addressed to his youthful comrade
were now only heard occasionally, and at long intervals, and when heard
were spoken in a tone that proclaimed their utterance to be merely
mechanical, and that he who gave tongue to them had but slight hope.
Little as remained, however, he would rise from time to time to his
feet, and stand for a while scanning the horizon around him.  Then as
his scrutiny once more terminated in disappointment, he would sink back
upon the canvas, and half-kneeling, half-lying, give way for an interval
to a half stupor of despair.

From one of these moods he was suddenly aroused by circumstances which
had made no impression on his youthful companion, though the latter had
also observed it.  It was simply the darkening of the sun by a cloud
passing over its disc.

Little William wondered that an incident of so common character should
produce so marked an effect as it had done upon his protector: for the
latter on perceiving that the sun had become shadowed instantly started
to his feet, and stood gazing up towards the sky.  A change had come
over his countenance.  His eyes, instead of the sombre look of despair
observable but the moment before, seemed now to sparkle with hope.  In
fact, the cloud which had darkened the face of the sun appeared to have
produced the very opposite effect upon the face of the sailor!



CHAPTER EIGHT.

A CANVAS TANK.

"What is it, Ben?" asked William, in a voice husky and hoarse, from the
parched throat through which it had to pass.  "You look pleased like; do
you see anything?"

"I see that, boy," replied the sailor, pointing up into the sky.

"What?  I see nothing there except that great cloud that has just passed
over the sun.  What is there in that?"

"Ay, what is there in't?  That's just what I'm tryin' to make out,
Will'm; an' if I'm not mistaken, boy, there's it 't the very thing as we
both wants."

"Water!" gasped William, his eyes lighting up with gleam of hope.  "A
rain-cloud you think, Ben?"

"I'm a'most sure o't, Will'm.  I never seed a bank o' clouds like them
there wasn't some wet in; and if the wind 'll only drift 'em this way,
we may get a shower 'll be the savin' o' our lives.  O Lord! in thy
mercy look down on us, and send 'em over us!"

The boy echoed the prayer.

"See!" cried the sailor.  "The wind is a fetchin' them this way.
Yonder's more o' the same sort risin' up in the west, an' that's the
direction from which it's a-blowin'.  Ho!  As I live, Will'm, there's
rain.  I can see by the mist it's a-fallin' on the water yonder.  It's
still far away,--twenty mile or so,--but that's nothing; an' if the wind
holds good in the same quarter, it _must_ come this way."

"But if it did, Ben," said William, doubtingly, "what good would it do
us?  We could not drink much of the rain as it falls, and you know we
have nothing in which to catch a drop of it."

"But we have, boy,--we have our clothes and our shirts.  If the rain
comes, it will fall like it always does in these parts, as if it were
spillin' out o' a strainer.  We'll be soakin' wet in five minutes' time;
and then we can wring all out,--trousers, shirts, and every rag we've
got."

"But we have no vessel, Ben,--what could we wring the water into?"

"Into our months first: after that--ah! it be a pity.  I never thought
o't.  We won't be able to save a drop for another time.  Any rate, if we
could only get one good quenchin', we might stand it several days
longer.  I fancy we might catch some fish, if we were only sure about
the water.  Yes, the rain's a-comin' on.  Look at yon black clouds; and
see, there's lightning forkin' among 'em.  That 's a sure sign it's
raining.  Let's strip, and spread out our shirts so as to have them
ready."

As Ben uttered this admonition he was about proceeding to pull off his
pea-jacket, when an object came before his eyes causing him to desist.
At the same instant an exclamatory phrase escaping from his lips
explained to his companion why he had thus suddenly changed his
intention.  The phrase consisted of two simple words, which written as
pronounced by Ben were, "Thee tarpolin."

Little William knew it was "the tarpauling" that was meant.  He could
not be mistaken about that; for, even had he been ignorant of the
sailor's pronunciation of the words, the latter at that moment stood
pointing to the piece of tarred canvas spread upright between the oars;
and which had formerly served as a covering for the after-hatch of the
_Pandora_.  William did not equally understand why his companion was
pointing to it.

He was not left long in ignorance.

"Nothing to catch the water in?  That's what you sayed, little Will'm?
What do ye call that, my boy?"

"Oh!" replied the lad, catching at the idea of the sailor.  "You mean--"

"I mean, boy, that there's a vessel big enough to hold gallons,--a dozen
o' 'em."

"You think it would hold water?"

"I'm sure o't, lad.  For what else be it made waterproof?  I helped tar
it myself not a week ago.  It'll hold like a rum-cask, I warrant,--ay,
an' it'll be the very thing to catch it too.  We can keep it spread out
a bit wi' a hollow place in the middle, an' if it do rain, there then,--
my boy, we'll ha' a pool big enough to swim ye in.  Hurrah! it's sure to
rain.  See yonder.  It be comin' nearer every minute.  Let's be ready
for it.  Down wi' the mainsail.  Let go the sheets,--an' instead o'
spreadin' our canvas to the wind, as the song says, we'll stretch it out
to the rain.  Come, Will'm, let's look alive!"

William had by this time also risen to his feet; and both now busied
themselves in unlashing the cords that had kept the hatch-covering
spread between the two oars.

This occupied only a few seconds of time; and the tarpauling soon lay
detached between the extemporised masts, that were still permitted to
remain as they had been "stepped."

At first the sailor had thought of holding the piece of tarred canvas in
their hands; but having plenty of time to reflect, a better plan
suggested itself.  So long as it should be thus held, they would have no
chance of using their hands for any other purpose; and would be in a
dilemma as to how they should dispose of the water after having
"captured it."

It did not require much ingenuity to alter their programme for the
better.  By means of the flying-jib that lay along the raft, they were
enabled to construct a ridge of an irregular circular shape; and then
placing the tarpauling upon the top, and spreading it out so that its
edges lapped over this ridge, they formed a deep concavity or "tank" in
the middle, which was capable of holding many gallons of water.

It only remained to examine the canvas, and make sure there were no
rents or holes by which the water might escape.  This was done with all
the minuteness and care that the circumstances called for; and when the
sailor at length became satisfied that the tarpauling was waterproof, he
took the hand of his youthful _protege_ in his own, and both kneeling
upon the raft, with their faces turned towards the west watched the
approach of those dark, lowering clouds, as if they had been
bright-winged angels sent from the far sky to deliver them from
destruction.



CHAPTER NINE.

A PLEASANT SHOWER-BATH.

They had not much longer to wait.  The storm came striding across the
ocean; and, to the intense gratification of both man and boy, the rain
was soon falling upon them, as if a water-spout had burst over their
heads.

A single minute sufficed to collect over a quart within the hollow of
the spread tarpauling; and before that minute had transpired, both might
have been seen lying prostrate upon their faces with their heads
together, near the centre of the concavity, and their lips close to the
canvas, sucking up the delicious drops, almost as fast as they fell.

For a long time they continued in this position, indulging in that cool
beverage sent them from the sky,--which to both appeared the sweetest
they had ever tasted in their lives.  So engrossed were they in its
enjoyment, that neither spoke a word until several minutes had elapsed,
and both had drunk to a surfeit.

They were by this time wet to the skin; for the tropic rain, falling in
a deluge of thick heavy drops, soon saturated their garments through and
through.  But this, instead of being an inconvenience, was rather
agreeable than otherwise, cooling their skins so long parched by the
torrid rays of the sun.

"Little Will'm," said Ben, after swallowing about a gallon of the
rain-water, "didn't I say that He 'as sent us meat, in such good time
too, could also gi' us som'at to drink?  Look there! water enow to last
us for days, lad!"

"'Tis wonderful!" exclaimed the boy.  "I am sure, Ben, that Providence
has done this.  Indeed, it must be true what I was often told in the
Sunday school,--that God is everywhere.  Here He is present with us in
the midst of this great ocean.  O, dear Ben, let's hope He will not
forsake us now.  I almost feel sure, after what has happened to us, that
the hand of God will yet deliver us from our danger."

"I almost feel so myself," rejoined the sailor, his countenance resuming
its wonted expression of cheerfulness.  "After what's happened, one
could not think otherwise; but let us remember, lad, that He is up
aloft, an' has done so much for us, expecting us to do what we can for
ourselves.  He puts the work within our reach, an' then leaves us to do
it.  Now here's this fine supply o' water.  If we was to let that go to
loss, it would be our own fault, not his, an' we'd deserve to die o'
thirst for it."

"What is to be done, Ben?  How are we to keep it?"

"That's just what I'm thinkin' about.  In a very short while the rain
will be over.  I know the sort o' it.  It be only one o' these heavy
showers as falls near the line, and won't last more than half an hour,--
if that.  Then the sun 'll be out as hot as ever, an' will lick up the
water most as fast as it fell,--that is, if we let it lie there.  Yes,
in another half o' an hour that tarpolin would be as dry as the down
upon a booby's back."

"O dear! what shall we do to prevent evaporating?"

"Jest give me a minute to consider," rejoined the sailor, scratching his
head, and putting on an air of profound reflection; "maybe afore the
rain quits comin' down, I'll think o' some way to keep it from
evaporating; that's what you call the dryin' o' it up."

Ben remained for some minutes silent, in the thoughtful attitude he had
assumed,--while William, who was equally interested in the result of his
cogitations, watched his countenance with an eager anxiety.

Soon a joyful expression revealed itself to the glance of the boy,
telling him that his companion had hit upon some promising scheme.

"I think I ha' got it, Will'm," said he; "I think I've found a way to
stow the water even without a cask."

"You have!" joyfully exclaimed William.  "How, Ben?"

"Well, you see, boy, the tarpolin holds water as tight as if 'twere a
glass bottle.  I tarred it myself,--that did I, an' as I never did my
work lubber-like, I done that job well.  Lucky I did, warn't it,
William?"

"It was."

"That be a lesson for you, lad.  Schemin' work bean't the thing, you
see.  It comes back to cuss one; while work as be well did be often like
a blessin' arterward,--just as this tarpolin be now.  But see! as I told
you, the rain would soon be over.  There be the sun again, hot an' fiery
as ever.  There ain't no time to waste.  Take a big drink, afore I put
the stopper into the bottle."

William, without exactly comprehending what his companion meant by the
last words, obeyed the injunction; and stretching forward over the rim
of the improvised tank, once more placed his lips to the water, and
drank copiously.  Ben did the same for himself, passing several pints of
the fluid into his capacious stomach.

Then rising to his feet with a satisfied air, and directing his
_protege_ to do the same, he set about the stowage of the water.

William was first instructed as to the intended plan, so that he might
be able to render prompt and efficient aid; for it would require both of
them, and with all their hands, to carry it out.

The sailor's scheme was sufficiently ingenious.  It consisted in taking
up first the corners of the tarpauling, then the edges all around, and
bringing them together in the centre.  This had to be done with great
care, so as not to jumble the volatile fluid contained within the
canvas, and spill it over the selvage.  Some did escape, but only a very
little; and they at length succeeded in getting the tarpauling formed
into a sort of bag, puckered around the mouth.

While Ben with both arms held the gathers firm and fast, William passed
a loop of strong cord, that had already been made into a noose for the
purpose, around the neck of the bag, close under Ben's wrists, and then
drawing the other end round one of the upright oars, he pulled upon the
cord with all his might.

It soon tightened sufficiently to give Ben the free use of his hands;
when with a fresh loop taken around the crumpled canvas, and after a
turn or two to render it more secure, the cord was made fast.

The tarpauling now rested upon the raft, a distended mass, like the
stomach of some huge animal coated with tar.  It was necessary, however,
lest the water should leak out through the creases, to keep the top
where it was tied, uppermost; and this was effected by taking a turn or
two of the rope round the uppermost end of one of the oars, that had
served for masts, and there making a knot.  By this means the great
water-sack was held in such a position that, although the contents might
"bilge" about at their pleasure, not a drop could escape out either at
the neck or elsewhere.

Altogether they had secured a quantity of water, not less than a dozen
gallons, which Ben had succeeded in stowing to his satisfaction.



CHAPTER TEN.

THE PILOT-FISH.

This opportune deliverance from the most fearful of deaths had inspired
the sailor with a hope that they might still, by some further
interference of Providence, escape from their perilous position.
Relying on this hope, he resolved to leave no means untried that might
promise to lead to its realisation.  They were now furnished with a
stock of water which, if carefully hoarded, would last them for weeks.
If they could only obtain a proportionate supply of food, there would
still be a chance of their sustaining life until some ship might make
its appearance,--for, of course, they thought not of any other means of
deliverance.

To think of food was to think of fishing for it.  In the vast reservoir
of the ocean under and around them there was no lack of nourishing food,
if they could only grasp it; but the sailor well knew that the shy,
slippery denizens of the deep are not to be captured at will, and that,
with all the poor schemes they might be enabled to contrive, their
efforts to capture even a single fish might be exerted in vain.

Still they could try; and with that feeling of hopeful confidence which
usually precedes such trials, they set about making preparations.

The first thing was to make hooks and lines.  There chanced to be some
pins in their clothing; and with these Ben soon constructed a tolerable
set of hooks.  A line was obtained by untwisting a piece of rope, and
respinning it to the proper thickness; and then a float was found by
cutting a piece of wood to the proper dimensions.  And for a sinker
there was the leaden bullet with which little William had of late so
vainly endeavoured to allay the pangs of thirst.  The bones and fins of
the flying-fish--the only part of it not eaten--would serve for bait.
They did not promise to make a very attractive one; for there was not a
morsel of flesh left upon them; but Ben knew that there are many kinds
of fish inhabiting the great ocean that will seize at any sort of
bait,--even a piece of rag,--without considering whether it be good for
them or not.

They had seen fish several times near the raft, during that very day;
but suffering as they were from thirst more than hunger, and despairing
of relief to the more painful appetite, they had made no attempt to
capture them.  Now, however, they were determined to set about it in
earnest.

The rain had ceased falling; the breeze no longer disturbed the surface
of the sea.  The clouds had passed over the canopy of the heavens,--the
sky was clear, and the sun bright and hot as before.

Ben standing erect upon the raft, with the baited hook in his hand,
looked down into the deep blue water.

Even the smallest fish could have been seen many fathoms below the
surface, and far over the ocean.

William on the other side of the raft was armed with hook and line, and
equally on the alert.

For a long time their vigil was unrewarded.  No living thing came within
view.  Nothing was under their eyes save the boundless field of
ultramarine,--beautiful, but to them, at that moment, marked only by a
miserable monotony.

They had stood thus for a full hour, when an exclamation escaping from
the lad, caused his companion to turn and look to the other side of the
raft.

A fish was in sight.  It was that which had drawn the exclamation from
the boy, who was now swinging his line in the act of casting it out.

The ejaculation had been one of joy.  It was checked on his perceiving
that the sailor did not share it.  On the contrary, a cloud came over
the countenance of the latter on perceiving the fish,--whose species he
at once recognised.

And why? for it was one of the most beautiful of the finny tribe.  A
little creature of perfect form,--of a bright azure blue, with
transverse bands of deeper tint, forming rings around its body.  Why did
Ben Brace show disappointment at its appearance?

"You needn't trouble to throw out your line, little Will'm," said he,
"that ere takes no bait,--not it."

"Why?" asked the boy.

"Because it's something else to do than forage for itself.  I dare say
its master an't far off."

"What is it?"

"That be the _pilot-fish_.  See! turns away from us.  It gone back to
him as has sent it."

"Sent it!  Who, Ben?"

"A shark, for sarten.  Didn't I tell ye?  Look yonder.  Two o' them, as
I live; and the biggest kind they be.  Slash my timbers if I iver see
such a pair!  They have fins like lug-sails.  Look! the pilot's gone to
guide 'em.  Hang me if they bean't a-comin' this way!"

William had looked in the direction pointed out by his companion.  He
saw the two great dorsal fins standing several feet above the water.  He
knew them to be those of the _white shark_: for he had already seen
these dreaded monsters of the deep on more than one occasion.

It was true, as Ben had hurriedly declared.  The little pilot-fish,
after coming within twenty fathoms of the raft, had turned suddenly in
the water, and gone back to the sharks; and now it was seen swimming a
few feet in advance of them, as if in the act of leading them on!

The boy was struck with something in the tone of his companion's voice,
that led him to believe there was danger in the proximity of these ugly
creatures; and to say the truth, Ben did not behold them without a
certain feeling of alarm.  On the deck of a ship they might have been
regarded without any fear; but upon a frail structure like that which
supported the castaways--their feet almost on a level with the surface
of the water--it was not so very improbable that the sharks might attack
them!

In his experience the sailor had known cases of a similar kind.  It was
no matter of surprise, that he should feel uneasiness at their approach,
if not actual fear.

But there was no time left either for him to speculate as to the
probabilities of such an attack, or for his companion to question him
about them.

Scarcely had the last words parted from his lips, when the foremost of
the two sharks was seen to lash the water with its broad forked tail,--
and then coming on with a rush, it struck the raft with such a force as
almost to capsize it.

The other shark shot forward in a similar manner; but glancing a little
to one side, caught in its huge mouth the end of the dolphin-striker,
grinding off a large piece of the spar as if it had been cork-wood!

This it swallowed almost instantaneously; and then turning once more in
the water appeared intent upon renewing the attack.

Ben and the boy had dropped their hooks and lines,--the former
instinctively arming himself with the axe, while the latter seized upon
the spare handspike.  Both stood ready to receive the second charge of
the enemy.

It was made almost on the instant.  The shark that had just attacked was
the first to return; and coming on with the velocity of an arrow, it
sprang clear above the surface, projecting its hideous jaws over the
edge of the raft.

For a moment the frail structure was in danger of being either capsized
or swamped altogether, and then the fate of its occupants would
undoubtedly have been to become "food for sharks."

But it was not the intention of Ben Brace or his youthful comrade to
yield up their lives without striking a blow in self-defence, and that
given by the sailor at once disembarrassed him of his antagonist.

Throwing one arm around a mast, in order to steady himself, and raising
the light axe in the other, he struck outward and downward with all his
might.  The blade of the axe, guided with an unswerving arm, fell right
upon the snout of the shark, just midway between its nostrils, cleaving
the cartilaginous flesh to the depth of several inches, and laying it
open to the bones.

There could not have been chosen a more vital part upon which to inflict
a wound; for, huge as is the white shark, and strong and vigorous as are
all animals of this ferocious family, a single blow upon the nose with a
handspike or even a billet of wood, if laid on with a heavy hand, will
suffice to put an end to their predatory courses.

And so was it with the shark struck by the axe of Ben Brace.  As soon as
the blow had been administered, the creature rolled over on its back;
and after a fluke or two with its great forked tail, and a tremulous
shivering through its body, it lay floating upon the water motionless as
a log of wood.

William was not so fortunate with his antagonist, though he had
succeeded in keeping it off.  Striking wildly out with the handspike in
a horizontal direction, he had poked the butt end of the implement right
between the jaws of the monster, just as it raised its head over the
raft with the mouth wide open.

The shark, seizing the handspike in its treble row of teeth, with one
shake of its head whipped it out of the boy's hands: and then rushing on
through the water, was seen grinding the timber into small fragments,
and swallowing it as if it had been so many crumbs of bread or pieces of
meat.

In a few seconds not a bit of the handspike could be seen,--save some
trifling fragments of the fibrous wood that floated on the surface of
the water; but what gave greater gratification to those who saw them,
was the fact that the shark which had thus made "mince-meat" of the
piece of timber was itself no longer to be seen.

Whether because it had satisfied the cravings of its appetite by that
wooden banquet, or whether it had taken the alarm at witnessing the fate
of its companion,--by much the larger of the two,--was a question of
slight importance either to Ben Brace or to William.  For whatever
reason, and under any circumstances, they were but too well pleased to
be disembarrassed of its hideous presence; and as they came to the
conclusion that it had gone off for good, and saw the other one lying
with its white belly turned upwards upon the surface of the water--
evidently dead as a herring--they could no longer restrain their voices,
but simultaneously raised them in a shout of victory.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A LENTEN DINNER.

The shark struck upon the snout, though killed by the blow, continued to
float near the surface of the water its fins still in motion as if in
the act of swimming.

One unacquainted with the habits of these sea-monsters might have
supposed that it still lived, and might yet contrive to escape.  Not so
the sailor, Ben Brace.  Many score of its kind had Ben coaxed to take a
bait, and afterwards helped to haul over the gangway of a ship and cut
to pieces upon the deck; and Ben knew as much about the habits of these
voracious creatures as any sailor that ever crossed the wide ocean, and
much more than any naturalist that never did.  He had seen a shark drawn
aboard with a great steel hook in its stomach,--he had seen its belly
ripped up with a jack-knife, the whole of the intestines taken out, then
once more thrown into the sea; and after all this rough handling he had
seen the animal not only move its fins, but actually swim off some
distance from the ship!  He knew, moreover, that a shark may be cut in
twain,--have the head separated from the body,--and still exhibit signs
of vitality in both parts for many hours after the dismemberment!  Talk
of the killing of a cat or an eel!--a shark will stand as much killing
as twenty cats or a bushel of eels, and still exhibit symptoms of life.

The shark's most vulnerable part appears to be the snout,--just where
the sailor had chosen to make his hit; and a blow delivered there with
an axe, or even a handspike, usually puts a termination to the career of
this rapacious tyrant of the great deep.

"I've knocked him into the middle o' next week," cried Ben, exultingly,
as he saw the shark heel over on its side.  "It ain't goin' to trouble
us any more.  Where's the other un?"

"Gone out that way," answered the boy, pointing in the direction taken
by the second and smaller of the two sharks.  "He whipped the handspike
out of my hands, and he's craunched it to fragments.  See! there are
some of the pieces floating on the water!"

"Lucky you let go, lad; else he might ha' pulled you from the raft.  I
don't think he'll come back again after the reception we've gi'ed 'em.
As for the other, it's gone out o' its senses.  Dash my buttons, if't
ain't goin' to sink!  Ha!  I must hinder that.  Quick, Will'm, shy me
that piece o' sennit: we must secure him 'fore he gives clean up and
goes to the bottom.  Talk o' catching fish wi' hook an' line!  Aha!
This beats all your small fry.  If we can secure it, we'll have fish
enough to last us through the longest Lent.  There now! keep on the
other edge of the craft so as to balance me.  So-so!"

While the sailor was giving these directions, he was busy with both
hands in forming a running-noose on one end of the sennit-cord, which
William on the instant had handed over to him.  It was but the work of a
moment to make the noose; another to let it down into the water; a third
to pass it over the upper jaw of the shark; a fourth to draw it taut,
and tighten the cord around the creature's teeth.  The next thing done
was to secure the other end of the sennit to the upright oar; and the
carcass of the shark was thus kept afloat near the surface of the water.

To guard against a possible chance of the creature's recovery, Ben once
more laid hold of the axe; and, leaning over the edge of the raft,
administered a series of smart blows upon its snout.  He continued
hacking away, until the upper jaw of the fish exhibited the appearance
of a butcher's chopping-block; and there was no longer any doubt of the
creature being as "dead as a herring."

"Now, Will'm," said the shark-killer, "this time we've got a fish
that'll gi'e us a fill, lad.  Have a little patience, and I'll cut ye a
steak from the tenderest part o' his body; and that's just forrard o'
the tail.  You take hold o' the sinnet, an' pull him up a bit,--so as I
can get at him."

The boy did as directed; and Ben, once more bending over the edge of the
raft, caught hold of one of the caudal fins, and with his knife detached
a large flake from the flank of the fish,--enough to make an ample meal
for both of them.

It is superfluous to say that, like the little flying-fish, the
shark-meat had to be eaten raw; but to men upon the verge of starvation
there is no inconvenience in this.  Indeed, there are many tribes of
South-Sea Islanders--not such savage either--who habitually eat the
flesh of the shark--both the blue and white species--without thinking it
necessary even to warm it over a fire!  Neither did the castaway English
sailor nor his young comrade think it necessary.  Even had a fire been
possible, they were too hungry to have stayed for the process of
cooking; and both, without more ado, dined upon raw shark-meat.

When they had succeeded in satisfying the cravings of hunger, and once
more refreshed themselves with a draught from their extemporised
water-bag, the castaways not only felt a relief from actual suffering,
but a sort of cheerful confidence in the future.  This arose from a
conviction on their part, or at all events a strong impression, that the
hand of Providence had been stretched out to their assistance.  The
flying-fish, the shower, the shark may have been accidents, it is true;
but, occurring at such a time, just in the very crisis of their
affliction, they were accidents that had the appearance of design,--
design on the part of Him to whom in that solemn hour they had uplifted
their voices in prayer.

It was under this impression that their spirits became naturally
restored; and once more they began to take counsel together about the
ways and means of prolonging their existence.

It is true that their situation was still desperate.  Should a storm
spring up,--even an ordinary gale,--not only would their canvas
water-cask be bilged, and its contents spilled out to mingle with the
briny billow, but their frail embarkation would be in danger of going to
pieces, or of being whelmed fathoms deep under the frothing waves.  In a
high latitude, either north or south, their chance of keeping afloat
would have been slight indeed.  A week, or rather only a single day,
would have been as long as they could have expected that calm to
continue; and the experienced sailor knew well enough that anything in
the shape of a storm would expose them to certain destruction.  To
console him for this unpleasant knowledge, however, he also knew that in
the ocean, where they were then afloat, storms are exceedingly rare, and
that ships are often in greater danger from the very opposite state of
the atmosphere,--from _calms_.  They were in that part of the Atlantic
Ocean known among the early Spanish navigators as the _Horse
Latitudes_,--so-called because the horses at that time being carried
across to the New World, for want of water in the becalmed ships, died
in great numbers, and being thrown overboard were often seen floating
upon the surface of the sea.

A prettier and more poetical name have these same Spaniards given to a
portion of the same Atlantic Ocean,--which, from the gentleness of its
breezes, they have styled "_La Mar de las Damas_" (the Ladies' Sea).

Ben Brace knew that in the Horse Latitudes storms were of rare
occurrence; and hence the hopefulness with which he was now looking
forward to the future.

He was no longer inactive.  If he believed in the special Interference
of Providence, he also believed that Providence would expect him to make
some exertion of himself,--such as circumstances might permit and
require.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

FLENSING A SHARK.

The flesh of the shark, and the stock of water so singularly obtained
and so deftly stored away, might, if properly kept and carefully used,
last them for many days; and to the preservation of these stores the
thoughts of the sailor and his young companion were now specially
directed.

For the former they could do nothing more than had been already done,--
further than to cover the tarpauling that contained it with several
folds of the spare sail-cloth, in order that no ray of the sun should
get near it.  This precaution was at once adopted.

The flesh of the shark--now dead as mutton--if left to itself, would
soon spoil, and be unfit for food, even for starving men.  It was this
reflection that caused the sailor and his _protege_ to take counsel
together as to what might be done towards preserving it.

They were not long in coming to a decision.  Shark-flesh, like that of
any other fish--like haddock, for instance, or red herrings--can be
dried in the sun; and the more readily in that sun of the torrid zone
that shone down so hotly upon their heads.  The flesh only needed to be
cut into thin slices and suspended from the upright oars.  The
atmosphere would soon do the rest.  Thus cured, it would keep for weeks
or months; and thus did the castaways determine to cure it.

No sooner was the plan conceived, than they entered upon its execution.
Little William again seized the cord of sennit, and drew the huge
carcass close up to the raft; while Ben once more opened the blade of
his sailor's knife, and commenced cutting off the flesh in broad
flakes,--so thin as to be almost transparent.

He had succeeded in stripping off most of the titbits around the tail,
and was proceeding up the body of the shark to _flense_ it in a similar
fashion, when an ejaculation escaped him, expressing surprise or
pleasant curiosity.

Little William was but too glad to perceive the pleased expression on
the countenance of his companion,--of late so rarely seen.

"What is it, Ben?" he inquired, smilingly.

"Look 'ee theer, lad," rejoined the sailor, placing his hand upon the
back of the boy's head, and pressing it close to the edge of the raft,
so that he could see well down into the water,--"look theer, and tell me
what you see."

"Where?" asked William, still ignorant of the object to which his
attention was thus forcibly directed.

"Don't you see somethin' queery stickin' to the belly of the shark,--eh,
lad?"

"As I live," rejoined William, now perceiving "somethin'", "there's a
small fish pushing his head against the shark,--not so small either,--
only in comparison with the great shark himself.  It's about a foot
long, I should think.  But what is it doing in that odd position?"

"Sticking to the shark,--didn't I tell 'ee, lad!"

"Sticking to the shark?  You don't mean that, Ben?"

"But I do--mean that very thing, boy.  It's as fast theer as a barnacle
to a ship's copper; an' 'll stay, I hope, till I get my claws upon it,--
which won't take very long from now.  Pass a piece o' cord this way.
Quick."

The boy stretched out his hand, and, getting hold of a piece of loose
string, reached it to his companion.  Just as the snare had been made
for the shark with the piece of sennit, and with like rapidity, a noose
was constructed on the string; and, having been lowered into the water,
was passed around the body of the little fish which appeared adhering to
the belly of the shark.  Not only did it so appear, but it actually was,
as was proved by the pull necessary to detach it, and which required all
the strength that lay in the strong arms of the sailor.

He succeeded, however, in effecting his purpose; and with a pluck the
parasite fish was separated from the skin to which it had been clinging,
and, jerked upwards, was landed alive and kicking upon the raft.

Its kicking was not allowed to continue for long.  Lest it might leap
back into the water, and, sluggish swimmer as it was, escape out of
reach, Ben, with the knife which he still held unclasped in his hand,
pinned it to one of the planks, and in an instant terminated its
existence.

"What sort of a fish is it?" asked William, as he looked upon the odd
creature thus oddly obtained.

"Suckin'-fish," was Ben's laconic answer.

"A sucking-fish!  I never heard of one before.  Why is it so-called?"

"Because it sucks," replied the sailor.

"Sucks what?"

"Sharks.  Didn't you see it suckin' at this 'un afore I pulled it from
the teat?  Ha! ha! ha!"

"Surely it wasn't that, Ben?" said the lad, mystified by Ben's remark.

"Well, boy, I an't, going to bamboozle ye.  All I know is that it
fastens onto sharks, and only this sort, which are called _white
sharks_; for I never seed it sticking to any o' the others,--of which
there be several kinds.  As to its suckin' anythin' out o' them an'
livin' by that, I don't believe a word o' it; though they say it do so,
and that's what's given it its name.  Why I don't believe it is, because
I've seed the creature stickin' just the same way to the coppered bottom
o' a ship, and likewise to the sides o' rocks under the water.  Now, it
couldn't get anything out o' the copper to live upon, nor yet out o' a
rock,--could it?"

"Certainly not."

"Then it couldn't be a suckin' them.  Besides, I've seed the stomachs o'
several cut open, and they were full of little water-creepers,--such as
there's thousands o' kinds in the sea.  I warrant if we rip this 'un up
the belly, we'll find the same sort o' food in it."

"And why does it fasten itself to sharks and ships,--can you tell that,
Ben?"

"I've heerd the reason, and it be sensible enough,--more so than to say
that it sucks.  There was a doctor as belonged in the man-o'-war where I
sarved for two years, as was larned in all such curious things.  He said
that the suckin'-fish be a bad swimmer; and that I know myself to be
true.  You can tell by the smallness o' its fins.  Well, the doctor, he
say, it fastens on to the sharks and ships so as to get carried from
place to place, and to the rocks to rest itself.  Whenever it takes a
notion, it can slip off, and go a huntin' for its prey; and then come
back again and take a fresh grip on whatever it has chosen to lodge
itself."

"It's that curious thing along the back of its head that enables it to
hold on, isn't it?"

"That's its sticking-machine; and, what be curious, Will'm, if you were
to try to pull it off upwards or backwards you couldn't do it wi' all
your strength, nor I neither: you must shove it forrard, as you seed me
do just now, or else pull it to pieces before it would come off."

"I can see," said William, holding the fish up to his eyes, "that there
are rows of little teeth in that queer top-knot it's got, all turned
towards the tail.  It is they, I suppose, that prevent its slipping
backwards?"

"No doubt, lad,--no doubt it be that.  But never mind what it be just
now.  Let us finish flensin' o' the shark; and then if we feel hungry we
can make a meal o' the sucker,--for I can tell you it's the best kind o'
eatin'.  I've ate 'em often in the South-Sea Islands, where the natives
catch 'em with hooks and lines; but I've seen them there much bigger
than this 'un,--three feet long, and more."

And so saying, the sailor returned to the operation, thus temporarily
suspended,--the _flensing_ of the shark.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

THE SUCKING-FISH.

The fish that had thus singularly fallen into their hands was, as Ben
had stated, the sucking-fish, _Echeneis remora_,--one of the most
curious creatures that inhabit the sea.  Not so much from any
peculiarity in appearance as from the singularity of its habits.

Its appearance, however, is sufficiently singular; and looking upon it,
one might consider the creature as being well adapted for keeping
company with the ferocious tyrant of the deep, on whom it constantly
attends.

Its body is black and smooth, its head of a hideous form, and its fins
short and broadly spread.  The mouth is very large, with the lower jaw
protruding far beyond the upper, and it is this that gives to it the
cast of feature, if we may be permitted to speak of "features" in a
fish.

Both lips and jaws are amply provided with teeth; and the throat,
palate, and tongue are set profusely with short spines.  The eyes are
dark, and set high up.  The "sucker" or buckler upon the top of its head
consists of a number of bony plates, set side by side, so as to form an
oval disc, and armed along the edges with little tentacles, or teeth, as
the boy William had observed.

His companion's account of the creature was perfectly correct, so far as
it went; but there are many other points in its "history" quite as
curious as those which the sailor had communicated.

The fish has neither swim-bladder nor sound; and as, moreover, its fins
are of the feeblest kind, it is probably on this account that it has
been gifted with the power of adhering to other floating bodies, by way
of compensation for the above-named deficiencies.  The slow and prowling
movements of the white shark, render it particularly eligible for the
purposes of the sucking-fish, either as a resting-place or a means of
conveyance from place to place; and it is well-known that the shark is
usually attended by several of these singular satellites.  Other
floating objects, however, are used by the sucking-fish,--such as pieces
of timber, the keel of a ship; and it even rests itself against the
sides of submerged rocks, as the sailor had stated.  It also adheres to
whales, turtles, and the larger kinds of albacore.

Its food consists of shrimps, marine insects, fragments of molluscous
animals, and the like; but it obtains no nutriment through the
sucking-apparatus, nor does it in any way injure the animal to which it
adheres.  It only makes use of the sucker at intervals; at other times,
swimming around the object it attends, and looking out for prey of its
own choice, and on its own account.  While swimming it propels itself by
rapid lateral movements of the tail, executed awkwardly and with a
tortuous motion.

It is itself preyed upon by other fish,--diodons and albacores; but the
shark is merciful to it, as to the pilot-fish, and never interferes with
it.

Sucking-fish are occasionally seen of a pure white colour associating
with the black ones, and also attending upon the shark.  They are
supposed to be merely varieties or _albinos_.

When sharks are hooked and drawn on board a ship, the sucking-fishes
that have been swimming around them will remain for days, and even
weeks, following the vessel throughout all her courses.  They can then
be taken by a hook and line, baited with a piece of flesh; and they will
seize the bait when let down in the stillest water.  In order to secure
them, however, it is necessary, after they have been hooked, to jerk
them quickly out of the water; else they will swim rapidly to the side
of the ship, and fix their sucker so firmly against the wood, as to defy
every attempt to dislodge them.

There are two well-known species of sucking-fish,--the common one
described, and another of larger size, found in the Pacific, the
_Echeneis australis_.  The latter is a better shaped fish than its
congener, can swim more rapidly, and is altogether of a more active
habit.

Perhaps the most interesting fact in the history of the _Echeneis_ is
its being the same fish as that known to the Spanish navigators as the
_remora_, and which was found by Columbus in possession of the natives
of Cuba and Jamaica, _tamed, and trained to the catching of turtles_!

Their mode of using it was by attaching a cord of palm sennit to a ring
already fastened round the tail, at the smallest part between the
ventral and caudal fins.  It was then allowed to swim out into the sea;
while the other end of the cord was tied to a tree, or made fast to a
rock upon the beach.  The _remora_ being thus set--just as one would set
a baited hook--was left free to follow its own inclinations,--which
usually were to fasten its sucking-plates against the shell of one of
the great sea-turtles,--so famed at aldermanic feasts and prized by
modern _gourmets_, and equally relished by the ancient Cuban _caciques_.

At intervals, the turtle-catcher would look to his line; and when the
extra strain upon it proved that the _remora_ was _en rapport_ with a
turtle, he would haul in, until the huge _chelonian_ was brought within
striking distance of his heavy club; and thus would the capture be
effected.

Turtles of many hundreds' weight could be taken in this way; for the
pull upon the _remora_ being towards the tail,--and therefore in a
backward direction,--the sucking-fish could not be detached, unless by
the most violent straining.

It is a fact of extreme singularity, that a similar method of capturing
turtles is practised on the coast of Mozambique at the present day, and
by a people who never could have had any communication with the
aborigines of the West Indian Islands, much less have learnt from them
this curious craft of angling with a fish!

A smaller species of the sucking-fish is found in the Mediterranean,--
the _Echeneis remora_.  It was well-known to the ancient writers;
though, like most creatures gifted with any peculiarity, it was oftener
the subject of fabulous romance than real history.  It was supposed to
have the power of arresting the progress of a ship, by attaching itself
to the keel and pulling in a contrary direction!  A still more
ridiculous virtue was attributed to it: in the belief that, if any
criminal in dread of justice could only succeed in inducing the judge to
partake of a portion of its flesh, he would be able to obtain a long
delay before the judge could pronounce the verdict of his condemnation!



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

A SAIL OF SHARK-FLESH.

It wanted but a little while of sunset, when the sailor and his young
comrade had finished flensing the shark.  The raft now exhibited quite
an altered appearance.  Between the two upright oars several pieces of
rope had been stretched transversely, and from these hung suspended the
broad thin flitches of the shark's flesh, that at a distance might have
been mistaken for some sort of a sail.  Indeed, they acted as such; for
their united discs presented a considerable breadth of surface to the
breeze, which had sprung up as the evening approached, and the raft by
this means moved through the water with considerable rapidity.

There was no effort made to steer it.  The idea of reaching land was
entirely out of the question.  Their only hope of salvation lay in their
being seen from a ship; and as a ship was as likely to come from one
direction as another, it mattered not to which of the thirty-two points
of the compass their raft might be drifting.  Yes, it _did_ matter.  So
thought Ben Brace, on reflection.

It might be of serious consequence, should the raft make way to the
westward.  Somewhere in that direction--how far neither could guess--
that greater raft, with its crew of desperate ruffians,--those drunken
would-be cannibals,--must be drifting about, like themselves, at the
mercy of winds and waves: perhaps more than themselves suffering the
dire extreme of thirst and hunger.  Perhaps, ere then, one of their own
number may have been forced to submit to the horrid fate which they had
designed for little William; and which, but for the interference of his
generous protector, would most certainly have befallen him.

Should he again fall into their clutches, there would be but slight
chance of a second escape.  His protector knew that.  Ben knew,
moreover, that his own life would be equally sure of being sacrificed to
the resentment of the ribald crew, with whom he had formerly associated.

No wonder, as he felt the breeze blowing on his cheek, that he looked
towards the setting sun, to ascertain in what direction the raft was
being borne.  No wonder that his anxious glance became changed to a look
of satisfaction when he perceived that they were moving eastward.

"To the east'ard it are, sure enough," said he, "and that be curious
too.  'T an't often I've see'd the wind blow from the westward in these
latitudes.  Only another catspaw in the middle o' the calm.  'T won't
last long; though it won't matter, so long's it don't turn and blow us
t'other way."

The expressed wish not to be blown "t'other way" needed no explanation.
William understood what that meant.  The fearful scene of the preceding
day was fresh in his memory.  That scene, where half a score of
fiend-like monsters, threatening his life, were kept at bay by one
heroic man,--that was a tableau too terrible to be soon forgotten.

Nor had he forgotten it, even for a moment.  Perhaps, during that brief
conflict with the sharks, the nearer danger may have driven it for an
interval out of his mind; but that over, the dread remembrance returned
again; and every now and then,--even while engaged in the varied labours
that had occupied them throughout the day,--in a sort of waking dream he
had recalled that fearful vision.  Often--every few minutes in fact--had
his eyes been turned involuntarily towards the west,--where, instead of
looking hopefully for a ship, his anxious glance betrayed a fear that
any dark object might be seen in that direction.

On finishing their task, both were sufficiently fatigued,--the strong
sailor as well as his feebler companion.  The former still kept his
feet, anxiously scanning the horizon; while the latter laid himself
along the bare boards of the raft.

"Little Will'm," said the sailor, looking down at the boy, and speaking
in gentle tones, "you'd better spread the sail under ye, and get some
sleep.  There be no use in both o' us keeping awake.  I'll watch till it
gets dark, an' then I'll join you.  Go to sleep, lad! go to sleep!"

William was too wearied to make objection.  Drawing the skirt of the
sail over the raft, he lay down upon it, and found sleep almost as soon
is he had composed himself into the attitude to enjoy it.

The sailor remained standing erect; now sweeping the horizon with his
glance, now bending his eye restlessly upon the water as it rippled
along the edge of the raft, and again returning to that distant
scrutiny,--so oft repeated, so oft unrewarded.

Thus occupied, he passed the interval of twilight,--short in these
latitudes; nor did he terminate his vigil until darkness had descended
upon the deep.

It promised to be a dark, moonless night.  Only a few feebly gleaming
stars, thinly scattered over the firmament, enabled him to distinguish
the canopy of the sky from the waste of waters that surrounded him.
Even a ship under full spread of canvas could not have been seen, though
passing at a cable's length from the raft.

It was idle to continue the dreary vigil; and having arrived at this
conviction, the sailor stretched himself alongside his slumbering
companion, and, like the latter, was soon relieved from his
long-protracted anxiety by the sweet oblivion of sleep.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

THE MYSTERIOUS VOICE.

For several hours both remained wrapped in slumber, oblivious of the
perils through which they had passed,--equally unconscious of the
dangers that surrounded and still lay before them.

What a picture was there,--with no human eye to behold it!  Two human
forms, a sailor and a sailor-boy, lying side by side upon a raft scarce
twice the length of their own bodies, in the midst of a vast ocean,
landless and limitless as infinity itself both softly and soundly
asleep,--as if reposing upon the pillow of some secure couch, with the
firm earth beneath and a friendly roof extended over them!  Ah, it was a
striking tableau, that frail craft with its sleeping crew,--such a
spectacle as is seldom seen by human eye!

It was fortunate that for many hours they continued to enjoy the sweet
unconsciousness of sleep,--if such may be termed enjoyment.  It was long
after midnight before either awoke: for there was nothing to awake them.
The breeze had kept gentle, and constant in the same quarter; and the
slight noise made by the water, as it went "swishing" along the edge of
the raft, instead of rousing them acted rather as a lullaby to their
rest.  The boy awoke first.  He had been longer asleep; and his nervous
system, refreshed and restored to its normal condition, had become more
keenly sensitive to outward impressions.  Some big, cold rain-drops
falling upon his face had recalled him to wakefulness.

Was it spray tossed up by the spars ploughing through the water?

No.  It was rain from the clouds.  The canopy overhead was black as ink;
but while the lad was scrutinising it, a gleam of lightning suddenly
illumined both sea and sky, and then all was dark as before.

Little William would have restored his cheek to its sail-cloth pillow
and gone to sleep again.  He was not dismayed by the silent lightning,--
for it was that sort that had flickered over the sky.  No more did he
mind the threatening rainclouds.  His shirt had been soaked too often,
by showers from the sky and spray from the sea, for him to have any
dread of a ducking.

It was not that,--neither the presence of the lightning nor the prospect
of the rain,--that kept him awake; but something he had heard,--or
fancied he had heard,--something that not only restrained him from
returning to repose, but inspired him with a fear that robbed him of an
inclination to go to sleep again.

What was it he had heard or fancied?  A noise,--a _voice_!

Was it the scream of the sea-mew, the shriek of the frigate-bird, or the
hoarse note of the nelly?

None of these.  The boy-sailor was acquainted with the cries of all
three, and of many other sea-birds besides.  It was not the call of a
bird that had fallen so unexpectedly on his ear, but a note of far
different intonation.  It more resembled a voice,--a human voice,--the
voice of a child!  Not of a very young child,--an infant,--but more like
that of a girl of eight or ten years of age!

Nor was it a cry of distress, though uttered in a melancholy tone.  It
seemed to the ear of the lad--freshly awakened from his sleep--like
words spoken in conversation.

But it could not be what he had taken it for!  Improbable,--impossible!
He had been deluded by a fancy; or it might be the mutterings of some
ocean bird with whose note he was unacquainted.

Should he awake his companion and tell him of it?  A pity, if it should
prove to be nothing, or only the chattering of a sea-gull.  His brave
protector had need of rest.  Ben would not be angry to be awaked; but
the sailor would be sure to laugh at him if he were to say he had heard
a little girl talking at that time of night in the middle of the
Atlantic Ocean.  Perhaps Ben might say it was a mermaid, and mock him in
that sort of style?

No: he would not run the risk of being ridiculed, even by his best of
friends.  Better let the thing pass, and say nothing about it.

Little William had arrived at this resolution, and had more than half
determined to treat the sound he had heard as an _aurical_ delusion.  He
had even replaced his cheek upon the sail-cloth pillow, when the very
same sound again fill upon his ear,--this time more distinctly heard, as
if either the utterance had been clearer or the being that made it was
nearer!

If it was not the voice of a girl,--a very young girl,--then the
boy-sailor had never listened to the prattling of his younger sister, or
the conversation of his little female playmates.  If it was a young
mermaid, then most assuredly could mermaids talk: for the sound was
exactly like a string or series of words uttered in conversation!

Ben must be aroused from his slumber.  It could not be an illusion.
Either a talking mermaid, or a little girl, was within earshot of the
raft.

There was no help for it: Ben must be aroused.

"Ben!  Ben!"

"Ho--hah--ow--aw--what's the row?--seven bells, I bean't on the
dog-watch.  Hi, hi, oh! it's you, little Will'm.  What is't, lad?"

"Ben, I hear something."

"Hear somethin'!  Well, what o' that, boy?  Theer 's allers somethin' to
be heerd: even here, in the middle o' the Atlantic.  Ah! boy, I was
dreamin' a nice dream when ye woke me.  I thought I war back on the ole
frigate.  'T wa'nt so nice, eyther, for I thought the bos'n war roustin'
me up for my watch on deck.  Anyhow, would a been better than this watch
here.  Heerd something ye say?  What d'ye mean, little Will'm?"

"I heard a voice, Ben.  I think it was a voice."

"Voice--o' a human, do ye mean?"

"It sounded like that of a little girl."

"Voice o' a little girl!  Shiver my timbers, lad, you're goin' demented!
Put yer face close to mine.  Let me see ye, boy!  Are ye in yer senses,
Will'm?"

"I am, Ben.  I'm sure I heard what I've said.  Twice I heard it.  The
first time I wasn't sure; but just now I heard it again, and if--"

"If there hadn't been gulls, an' boobies, an' Mother Carey's chickens,
as squeals and chitters just like little childer, I'd a been puzzled at
what ye be a tellin' me; but as I knows there be all o' these creators
in the middle o' the broad ocean,--and mermaids too, I dare say,--then,
ye see, little Will'm, I must disbelieve that ye heard anything more
than the voice of--a man, by--!"

As the sailor terminated his speech with this terrible emphasis, he
started into an upright attitude, and listened with all his ears for
another utterance of that harsh monotone that, borne upon the breeze and
rising above the "sough" of the disturbed water, could easily be
distinguished as the _voice of a man_.

"We're lost, Will'm!" cried he, without waiting for a repetition of the
sound; "we're lost.  It's the voice of Le Gros.  The big raft is a
bearin' down upon us wi' them bloodthirsty cannibals we thought we'd got
clear o'.  It's no use tryin' to escape.  Make up your mind to it, lad;
we've got to die! we've got to die!"



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

OTHER WAIFS.

Had it been daylight, instead of a very dark night, Ben Brace and his
youthful comrade would have been less alarmed by the voices that came up
the wind.  Daylight would have discovered to them an object, or rather
collection of objects, which, instead of repelling, would have attracted
them nearer.

It was not the great raft that was drifting to leeward, nor was it the
voice of Le Gros or any of his wicked companions, that had been heard;
though, in the excitement of their fears, that was the first thought of
the two castaways.

Could their eyes have penetrated the deep obscurity that shrouded the
sea, they would have beheld a number of objects, like themselves, adrift
upon the water, and like them, at the mercy of the winds and waves.
They would have seen pieces of timber, black and charred with fire;
fragments of broken spars, with sails and cordage attached and trailing
after them; here and there a cask or barrel, sunk to the level of the
surface by the weight of its contents; pieces of packing-cases, torn
asunder as if by some terrible explosion; cabin-chairs, coops, oars,
handspikes, and other implements of the mariner's calling,--all bobbing
about on the bosom of the blue deep, and carried hither and thither by
the arbitrary oscillations of the breeze.

These various objects were not all huddled up together, but scattered
unequally over a space of more than a square mile in extent.  Had it
been daylight, so that the sailor could have seen them, as they appeared
mottling the bright surface of the sea, he would have experienced no
difficulty in determining their character.  At a glance he would have
recognised the _debris_ of the burnt ship, from which he and his
companion had so narrowly escaped,--the slave-bark _Pandora_.

He would have looked upon these objects with no very great surprise, but
in all likelihood with a feeling of considerable satisfaction: as
offering the means for recruiting the strength of his own slight
embarkation, which was barely sufficient to sustain the weight of
himself and his companion, and certainly not strong enough to withstand
the assault of the most moderate of storms.

In the midst of the "waifs" above enumerated, however, there was one not
yet named,--one that differed greatly from all the rest,--and which, had
it been seen by them, would have caused extreme surprise both to Ben
Brace and little William.

It was a raft, not a great deal larger than their own, but altogether of
different construction.  A number of planks most of them charred by
fire, with a sofa, a bamboo chair, and some other articles of furniture,
had been rudely bound together by ropes.  These things, of themselves,
would have made but a very clumsy craft, no better for navigating the
great ocean than that upon which Ben and the boy were themselves
embarked.  But the buoyancy of the former was secured by a contrivance
of which the sailor had not had the opportunity of availing himself.
Around its edge were ranged hogsheads or water-casks, evidently empty.
They were lashed to the plank; and being bunged up against the influx of
the water, kept the whole structure afloat, so that it would have
carried a ton or two without sinking below the surface.

There was a smaller cask floating alongside, attached to the timbers by
a piece of rope that was tightly looped around the swell.  But this
could not have been designed to increase the buoyancy of the raft: since
it was itself almost submerged, evidently by the weight of something it
contained.

Such a congeries of objects might have drifted side by side by chance,
or the caprice of the currents; but they could not have tied themselves
together in such fashion.  There was design in the arrangement; and in
the midst of the circle of empty hogsheads might have been seen the
contriver of this curious craft.  He was, of course, a human being, and
a man; but such an one as, under any circumstances, would arrest the
attention of the beholder; much more in the singular situation in which
he was then met with.  He was a black man, in the fullest sense of the
word; a true <DW64>, with a skin shining like ebony; a skull of large
size, and slightly square in shape, covered with a thick crop of curling
wool, so close and short as to appear _felted_ into the skin.  A brace
of broad ears stood prominently out from the sides of his head; and
extending almost from one to the other, was a wide-gaping mouth, formed
by a pair of lips of huge thickness, protruding far forward, so as to
give to the countenance those facial outlines characteristic of the
chimpanzee or gorilla.

Notwithstanding his somewhat abnormal features, the expression of the
<DW64>'s face was far from being hideous.  It was not even disagreeable.
A double row of white teeth, gleaming between the purplish lips, could
be exhibited upon ordinary occasions in a pleasant smile; and the
impression derived from looking upon the countenance was, that the owner
of it was rather good-natured than otherwise.  Just then, as he sat upon
the raft, gazing over the bulwark of hogsheads, its expression was one
of profound and sombre melancholy.  No wonder!

The <DW64> was not alone.  Another individual shared with him the
occupancy of the raft;--one differing from him in appearance as Hyperion
from the Satyr.  A few feet from him, and directly before his face, was
a little girl, apparently about ten or twelve years of age.  She was
seated, or rather cowering, among the timbers of the raft, upon a piece
of tarpauling that had been spread over them, her eyes bent upon her
black companion, though occasionally straying, with listless glance,
over the sombre surface of the sea.  Although so young, her countenance
appeared sad and despondent, as if under the belief that there was
little hope of escape from the fearful situation in which she was
placed, and as if her little spirit had long ago surrendered to despair.

Though not a <DW64> like her companion, the girl could scarce be called
_white_.  Her complexion was of that hue known as olive; but her hair,
although curling, hung in long locks down over her shoulders; and the
crimson hue deeply tinting her cheeks told that in her blood there was
more Caucasian than <DW64>.

Any one who had visited the western coast of Africa, on seeing this
little girl, would easily have recognised in her features the type of
that mixed race which has resulted from long intercourse between the
Portuguese "colonists" and the sable indigenes of the soil.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

HOW SNOWBALL ESCAPED FROM THE SLAVER.

On this curious embarkation, drifting about amid the remains of the
wrecked ship, there were only the two human figures,--the <DW64> and the
little girl.  It is superfluous to say that they were also a portion of
the wreck itself,--other castaways who had, so far, succeeded in saving
themselves from the fearful doom that had overtaken, no doubt, every one
of the wretched beings composing the _cargo_ of the slaver.

The <DW64> upon the raft, though black as the blackest of his unfortunate
countrymen, was not among the number of those who had been carried as
_freight_.  On the contrary, he was one of the crew,--the lord of the
caboose, and known upon the slave-bark by the satirical _soubriquet_ of
"Snowball."

Although originally a slave from Africa, and by race a Coromantee,
Snowball had long been in the enjoyment of his liberty; and, as cook or
steward, had seen service in scores of ships, and circumnavigated the
globe in almost every latitude where circumnavigation was possible.

Though not naturally of a wicked disposition, he was by no means
particular as to the company he kept, or the sort of ship he sailed
in,--so long as the wages were good and the store-room well supplied;
and as these conditions are usually found on board of a slaver, it was
not Snowball's first voyage in a vessel of the kind.  It is true that he
had never sailed in company with a more ribald crew than that of the
_Pandora_; but it is only justice to say, that, long before the fatal
interruption of that voyage, even he had become tired of their
companionship, and had been almost as eager to get away from the ship as
Ben Brace or little William.

He, too, had been deterred from attempting to escape while upon the
African coast, by the knowledge that such an attempt would have been
worse than idle.  In all likelihood it would have ended in his being
captured by his own countrymen,--or, at all events, by people of his own
colour,--and sold once more into that very slavery from which he had
formerly succeeded in emancipating himself.

Though Snowball's morality was far from being immaculate, there was one
virtue which he was not wanting,--gratitude.  But for the possession of
this, he might have been alone upon the raft, and, perhaps, less caring
in what direction the winds and waves might carry him.  As it was, his
sole thought and anxiety was about his little companion, whose safety
was as dear to him as his own.

It will be asked why Snowball felt this unselfish solicitude.  The child
could not be his own?  Complexion, features, everything forbade the
supposition that there could be anything of kinship between her and her
sable protector.

Nor was there the slightest.  On the contrary, the little girl was the
daughter of one who had once been Snowball's greatest enemy,--the man
who had sold him into slavery; but who had afterwards won the <DW64>'s
gratitude by restoring to him his freedom.  This person had formerly
owned a trading fort on the coast of Africa, but of late years had been
a resident of Rio in Brazil.  His daughter, born in the former country,
previous to his leaving it, was crossing the great ocean to rejoin him
in his new home in the western world.  Hence her presence on board the
_Pandora_, where she had been a passenger under the protection of
Snowball.

And well had the <DW64> performed his duty as protector.  When all the
others had forsaken the ship, and the flames were fast spreading over
her decks, the faithful <DW64> had gone below, and, rousing the girl from
her sleep,--for she had been slumbering unconscious of the danger,--had
borne her amidst flames and smoke, at the imminent risk of his own life,
and passing through the cabin windows with his burden in his arms, he
had dropped down into the sea under the stern of the burning bark.

Being an excellent swimmer, he had kept afloat for some minutes,
sustaining both himself and his burden by his own strength; but after a
while he succeeded in clutching on to the davit-tackle by which the gig
had been let down into the water, and having passed his foot through a
loop in the end of it, he remained half suspended, half afloat on the
water.  Soon after came the explosion, caused by the ignition of the
gunpowder; and as the vessel was blown to pieces, the sea around became
strewed with fragments of shattered timber, cabin furniture, sea-chests,
and the like.  Laying hold on those pieces that were nearest, he
succeeded in forming a rude sort of raft, upon which he and his
_protege_ were enabled to pass the remainder of the night.

When morning dawned, Snowball and the little Lalee--such was the name of
the child--were the only beings who appeared to have survived the
catastrophe,--the wretched creatures who at the last moment had escaped
from the "'tween-decks" were no longer in existence.

Having been brought from the interior of the African continent,--and
from a district where there are no great lakes or rivers,--but few of
them could swim; and those few had become the prey of the sharks, that
in scores were swimming around the frail craft.  As the sun rose over
the ocean, and lit up the scene of that terrible tragedy, Snowball saw
not a living creature save his own _protege_, the sharks, and their
satellites.

The <DW64> knew, however, that the _Pandora's_ own people had escaped.
He had witnessed the clandestine departure of the gig, containing the
skipper and his confederates.

This he had seen, while gazing through the windows of the cabin,
previous to launching himself upon that last desperate leap.  He had
also been a witness to the departure of the great raft carrying the
crew.

It may appear strange that he did not swim towards it, and share the
fortunes of his former associates.  Why he did not do so is easily
explained.  By an accident, arising from his own negligence, the ship
had been set on fire.  He was aware of this; and he knew also that both
captain and crew were equally cognisant of the fact.  The former, just
after the discovery, assisted by the brutal mate, had administered to
him (Snowball) such a chastisement as he would not soon forget; while
the crew, on becoming acquainted with the circumstance, were upon the
point of tossing him into the sea; and would no doubt have carried their
design into execution, but for the presence of the appalling danger
impelling them to look to their own safety.  The <DW64> knew, therefore,
that, were he to seek safety on the great raft, it would only be to
throw himself into merciless hands, certain to spurn him back with
vengeful indignation, or fling him into the jaws of the hideous monsters
already swimming around the ship, and quartering the sea in every
direction.

For this reason had Snowball chosen to trust to his own strength,--to
chance,--to anything rather than the mercy of his old associates, with
whom, for a long period past, he had been far from a favourite.

Perhaps it had turned out for the best.  Had he succeeded in reaching
the great raft, and been permitted to share with its occupants their
chances of safety, it is more than probable that the little Lalee might
have become the victim of that horrid attempt from which the little
William had so narrowly escaped!



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

SNOWBALL AMID THE DRIFT.

The adventures of Snowball and his _protege_, from the blowing up of the
_Pandora_ until six suns had risen and gone down over the ocean, if not
so varied as those of Ben Brace and his _protege_, were nevertheless of
sufficient interest to deserve a brief narration.

Supported by the few sticks which he had been able to draw together, he
had remained during the rest of the night in the midst of the floating
fragments.

He had listened to the wild shouts of vengeful rage, proceeding from the
throats of the slaves as they clutched at the great raft, and were
beaten back by those who occupied it.  He had seen the broad sail
suddenly hoisted, and the dark mass gradually gliding away over the
ocean.  He had heard many an agonising yell as, one by one, the few
strong swimmers who survived the rest either sank by exhaustion or were
dragged down in the jaws of the numerous sharks; until, the last shriek
having sounded in his ears, all became silent as the tomb, while the
sombre surface of the sea once more lay motionless around him.  Even the
ravening monsters, for a moment, seemed to have forsaken the spot,--as
if each, having secured a sufficient prey, had gone down to devour it
undisturbed in the dark unfathomed caverns of the deep.

When morning dawned upon the scene, although many objects met the eye of
the <DW64> and his companion, there was no human being within sight; and
Snowball knew that, with the exception of the six men who had rowed off
in the gig, and the crew upon the great raft, there were no other
survivors of the slaver.

The crew having spread a sail to get out of reach of the drowning
wretches who were clutching at their raft, the latter was soon carried
out of sight; while the six in the gig had rowed off as fast as they
were able, in order to get out of reach of their own companions!  For
these reasons, when day broke over the ocean, neither boat nor raft were
visible from the spot where the catastrophe had occurred.

It may appear strange that none of the living cargo of the slaver had
succeeded in saving themselves, by clinging to some fragment of the
wreck; and Snowball thought so at the time.

The truth was, that those who could swim had struck out after the raft,
and had followed it so far that they were not able to swim back to the
burning vessel; while the others, in the wild terror produced by the
proximity of the flames, had leaped despairingly into the sea, and sunk
upon the instant.

The early sunbeams, as they fell slantingly over the surface of the sea,
told the <DW64> that he was alone,--alone with the little Lalee,--alone
in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean,--afloat upon a few sticks,--without
a morsel of food to eat, without a drop of water to drink!

It was a terrible situation,--sufficient to produce despair even in the
stoutest heart.

But Snowball was not one of the despairing sort.  He had been too often
in peril of life--both by sea and land--to be unnerved even in that
dread hour; and instead of permitting his spirits to become prostrated,
he bethought him of how he might make the best of the circumstances by
which he was surrounded.

An object that came under his eye, just as the day began to break,
kindled within him a faint gleam of hope, and urged to making an effort
for the salvation of himself and his helpless companion.  This object
was a small keg, or beaker, which chanced to be floating near him, and
which, from some mark upon it, Snowball recognised.  He knew that it had
been standing in a corner of the caboose, previous to the blowing up of
the bark; and, moreover, that it contained several gallons of fresh
water, which he had himself surreptitiously abstracted from the common
stock, previous to the time that the slaver's crew had agreed to being
put upon rations.

It was but the work of a minute to secure this keg, and attach it by a
strong cord to the piece of timber on which the ex-cook was seated
astride.

But for this unexpected supply of water Snowball might probably have
yielded to despair.  Without water to drink he could not have reckoned
on a long lease of life,--either for himself or his _protege_.  So
opportunely had the keg come before his eyes as to seem a Providential
interference; and the belief or fancy that it was so stimulated him to a
further search among the fragments of the shattered ship.

There were many queer things around him,--like himself bobbing about
upon the tiny waves.  One, however, soon monopolised his attention; and
that was a barrel of somewhat flimsy structure, and about the size of
those usually employed for carrying flour.  Snowball recognised it also
as an old acquaintance in the store-room, and knew that it was filled
with the best kind of biscuit,--a private stock belonging to the
captain.

Its contents could not fail to be saturated with salt-water, for the
barrel was not water-tight; but the ex-cook could dry them in the sun,
and render them, if not palatable, at least eatable.

The biscuit-barrel was soon fished up out of the water, and placed high
and dry upon the little raft.

Snowball was next struck with the necessity of improving the quality of
his craft, by giving it increase both in size and strength.  With this
intention--after having possessed himself of an oar, out of several that
were adrift--he commenced paddling about among the floating fragments,
here and there picking up such pieces as appeared best suited to his
purpose.

In a short while he succeeded in collecting a sufficient number of spars
and other pieces of timber,--among which figured a portion of his own
old tenement, the caboose,--to form a raft as large as he might require;
and to his great satisfaction he saw around him the very things that
would render it _seaworthy_.  Bobbing about on the waves, and at no
great distance, were half a dozen empty water-casks.  There had been too
many of them aboard the slaver: since their emptiness was the original
cause of the catastrophe that had ensued.  But there were not too many
for Snowball's present purpose; and, after paddling first to one and
then another, he secured each in turn, and lashed them to his raft, in
such fashion, that the great hogsheads, sitting higher in the water than
the timbers of the raft, formed a sort of parapet around it.

This task accomplished, he proceeded to collect from the wreck such
other articles as he fancied might be of service to him; and, thus
occupied, he spent several days on the spot where the _Pandora_ had gone
to pieces.

The slight breezes that arose from time to time, and again subsided, had
not separated his raft from the other objects still left floating near.
In whatever direction they went, so went he: since all were drifting
together.

The idea had never occurred to the <DW64> to set up a sail and endeavour
to get away from the companionship of the inanimate objects around
him,--souvenirs as they were of a fearful disaster.  Or rather it had
occurred to him, and was rejected as unworthy of being entertained.
Snowball, without knowing much of the theory of navigation, had
sufficient practical acquaintance with the great Atlantic Ocean,--
especially that part of it where lies the track of the dreaded "middle
passage,"--long remembered by the transported slave,--Snowball, I say,
was sufficiently acquainted with his present whereabouts, to know that a
sail set upon his raft, and carrying him hither and thither, would not
add much to the chances of his being rescued from a watery grave.  His
only hope lay in being picked up by some passing vessel; and, feeling
convinced of this, he made no effort to go one way or the other, but
suffered himself to be drifted about, along with the other waifs of the
wreck, whithersoever it pleased the winds or the currents of the ocean
to carry him.



CHAPTER NINETEEN.

SNOWBALL AT SEA ON A HENCOOP.

For six days had Snowball been leading this sort of life, along with the
little Lalee,--subsisting partly on the sea-steeped biscuit found in the
barrel, and partly upon other provisions which had turned up among the
drift; while the precious water contained in the keg had hitherto kept
them from suffering the pangs of thirst.

During these six days he had never wholly surrendered himself up to
despair.  It was not the first, by several times, for the old sea-cook
to have suffered shipwreck; nor was it his first time to be cast away in
mid-ocean.  Once had he been blown overboard in a storm, and left
behind,--the ship, from the violence of the wind, having been unable to
tack round and return to his rescue.  Being an excellent swimmer, he had
kept afloat, buffeting with the huge billows for nearly an hour.  Of
course, in the end, he must have gone to the bottom, as the place where
the incident occurred was hundreds of miles from any land.  But just as
he was on the point of giving in, a hencoop came drifting past, to which
he at once attached himself, and this being fortunately of sufficient
size to sustain his weight, hindered him from sinking.

Though he knew that the hencoop had been thrown out of the ship by some
of his comrades, after he had gone overboard, the ship herself was no
longer in sight; and the unlucky swimmer, notwithstanding the help given
him by the hencoop, must eventually have perished among the waves; but
the storm having subsided, and the wind suddenly changing into the
opposite quarter, the vessel was wafted back on her old track, and
passing within hail of Snowball, his comrades succeeded in rescuing him
from his perilous situation.

With the retrospect of such an experience,--and Snowball could look back
upon many such,--he was not the man to yield easily to despair.  On the
contrary, he now acted as if he believed that there was still not only
some hope, but a considerable chance of being delivered from the dilemma
in which the late disaster of the _Pandora_ had placed him.

Scarce an hour during the six days had he permitted to pass in idleness.
As already stated, he had collected ample materials from the wreck
floating around him.  Out of these he had formed a good-sized raft,
having spent much time and labour in giving it strength and security.
This accomplished, and all the provisions he could find safely stored
upon it, he had devoted the rest of his time to fishing.

There were many fish in the neighbourhood of the wreck.  Fearful fish
they were too: for they were sharks: the same that had made such havoc
among the unfortunate creatures who had constituted the cargo of the
slaver.  These voracious monsters,--though satiated for a time with
their human prey,--had not forsaken the spot where the _Pandora_ had
gone to pieces; but on the square mile of surface strewed by the
floating fragments of the wreck they could still be seen in pairs, and
sometimes in larger numbers, with their huge sail-like fins projecting
high above the water, veering about as if once more hungry, and
quartering the sea in search of fresh victims.

Snowball had not succeeded in capturing any of the sharks, though he had
spared no pains in endeavouring to do so.  There were other large fish,
however, that had made their appearance in the proximity of his raft,
attracted thither by the common prospect of food promised by the wreck
of the slaver.  There were albacores, and bonitos, and dolphins, and
many other kinds of ocean fish, rarely seen, or only upon such
melancholy occasions.  With a long-handled harpoon, which Snowball had
succeeded in securing, he was enabled to strike several of these
creatures; so that by the evening of the sixth day, his larder was
considerably increased,--comprising, in the way of fish, an albacore, a
brace of bonitos, with three satellites of the sharks,--a pilot-fish and
two sucking-fish.

All these had been ripped open and disembowelled, after which their
flesh, cut into thin slices, and spread out on the tops of the empty
water-casks that surrounded the raft, was in process of being cured by
drying in the sun.

Befriended by the fine weather, Snowball had succeeded, one way and
another, in accumulating no mean store of provisions; and, so far as
food went, he felt confident, both for himself and his companion, of
being able to hold out not only for days, but for weeks or even months.

He felt equal confidence in regard to their stock of water.  Having
gauged the keg in his own rude way, and satisfied himself as to the
quantity of its contents, he had made a calculation of how long it might
last, and found that by a careful economy it could be depended upon for
a period of several weeks.

Reposing upon these pleasant data, on the night of the sixth day he had
gone to rest with a feeling of confidence that soon enticed his spirit
into the profoundest slumbers.

Not that Snowball had gone without sleep during the other five nights
spent upon his raft.  He had slept a little on each of them.  Only a
little, however; for, as most of them had been moonlight nights, he had
kept awake during the greater portion of each, on the lookout over the
surface of the ocean, lest some ship, sailing near, might glide past
silently and unseen, and so deprive him of a chance of being picked up.

The little Lalee had also borne part in these nocturnal vigils,--taking
her turn when Snowball became too weary to keep awake; and so, in
alternate watches, had the two been in the habit of tiring out the long
hours of the night.  To this practice the sixth night had proved an
exception.  There was no moon in the sky; there were no stars; not a
glimmer of light, either in the firmament of the heavens or on the face
of the deep.  The sky above and the sea below were both of one colour,--
the hue of pitch.  On such a night it was idle to keep watch.  A ship
might have passed within a cable's length of the raft, and still
remained unseen; and, filled with this conviction, both Snowball and his
companion, after the night had fairly closed over them, stretched their
bodies along the pieces of sail-cloth that formed their respective
couches, and surrendered their spirits to the sweet enchantment of
sleep.



CHAPTER TWENTY.

THE FLASH OF LIGHTNING.

Snowball began to snore almost as soon as he had closed his eyelids, and
as if the shutting of his eyes had either occasioned or strengthened the
current of breath through his nostrils.

And such a sound as the snore of the Coromantee was rarely heard upon
the ocean,--except in the "spouting" of a whale or the "blowing" of a
porpoise.

It did not wake the little Lalee.  She had become accustomed to the
snoring of Snowball,--which, instead of being a disturber, acted rather
as a lullaby to her rest.

It was only after both had been asleep for many hours after midnight,--
in fact when Lalee was herself sleeping less soundly, and when a snore,
more prolonged and prodigious than any that had preceded it, came
swelling through the nostrils of the sea-cook,--it was only then that
the young girl was awakened.

Becoming aware of what had awakened her, she would have gone to sleep
again; but just as she was about re-composing herself upon her
sail-cloth couch, a sight came before her eyes that caused her not only
to remain awake, but filled her with a feeling of indescribable awe.

On the instant of opening her eyes, the sky, hitherto dark, had become
suddenly illumined by lightning,--not in streaks or flashes, but as if a
sheet of fire had been spread for an instant over the whole canopy of
the heavens.

At the same time the surface of the sea had been equally lighted up with
the vivid gleam; and among the many objects drifting around the raft,--
the remnants of the wreck, with which the eyes of the little Lalee had
now become familiarised,--she saw, or fancied she saw, one altogether
new to her.

It was a human face and figure, in the likeness of a beautiful boy, who
appeared to be kneeling on the water, or on some slight structure on a
level with the surface of the sea!

The lightning had revealed other objects beside him and over him.  A
pair of slender sticks, standing some feet apart, and in a perpendicular
position, with some white strips suspended between them, in the gleam of
the lightning shone clear and conspicuous.

It is not to be wondered at that the little Lalee should feel surprise
at an apparition,--so unexpected, in such a place, and under such
circumstances.  It is not to be wondered at that her first impulse
should be to rouse her companion out of his snoring slumbers.

She did so upon the instant, and without waiting for another flash of
lightning either to confirm her belief in what she had seen, or convince
her that it was only an apparition,--which her fancy, disturbed by the
dreams in which she had been indulging, had conjured up on the instant
of her awaking.

"Wha's dat you say?" inquired Snowball, abruptly awakened in the middle
of a superb snore; "see something! you say dat, ma pickaninny?  How you
see anyting such night as dis be?  Law, ma lilly Lally, you no see de
nose before you own face.  De 'ky 'bove am dark as de complexyun ob dis
ole nigga; you muss be mistake, lilly gal!--dat you muss!"

"No, indeed, Snowball!" replied Lalee, speaking in gumbo Portuguese, "I
am not mistaken.  It wasn't dark when I saw it.  There was lightning;
and it was as clear as in daylight for a little while.  I'm sure I saw
some one!"

"What was de some one like?" interrogated Snowball, in an accent that
proclaimed incredulity.  "Was 'um a man or a woman?"

"Neither."

"Neider!  Den it muss ha' been,--ha! maybe it war a mermaid!"

"What I saw looked like a boy, Snowball.  O, now I think of it, like
that boy."

"What boy you 'peak 'bout?"

"He who was aboard the ship,--the English boy who was one of the
sailors."

"Ah! you mean de little Will'm, I 'pose.  I reck'n dat 'ere lad hab gone
to de bott'm ob de sea long afore dis, or else he get off on de big
raff.  I know he no go 'long wi' de cappen, 'case I see de little chap
close by de caboose after de gig row 'way.  If he hab go by de raff dem
ruffins sure eat him up,--dat be if dey get hungry.  Dey sure do dat!
Hark! what's dat I heer?  Sure's my name be Snowball, I hear some 'un
'peak out dere to win'ard.  D'you hear anything, lilly Lally?"

"Yes, Snowball: I think I did."

"What you tink you?"

"A voice."

"What sort o' voice?"

"Like a boy's voice,--just like _his_."

"Who you mean?"

"The boy-sailor aboard the ship.  O, listen!  There it is again; and
surely I hear another?"

"Gorramity! little gal, you 'peak de troof.  Sure 'nuff dere am a
voice,--two ob dat same.  One am like de boy we 'peak 'bout,--odder more
like a man o' full groaf.  I wonder who dey can be.  Hope 't an't de
ghoses of some o' de _Pandoras_ dat ha' been drowned or eat up by de
sharks.  Lissen 'gain, Lally, an' try make dem out."

Having imparted this injunction, the <DW64> raised himself into a
half-erect attitude; and facing to windward with his arms resting upon
one of the empty casks,--which, as already stated, formed a sort of
circular parapet around his raft,--he remained silent and listening.

The little Lalee had also assumed a half-erect attitude; and, by the
side of her sable companion, kept peering out into the darkness,--in the
hope that another flash of lightning might again reveal to her eyes the
features of that beautiful boy, who, alone of all upon that fated ship,
had made upon her mind an impression worthy of being remembered.



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

TO THE OARS.

"We've got to die!"

As the sailor gave utterance to these words of fearful import, he
started from his recumbent position, and, half-erect upon the raft,
remained listening,--at the same time endeavouring with his glance to
pierce the darkness that shrouded the surface of the deep.

Little William, terrified by the speech of his protector, made no
rejoinder, but with like silence continued to look and listen.

There was nothing visible save sea and sky; and these, in the dim
obscurity, were not to be distinguished from each other.  A raft or
boat,--even a large ship,--could not have been seen at two cables'
distance from that on which they were drifting along; and the only
sounds now heard were the sighing of the night breeze, and the "swish"
of the water as it swept along the sides of their slight embarkation.

For five minutes or more there was nothing to interrupt this duetto of
winds and waves, and Ben was beginning to believe he had been mistaken.
It might not have been the voice of a man, nor a voice at all.  He was
but half awake when he fancied hearing it.  Was it only a fancy,--an
illusion?  It was at the best very indistinct,--as of some one speaking
in a muttered tone.  It might be the "blowing" of a porpoise, or the
utterance of some unknown monster of the sea: for the sailor's
experience had taught him that there are many kinds of creatures
inhabiting the ocean that are only seen at rare intervals even by one
who is constantly traversing it, and many others one may never see at
all.  Could the sounds have proceeded from the throat of some of these
human-like denizens of the deep, known as _dugongs, lamantins,
manatees_, and the like?

It was strangest of all that William had heard the voice of a girl: for
the lad still adhered to the belief that he had done so.  That might
have been the cry of a bird, or a mermaid; and Ben would have been ready
enough to accept the latter explanation.  But the voice of a young girl,
coupled with that of a man, rendered the circumstance more mysterious
and altogether inexplicable.

"Didn't you hear a man's voice, lad?" he asked at length, with a view
either of dissipating his doubts or confirming them.

"I did," replied the boy.  "Yes, Ben; I'm sure I did, not loud, but
muttered like.  But I don't know whether if was Le Gros.  O, if it was!"

"Thee have good reason to know his ugly croak, the parleyvooin'
scoundrel!  That thee have, Will'm!  Let's hope we are both mistaken:
for if we're to come across them ruffins on the big raft, we needn't
expect mercy at their hands.  By this time they'll be all as hungry as
the sharks and as ravenin' too."

"Oh!" exclaimed William, in accents of renewed fear, "I hope it's not
them!"

"Speak low, lad!" said the sailor, interrupting him, "only in whispers.
If they be near, the best thing for us are to keep quiet.  They can't
see us no more than we can them; anyhow, till it come mornin'.  If we
could hear the sound again so as to make out the direction.  I didn't
notice that."

"I did," interrupted William.  "Both the voices I heard were out this
way."

The boy pointed to leeward.

"To leuart, you think they wur?"

"I'm sure they came from that quarter."

"That be curious, hows'ever," said the sailor.  "If't be them on the big
raft they must a passed us, or else the wind must a veered round, for
we've been to leuart o' them ever since partin' wi' 'em.  Could the wind
a gone round I wonder?  Like enough.  It be queer,--and it's blowing
from the west in this part o' the Atlantic!  'Tan't possible to say what
point it be in, hows'ever,--not without a compass.  There bean't even
the glimmer o' a star in the sky; and if there wur we couldn't make much
o' it; since the north star bean't seen down in these latitudes.  Thee
be sure the sound come from leuart?"

"O, I am quite sure of it, Ben; the voices came up the wind."

"Then we'd best go the same way and gie 'em as wide a berth as possible.
Look alive, lad!  Let's down wi' them flitches o' the shark-meat: for
it's them that's driftin' us along.  We'll take a spell at the oars, and
afore daylight we may get out o' hearin' o' the voices, and out of sight
o' them as has been utterin' o' them."

Both rose simultaneously to their feet, and commenced taking down the
slices of half-dried shark-flesh, and placing them upon the
sail-cloth,--with the intention, as the sailor had counselled it, to
unship the oars that had been doing duty as masts, and make use of them
in their proper manner.

While engaged in this operation both remained silent,--at intervals
stopping in their work to listen.

They had got so far as to clear away the suspended flitches, and were
about unfastening the cords where they were looped around the upright
oars, when another cord, attached to one of the latter, caught their
attention.  It was the piece of rope which closed the mouth of their
tarpauling water-bag, and held the latter in such a position as to keep
the "cask" from leaking.

Fortunately they were doing things in a deliberate manner.  If they had
been acting otherwise, and had rashly "unstepped" the mast to which that
piece of rope was attached, their stock of fresh water would have been
rapidly diminished,--perhaps altogether spilled into the salt sea,
before they should have become aware of the disaster.  As it was, they
perceived the danger in good time; and, instead of taking down the oar,
at once desisted from their intention.

It now became a question as to whether they should proceed any further
in the design of rowing the raft to windward.  With a single oar they
could make but little way; and the other was already occupied in doing a
duty from which it could not possibly be spared.

It is true there were still left the fragments of the hand spike that
had been ground between the teeth of the surviving shark, and afterwards
picked up as they drifted past it.  This might serve instead of the oar
to support the mouth of the water-bag; and as soon as this idea occurred
to them they set about carrying it into execution.

It took but a few minutes of time to substitute one stick for the other;
and then, both oars being free, they seated themselves on opposite sides
of the raft, and commenced propelling it against the wind,--in a
direction contrary to that in which the mysterious voices had been
heard.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

SHIP AHOY!

They had not made over a dozen strokes of their oars,--which they
handled cautiously and in silence, all the while listening intently,--
when their ears were again saluted by sounds similar to those first
heard by little William, and which he had conjectured to be the voice of
a young girl.  As before, the utterance was very low,--murmured, as if
repeating a series of words,--in fact, as if the speaker was engaged in
a quiet conversation.

"Shiver my timbers!" exclaimed the sailor, as soon as the voice again
ceased to be heard.  "If that bean't the palaver o' a little girl, my
name wur never Ben Brace on a ship's book.  A smalley wee thing she seem
to be; not bigger than a marlinspike.  It sound like as if she wur
talkin' to some un.  What the Ole Scratch can it mean, Will'm?"

"I don't know.  Could it be a mermaid?"

"Could it?  In course it could."

"But are there mermaids, Ben?"

"Maremaids!  Be theer maremaids?  That what you say?  Who denies there
ain't?  Nobody but disbelevin land-lubbers as never seed nothin'
curious, 'ceptin' two-headed calves and four-legged chickens.  In coorse
there be maremaids.  I've seed some myself; but I've sailed with a
shipmate as has been to a part o' the Indyan Ocean, where there be whole
schools o' 'em, wi' long hair hangin' about their ears an' over their
shoulders, just like reg'lar schools o' young girls goin' out for a walk
in the outskirts o' Portsmouth or Gravesend.  Hush! theer be her voice
again!"

As the sailor ceased speaking, a tiny treble, such as might proceed from
the tongue of a child,--a girl of some eight or ten years old,--came
trembling over the waves, in tones that betokened a conversation.

A moment or two elapsed; and then, as if in reply to the words spoken by
the child, was heard another voice,--evidently that of a man!

"If the one be a maremaid," whispered Ben to his companion, "the other
must be a mareman.  Shiver my timbers, if it ain't a curious confab!
Moonrakers and skyscrapers! what can it mean?"

"I don't know," mechanically answered the boy.

"Anyhow," continued the sailor, apparently relieved by the reflection,
"_It ain't the big raft_.  There's no voice like that little 'un among
its crew o' ruffins; and that man, whosomever he be, don't speak like Le
Gros.  I only thought so at first, bein' half asleep.

"If it be a school o' maremaids," pursued he, "theer an't no danger,
even wi' theer men along wi' 'em.  Leastwise, I never heerd say there
wur from maremaids more'n any other weemen; an' not so much, I dare ay.
Sartin it bean't the Frenchman, nor any o' that scoundrel crew.  Lord o'
mercy!  It might be a ship as is passing near us!"

As this thought occurred to the speaker, he raised himself into an erect
attitude, as if to get a better view.

"I'll hail, Will'm," he muttered; "I'll hail 'em.  Keep your ears open,
lad; and listen for the answer.  _Ship ahoy_!"

The hail was sent in the direction whence the mysterious sounds appeared
to have proceeded.  There came no response; and the sailor, after
listening attentively for a second or two, repeated the "Ship ahoy!"
this time in a louder key.

Quick as an echo the words came back, though it could not be an echo.
There are no echoes upon the ocean; besides, the voice that repeated the
well-known phrase was quite different from that of him who had first
pronounced it.  Though different both in tone and accent, it was
evidently a human voice; and, as evidently, that of a man.  A rude,
rough voice it was; but it is superfluous to say that, to the ears of
Ben Brace and his youthful companion, it sounded sweeter than any music
to which they had ever listened.  The words "Ship ahoy!" were soon
succeeded by others, proceeding from the same lips.

"Gorramity!" spoke the strange voice, "who de debbil call dar?  Dat
some'dy in de boat?  Dat you, Capten?  Am it you, Massa Grow?"

"A <DW64>," muttered Ben to his companion.  "It's Snowball, the cook.  It
can't be anybody but him.  In the name o' Neptune how has the darkey got
there?  What's he aboard o'?  He warn't on the great raft wi' the rest.
I thought he'd gone off in the captain's gig.  If that wur so, then it's
the boat that is near us."

"No," replied William, "I'm sure I saw Snowball by the caboose after the
gig had rowed away.  As he wasn't with them on the big raft, I supposed
he'd been drowned, or burned up in the ship.  Surely, it's his voice?
There it is again!"

"Ship ahoy-hoy-hoy!" once more came the words pealing over the water in
a loud prolonged drawl.  "Ship ahoy, some'dy call out dar?  What ship am
dat?  Am it a ship at all?  Or am it some o' de wreck Pandoray?"

"Castaways," responded Ben.  "Castaways of the bark _Pandora_, Who
calls?  Snowball!  Be it you?"

"Dat same chile,--who am you?  Am it you, massa Capten,--in de gig?"

"No."

"Massa Grow, den, on de big raff?"

"Neither," responded the sailor.  "It's Ben,--Ben Brace."

"Golly! you say so, Massa Brace!  How you be dar, unless you on de big
raff?"

"I'm on a raft of my own.  Have you one, Snowball?"

"Ya, massa Ben, ya!  I make um out o' de wreck an de water-cask."

"Are ye all alone?"

"Not 'zackly dat.  The pickaninny be long wi' me,--de cabing gal.  You
know de lilly Lalee?"

"Oh! she it be!" muttered Ben, now remembering the little cabin
passenger of the Pandora.  "You bean't movin', be you?"

"No," responded Snowball, "lying on de water like a log o' 'hogany wood.
Han't move a mile ebba since de bustin' ob de powder ball."

"Keep your place then.  We've got oars.  We'll row down to you."

"We--you say we?  You got some'dy sides yaself on dat raff?"

"Little Will'm."

"Lilly Willum,--ah? dat ere brave lilly lad.  See 'im jess as I go down
in de cabin fo' get de pickaninny.  See 'im forrard with axe,--he knock
off de gratin' ob de fore-hatch,--he set all dem 'ere niggas free.  It
warn't no use,--not bit good o' dem.  Dey all got eat up by de shark, or
dey go down straight to de bottom.  Gorramity! how dey s'riek an'
'cream, an' jump overboard into de water!"

Neither the sailor nor Little William paid any heed to the <DW64>'s
half-soliloquised narrative, further than to make use of his voice to
guide them through the darkness towards the spot whence it proceeded.
On discovering that it was Snowball who was near, both had turned upon
their own craft, and were now rowing it in the opposite direction to
that in which, but the moment before, they had been so eagerly
propelling it.

As they now pulled to leeward, they had the wind in their favour; and by
the time the <DW64> arrived at the end of his disjointed narrative, they
were within half a cable's length of him, and, through the darkness,
were beginning to distinguish the outlines of the odd embarkation that
carried Snowball and his _protege_.

Just then the lightning blazed across the canopy of heaven, discovering
the two rafts,--each to the other.  In ten seconds more they were _en
rapport_, and their respective crews congratulating each other, with as
much joyfulness as if the unexpected encounter had completely delivered
them from death and its dangers!



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

THE RAFTS EN RAPPORT.

Two travellers meeting in the midst of a lone wilderness, even though
strangers to each other, would not be likely to pass without speaking.
If old acquaintances, then would they be certain to make the longest
pause possible, and procrastinate their parting till the last moment
allowed by the circumstances.  If these circumstances would permit of
their reaching their respective destinations by the same route, how
sorry would each be to separate, and how happy to enter into a mutual
alliance of co-operation and companionship!

Just like two such travellers, or two parties of travellers, meeting in
the midst of the desert,--a wilderness of land,--so met, in the midst of
the ocean,--the wilderness of water,--the two rafts whose history we
have hitherto chronicled.  Their crews were not strangers to each other,
but old acquaintances.  If not all friends in the past, the
circumstances that now surrounded them were of a kind to make them
friends for the future.  Under the awe inspired by a common danger, the
lion will lie down with the lamb, and the fierce jaguar consorts with
the timid capivara no longer trembling at the perilous proximity.

But there was no particular antipathy between the crews of the two rafts
thus singularly becoming united.  It is true that formerly there had
been some hostility displayed by the <DW64> towards Little William, and
but little friendship between the former and Ben Brace.  These, however,
were things of the past; and during the last days of their companionship
on board the _Pandora_ the sentiments of all three had undergone a
change.  An identity of interests had produced a certain three-cornered
sympathy,--obliterating all past spite, and establishing, if not
positive friendship, at least a sort of triangular forgiveness.  Of
course this affection was of the isosceles kind,--Ben and Little William
being the _sides_, and Snowball the _base_.  It is scarce necessary to
say, that, meeting again under the circumstances described, all past
spite, had there been any, would have been forgiven and forgotten.

Fortunately this had been already done.  Between Ben and Snowball, and
Snowball and Little William, the hatchet had been long ago buried; and
they now met, not as enemies, but as old acquaintances,--almost as
friends: nay, we might say, _altogether_ as friends.  If not so before,
the common danger had made them so now, and amicably did they greet one
another.

After such an encounter, it is superfluous to say that no thought of
again separating entered into the minds of any of the party.  The crews
of both rafts knew that their destinations were identical.

Each was an _ocean waif_, seeking to escape from the wilderness of
waters,--longing for deliverance from a common danger.  In company they
might have a better chance of obtaining it.  Why should they separate to
search for it?

The question did not occur to either,--in thought or in word.  From the
moment of their meeting, instinct told them that their destinies were
the same,--that their action in future should be united.

After the two rafts had collided together, and those involuntary but
joyful salutations were exchanged between their crews, the respective
skippers became occupied with the more serious business of uniting the
frail embarkations into one, and rendering them for the future
inseparable.

"Snowball!" inquired the sailor, "have you got any spare rope?"

"Plenty o' dat 'ere," responded the ex-cook of the _Pandora_.

"Yar am a coil o' strong sinnet.  Dat do?"

"That's the stuff," responded Ben.  "Heave it this way, ye son of a
sea-cook!  Heave!"

"Now," continued he, laying hold of the coil of sennit, and tossing back
one end over an empty water-cask.  "Make fast there, Snowey!  I dare say
we can lay alongside safe enough till daylight!  After that we'll splice
together in a better sort o' way."

The ex-cook, obedient to the injunctions of the seaman, seized hold of
the end of rope thrown to him, and made it fast to one of the spars
which comprised his singular craft; while at the same time Ben busied
himself in tying the other end to the piece of handspike erected upon
his own.

Soon each completed his task; and after some time spent in a mutual
detail of the adventures that had befallen them since the hour of
separation on the deck of the ill-fated Pandora, it was agreed that all
should go to rest for the remainder of the night, and with the earliest
light of day take measures to perpetuate the union of the two wandering
waifs thus unexpectedly brought into companionship.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

RECONSTRUCTING THE RAFT.

The crews of both rafts were astir by early dawn, the sailor arousing
one and all from their slumbers.  The rising sun, as it shone over the
ocean, fell upon four faces, all wearing a very different expression
from that which they had exhibited at his setting on the day before.  If
not positively cheerful, there was at least hopefulness in their looks:
for their renewed companionship had mutually inspired one and all with
renewed hopes of deliverance.  Indeed, it was evident even to the
youngest of the party, that this unexpected union of strength would
materially increase the chances of escape from the common danger; since
the two strong men working together could do many things that would have
been impossible to either of them alone,--to say nothing of the
encouragement and confidence always springing from concerted action.

The very fact of their having come together in the way they had done
seemed something more than accidental.  It looked less like mere
accident than that they had been favoured by the hand of Providence; and
even the rude seaman, and the still ruder sea-cook, were only too glad
to give way to the fancy that Providence was interfering on their
behalf.

Certainly, the succession of fortunate events with which both had been
favoured,--and which had not only hitherto sustained them, but promised
to preserve their lives for a still longer period,--certainly, these
circumstances were sufficient to beget the belief that they were
specially under the protection of some power less capricious than mere
chance.

The fact of their having encountered each other--even when one of them
had been in the act of taking measures to avoid the encounter--was of
itself something to strengthen this conviction, and increase their
hopefulness for the future.

This very effect it produced; and it was for that reason that Ben Brace
was so early astir, and so early in arousing the others.

The sailor had had too much experience in the capriciousness of the wind
to believe that such calm weather as they had been enjoying for days
would last much longer; and he had got up betimes with a view of uniting
the two rafts, and strengthening the structure that might spring out of
their union, so that it might resist whatever storm should threaten.

To attempt constructing a craft of such capability did not seem so
hopeless to the skilful seaman.  Before it had appeared so; but now,
with the materials composing the two rafts, and others which the morning
sun disclosed drifting about upon the surface of the sea, the thing
looked less of an impossibility.  In fact, it did not appear at all
impossible; and for this reason Ben and the black at once came to the
determination to attempt it.

After a short time spent in deliberation, it was resolved to break up
the lesser raft,--that which had hitherto carried the sailor and little
William.  The planks composing it could be transferred to the larger and
better structure which Snowball had got together; and this was
furthermore to be reconstructed and considerably enlarged.

It was not designed to make any great alteration in the shape or fashion
which Snowball had chosen for his craft, which displayed great ingenuity
on the part of its designer.  As it was deemed proper enough, his design
was to be retained,--only the construction was to be on a larger scale.

Before setting to work, it was essential that something in the shape of
a breakfast should be swallowed.  This was drawn from the stores which
Snowball had been engaged for days in accumulating, and consisted simply
of biscuit and dried "bonito."

In the absence of any fire, the ex-cook had no opportunity to exercise
his peculiar vocation, else the meal might have been more palatable.
The biscuits from having had a salt bath were a little briny to the
taste; but that signified little to such sharp appetites as they were
called upon to satisfy; and it was not such a bad breakfast, when washed
down, as it was, with a little _wine_ and water.

You may be asking whence came the wine; and this was the very question
which the sailor addressed to Snowball, on discovering such a commodity
upon his craft.

The answer was easy enough.  A small cask of "Canary" had been one of
the items among the cabin stores.  At the explosion it had been pitched
into the sea; and not being quite full had freely floated on the
surface.  Snowball had taken possession of it by attaching it to his
timbers.

Breakfast over, the work of reconstruction commenced.  As a preliminary,
the flitches of shark-meat were removed from the little raft, now doomed
to destruction; while that ingenious contrivance of the sailor,--the
canvas water-cask,--now no longer required, was emptied of its contents;
which, with the greatest care, were decanted into the safe depository of
one of the empty hogsheads that had been hitherto acting as supports to
the embarkation of Snowball.

The oars, sail-cloth, piece of handspike, axe, and tarpauling were also
transferred to the latter; and then the planks, and fragments of yards
and spars, were loosed from their lashings, and one by one distributed
into their proper places in the new structure.

All day long did the work continue,--only an interval of an hour being
appropriated to the midday meal.  Excursions, too, were made from point
to point,--the oars serving to propel the half-constructed craft: the
object of these excursions being to pick up such pieces of timber,
ropes, or other articles as Snowball had not already secured.  The aid
of the others now rendered many items available which Snowball had
formerly rejected as useless,--because unmanageable by himself while
acting alone.

The sun set upon their task still unfinished; but they retired hopefully
to rest: for the sky promised a continuance of the calm weather, and
they knew that if the promise was kept, a few hours in the morning of
the following day would suffice to complete the construction of a
raft,--one that would not only give them ample accommodation for the
stowage both of themselves and their stores, but would in all
probability ride out any gale likely to be encountered in that truly
_pacific_ part of the Atlantic Ocean.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

THE CATAMARAN.

Next morning, as soon as there was light enough for them to see what
they were about, the work was resumed; and the timbers having been put
together in a fashion to satisfy all hands, were lashed to one another
as tightly as the united strength of the sailor, Snowball, and Little
William could draw the ropes around them.

The structure when completed was of an oblong shape,--somewhat
resembling a punt or flat-bottomed ferry-boat,--nearly twenty feet in
length by about half as much in breadth of beam.  The empty hogsheads
were placed around the edge in a regular manner.  One lay crosswise at
the head, while another was similarly situated as regarded the stern.
The other four--there were six in all--were lashed lengthwise along the
sides,--two of them opposite each other on the larboard and starboard
bows, while the other two respectively represented the "quarters."  By
this arrangement a certain symmetry was obtained; and when the structure
was complete, it really looked like a craft intended for navigation, and
by Ben Brace,--its chief architect,--it was facetiously christened _The
Catamaran_.

By noon of the second day the _Catamaran_ was completed,--so far as the
_hull_ was concerned.  Had Snowball been by himself he would have left
it in that state: for the black did not yet believe that there was the
slightest probability of reaching land by means of such an embarkation.

But the sailor,--more skilled in such matters,--was of a different way
of thinking.  He believed it not only possible, but probable enough,
that this feat might be accomplished.  He knew that they were in the
very centre of the southern trade-wind; and that the raft, even if left
to itself, would in time drift onward to some point on the coast of
South America.  With a sail its speed would be accelerated; and
although, thus furnished, such a clumsy structure could not sail very
swiftly, there was still a chance of its carrying them safely,--if
slowly,--to land.  Ben knew it was simply a question of time,--dependent
upon how long their provisions might last them,--but more especially
their supply of water.

Having formed in his own mind a sort of rough calculation as to the
chances, and finding them rather in favour of the scheme, he determined
on making trial of it, by erecting a mast upon the raft, and to this
bending a sail.  At the worst, their chances of being picked up would be
quite as good while sailing with the wind, as if they allowed themselves
to lie adrift upon the ocean.

Fortunately the materials for both mast and sail were on hand, and in
abundance.  They had found the "spanker" of the _Pandora_ floating
about, with its boom and all the cordage attached.  By using the boom as
a mast, and another smaller spar as a boom, they could rig up such a
sail as would carry the _Catamaran_ through the water with considerable
velocity.

As soon as he had fully considered it in his own mind, the sailor, aided
by Snowball and Little William, proceeded to rig the _Catamaran_, and by
the close of the third day from the commencement of their labours a tall
mast stood up out of the centre of that curious craft, midships between
stem and stern, with boom and guy, and a broad sail hanging loosely
along its yard,--ready to be spread to the first breath of wind that
might blow westward over the ocean.

The breeze which had brought Ben and little William back among the
wreck-drift of the slave-bark, leading to a renewal of intercourse with
their old shipmate, Snowball, had been blowing in the contrary direction
to that in which the sailor intended to steer.  This breeze, however,
was not such as was to be looked for in that latitude.  It was only a
mere puff,--a cat's-paw,--in the midst of the calm that had continued
for many days after the destruction of the slaver.  It had lulled again
on the same night in which the rafts had become united; and ever
since,--during the three days they had been at work in the construction
of the _Catamaran_,--the calm had continued without intermission.

On the fourth day things remained the same,--not a breath stirring from
any quarter to ruffle the glassy surface of the sea; which, like a
mirror, reflected the odd image of the _Catamaran_, with her six
hogsheads set like bulwarks around her sides, and her stout mast
tapering tall and solitary out of her midst.

Neither her captain,--Ben Brace of course,--nor those of her crew who
were capable of reflecting on the future, and providing for its probable
contingencies, regretted this inaction,--forced upon them by the
continuance of the calm.  Indeed, although becalmed, the "Catamarans"
were not inactive.  There was work worthy of their activity, and which
occupied them during the whole of the day.  By the aid of oars,--several
of which were fortunately in their possession,--they kept the new craft
in constant motion; quartering the square mile of sea-surface, upon
which floated the fragments of the ill-fated _Pandora_.

Many a waif did they pick up, and stow away on their new craft against
the contingency of some future need.

Among other "floating fragments" Ben chanced upon his own sea-chest;
which secured him a change of linen,--to say nothing of a full suit of
"Sunday go-ashores" and variety of knick-knacks likely to prove of
service on the problematical voyage he proposed making.

The chest itself was retained to serve as a useful "locker."

The fourth day being spent in such fashion, the Catamarans retired to
rest,--little William, at the request of the sailor, repeating the
Lord's Prayer, and ending it, by the dictation of the latter, with a
short petition for a wind that would waft them to the westward!

It seemed as if that simple petition had been heard and granted.  As the
sun once more rose over the ocean, its glossy surface became broken into
tiny corrugations by a breeze blowing as if from the sun himself.  The
sail was run up the slippery mast; it was tightly sheeted home; and the
_Catamaran_, rushing rapidly through the water, soon cleared herself
from that fatal spot where the slaver had perished.

"Westward ho!" cried Ben Brace, as he saw the sail swell out, and the
craft, the product of his own skill, walking proudly away through the
water like a "thing of life."

"Westward ho!" simultaneously echoed Snowball and Little William; while
the eyes of Lilly Lalee sparkled with joy, as she beheld the
enthusiastic bearing of her companions.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

LITTLE WILLIAM AND LILLY LALEE.

The wind was favourable in more senses than one.  Besides blowing in the
desired direction, it kept steady and continuous,--never rising above a
gentle breeze, nor again returning to that calm from which they had just
escaped, and the recurrence of which, to the captain of the _Catamaran_,
would have been almost as unwelcome as a gale.

It was just the sort of wind for the trial of a new craft--barely
ruffling the surface of the sea, and yet filling the sail till its sheet
was as taut as a bow-string.  As it blew direct from the east, that part
of the _Catamaran_ which Ben had christened her _head_ was pointed due
westward; and to hinder the craft from veering round, or luffing back
into the eye of the wind, her builders had constructed a steering
apparatus at the stern.  It was simply a very large oar,--one that had
appertained to the longboat of the _Pandora_,--placed fore and aft
across the swell of the stern water-cask.  It was held in that position
by ropes attaching it to the cask, at the same time that they permitted
it to play through the water, and perform the office of a rudder.  By
means of this simple contrivance,--which had been rigged before starting
on her cruise,--the _Catamaran_ could be steered to any point of the
compass, and kept either before the wind, or luffed up as close to it as
she was capable of sailing.

Of course it required one or other of them to be always at the "wheel,"
as Ben facetiously styled the steering apparatus, and the first spell of
this duty the captain had taken upon himself, considering it too
important,--so long as it was only on trial,--to be intrusted either to
Snowball or little William.  After they should get fairly under way, and
there could be no longer any doubt as to the sailing qualities of the
_Catamaran_, both the above-mentioned individuals would be expected to
take their turn "at the wheel."

For more than an hour the _Catamaran_ continued her course, without
anything occurring to interrupt the "even tenor of her way."  Her
captain, seated in the stern, and still in charge of the steering-oar,
was the only one occupied in the conduct of the craft.  Snowball was
busy among his stores,--most of which lay in a mass amidships,--
arranging them into some sort of order, and placing each article in the
most suitable position to withstand any sudden assault of the winds and
waves.

Little William and Lilly Lalee were far forward against the cask which
represented the head of the craft, and which, being quite empty, stood
high above the surface of the water.

Neither was engaged in any particular employment,--except in talking
kindly to each other, and at intervals exchanging expressions of joy at
the fortune that had so singularly reunited them under two such
courageous protectors.

It is true that, on board the slaver,--during that brief voyage, brought
to such an abrupt and disastrous termination,--the two had seen but
little of one another, and knew less.  The pretty little Portuguese had
been kept within the cabin, never going beyond the confines of the
"quarter"; while the English lad, in continual fear of receiving rough
treatment from either the captain or mates, rarely ventured within that
sacred precinct unless in obedience to some command from his dreaded
superiors.

Then stayed he only long enough to execute the order as speedily as
possible,--knowing that to linger by the cabin would be to expose
himself to rude insult,--perhaps to be pitched into the scuppers or
kicked back to the forecastle.

Under such disadvantageous circumstances, it is not to be wondered at
that the sailor-boy found but few opportunities of holding communication
with the half-caste girl, who, by the singular chances already stated,
had been his fellow-voyager on board the ill-fated bark.

Though he had held but slight converse with his youthful _compagnon du
voyage_, and knew but little either of her moral or intellectual
character, he was nevertheless most intimately acquainted with her
personal appearance.  There was not a feature in her pretty, sweet face,
not a ringlet in her jetty curling hair, with which his eyes were not
perfectly familiar.

Ofttimes had he stood,--half-screened behind the sails,--gazing upon her
as she loitered by the cabin hatch, surrounded by rude ruffian forms,
like a little white lamb in the midst of so many wolves.

Ofttimes had the sight caused his pulse to beat and his heart to throb
with throes in which pain and pleasure were equally commingled, but the
cause of which he could not comprehend.

Now, seated side by side with this young creature on board the
_Catamaran_,--even on that frail embarkation, which at any moment might
be scattered to the winds, or whelmed under the black billows of the
sea,--the sailor-boy no longer felt pain while gazing in her face, but
only that sweet incomprehensible pleasure.



CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

TOO LATE!

Nearly two hours had transpired since the starting of the _Catamaran_,--
during which time but little change took place in the relative positions
of those on board.  Then, however, Snowball having finished the stowage
of his stores, proposed taking his turn at steering.  The offer was
willingly accepted by the sailor, who, relinquishing his hold upon the
oar, went forward amidships.  There he had placed his old sea-chest;
and, kneeling in front of it, he commenced rummaging among its contents,
with the design of making himself more familiar with them, and seeing
whether he might not discover some article inside that would be
serviceable under the circumstances.

William and Lilly Lalee still remained by the head,--the boy habitually
keeping a lookout over the ocean, but at frequent intervals turning his
glances towards her who sat by his side, and endeavouring to interest
her with his conversation.

The girl could not speak English,--only a few phrases which she had
picked up from English or American seamen, who had visited her father's
fort upon the African coast.  These, though by her repeated in all
innocence, were neither of the most refined character, nor yet
sufficiently comprehensive to enable her to hold any lengthened
dialogue.  It was in her own tongue that the conversation between her
and William was carried on: for the lad had picked up a somewhat
extensive vocabulary of Portuguese among the sailors of the _Pandora_--
many of whom were of that nation.  It was a sort of "lingoa geral"
spoken along the seaboard of Africa,--not unlike a similar Portuguese
patois, current on the coasts and large rivers of tropical South
America.

In this language, little William, by the aid of signs and gestures, was
able to keep up an occasional conversation with Lilly Lalee.

During the two hours which the sailor had remained at the
steering-oar,--and for some time after,--no incident occurred to
interrupt the tranquillity of the _Catamaran's_ crew.

A very odd sort of fish, swimming about a cable's length ahead of the
craft, had attracted the attention of William and the girl,--exciting
their curiosity so much as to cause them to rise to their feet and stand
watching it.

The interest which this creature had inspired was not, however, of a
pleasant kind.  On the contrary, both looked upon it with feelings of
repugnance, almost amounting to awe; for it was in reality one of the
ugliest monsters to be met with in the great deep.

In size it it as about equal to the body of a man; but much more
elongated, and lessening gradually towards the tail.  It seemed to
possess a double quantity of fins,--lunated along their outer margins,
and set thickly over its body, so as to give it a bristling aspect.
Unlike other fishes, its neck was more slender than its head and
shoulders,--imparting to it a sort of human shape.  But it was in its
head that the hideousness of the creature was more especially
conspicuous; the skull being prolonged on each side outwards to the
distance of several inches, and set upon its neck after the fashion of a
mallet upon its shaft!  At the end of these lateral protuberances
appeared the eyes, with gleaming golden irides, glancing horridly to the
right and left.

The mouth was not less abnormal in shape and position.  Instead of being
in the hideous head already described, it was in the breast,--where at
intervals it could be seen yawning wide open, and displaying a quadruple
row of sharp serrated teeth, that threatened instant destruction to any
substance, however hard, that might chance to come between them.

Little William knew not what sort of fish it was; for though common
enough in some parts of the ocean, he had not had the good or ill
fortune to see one before.  As his companion had put the question,
however,--and also to satisfy his own curiosity,--he appealed to Ben.

The latter, raising his eyes above the top of his chest, and looking in
the direction pointed out by the lad, at once recognised the animal
which appeared to have attached itself as an escort to the _Catamaran_.

"Hammer-head!" said Ben; "a shark he be; an' the ugliest o' his ugly
tribe."

Saying this, the sailor once more ducked his head under the lid of the
chest, and continued his exploration,--altogether heedless of the
"hammer-head," from whose proximity they had nothing to fear.

So believed Ben Brace at the moment.

It proved a feeling of false security.  In less than ten minutes from
that time the sailor was within six feet of the "hammer-head's" open
mouth,--in imminent danger of being craunched between those quadruple
tiers of terrible teeth, and taken into the monster's capacious maw.

By the phrase "hammer-head," so laconically pronounced by the captain of
the _Catamaran_, little William recognised in the fish a creature which,
although never seen by him before, he had read of in books, both of
travel and natural history.  It was the "hammer-head" shark, or
_balance-fish_, so-called from the peculiar formation of its head,--the
_zygaena_ of the naturalists, and one of the most voracious of that
devouring tribe to which genetically it belongs.

The individual in question was, as is already stated, about a cable's
length from the raft, right ahead; and through the translucent water its
form could be distinctly traced in all its hideous outlines.  Swimming
in the same direction, and at a like rate of speed, it preserved a
regular distance from the raft; and appeared like some guide or _avant
courier_ conducting the _Catamaran_ across the Atlantic!

William and Lalee watched the fish for a considerable time; but as no
change took place either in its movements or the position it held in
relation to the raft, their curiosity at length became satisfied, and
their eyes were turned in a different direction.

But the gaze of the boy-sailor soon became fixed; and upon an object
which caused him to give utterance to two distinct exclamations,--
distinct in point of time, as different in signification.  The first was
an ejaculation, or rather a series of phrases expressing a jocular
surprise,--the second a cry of serious alarm.

"Ho!" cried he, on turning round and glancing towards the stern of the
_Catamaran_, "Snowball asleep!  Ha! ha! ha!  See the old sea-cook!
Verily, that steering-oar has escaped from his hand!"

Almost instantly succeeded the shout that betokened alarm, followed by a
series of hurried phrases, indicating the danger itself.

"The boom,--the boom!  'Tis coming round!  Look out, Lalee! look out!"

As he gave utterance to these words of warnings the boy sprang towards
his companion, with arms outstretched, to protect her.

The action came too late.  The steering-oar, held in the hands of the
sleeper, hung suspended high above the water.  The _Catamaran_, left
without control, luffed suddenly round beam-end to the wind; the boom
obeyed the impulse of the breeze; and Lilly Lalee, uplifted upon its
end, was brushed off from the craft, and jerked far out upon the blue
bosom of the ocean!



CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

"OVERBOARD!"

The cry came from little William, as the Portuguese girl, lifted on the
end of the boom, was pitched far out into the sea.

The utterance was merely mechanical; and as it escaped from his lips,
the sailor-lad rushed towards the edge of the raft, and placed himself
in an attitude to plunge into the water,--with the design of swimming to
the rescue of Lalee.

Just then the boom, suddenly recoiling, came back with a rapid sweep;
and, striking him across the shins, sent him sprawling over the
shoulders of Ben Brace, and right into the sea-chest, in front of which
the sailor was still kneeling.

Ben had heard that significant cry of alarm, and almost simultaneously
the "plash" made by the little Portuguese as her body dropped down upon
the water.  He had slewed himself round, and was making a hurried effort
to get to his feet, when the boy, flung with violence upon his stooping
back, once more brought him to his knees.

As William was chucked right over him into the chest the sailor soon
recovered from the shock, and rising erect, cried out in a half-confused
manner,--"Overboard!  Who?  Where?  _Not_ you, Will'm!  What is't, boy?"

"O Ben!  Ben!" answered William, as he lay kicking among the contents of
the kit, "Lilly Lalee, she's knocked overboard by the boom!  Save her!
save her!"

The sailor needed neither the information nor the appeal thus addressed
to him.  His interrogations had been altogether mechanical, for the
plunge he had heard, and the absence of the girl from the raft,--
ascertained by a single glance,--told him which of the _Catamaran's_
crew it was who had fallen overboard.

The circling eddies in the water showed him the spot where the girl had
gone down; but, just as he got to his feet again, she had turned to the
surface; and, uttering half-stifled screams, commenced buffeting the
water with her tiny hands, in an instinctive endeavour to keep herself
afloat.

In a crisis of this character, the brave English sailor was obstructed
by no ambiguity as to how he should act.  A single bound carried him
across the _Catamaran_,--another landed him upon the top of one of the
casks, and a third launched him six feet outward into the sea.  Had he
been apprised of the accident only a score of seconds sooner, less than
that number of strokes would have sufficed him to reach the spot where
the child had first fallen into the water.  Unfortunately in the
collision with little William, that had brought him back to his knees,
some time had been expended.  During this interval--short as it was--the
craft, though under an uncontrolled sail, was still making considerable
way; and when the rescuer at length succeeded in leaping from the cask,
the struggling form had fallen into the wake of the _Catamaran_ to the
distance of nearly a cable's length.

If the girl could only keep afloat for a few minutes, there need be no
great danger.  The sailor knew that he could swim, sustaining a heavier
weight than was the little Lalee.  But it was evident the child could
not swim a stroke, and was every moment in danger of sinking for the
second time.

Her rescuer perceived this danger as he started to her aid; and
therefore pressed rapidly towards her, cleaving the water with all the
strength that lay in his muscular arm and limbs.

Meanwhile little William had also regained his feet; and, having
extricated himself from the chest in which he had been temporarily
encoffined, ran towards the after part of the raft.  Quickly mounting
upon the water-cask at the stern, he stood astride the steering-oar,--an
anxious and trembling spectator,--his eyes alternately fixed on the
strong swimmer and the struggling child.

Snowball was still dormant, buried in a slumber profound and
unconscious,--such as only a "darkey" can enjoy.  The cry "Overboard!"
uttered by little William had made no impression upon the tympanum of
his wide-spread ears,--nor the exclamations that succeeded in the
harsher voice of the sailor.  Equally unheard by him had been the scream
coming across the water, though along with it he might have heard the
utterance of his own name!

As none of these sounds had been sufficient to arouse him from his
torpor, he was likely to remain for some time longer unconscious of what
was occurring.  The sailor swam in silence,--the cries of the child, now
more distant, were growing feebler and feebler; while little William--
Snowball's only companion upon the raft--was too much absorbed in the
scene and its issue to allow even a breath to escape him.

In this moment of agony,--intense to all the others of the _Catamaran's_
crew,--Snowball was sleeping as soundly and sweetly as if he had been
stretched along the bench of his caboose, and rocked to rest by the
undulations of a good ship going at easy sail.

Up to this time, William had not thought of awakening him; for, to say
the truth, the boy had not yet quite recovered his presence of mind.
The shock of consternation caused by the accident was still vibrating
through his brain; and his actions, in running aft, and springing up on
the cask, were half mechanical.  There, enchained by the spectacle, and
waiting with intense anxiety for its _denouement_, he had not a thought
to give either to Snowball or his slumberings.

The silence continued only for a short period of time, though it may
have seemed long enough both to actors and spectator in that thrilling
drama.  It was terminated by a cry of joyous import from the lips of
little William,--in short, a loud _hurrah_, evoked by his seeing the
swimmer come _en rapport_ with the child, raise her sinking form above
the surface, and holding it in one hand, strike out with the other in
the direction of the rail.



CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

SAVED!

"Brave Ben!--brave fellow! he has saved her!  Hurrah!"

Whether it was the violent gestures that accompanied this ebullition of
feeling that caused the water-cask to lurch from under his feet,--or
whether it arose from his nervous system suddenly becoming relaxed after
such a spell of intense anxiety,--certain it is that the sailor-lad, as
he repeated the final "Hurrah!" lost his balance upon the task, and,
staggering over, he fell with all his weight upon the prostrate body of
the slumbering sea-cook.

The latter, in his sleep more sensible to touch than hearing, was at
length aroused.

"Gorramity!" cried he, suddenly starting to his knees, and endeavouring
to disembarrass himself of the weight of little William, still
scrambling upon his back.  "Gorramity!  What all dis _fracas_ 'bout?
Someb'dy shout `Hurrah?'--Ha! you, lilly Willy? you shout dat jess now?
I tink I hear ye in ma 'leep.  What for you hurrah?  Golly! am dar a
ship in sight?  I hope dar am--Wha's Mass' Brace?--wha's de lilly gal?
Augh?"

This string of interrogations was put in such rapid succession as to
give the lad no opportunity of replying to them.  But, indeed, a reply
was not needed, as may be deduced from the final ejaculation of the
questioner.

Snowball, having swept the surface of the _Catamaran_ with a quick,
searching glance, and missing from it not only its captain, but--what
was of greater moment--his own _protege_, became equally the victim of
surprise and consternation.

His eye was at once turned towards the water; and, like all men
accustomed to the sea, was intuitively directed sternward.  The missing
individuals could not be elsewhere than in the wake of the craft going
under sail.

He was soon satisfied of the correctness of his conjecture.  On the
instant of his turning he beheld Ben Brace,--or rather, only the head of
that individual,--just visible above the rippling surface of the sea.
Close by was another head, of smaller size, with dark ringlets floating
on both sides of it, and a tiny arm stretched out and apparently
clinging to the shoulder of the seaman.

Snowball needed no one--not even little William--to interpret what he
saw.  At a glance he comprehended what had occurred during his sleep,--
all except the cause.  Little did he suspect that the disaster had its
origin in his own negligence.  But it did not need that thought to beget
within him a feeling of anxiety,--or, rather, of intense alarm.

This feeling did not arise on the instant.  Seeing the girl sustained by
such a strong swimmer as he knew his old shipmate to be, he had but
little fear for the result,--so little that he checked his first
impulse, which was to leap overboard and swim to the assistance of both.

A moment's reflection, however, satisfied him that there was still
danger both for Lalee and her brave rescuer,--a danger which little
William while giving utterance to that joyful "Hurrah!" had not taken
into account.  The lad had seen the girl picked up by the strong seaman;
and, having an unlimited faith in the prowess of his own protector, he
had no other thought than that the latter would soon swim back to the
_Catamaran_, bearing his light burden along with him.

In his joy little William had overlooked the circumstance that the
_Catamaran_ was _under sail_, and moving through the water at a rate of
speed that the swiftest swimmer, unembarrassed with the slightest
weight, might in vain attempt to overtake her!

This sinister circumstance, in the excitement of the hour overlooked by
the youthful sailor, was even, for a moment, unthought of by the more
experienced mariner,--for Snowball, in addition to being a sea-cook, was
also a competent seaman.  Not for long, however, did the latter continue
unconscious of the danger.  Almost on the instant did he perceive it;
and quickly squatting himself in front of the cask, he took hold of the
steering-oar,--which he had so culpably neglected,--and, although still
ignorant of the fact that his own negligence had caused the disaster, he
bent all his energies towards remedying it.

Under the strong arm of the Coromantee, the _Catamaran_ was fast coming
round towards the wind,--and so shortening the distance between the
swimmer and the craft,--when an object came under the eye of her
steersman that caused him to drop the oar as if either his arm had
become suddenly paralysed, or the piece of rounded ash grasped between
his hands had become transformed into a bar of red-hot iron!

The former it could not be; since paralysed arms could not act, as did
those of Snowball on that instant.  On dropping the oar, his right hand
was suddenly carried towards his left thigh, where a long knife hung
suspended in its sheath.  Upon the hilt of this his fingers rested for a
moment, evidently not with the intention of drawing it, but apparently
to assure himself that the knife was in its place.

In an instant the hand was withdrawn; but during the action the <DW64>
had hastily risen to his feet; and, having already abandoned the oar, he
rushed towards the edge of the raft and leaped overboard into the water!



CHAPTER THIRTY.

THE ZYGAENA.

The conduct of the Coromantee in thus relinquishing the rudder and
springing overboard into the sea was inexplicable,--at least, to little
William it seemed so for the time.  What could be Snowball's object in
taking to the water?  The sailor's strength was sufficient to sustain
both himself and the little girl.  He appeared to have no difficulty in
holding her above the surface; and as to getting back to the raft,
Snowball was surely doing more service in steering the raft towards
them?  Had he continued at the rudder a few minutes longer, the
_Catamaran_ must have come very near where the swimmer was struggling;
where as, on his dropping the oar, she once more luffed round, and began
to make way in the opposite direction.

Little William, however, did not observe this sinister circumstance; or
if he did, it was for the moment driven out of his mind by one still
more sinister, that just then came under his observation.

Only for a few seconds had he remained watching the <DW64>, and
wondering, with unpleasant thoughts, why the latter before leaping
overboard had half drawn the knife from his belt and then resheathed it.
Something like a suspicion passed through the mind of the youth.  What
could the <DW64> want with a knife, if his object was to give help to the
swimmer?  Could a fiendish conception have occurred to the Coromantee,
to lessen the number of those who might require food and water?

It is true the suspicion had barely shaped itself in the brain of the
boy.  Still, it had shaped itself, to be succeeded by a feeling of
remorse for the wrong which he had done to Snowball in entertaining it.
Almost on the instant did he become conscious of this wrong, by an
object coming under his eyes and which at once accounted for the conduct
of the Coromantee, that had seemed strange.  Snowball was swimming
towards Ben Brace,--not to destroy,--but with the intention of saving
him.

From what?  Was the sailor really in danger of sinking, so as to stand
in need of support both for himself and his burden?

Little William did not put such an interrogatory.  All his conjectures
were ended.  The peril threatening his patron,--and little Lalee as
well,--was plainly outlined before his eyes, in all its frightful
reality.  That flattish, dark disc, with lunetted edge, rising erect
above the surface, and cutting keenly through the rippling water, was an
object not to be mistaken for any moving thing met with amid the ocean,
save the dorsal fin of a shark, and William knew at a glance that such
in reality it was.

He saw, moreover, it was the same he and little Lalee had so late been
contemplating in security,--the dreaded zygaena: for through the
translucent water he could distinguish its hammer-shaped head, and lurid
eyes gleaming out from their protuberant sockets,--hideous to behold!

The boy now became spectator,--sole spectator,--of a scene of thrilling,
even terrible interest.  The characters in the drama were Snowball, the
zygaena, and Ben Brace with his burden.

Just as William had arrived at the comprehension of the Coromantee's
behaviour, the _dramatis persona_ were placed relatively to each other
in a triangular position,--an isosceles triangle, in which Snowball and
the shark represented the angles at the base, while Ben with his charge
occupied the apex.  The latter point was almost stationary, while both
the former were moving towards it in converging lines, fast as shark and
man could swim.

The situation was easily explained.  The zygaena, hitherto holding its
course ahead of the _Catamaran_, had become apprised of the catastrophe
occurring among the crew.  The plash occasioned by little Lalee as she
was flung upon the water, and the heavier concussion of Ben's body as he
plunged overboard, had reached the monster's ears; and, with that fell
instinct peculiar to its tribe, it had suddenly turned in the water, and
commenced swimming toward the wake of the craft; where it knew that
anything, whether human or otherwise, falling overboard, must inevitably
drift.

While passing the _Catamaran_ towards the wake, Snowball had caught
sight of its fan-like fin,--which apprised him of the direction it was
taking, at the same time revealing to him its design.

The plunge which Snowball had made as he sprang out into the water had
caused the zygaena to swerve from its course; and for some moments it
swam towards _him_, as if determined upon changing the object of its
attack; but whether not liking the looks of the Coromantee or frayed by
his bold attitude in making directly towards it, it shied back into its
former course, and kept on towards the others.

Of course, the sailor, encumbered as he was by the half-lifeless form of
the girl, would stand but little chance of making a successful defence
against a shark,--more especially such a monster as the zygaena; and it
was the knowledge of this that had summoned Snowball to the rescue.

Against such an adversary a more capable combatant than the Coromantee
could scarce have been found on the waters of the ocean, or even _in_
them.  He could swim like a swan, and dive like a sea-duck; nor was it
the first time for him to have fought the shark in its own element;
neither would it be the first time should he prove conqueror in the
combat.

On launching into the lists, his chief dread had not been for himself,
but for those he was proceeding to rescue.

In point of time the shark had had the start of him; and, although on
parting from the raft the distances each would have to traverse were not
very unequal, Snowball knew that his scaly competitor far excelled him
in the quality of speed.

It was this thought that was causing him anxiety,--amounting almost to
anguish,--that caused him to plunge wildly through the water,--to utter
loud cries, and make other noisy demonstrations,--with a view of
distracting the attention of the zygaena from the victims it had
fore-chosen, and drawing its attack upon himself.

His shouts and gesticulations proved equally unavailing.  The cunning
zygaena took no heed of either; but with its dark dorsal fin, set like a
well-bent sail, it kept straight on towards the easier victims.

The sides of the isosceles triangle were gradually growing unequal,--
gradually and slowly, but, alas! surely.  Already was it an irregular
_scalene_.  Snowball perceived the change,--each moment becoming more
perceptible, each moment augmenting his fears.

"Poor lilly Lally!" cried he, in a voice that betrayed his anxiety.  "O
Mass' Ben! fo' de lub o' Gorramity, swum to de right,--round dat away,
an' let me git 'tween you an de ravenin' beast.  To de right!--da's de
way.  Do yer bess, Mass' Brace, an' gi' me time get up.  I take care o'
de lubber ef I once get im widin reach o' dis chile's arm."

The injunction thus uttered had the desired effect.  Up to that time the
sailor, sunk low in the water by reason of the extra weight, had not
become fully cognisant of the peril of his position.  Hitherto his mind
had been more occupied with the idea of overtaking the raft, than any
danger to be dreaded from sharks.  He was not even aware of the
zygaena's approach; for the fin, which had betrayed the monster's
presence to those on the _Catamaran_,--from being seen _en profile_,--
could not so easily be distinguished when viewed in "front-face."  No
wonder, therefore, that the victims which the zygaena had selected for
its attack remained unconscious of its approach; and it was only on
seeing Snowball spring out from the _Catamaran_, and swim towards him,
that the sailor suspected the proximity of a shark.  At the same
instant, also, he remembered the interrogatory that had been addressed
to him by little William, and his own laconic reply designating the
individual as a _hammer-head_.  From these various circumstances he
could tell that there was a shark bearing down upon him; but in what
direction he could not conjecture, until the hurried words of Snowball
admonished him to "make way to de right."

The sailor had too much respect for the experience of the ex-cook to
disregard the injunctions thus given; and of hearing them, he at once
swerved in the direction indicated, and "made way to de right" as fast
as a man could swim with only one hand free for the stroke.

Fortunately for all parties, the one arm proved sufficient.  The new
direction entered upon by the swimmer soon changed the relative position
of all parties.  The triangle became resolved into a right line,--the
shark at one extremity,--the sailor with his charge at the other,--
Snowball midway between!



CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

FACE TO FACE.

By this change in the position of the parties, the zygaena had lost its
advantage.  Instead of having for the object of its attack an exhausted
swimmer encumbered with a weight, without a weapon, or even an arm free
to wield one, it would now have for its antagonist a strong man,--fresh
and vigorous,--armed with a long-bladed knife; one, moreover, who from
earliest youth had lived a half-amphibious life, and who was almost as
much at home in the water as the shark itself.  At all events, the
Coromantee could calculate on keeping himself _above_ water for several
hours without rest, and _under_ it as long as any other animal whose
natural element was the earth or the air.

Snowball, however, had no intention to go _wider_,--not an inch deeper
than he could possibly help: for therein would lie his danger, and he
knew it.  As we have already said, it was not the first time for him to
encounter a shark in its own element; and though, perhaps, not so
familial with the _hammer-head_ as with the white shark, he was not
altogether unacquainted with the habits and peculiarities of the former
species.

He knew that the zygaena, like others of its congeners, in seizing an
object, requires to have that object _under_ it; otherwise, it is
compelled to turn upon its back or side, just in proportion as the prey
it would seize lies high or low in the water.  If altogether on the
surface, the shark is forced to make a complete roll, belly upward; and
this necessity,--arising from the peculiar position of the animal's
mouth, and the conformation of its jaws,--is well-known among mariners,
and better among true shark-fighters, who use it to their advantage.
Among the pearl-divers of the Vermilion Sea (Gulf of California), the
attack of the common shark is but little dreaded.  The only weapon used
by them is a piece of stick (the _estaca_), sharpened at both ends, and
hardened by fire.  Provided with this simple weapon, which they carry,
stuck through a loop in their leathern belt, they dive without fear
among the sharks that frequent the waters of the pearl-oyster fishery.
When attacked by one of these voracious creatures, they wait for the
moment when the shark makes its semi-somersault, and opens its cavernous
mouth.  Then, with an adroitness drawn from practice, and a fearlessness
which only great confidence can give, they thrust the _estaca_,
gag-fashion, between the creature's jaws, leaving it no alternative but
to retreat with its jaws wide open, or to close them to its own certain
destruction.  Among these pearl-fisheries, however, a species of shark
occasionally shows itself that cannot be destroyed in such a simple
fashion.  It is known as the _tintorera_, and is as much dreaded by the
pearl-divers as the common shark is by the ordinary mariner.

Fierce as is the zygaena and dreaded above all others of its tribe,--
half the dread no doubt is attributable to its hideous configuration.
Snowball knew that before it could injure him, it must make the
half-turn, and, therefore, approached it with the determination to keep
well upon the surface of the water, and not let it get above him.

The conflict was now inevitable: for the shark, although apparently a
little put about by the transposition that had taken place, had
determined upon having a meal of human flesh.  Its white victims had
escaped it for the time, but it was not particular as to the colour of
the skin, and Snowball might be as sweet to its palate as Ben Brace or
Lilly Lalee.

We are not going to assert that it reasoned after this fashion, or that
any thoughts whatever passed through its huge mallet-shaped skull.
Indeed, there was not much time for reflection: for as Snowball
interposed his body between the zygaena and its intended victims, the
woolly head of the Coromantee and the hammer-head of the shark were
scarcely three lengths of a handspike from each other.

It was a fearful situation for a human being to be in; and any other
than an old shark-fighter would, at such a moment, have succumbed from
sheer terror.

Not so Snowball, who appeared to enter the lists with as little dread
and as much confidence as if his _fetisch_ had given him full assurance
of victory.

Little William, standing upon the stern of the _Catamaran_ with
suspended breath, noting every turn of the spectacle, could see Snowball
drawing the knife from his belt.  Not for long, however, did he hold it
clutched in his hand.  For greater convenience, and to give his hands
free play, while evading the attacks of his finny antagonist, he
transferred the knife to his mouth, where it was seen set transversely
across his cheeks, the blade tightly held between his teeth.  In this
strange fashion did Snowball meet his enemy,--the truculent tyrant of
the deep.



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 <DW64> 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-a-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 <DW64> 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 <DW64>'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 _protege_ 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 grace_ 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 _protege_.
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 <DW64> 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 <DW64>, 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 <DW64>.  "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 <DW64>.  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 _protege_.

"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, <DW65>.  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 _protege_ 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 <DW64>, "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 <DW64> 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.



CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

A LOOKOUT FROM ALOFT.

After launching the kit, little William did not think of surrendering
himself to inaction.  He bethought him that something more should be
done,--that some other _waifs_ should be turned adrift from the
_Catamaran_, which, by getting into the way of the swimmers, might offer
them an additional chance of support.

What next?  A plank?  No; a cask,--one of the empty water-casks?  That
would be the thing,--the thing itself.

No sooner thought of than one was detached.  The lashings were cut with
the axe, in default of his finding a knife; and the cask, like the kit,
soon fell into the wake.  Not very rapidly it was true; for the
_Catamaran_ now, deprived of her sail, did not drift so fast to leeward
as formerly.  Still she went faster than either the kit or the cask,
however; on account of the breeze acting upon her stout mast and some
other objects that stood high upon her deck; and William very reasonably
supposed that to swimmers so much exhausted,--as by that time must be
both Ben and Snowball,--even the difference of a cable's length might be
of vital importance.

It occurred to him also, that the greater the number of waifs sent in
their way, the better would be their chance of seeing and getting hold
of one of them.  Instead of desisting therefore, as soon as he had
detached the first cask, he commenced cutting loose a second, and
committing it to the sea in like manner.

Having freed a second, he continued on to a third, and then a fourth,
and was actually about to sever the lashings of a fifth one, with the
intention to leave only the sixth one--that which contained the stock of
precious water--attached to the _Catamaran_.  He knew that the raft
would still float, without any of the casks to buoy it up; and it was
not any fear on that score that caused him to desist, when about to give
the cut to the cords that confined cask Number 5.  It was an observation
which he had made of an entirely different nature; and this was, that
the third cask when set loose, and more especially the fourth, instead
of falling into the wake of the _Catamaran_, kept close by her side, as
if loath to part company with a craft to which they had been so
intimately attached.

William wondered at this, but only for a short moment.  He was not slow
in comprehending the cause of the unexpected phenomenon.  The raft, no
longer buoyed up, had sunk almost to the level of the surface; and the
breeze now failed to impel it any faster than the casks themselves: so
that both casks and _Catamaran_ were making leeway at a like rate of
speed, or rather with equal slowness.

Though the sailor-lad was dissatisfied on first perceiving this, after a
moment's reflection, he saw that it was a favourable circumstance.  Of
course, it was not that the casks were making _more_ way to leeward, but
that the _Catamaran_ was making _less_; and, therefore, if there was a
chance of the swimmers coming up with the former, there was an equal
probability of their overtaking the latter,--which would be better in
every way.  Indeed, the raft was now going at such a rate, that the
slowest swimmer might easily overtake her, provided the distance between
them was not too great.

It was this last thought that now occupied the mind of little William,
and rendered him anxious.  Had the swimmers fallen too far into the
wake?  Or would they still be able to swim on to the raft?

Where were they at that moment?  He looked aft, towards the point from
which he supposed himself to have been drifting.  He was not sure of the
direction; for the rude construction on which he stood had kept
constantly whirling in the water,--now the stem, now the quarters, anon
the bows, or beam-ends turned towards the breeze.  He looked, but saw
nothing.  Only the sea-kit that by this time had got several hundred
fathoms to windward, cask Number 1 a little nearer, and Number 2 still
nearer.  These, however, strung out in a line, enabled him to conjecture
the direction in which the swimmers, if still above water, should be
found.

Indeed, it was something more definite than a conjecture.  Rather was it
a certainty.  He knew that the raft could not have made way otherwise
than _down the wind_; and that those who belonged to it could not be
elsewhere than to windward.

Guided, therefore, by the breeze, he gazed in this direction,--sweeping
with his eye an arc of the horizon sufficiently large to allow for any
deviation which the swimmers might have made from the true track.

He gazed in vain.  The kit, the casks, a gull or two, soaring on snowy
wings, were all the objects that broke the monotony of the blue water to
windward.

He glided across the low-lying planks of the raft, and up to the empty
cask still attached, which offered the highest point for observation.
He balanced himself on its top, and once more scanned the sea to
windward.

Nothing in sight, save kit, casks, and gulls lazily plying their long
scimitar-shaped wings with easy unconcern, as if the limitless ocean
was,--what in reality it was,--their habitat and home.

Suffering the torture of disappointment,--each moment increasing in
agony,--little William leaped down from the cask; and, rushing
amidships, commenced mounting the mast.

In a few seconds he had swarmed to its top: and, there clinging, once
more directed his glance over the water.  He gazed long without
discovering any trace of his missing companions,--so long that his
sinews were tried to the utmost; and the muscles both of his arms and
limbs becoming relaxed, he was compelled to let go, and slide down
despairingly upon the planks forming the deck of the _Catamaran_.

He stayed below only long enough to recover strength; and then a second
time went swarming up the stick.  If kit and casks should serve no
better purpose, they at least guided him as to the direction; and
looking over both, he scanned the sea beyond.

The gulls guided him still better; for both--there was a brace of them--
had now descended near to the surface of the sea; and, wheeling in short
flights, seemed to occupy themselves with some object in the water
below.  Though they were at a great distance off, he could hear an
occasional scream proceeding from their throats: as if the object
attracting them excited either their curiosity or some passion of a more
turbulent character.

Their evolutions,--constantly returning towards a centre,--guided the
eye of the observer until it rested on an object just visible above the
sheen of the water.  The colour of this object rendered it the more easy
of being distinguished amidst the blue water that surrounded it; for it
was blacker than anything which the sea produces,--unless it were the
bone of the giant _Mysticetus_.  Its shape, too--almost a perfect
sphere--had something to do in its identification: for William was able
to identify it, and by a process of negative reasoning.  It was not the
black albatross, the frigate-bird, nor the booby.  Though of like
colour, there was no bird of such form as that.  There was neither beast
nor fish belonging to the sea that could show such a shape above its
surface.  That sable globe, rounded like a sea-hedgehog, or a
Turk's-head clew, and black as a tarred tackle-block, could be nothing
else than the woolly pate of Snowball, the sea-cook!

A little beyond were two other objects of dark colour and founded shape;
but neither so dark nor so round as that already identified.  They must
be the heads of the English sailor and Lilly Lalee.  They appeared to be
equally objects of attraction to the gulls, that alternately flew from
one to the other, or kept hovering above them,--and continuously
uttering their shrill, wild screams,--now more distinctly heard by
little William, clinging high up on the mast of the _Catamaran_.



CHAPTER FORTY TWO.

ONCE MORE ABOARD.

The sailor-lad did not remain longer on the top of the mast than just to
satisfy himself that what he saw were his companions, still afloat and
alive.  They were not at such a distance neither as to render it
altogether impossible for them to recover their lost way; and,
stimulated by this hope, little William determined upon continuing his
efforts to assist them.

Gliding back upon the planks of the raft, he laid hold of the detached
oar; and once more plying it as a paddle, he endeavoured to propel the
_Catamaran_ up the wind.

It is true he made but slight progress in this direction but he had the
satisfaction of knowing that the craft held her ground, and something
more; as he could tell from the fact of the casks last set loose by him,
falling a little to leeward.  This showed that he must himself be making
way to the windward.

The sea-chest and the cask first loosed from its lashings, had been
launched long before any of the others,--for it was only after an
interval of reflection that he had set free the rest,--and the former
were now far to windward.  When looking from the masthead he had noted
that the position of the swimmers was not so far beyond the kit; and it
was scarce possible at that time, that they could have failed to
discover it.  Without staying to consider whether they had done so or
not, William had come down from his perch; and now that he had reapplied
himself to the oar, and saw that he was gaining ground in the right
direction, he did not like to desist.  Every fathom he made to windward
was a fathom nearer to the saving of the lives of his companions,--a
stroke less for the swimmers to make,--to whom, wearied as they must now
be, the saving of even a single stroke might be an object.

With this thought urging him to perseverance, the sailor-lad stuck to
his oar, wielding it with all the strength in his arms, and only
thinking of the one purpose,--to make way against the wind.  Fortunately
the breeze, already gentle, seemed each moment to grow gentler,--as if
unwilling to oppose his efforts in the cause of humanity; and little
William perceived, to his great gratification, that the casks already
passed by the _Catamaran_ were falling far into her wake.  This proved
that he must be gaining upon the others.

All at once a glad sight came suddenly under his eyes.  Earnestly
occupied with the oar, he had permitted more than a minute to elapse
without casting a glance ahead.  When at length he renewed his lookout
to windward, he was surprised to see, not only the cask and the
sea-chest still nearer but on the top of the latter, a something that
was not there before.  Something that lay along the lid, with arms
stretched downwards, and hands clutching its projecting edges.  He also
perceived two dark rounded objects in the water,--one near each end of
the chest,--one rounder and blacker than the other, but both easily
distinguishable as the heads of human beings.

The singular tableau was at once understood.  Lilly Lalee was on the top
of the sea-kit; Snowball and Ben Brace were flanking it, one at each
end.  The chest was supporting all three.  Hurrah! they were saved!

Little William, at that moment, felt certain they would be saved; though
that joyful certainty had not yet been communicated to them.  Standing
erect upon an elevated part of the raft, the boy had the advantage of
them, and could note every movement they were making, without being seen
by them.

He did not spend much time in merely looking at them.  He knew that that
would be of no avail; and after giving utterance to one or two joyous
ejaculations, he returned to the oar, if possible plying it with greater
energy than ever, from the renewed encouragement which he now derived
from the confidence of success.

When he turned again and stood upright, looking to windward, the tableau
had changed.  Lilly Lalee was still lying along the lid of the chest,
but only one head was seen in the water!  It was that of the sailor, as
the white face and the long flowing hair told him.

Where was the cranium of the sea-cook?  Where was the skull of Snowball?
Gone with his body to the bottom?

These interrogatories flashed across the brain of the lad, causing him a
feeling of alarm.  It was of short continuance, however.  In the next
moment they were answered, and to his satisfaction.  The Coromantee was
seen astride of the cask, more conspicuous than ever: only, being now in
a slightly different direction, he had not been seen at the first
glance.

Without shouting, or making any other idle demonstration, the
intelligent youth once more applied himself to the oars, and vigorously
propelled the raft to windward.

He did not again desist, until a voice falling upon his ear and,
pronouncing his name, caused him to look once more in the direction of
the swimmers.

Then, instead of seeing the Coromantee astride of the cask, he perceived
the round black physiognomy of that individual above the surface of the
water, and scarce a cable's length from the _Catamaran_!

A double line of frothy ripple proceeding from each of his large spread
ears, and running rapidly into his wake, indicated the direction in
which he was swimming,--towards the raft,--while his eyeballs showing
fearfully, and white as the froth itself,--the spluttering and blowing
that proceeded from his thick lips, and the agitation of the sea around
him,--all told that he was doing his very best to come up with the
_Catamaran_.

"Golly!" he gasped out, on perceiving himself within safe distance of
being heard.  "Row dis way, lilly Willy!  Row like de debbil, good lad!
I'se most done up,--dat I be.  In de space ob anoder cable length dis
chile he muss a gub up!"

And ending his speech with a loud "Whugh," partly to clear the water
from his throat, and partly to express the satisfaction he felt at the
near prospect of deliverance, he continued to strike on towards the
raft.

In a few seconds more the long-protracted struggle was brought to a
termination.  Snowball succeeded in reaching the raft, and, assisted by
the sailor-lad, clambered aboard.

Only staying to catch a little breath, the <DW64> laid hold of the second
oar; and the _Catamaran_, under the double stroke, was soon brought _en
rapport_ with the sea-chest; when the remainder of the crew were
restored to her decks, and delivered from a death that but a short time
before had framed so certain as to be inevitable.



CHAPTER FORTY THREE.

REFITTING THE RAFT.

On once more setting foot on the deck of the _Catamaran_ the strong
sailor was so thoroughly exhausted that he was unable to stand erect,
and after scrambling aboard, and staggering a pace or two, he lay down
along the planks.  Lilly Lalee was taken care of by little William; who,
half-leading, half-lifting her in his arms, tenderly placed her upon
some pieces of canvas near the foot of the mast.

For this service, so fondly yet delicately performed, the boy felt
himself amply rewarded by the glance of gratitude that shone in the eyes
of the child,--even without the thanks faintly murmured by her on
perceiving she was safe.

Snowball, equally exhausted, dropped into a recumbent position.  All
three remained silent for a considerable length of time, and without
stirring either hand or foot,--as though to speak or move in their state
of extreme weariness was impossible.

Little William, however, did not resign himself to inaction.  As soon as
he had disposed of Lalee, he made direct to that corner of the
_Catamaran_ where a small barrel or keg, half submerged under the water,
was attached to one of the timbers of the craft.  It was the keg
containing the precious "Canary."

Carefully extracting the bung,--which, in the lashing of the keg, had
been purposely kept upwards,--he inserted a dipper,--that is to say, a
small tin vessel, or drinking "taut,"--which had turned up among the
stores of the sea-kit, and which, having been already used for the same
purpose, was provided with a piece of cord attached around its rim, like
the vessel in use among the gaugers or wine-merchants for drawing their
wine from the wood.  This was hoisted out again, filled with the sweet
fluid which the keg contained; and which was at once administered,--
first to Lilly Lalee, then to William's own especial protector, Ben
Brace; and lastly, after a fresh draw from the keg, to the real owner of
the wine,--the Coromantee.  The spirit of the grape, grown upon the
declivities of Teneriffe, acted like magic on all three; and in a few
minutes both sailor and sea-cook were sufficiently restored to think
about taking certain prudent measures, that had now become necessary,
and that would require a fresh exertion of their strength.

These measures were the recovery of the empty casks which William had
detached from the _Catamaran_; and for the want of which that improvised
craft not only lay much lower in the water than when they had left her,
but was altogether a less seaworthy structure.

The sailor's chest,--for which its owner now felt increased affection,--
was the first thing secured; and next the cask upon which Snowball had
bestraddled himself to get a better view.  Both were near, and easily
reached by a little rowing.

The other three casks had drifted to a considerable distance to leeward,
and were still continuing their course; but as all three were in sight,
the crew of the _Catamaran_ anticipated no great difficulty in
overtaking them.

Nor did any occur.  A pair of oars handled by the sailor and sea-cook,
with the sailor-boy standing up to direct the course in which they
should pull, soon brought the raft down upon the straying hogsheads; and
they were picked up one after the other, the severed ropes respliced,
and all of them set back in their old positions,--so that but for the
wet garments clinging around the bodies of those who had been overboard,
and perhaps the pale and wearied expression upon their countenances, no
one could have told that anything had gone wrong on board the
_Catamaran_.

As to their wet clothes, none of them cared much for that; and if there
had been any discomfort in it, it was not likely to continue long under
the hot sun then shining down upon them.  So rapidly was this part of
the damage becoming repaired that all three,--but more especially
Snowball--were now surrounded by a cloud of evaporation that would soon
dry every stitch of clothing they had on.

The <DW64>,--partly from the natural heat proceeding from his own body,
and partly from the strong sunbeams,--was smoking like a fresh kindled
pit of charcoal: so that, through the strata of steam that encompassed
his head and shoulders, it would have been impossible to tell whether he
was black or white.  In the midst of this Juno-like _nimbus_ however,
the <DW64> continued to talk and act, helping the sailor and little
William, until not only were the water-casks restored to their proper
places, but the sail was hauled up to the mast, and the _Catamaran_ once
more scudding before the breeze, as if not the slightest accident had
occurred either to craft or crew.

Care was taken, however, this time to make fast the halliard rope with a
proper "belay"; and although Snowball might have deserved a caution to
be more vigilant for the future, it was not deemed necessary to
administer it, as it was thought the peril out of which they had so
miraculously escaped would prove to him a sufficient reminder.

There was but one misfortune arising out of the adventure that might
have caused the crew of the _Catamaran_ any serious regret.  This was
the loss of a large portion of their stock of provisions,--consisting of
the dried fish,--partly those that had been half cured by Snowball
previous to the union of the two rafts, and partly the flitches of
shark-meat, that had been taken from the lesser raft, and added to
Snowball's store.

These, with the object of having them thoroughly dried, had been exposed
to the sun, on the tops of the water-casks which little William had let
loose.  In the hurry and excitement of the moment, it was not likely the
lad should give a thought to the flitches of fish.  Nor did he; and
while freeing the water-casks from their fastenings, and pushing them
off from the raft, the pieces were all permitted to slide off into the
water, and either swim or go to the bottom, as their specific gravity
might dictate.  The consequence was, that, when everything else was
recovered, these were lost,--having actually gone to the bottom, or
floated out of sight; or, what was more probable than either, having
been picked up by the numerous predatory birds hovering in the heavens
above, or the equally voracious fish quartering the depths of the ocean
underneath.

It was not without some chagrin that Snowball contemplated his reduced
stores,--a chagrin in which his companions could equally participate.
At the time, however, they felt the misfortune less bitterly than they
might otherwise have done,--their spirits being buoyed up by the
miraculous escape they had just made, as well as by a hope that the
larder so spent might be replenished, and by a process similar to that
by which it had been originally stocked.



CHAPTER FORTY FOUR.

THE ALBACORES.

The hope of replenishing their larder was likely to be realised easily,
and ere long.  Scarce had their sail caught the breeze, when they
perceived alongside the _Catamaran_ a shoal of the most beautiful fish
that are to be found in any part of the boundless ocean.  There were
several hundreds in the shoal; like mackerel, all nearly of one size,
and swimming, moreover in the same direction,--just as a school of
mackerel are seen to do.

They were much larger, however, than the common mackerel,--each being
about four feet in length, with a stout, though well-proportioned body,
having that peculiar elegance of shape which belongs to all the mackerel
tribe.

Their colour was sufficient of itself to entitle them to the appellation
of beautiful creatures.  It was a bright turquoise blue or azure,
showing, in certain lights, a tinge of gold.  This was the colour of
their backs; while underneath they were of a silvery white, gleaming
with a lively iridescence.  A row of spurious fins above the tail, and
another underneath, were of a bright yellow; while their large round
eyes exhibited an iris of silver.

Their pectoral fins were very long and sickle-shaped; while the dorsal
one, also well developed, presented a structural peculiarity in having a
deep groove running longitudinally down the spine of the back, into
which the fin,--when at rest and depressed,--exactly fitted: becoming so
completely sheathed and concealed, as to give to the fish the appearance
of being without this apparatus altogether!

If we except their lovely hues, their greater size, and a few other less
notable circumstances, the fishes in question might have been taken for
mackerel; and it would have been no great mistake to so describe them:
since they were in reality of this genus.  They were of a different
species, however,--the most beautiful species of the mackerel tribe.

"Albacore!" cried Ben Brace, as soon as he saw them shooting alongside
the raft.  "Albacore be they.  Now, Snowy, out wi' your hooks an' lines.
In this fresh breeze they be a'most sure to bite; and we'll be able, I
hope, to make up for the loss o' the others.  Hush all o' ye!  Ne'er a
word; ne'er a movement to scare 'em off.  Softly, Snowy!  Softly, ye ole
sea-cook."

"No fear, Massa Brace,--no fear o' dem leabin dis ole _Cat'maran_, so
long's de be a-gwine on dat fashion.  Looker dar!  Fuss to one side, den
de todder,--back and for'rad as ef de cudn't be content nowha."

While Snowball was speaking, and before he had commenced, the albacores
had entered upon a peculiar movement.  On first joining company with the
_Catamaran_, they swam for a time alongside,--the starboard side,--
keeping pace with the raft, and evidently making no exertion to go ahead
of her, as they might easily have done.  On the contrary, they scarce
moved their fins; but floated slowly along at the exact rate of speed at
which the craft was sailing, and not one bit faster.  As they swam
parallel to the raft, and also parallel to each other, one might have
fancied them all joined together by some invisible link, that kept them
from changing their relative positions both to the _Catamaran_ and to
one another!

All at once, however, and quick as the change of a kaleidoscope, this
parallelism was terminated,--not as regarded each other, but with
respect to the course of the _Catamaran_ By a single flutter of their
tails, the whole _school_ was seen simultaneously turning head towards
the craft; and then, like a flash of lightning, they passed underneath.

For a moment they were out of sight; but in the next they appeared on
the starboard beam, swimming parallel as before, both to the course of
the _Catamaran_ and to each other.  The manoeuvre was executed with such
precision and uniformity, as could not be imitated among men,--even
under the tuition of the ablest drill-sergeant that ever existed.  They
swerved from right to left, as if each and all were actuated by the same
impulse, and at the same instant of time.  At the same instant their
tails made a movement in the water,--at precisely the same point of time
they turned together,--showing a list of its silvery abdomen, and with
like simultaneous action did they dive under the keel of the
_Catamaran_.

It was this peculiar manoeuvre on the part of the fish,--won after
repeated by their shooting back to the starboard, and again returning to
larboard,--that had elicited from Snowball the assertion, so confidently
put forward, that there was no fear of their leaving the _Catamaran_ so
long as they were going in that fashion.

Of those upon the raft, Ben Brace alone comprehended Snowball's meaning.
To little William it was a matter of some surprise when the ex-sea-cook
spoke so confidently, and acted, moreover, as if he had no fear of
frightening the shy-looking creatures that were swimming alongside.

"Why, Snowy?" asked the lad,--"why is there no fear of their being
scared off?"

"Kase, lilly Willy, I hab de idea dar be something else not far off, dat
dem albacore am more feerd on dan we.  I no see dat someting yet.  We
sure see de _long snout_, by 'm by."

"The long snout!--what do you mean by that, Snowy?"

"Wha do a mean?--de long-nose a mean.  Tole ye so! dar he be yonner,--
right on de la'bord quarter.  Dis <DW65> knew he no far off.  Da's why
de beauties hab come roun de raff; an dat I hope keep um hyar till we
hab cotch a few ob dem!"

"A shark!" cried the boy-sailor, catching a glance of some large fish at
some distance out in the water on the larboard bow,--the direction in
which Snowball had pointed.

"Shark! nuffin ob de kind," rejoined the <DW64>; "diff'rent sort ob fish
altogedder.  If him wa shark, de albacore no stay hyar.  Dey go up to
him, and dart all 'bout im,--jess like de lilly birds when dey see big
hawk or de vulture.  No shark he,--dat ere skulkin' fella.  He am massa
long-nose,--de real enemy ob de albacore.  No fear ob dem leabin' us,
while he anywhar in sight."

Saying this the Coromantee proceeded to single out his hooks; and,
assisted by Ben Brace, commenced baiting them with an unconcern that
testified a full confidence in the truth of his assertion.



CHAPTER FORTY FIVE.

THE SWORD-FISH.

Little William,--whose curiosity had become excited at the appearance of
the strange fish,--stood looking over the larboard quarter, in hopes of
getting a better view of it.

As yet, he had only obtained a slight glimpse of it: for the larboard
quarter lay towards the south-west, and the sun, just then sinking down
upon the sea, hindered him from having a fair opportunity to scan the
surface in that particular direction.

Shading his eyes with the palm of his hand, he gazed for some time, but
saw nothing,--either upon the surface or under it.  Snowball,
notwithstanding that he seemed wholly occupied with the hooks and lines,
took notice of the reconnoissance of the sailor-lad.

"No use you look dat way, lilly Willy," said he.  "Doan you see dat de
abbacores are now on de larbord side.  Wheneber dey am on de larbord,
you look for long-nose on de starbord.  Truss dem take care dey no get
on de same side wit' dat ere fella."

"There, Will'm!" interposed Ben.  "Look out that way! there he be,--
right astarn,--don't ye see?"

"I see, I see!" cried William.  "O, look, Lalee!  What in odd fish it
is!  I never saw one like it before."

This was true; for although the young sailer had already traversed many
a long league of the Atlantic Ocean, he had not yet seen a fish of the
same kind; and he might traverse hundreds of long leagues of any of the
oceans without seeing the like again.

It was, in truth, one of the most singular denizens of the great deep
that had thus come under the observation of the _Catamaran's_ crew,--so
peculiar in its appearance that, without the intervention of Ben Brace,
who at that moment called out in name, the boy could have pronounced it
for himself.

It was a fish of some eight or ten feet in length; with a long bony
snout, projecting horizontally forward, at least one third of the length
of its body.  This snout was nothing more than a prolongation of the
upper jaw,--perfectly straight, of osseous structure, and tapering
towards the end like the blade of a rapier.

Otherwise the fish was not ill-formed; nor did it present that hideous
aspect characteristic of the more predatory creatures that inhabit the
ocean.  For all that, there was a certain shyness combined with great
swiftness in its motion,--a skulking in its attitudes: as Snowball's
speech had already declared,--a truculent, trap-like expression in its
quick watchful eyes, that told of an animal whose whole existence was
passed in the pursuit of prey.

It was not to be wondered at that William should have mistaken the
creature for a shark: for, in addition to the fact of the sun being in
his eyes, there were points of similarity between the fish in question,
and certain species of sharks, requiring a good view and an experienced
observer to tell the difference.  William perceived a large crescent
shaped fin rising several inches above the surface of the water,--a tail
lunated like that of the shark,--a hungry eye, and prowling attitude:
the very characteristics of the dreaded tyrant of the deep.

There was one thing in which the creature in question differed
materially from all the individuals of the _squalus_ tribe.  Instead of
swimming slowly, it appeared to be one of the swiftest of fishes: for at
each instant as the albacores changed their position from one side of
the raft to the other, the long-snouted creature was seen to shoot to
the same side with a velocity that almost baffled the sight to keep pace
with it.

In fact, the eye could scarcely have traced its course, had it not been
aided by two circumstances altogether strange and peculiar.  The first
was that the strange fish, while darting from point to point, caused a
rushing sound in the water; like that produced by heavy rain falling
upon the leaves of a forest.  The second peculiarity was, that while
thus progressing its hues became completely changed.  Instead of the
dull brown,--its colour when at rest,--its body presented a striated
appearance,--a brindling of bright and dark blue,--sometimes heightened
to a uniform azure!

It was not these peculiarities that had guided little William to the
identification of the species; but the long, tapering snout, straight as
a rapier, that projected in front of its body.  This was a token not to
be mistaken,--never to be forgotten by one who had seen it before.  And
the young sailor had before seen such a one; not at sea, nor under the
sea, but in a collection of "natural curiosities," that had by chance
been carried through his native town; and whose inspection, perhaps, had
much to do with that impulse that first caused him to "run away to sea."
Under a glass-case he had examined that piece of osseous structure,
described by the showman as the sword of the _sword-fish_.  Under the
waves of the tropical Atlantic,--but little less translucent than the
glass,--he had no difficulty in identifying the formidable weapon!



CHAPTER FORTY SIX.

THE SWORDSMAN OF THE SEA.

While William was gazing upon the strange fish, it was seen all at once
to make a rush in the direction of the raft.  They could hear a
"swishing" sound, as its huge body passed through the water, at the same
time that its great scimitar-shaped dorsal fin, projecting above the
surface, rapidly traced a rippling line through the whole of its course.

The dash was evidently directed against the shoal of albacore swimming
alongside the _Catamaran_.

But these creatures were constantly on the alert.  Although exhibiting
every symptom of fright, they did not seem for an instant to lose their
presence of mind; and as the sword-fish was seen rushing towards them,
all turned as if by a common impulse, and, quick as lightning, passed to
the other side of the raft.

The sword-fish, seeing himself foiled, checked the velocity of his
charge with a suddenness that displayed his great natatory powers; and,
instead of pursuing the albacores under the _Catamaran_, he continued to
follow after the craft, in a sort of skulking, cowardly fashion,--as if
he designed to use stratagem rather than strength in the capture of his
prey.

It soon became evident to little William that the albacores had sought
the companionship of the _Catamaran_ less from the idea of obtaining any
droppings there might be from her decks, than as a protection against
their formidable pursuer,--the sword-fish.  Indeed, this is most
probably the reason why not only the albacores and their kindred the
bonitos, but several other kinds of shoal-fish, attach themselves to
ships, whales, and other large objects, that they may encounter floating
or sailing upon the open ocean.

The mode in which the sword-fish makes his attack,--by rushing
irresistibly upon his prey, and impaling it on his long, slender beak,--
is full of risk to himself; for should his "sword" come in contact with
the sides of a ship, or any substance of sufficient strength to
withstand his impetuous "thrust," the chances are that the weapon either
gets broken off altogether, or so embedded that the owner of it falls a
victim to his rash voracity.

Under the excitement of fear, and occupied in watching the movements of
their enemy, Snowball knew there was no chance of the albacores paying
any attention to the hooks he had baited for them.  Instead, therefore,
of throwing them over the side, he permitted them to lie upon the
planks, and waited until the sword-fish should either take his departure
or fall far enough into the wake of the _Catamaran_ to permit, on the
part of the creatures swimming alongside, a temporary forgetfulness of
his presence.

"It am no use trowin' dem de hook," said he, addressing himself to the
sailor, "no use jess yet, so long de sharp snout am dar.  We mus' wait
till he go out ob dar sight an out ob dar hearin too."

"I suppose we must," rejoined Ben; "that be a pity too.  They'd bite
greedy enough, if the ugly thing warn't there.  That I know, for I've
seed 'em many's the time."

This was not the only bit of information concerning the albacore and
their enemy communicated by the sailor to his companions on the raft,
but more especially to his _protege_, who, feeling a strange interest in
those creatures, had asked several questions concerning them.  During
the interval, while they were waiting for some change in the tactics of
the pursuer,--hoping that he might get ahead and abandon the pursuit,--
Ben imparted to his audience several chapters of his experience,--in
which either albacore or sword-fish, and sometimes both, had figured as
the principal actors.  Among others, he related an anecdote of a ship in
which he had sailed having been pierced by the beak of a sword-fish.

At the time the incident occurred there was no one on board who had any
suspicion of its nature.  The crew were below at their dinner; when one
of the sailors who chanced to be on deck heard a loud splashing in the
water.  On looking over the ship's side, and seeing a large body just
sinking below the surface, the sailor supposed it to be some one of the
crew who had gone over, and instantly raised the cry of "A man
overboard!"

The crew were paraded; when it was ascertained that no one was missing.
Though the sailors were at a loss to account for the singular
appearance, the alarm soon subsided; and nothing more was thought of the
matter.  Shortly after, one of the men,--Ben Brace himself, it was,--
chanced to ascend the rigging; and while aloft he perceived a rugged
mass projecting from the side of the ship, just below the water line.
On a boat being lowered and the thing examined, it proved to be the
_rostrum_ of a sword-fish, broken off from the animal's head.  It was
the body of the animal,--no doubt, killed by the concussion,--which the
sailor had seen sinking in the water.

The "sword" had pierced completely through the copper sheathing and
solid timbers of the larboard bow of the ship; and on the sailors going
below, they found eight or ten inches of its top projecting into the
inside, embedded among some coals contained in the hold!

Singular as the sailor's story might appear, it was not in the least an
exaggeration.  Snowball knew it was not: for the ex-sea-cook could have
told of like experiences; and William was also satisfied of its truth,
from having read the account of a similar incident, and heard that the
evidences of it,--that is, a piece of the solid wood of the ship's
timbers, with the sword imbedded in it,--were to be seen at any time in
the British Museum.

Just as Ben had finished his curious relation, a movement upon the part
of the pursuer told an intention of changing his tactics,--not as if he
was about to retreat, but rather to assume a bolder attitude of offence.
The sight of such a fine shoal of fat albacores,--so near and yet so
long keeping clear of his attack, appeared to have tantalised him to a
point beyond endurance; and, being extra hungry, perhaps he was
determined to dine upon them, _coute qui coute_.

With this intent he drew nearer to the _Catamaran_ swooping from quarter
to quarter, then along the sides, and once or twice darting ahead, so as
to create in the shoal a degree of excitement that might force them into
irregularity of action.

This very effect he at length succeeded in producing; for the pretty
creatures became more frightened than ever; and instead of swimming, as
hitherto, in concert, and parallel to each other as they had been doing,
they got huddled into a crowd, and commenced darting, pell-mell, in
every direction.

In the midst of their confusion a large band became separated,--not only
from the others, but from the _Catamaran_,--and fell several fathoms'
length into the wake of the craft.

Upon these the hungry eyes of the prowling monster were now fixed; but
only for a moment: for in the next he was charging down among them with
a velocity that caused the water to spray upwards against his dorsal
fin, while the rushing sound made by his body could be heard afar off
over the ocean, "Look, Will'm!" cried Ben, anxious that his _protege_
should not miss seeing the curious spectacle.  "Look, lad! yonder's a
sight worth seein'.  Shiver my timbers, if he han't got a brace o' 'em
on his toastin' fork!"

While Ben was speaking, the sword-fish had charged into the middle of
the frightened flock.  There was a momentary plashing,--as several of
the albacores leaped up out of the water and fell back again,--there was
a surging and bubbling over a few yards of surface, which hindered a
clearer view of what was passing; and then outside reappeared the
sword-fish, with his long weapon projected above the water, and a brace
of the beautiful albacores impaled upon its point!

The wretched creatures were struggling to free themselves from their
painful position; but their struggles were not for long.  They were
terminated almost on the instant,--by the sword-fish giving a quick jerk
of his head, and tossing, first one and then the other of his victims
high into the air!

As they came down again, it was to fall, not upon the water, but into
the throat of the voracious tyrant; who, although toothless and without
any means of masticating, made shorter work of it by introducing them
_untoothed_, and at a single gulp, into his capacious maw!



CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN.

ANGLING FOR ALBACORE.

After a while the crew of the _Catamaran_ watched the manoeuvres of the
sword-fish with a degree of interest that almost caused them to forget
their own forlorn situation.  Little William and Lilly Lalee were
especially delighted with the singular spectacle; and long after the
sailor and Snowball had turned their attention to other and more
necessary matters, the two stood side by side gazing out upon the ocean
in the direction in which the sea-swordsman had been seen.

We say _had been_ seen: for, after swallowing the brace of albacores,
the voracious monster had suddenly disappeared, either by diving deep
down into the sea, or shooting off to some distant point.

Little William and Lalee looked everywhere,--first astern, where the
swordsman had made the display of his skill; then on both sides; and,
finally, ahead.  They looked in these different directions,--because,
from what they had already seen of its natative powers, they knew that
the great fish could pass in a few seconds through a hundred fathoms of
water, and therefore was as likely to be on one side as the other.

On no side, however, could the fish be seen; and, although both the
sailor-lad and Lalee would have been pleased to witness a little more of
that same sword exercise, they were at length forced to the conclusion
that the performance was over and the performer gone away,--perhaps, to
exhibit his prowess in some other quarter of the aquatic world.

"Berry like,--berry like he gone way," said Snowball, in reply to the
interrogatory of little William.  "A good ting if dat am de fack; fo'
den we hab chance to hook up some o' dese hya abbacore.  See dem now!
Doan' you see how berry different dey are behavin'.  Dey no longer
'feerd.  Dat am sign dat de long snout hab turn him nose in some oder
direcshun.  He gone fo' sartin."

Sure enough the _behaviour_ of the albacores was very much altered, as
Snowball had affirmed.  Instead of flashing about from one side of the
raft to the other, and exhibiting manifest symptoms of alarm, they now
swam placidly alongside, at a regular rate of speed, just keeping up
with the _Catamaran_.

They looked, moreover, as if they would now take the bait, which during
the presence of the sword-fish they had obstinately refused to touch,
though frequently flung, both by Snowball and the sailor, right under
their snouts.

Both were again preparing to repeat their angling operations; and in a
few seconds' time each had his hook ready, with a piece of shark-meat
temptingly attached to it, the bait being rendered still more attractive
from having a little shred of scarlet flannel looped around the shank of
the hook, while several fathoms of stout sennit-cord served as
trolling-lines.

Plash into the water went the two baited hooks, both at once; and,
almost before the ripples caused by the plunge had ceased to circle upon
the surface, a still louder plashing could be heard, and a much rougher
ripple seen,--in short, a large space of the surface agitated into foam,
where a brace of albacores were fluking and struggling on the respective
hooks of Snowball and the sailor.

Right rapidly were they hauled aboard, and their struggles brought to a
termination by a smart tap on the head administered to each in
succession, by a handspike, which had suddenly found its way into the
grasp of the sailor.

No time was thrown away in contemplating the captives, or triumphing
over their capture.  Little William and Lalee alone examined the two
beautiful creatures thus brought within their reach; while Snowball and
the sailor, rapidly readjusting the baits upon their hooks, that had
been slightly disarranged by the teeth of the _tunnies_,--for the
albacore is a species of tunny fish,--once more flung them forth.

This time the baits were not so greedily "grabbed" at.  As if the
"school" had become suspicious, they all for a considerable time fought
shy of it; but, as it was trolled so temptingly under their very snouts,
first one and then another began to make approach,--now nearer and
nearer, one or two taking a nibble at it, and then dropping it again,
and suddenly shying off,--as if they had discovered something unpleasant
either in its taste or touch.

This delicate nibbling continued for several minutes when, at length, an
albacore more courageous than its companions, or perhaps with an emptier
stomach than the rest, at sight of the tempting morsel suddenly took
leave of his discretion; and, darting forward, seized the bait upon
Ben's hook, swallowing bait, hook, and several inches of the
sennit-cord, at a single gulp!

There was no danger of its being able to detach itself from that hook.
The barb was already fast in its entrails before Ben gave the jerk to
secure it.  Another jerk brought the fish out of its native element,
landing it amidships on board the _Catamaran_, where, like its two
predecessors, it was instantly knocked on the head.

Snowball continued to "troll" his line in the most approved fashion; and
was soon again joined by his brother "piscator," who, after settling the
scores with the second fish he had caught, had adjusted a fresh bait,
and once more flung his line into the water.

For some reason or other, the albacores became suddenly shy,--not as if
alarmed at the action of the anglers, but rather from having their
attention attracted to some other object invisible to the eyes of those
on the _Catamaran_.  The fish were so near the raft, that every movement
made by them could be easily observed,--even to the glancing of their
silvery irides,--and those who observed them could see that they were
looking aloft.

Up went the eyes of the _Catamarans_, both anglers and idlers turning
their glances towards the sky.  There was nothing to be seen there,--at
least, nothing to account for the shyness of the fish, or the upward
cast of their eyeballs.  So thought three of the party,--little William,
Lalee, and the sailor,--who beheld only the blue, cloudless canopy of
the heavens.

Snowball, however, whose single experience of ocean-life was greater
than the sum total of the other three twice told, did not, like the
rest, desist all at once from his scrutiny of the sky, but remained
gazing with upturned look for period of several minutes.

At the termination of that time, an exclamatory phrase, escaping from
his lips, proclaimed the discovery of some object that, to his mind,
accounted for the odd behaviour of the albacores.

"De frigate-bird!" was the phrase that came mutteringly from between
Snowball's teeth.  "Ya, ya,--dar am two ob dem,--de cock an' hen, I
s'pose.  Dat 'counts for de scariness of dese hya fish.  Dat's what am
doin' it."

"O, a frigate-bird!" said Ben Brace, recognising in Snowball's synonyme
one of the most noted wanderers of the ocean,--the _Pelicanus aquila_ of
the naturalists, but which, from its swift flight and graceful form, is
better known to mariners under the appellation given to it by Snowball.

"Where away?" interrogated the sailor.  "I don't see bird o' any sort.
Where away, Snowy?"

"Up yonner,--nearly straight ober head,--close by dat lilly 'peck ob
cloud.  Dar dey be, one on de one side, odder on fodder,--de ole cock
an' de ole hen, I'se be boun!"

"Your daylights be uncommon clear, <DW65>.  I don't see ne'er a bird--
Ah, now I do!--two of 'em, as you say.  Ye're right, Snowy.  Them be
frigates to a sartainty.  It's easy to tell the cut o' thar wings from
any other bird as flops over the sea.  Beside, there be no other I knows
on as goes up to that height.  Considerin' that thar wings be spread
nigh a dozen feet, if not all o' that, and that they don't look bigger
than barn-swallows, I reckon they must be mor'n a mile overhead o' us.
Don't you think so, Snowy?"

"Mile, Massa Brace!  Ya, dey am two mile 'bove us at de berry lees.  Dey
doan' 'peer to move an inch from dat same spot.  Dar be no doubt dat
boaf o' 'em am sound 'sleep."

"Asleep!" echoed little William, in a tone that betokened a large
measure of astonishment.  "You don't say, Snowball, that a bird can go
to sleep upon the wing?"

"Whoo! lilly Willy, dat all you know 'bout de birds in dis hya part ob
do worl'?  Sleep on de wing!  Sartin dey go 'sleep on de wing, an' some
time wif de wing fold close to dar body, an' de head tuck under 'im,--
don't dey, Mass' Brace?"

"I ain't sartin as to that," doubtingly answered the
ex-man-o'-war's-man.  "I've heerd so: but it _do_ seem sort o'
unnat'ral."

"Whoo!" rejoined Snowball, with a slightly derisive inclination of the
head; "why for no seem nat'ral?  De frigate hersef she sleep on de water
widout sails set,--not eben a stitch ob her canvas.  Well, den: why no
dem frigate-birds in de air?  What de water am to de ship de air am to
de birds.  What hinder 'em to take dar nap up yonner, 'ceptin' when
dar's a gale ob wind?  Ob coos dat u'd interrup' dar repose."

"Well, <DW65>," rejoined the sailor, in a tone that betokened no very
zealous partisanship for either side of the theory, "you may be right,
or you may be wrong.  I ar'n't goin' to gi'e you the lie, one way or t'
other.  All I know is, that I've seed frigates a-standing in the air, as
them be now, making way neyther to windart or leuart; f'r all that I
didn't believe they was asleep.  I kud see thar forked tails openin' and
closin' jist like the blades o' a pair o' shears; and that inclined me
to think they war wide awake all the time.  If they was asleep, how kud
they a-kep waggin' thar tails?  Though a bird's tail be but feathers,
still it must ha' some feelin' in it."

"Law, Massa Ben!" retorted the <DW64>, in a still more patronising tone,
as if pitying the poverty of the sailor's syllogism, "you no tink it
possible that one move in dar sleep?  You nebber move you big toe, or
you foot, or some time de whole ob you leg?  Beside," continued the
logician, passing to a fresh point of his argument, "how you s'pose de
frigate-bird do 'idout sleep?  You know berry well he not got de power
to swim,--him feet only half web.  He no more sit on de water dan a
guinea-fowl, or a ole hen ob de dunghill.  As for him go 'sleep on de
sea, it no more possyble dan for you or me, Massa Ben."

"Well, Snowy," slowly responded the sailor, rather pushed for a reply,
"I'm willin' to acknowledge all that.  It look like the truth, an' it
don't,--both at the same time.  I can't understan' how a bird can go to
sleep up in the air, no more'n I could hang my old tarpaulin' hat on the
corner o' a cloud.  Same time I acknowledge that I'm puzzled to make out
how them thar frigates can take thar rest.  The only explanation I can
think o' is, that every night they fly back to the shore, an' turns in
thar."

"Whoogh!  Massa Brace, you knows better dan dat.  I'se heerd say dat de
frigate-bird nebber am seed more'n a hunder league from de shore.  Dam!
Dis nigga hab seed dat same ole cock five time dat distance from land,--
in de middle ob de wide Atlantic, whar we sees 'um now.  Wish it was
true he nebber 'tray more dan hunder knots from de land; we might hab
some chance reach it den.  Hunder league!  Golly! more'n twice dat
length we am from land; and dere 's dem long-wing birds hov'rin' 'bove
our heads, an sleepin' as tranquil as ebber dis nigga did in de caboose
ob de ole _Pandora_."

Ben made no reply.  Whether the reasoning of the Coromantee was correct
or only sophistical, the facts were the same.  Two forms were in the
sky, outlined against the back ground of cerulean blue.  Though distant,
and apparently motionless, they were easily distinguishable as living
things,--as birds,--and of a kind so peculiar, that the eye of the rude
African, and even that of the almost equally rude Saxon, could
distinguish the species.



CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT.

THE FRIGATE-BIRD.

The frigate-bird (_Pelicanus aquila_), which had thus become the subject
of conversation on board the _Catamaran_, is in many respects very
different from other ocean-birds.  Although generally classed with the
pelicans, it bears but a very slight resemblance to any species of these
misshapen, unwieldy, goose-like creatures.

It differs from most other birds frequenting the sea in the fact of its
feet being but slightly webbed, and its claws being _talons_, like those
of hawks or eagles.

Otherwise, also, does it resemble these last birds,--so much that the
sailors, noting the resemblance, indifferently call it "sea-hawk,"
"man-of-war hawk," and "man-of-war eagle."  The last appellation,
however, is sometimes given to the great wandering albatross (_Diomedea
exulans_).

The male frigate-bird is jet black all over the body; having a red bill,
very long, vertically flattened, and with the mandibles abruptly hooked
downwards at the point.  The female differs in colour: being sooty black
above, and having a large white disc on the abdomen.

The legs are short in proportion to the bulk of the bird; the toes, as
already stated, being furnished with talons,--the middle one scaly, and
notched underneath; while the legs are feathered to the feet, showing
another point of affinity with predatory birds of the land.  Still
another may be pointed out: in the innermost toe or _pollex_, being
turned outwards, as if intended for perching,--which the frigate-bird
actually does when it visits the shore, often making its nest upon
trees, and roosting among the branches.

In fact, this creature may be regarded as a sort of connecting link
between the birds of prey who make their home on the dry land, and the
web-footed birds that equally lead a predatory life upon the sea.
Perhaps it continues the chain begun by the ospreys and sea-eagles, who
take most of their food out of the water, but do not stray far from the
shore in search of it.

The frigate-bird, a true sea-hawk,--sea-eagle, it may be called, since
its bold, noble qualities entitle it to the name,--makes its excursions
so far from the shore that it is not unfrequently seen in the very
middle of the Atlantic.  Now, this is the most curious circumstance in
its history, and one that has hitherto perplexed ornithologists.  Since
its feet are not provided with the "web," it cannot swim a stroke; nor
has it ever been seen to alight on the water for the purpose of taking
rest.  It is not likely that it can settle on the wave,--the
conformation of its feet and body making this an impossibility.

How, then, does it find rest for its tired wings?  This is the question
to which an answer is not easily given.

There is a belief, as Ben alleged, that it returns every night to roost
upon the land; but when it is considered that to reach its roost would
often require a flight of a thousand miles,--to say nothing of the
return journey to its fishing-ground,--the statement at once loses all
_vrai-semblance_, Many sailors say that it goes to sleep suspended aloft
in the air, and so high up as to be sometimes invisible.  This was the
belief of Snowball.

Now, this belief, or conjecture, or whatever you may--term it, on the
part of Jack tar, though sneered at as impossible, and even scoffed at
as ridiculous, may, after all, not be so very far beyond the truth.
Jack has told some rare tales in his time,--"yarns" that appear to be
"spun" out of his fancy, quite as much as this one,--which, after having
run the gauntlet of philosophic ridicule on the part of closet
naturalists, have in the long run turned out to be true!  Has not his
story of the "King of the Cannibal Islands,"--Hokee-pokee-winkee-wum,
with his fifty wives as black as "sut," and all his belongings, just as
Jack described them,--actually "turned up" in reality, in the person of
Thakombau and a long line of similar monsters inhabiting the Fiji
Islands?

Why, then, may not his statements, about the frigate-bird going to sleep
upon the wing be a correct conjecture, or observation, instead of a
"sailor's yarn,"--as sage and conceited, but often mistaken, professors
of "physical science" would have us regard it?

Such professors as are at this moment, in almost every newspaper in the
country,--scientific journals among the number,--abusing and ridiculing
the poor farmer for destroying the birds that destroy his grain; and
telling him, if he were to let the birds alone, they would eat the
insects that commit far greater devastation on his precious _cerealia_!
Conceited theorists! it has never occurred to them, that the victims of
the farmer's fowling-piece--_the birds that eat corn--would not touch an
insect if they were starving_!  The farmer does not make war on the
insect-eating birds.  Rarely, or never, does he expend powder and shot
on the swallow, the wagtail, the tomtit, the starling, the thrush, the
blackbird, the wren, the robin, or any of the grub and fly-feeders.  His
"game" are the buntings and _Fringillidae_,--the larks, linnets,
finches, barley-birds, yellowhammers, and house sparrows, that form the
great flocks afflicting him both in seed-time and harvest; and none of
which (excepting, perhaps, the last-mentioned gentry, who are at times
slightly inclined towards a wormy diet) would touch an insect, even with
the tips of their bills.  Ha! ye scribblers of closet conceits! you have
been sneering at "Chaw-bacon" long enough.  He may turn and scoff at
you; for, in very truth, the boot (of ignorance) is upon the other leg!

Let us make sure then, lest Jack's theory regarding the lumbers of the
sea-hawk be not mythical in the mirror of our own incredulity.

That the bird can take rest in the air is perfectly certain.  It may be
seen--as the crew of the _Catamaran_ saw it--suspended on outspread
wing, without any perceptible motion except in its tail; the long,
forked feathers of which could be observed opening and closing at
intervals; according to the sailor's simile, like the blades of a pair
of scissors.  But this motion might be merely muscular, and compatible
with a state of slumber or unconscious repose.  At all events, the bird
has been seen to keep its place in the air for many minutes at a time,
with no other motion observable than that of the long and
gracefully-forking feathers of its tail.

A fish sleeps suspended in the water without any apparent effort.  Why
not certain birds in the air, whose body is many times lighter than that
of a fish, and whose skeleton is constructed with air vessels to buoy
them up into the azure fields of the sky?  The sea-hawk may seldom
require what is ordinarily termed rest.  Its smooth, graceful flight
upon wings, which, though slender, are of immense length,--often often
feet spread,--shows that it is, perhaps, as much at ease in the air as
if perched upon the bough of a tree; and it is certain that its claws
never clasp branch, nor do its feet find rest on any other object, for
weeks and months together.

It is true that while fishing near the shore it usually retires to roost
at night; but afar over the ocean it keeps all night upon the wing.  It
does not, like many other ocean-birds,--as the booby, one of its own
genus,--seek rest upon the spars of ships, though it often hovers above
the mastheads of sailing vessels, as if taking delight in this
situation, and not unfrequently seizes in its beak, and tearing away the
pieces of  cloth fixed upon the vane.

A curious anecdote is told of a frigate-bird taken while thus
occupied,--its captor being a man who had swarmed up to the masthead and
seized it in his hand.  As this individual chanced to be a landsman,
serving temporarily on board the ship, and being remarkably tall and
slender, the crew of the vessel would never have it otherwise, than that
the bird, accustomed only to the figure of a sailor, had mistaken its
captor for a spare spar, and thus fallen a victim to its want of
discernment!

Strictly speaking, the frigate-bird does not _fish_, like other
predatory birds of the ocean.  As it cannot either dive or swim, of
course it cannot take fish out of the water.  How, then, does it exist?
Where finds it the food necessary to sustain existence?  In a word, it
captures its prey in the air; and this commonly consists in the various
species of flying-fish, and also the _loligo_, or "flying squids."  When
these are forced out of their own proper element to seek safety in the
air, the frigate-bird, ready to pounce down from aloft, clutches them
before they can get back into the equally unsafe element out of which
they have sprung.

Besides the flying-fish, it preys upon those that have the habit of
leaping above the surface, and also others that have been already
captured by boobies, terns, gulls, and tropic birds, all of which can
both swim and dive.

These the frigate-bird remorselessly robs of their legitimate prize,--
first compelling them to relinquish it in the air, and then adroitly
seizing it before it gets back to the water.

The storm is the season of plenty to this singular bird of prey; as then
it can capture many kinds of fish upon the surface of the waves.  It is
during those times when the sea is tranquil or perfectly calm, that it
resorts to the other method,--of forcing the fishing-birds to yield up
their prey, often even to disgorge, after having swallowed it!

Its wondrous powers of flight not only enable it to seize with certainty
the morsel thus rejected, but so confident is it of its ability in the
performance of this feat, that, if a fish chance to be awkwardly caught
in its beak, it will fearlessly fling it into the air, and, darting
after, grasp it again and again, until it gets the mouthful in a
convenient position for being gulped down its own greedy throat.



CHAPTER FORTY NINE.

BETWEEN TWO TYRANTS.

The two birds which had attracted the attention of the _Catamaran's_
crew were seen suddenly to abandon their fixed poise in the air, and
commence wheeling in circles, or rather in spiral lines that gradually
descended towards the surface of the sea.

In a short while they were so low that the scarlet pouch under the
throat of the male was easily recognisable, swollen out like a goitre;
while the elegant conformation of the birds, with their long,
scimitar-shaped wings, and slender forked tails, was sharply defined
against the blue background of the sky.

The albacores no longer took any notice of the baited hooks; but,
instead, commenced darting through the water in various directions,
until they had got scattered about over the sea.

Was it fear of the predatory birds hovering above that was producing
this change in their tactics?

It could not be that.  They did not appear to be acting under any alarm;
but rather as if prowling in search of something not yet visible either
to them or to those who were watching them from the deck of the
_Catamaran_.

Ben Brace and Snowball knew the fish were not frightened by the presence
of the birds; but William, whose experience of sea-life was more
limited,--although the albacores did not look alarmed,--thought,
doubtingly, that they were so.

"Surely," said he, appealing to his older companions, "such big fish
needn't be scared of them?"

As he put the interrogatory, he pointed upward to the two birds, now
within a hundred fathoms of the surface.  "Surely they can't kill an
albacore?  If they did, they could never swallow it, I should think?"

"'T ain't the albacore they be after," replied Ben Brace, "nor be the
albacore afeerd o' them,--not a bit.  There be another sort o' fishes
not far away, though we can't see 'em.  No more do these sky-blue chaps
as be swimming around us.  They be now lookin' for 'em,--mighty sharp,
as ye see; an' they'll be sartin to scare 'em up in three shakes o' a
shark's tail."

"What other sort of fish?" inquired William.

"Flyin'-fish, lad; same's you an' I made our first meal on, when we wur
wellnigh starvin'.  There's a school not far off.  The frigates has
spied 'em from aloft, an' that's what's brought them hoverin' over.
They've seed the albacores too; and as they know that these preys on the
flyin'-fish, they've come down to be nearer thar game.  Unless the
albacores get thar eyes on the winged fish, and run down among 'em,
there'll be no chance for the frigates.  They can do nothin' till t'
other jumps 'em out o' the water.  The sky-blues don't seem to see 'em
yet; but I dare say it'll not be long afore they do, judgin' by their
manoeuvres.  Thar!  Didn't I tell thee, lad?  See yonder!  They be off
after something."

As the sailor spoke, several of the albacores were seen suddenly heading
in a direction parallel to the course of the _Catamaran_ and passing
rapidly through the transparent water.

In an instant after, several white objects were seen springing up before
them, which, after glancing for a moment in the air, plunged back again
into the water.

Not any of the _Catamaran's_ crew were ignorant of the character of
these objects.  The silvery sheen of translucent wings, as they
glittered under the bright sunbeams, proclaimed the creatures to be a
"flock" of flying-fish, of which the albacores--of all their many
enemies the most dangerous--were now in pursuit.

There may have been several of the flying-fish that did not rise into
the air, but fell a prey to their pursuers under the water; and of those
that did succeed in springing above the surface there were two that
never came down again,--at least not in the shape of flying-fish.

The sea-hawks, wheeling above both pursuers and pursued, had been
watching their opportunity; and as the pretty creatures made their
appearance above water, both the birds swooped straight down among the
prinkling cohort, each selecting a victim.  Both made a successful
swoop; for they were observed to turn and fly with a slant upwards, each
with a flying-fish in its beak.

One of them, the male bird, didn't appear to be satisfied with the hold
he had taken; for, with a sudden jerk of his head, he let go again,
pitched the prey several feet upward, and again as it came down took a
fresh "grip" upon it.

No doubt this was to his satisfaction, for almost in the same instant
that the flying-fish returned within the mandibles of his beak it
disappeared, wings and all, down that dark passage, where, no doubt,
many another of its kind had preceded it.

It was evident that neither of the birds considered one flying-fish
sufficient for a meal; for as soon as they had swallowed those already
taken, they again placed themselves in position for shooting down upon a
second victim.

And now the crew of the _Catamaran_ had the fortune to witness one of
those singular incidents that may sometimes be seen upon the ocean,--a
little drama of Nature, in which three of her creatures,--all three
differing in kind,--formed the _dramatis persona_.

The cock frigate-bird, on turning to look for a fresh victim, espied
one, or that which was likely to become one, almost directly beneath
him.

It was a single flying-fish, which by some chance,--perhaps from not
being either so fast a swimmer or so swift upon the wing as its
fellows,--had lagged behind the "school."

It was no longer playing laggard, and for a very good reason: since an
albacore, nearly full three feet in length, was swimming after it and
doing his very best to overtake it.  Both were exerting every bit of
muscular strength that lay in their fins,--the former to make its
escape, the latter to prevent this consummation.

It was evident, however, to those on board the _Catamaran_, that the
pursuer was gaining upon the pursued; and this at length became also
evident to the flying-fish.  The tiny creature, as it cut through the
clear water, could be seen quivering with fear; and the spectators
looked to see it shoot upward into the air, and thus disappoint the
greedy tyrant at its tail.

No doubt this would have been the very course of conduct for the
flying-fish to have pursued; and no doubt it was on the eve of adopting
it, when, all at once, the long, shadowy wings and outstretched neck of
the frigate-bird were seen outlined above.

The sight was sufficient to keep the fish under water a while longer,
but only a very little while.  Above were that ugly red pouch and
craning neck; below, those hideous jaws, ready to open and engulf it.

There seemed no chance of escape.  It was only a question of choice as
to the mode of death: whether it would prefer to become food for a fish,
or be devoured by a bird.

As, in itself, it partook a little of the nature of, or, at all events,
of the habits of both, there was not much to choose between them; but
whether it did not desire to deliver itself over to the enemy most like
to itself, or whether it was that the latter was now so near as to be
almost certain of seizing it, it declared its preference for the bird by
making a sudden spring which carried it clear out of the water, and into
the air.

The sea-hawk hovering above in eager expectation lost no time in making
the attempt to secure it; but whether he was too sure of his prize, or
from some other unexplained reason, certain it is that he gave a
practical illustration of the old and well-known adage about the cup and
the lip, by failing to clutch the prey.

He was seen darting towards it with open beak,--his talons cruelly
extended for its capture; but, notwithstanding all his activity, the
white object that shot glittering past him, and dropped into the sea far
beyond, proclaimed to the Catamarans that the _Exocetus_ had escaped.



CHAPTER FIFTY.

SNOWBALL MAKING A SOMERSAULT.

And now all eyes were turned towards the sea-hawk, and became fixed upon
him with glances that expressed surprise; for, instead of again soaring
upward, and renewing his pursuit either of the creature that he had so
clumsily permitted to escape him, or some other of its kind, the bird
was seen to stay down upon the surface of the sea,--his wings spread to
their full extent, and flapping the water with such violence as to raise
the spray in a thick cloud over and around him!

He was heard, too, giving utterance to loud and repeated screams,--not
in the tone of a conqueror; but as if he was in danger of being
vanquished, or had already become the victim of some ocean tyrant
stronger than himself!

For some seconds this inexplicable movement,--a struggle it seemed,--
continued; not in one place, but over a space of many square yards of
surface,--which appeared to be also agitated by the exertions of some
creature underneath; the bird all the while repeating its cries, and
beating the water into froth, like a huge pelican at play!

The crew of the _Catamaran_, utterly unable to account for this strange
conduct on the part of the old cock, stood upon the deck of their craft,
looking on with feelings of intense astonishment.

Even Snowball, who thought himself _au fait_ to every incident of
ocean-life, was surprised and puzzled equally with the rest.

"What be the matter wi' the creetur, Snowy?" inquired Ben, thinking
Snowball could explain its odd behaviour.  "The frigate 'pears to ha'
got on its beam-end; shiver my timbers if 't ain't goin' to founder!"

"Shibber ma timber, too," rejoined Snowball, rudely pirating the
sailor's favourite shibboleth; "shibber 'um, if dis nigga know what am
de matter.  Golly! someting got de ole hawk by de legs,--dat seem
sartin.  Maybe 'um be shark, maybe 'um be long-nose--de--"

Snowball was going to say "sword-fish," had he been permitted to finish
his speech.  But he was not; for while in the act of its delivery, with
the whites of his eyes rolling in conjectural wonder, something from
below struck the plank, upon which he was standing, and with such a
shock that the piece of timber was started from its fastenings, and
impelled suddenly upwards,--not only knocking the ex-sea-cook out of his
perpendicular position, but pitching him, as from a catapult, clear
across the _Catamaran_, and into the sea on the opposite side!

This was not all.  The plank from which Snowball had been projected
instantly fell back into its place,--in consequence of its being one of
the heaviest pieces of timber in the raft,--but instead of remaining
there, it was again seen to shoot upward, then fall back upon the water,
as if dragged down by a powerful but invisible hand,--the hand of some
sea-god or demon,--perhaps of Neptune himself!

Not only the plank, but the whole raft moved under this inexplicable
impulsion,--which had communicated to it a rocking motion, not from side
to side, but upwards and downwards!  So quick and violent was this
mysterious oscillation, that it was with difficulty the three
individuals who still occupied the decks of the craft could keep either
their balance or their feet.

Along with the motion of the raft there was a corresponding commotion in
the water,--accompanied by a loud splashing noise that seemed to proceed
from under the timbers, on which, like so many acrobats, they were
endeavouring to balance themselves; and in a few seconds after they had
felt the great shock, the sea all around exhibited a surface of high
waves crested with foam!

Snowball, who had risen to the surface after the somersault that had
plunged him deep down into the sea, perceiving that the raft still
continued to heave upward and downward, made no attempt to get on board;
but swimming alongside, sputtered forth his terrified ejaculations.
Even the brave man-o'-war's-man, who had faced death in a thousand
shapes, was, at that moment, the victim of fear.

How could it be otherwise?  He could think of nothing in nature capable
of causing that mysterious commotion and who, without trembling, could
withstand the assaults of the supernatural?

"Shiver my timbers!" cried Ben, himself shivering as he spoke the words,
"what in old Nick's name has got under us?  Be it a whale that's bumpin'
its back against the rail?  Or--"

Before he could pronounce the second interrogatory, a loud crash sounded
in the ears of all,--as if the plank heaving so mysteriously had been
suddenly torn in twain!

This sound, whatever had caused it, seemed to proclaim the climax of the
commotion: for immediately after the _Catamaran_ began to compose
herself, the waves caused by her continued rocking gradually grew less,
until at length, once more "righted," she lay in her customary position
upon the tranquil surface of the sea.



CHAPTER FIFTY ONE.

A THRUST THROUGH AND THROUGH.

As soon as the _Catamaran_ had fairly recovered her equilibrium,
Snowball condescended to climb aboard.  The ludicrous appearance of the
<DW64>, as he stood dripping upon the deck, might have excited laughter;
but neither Ben Brace, nor his acolyte, nor the little Lalee, were in a
mood for mirth.  On the contrary, the curious incident that had just
occurred was yet unexplained; and the awe with which it had inspired
them still continued to hold all three in a sort of speechless control.
Snowball himself was the first to break silence.

"Good Gorramity!" he exclaimed, his teeth chattering like castanets, as
the words passed between them.  "Wha's all de rumpus 'bout?  Wha you
tink, Massa Ben?  Wha make dat dratted fuss under de raff?  De water be
plash bout so I've see nuffin, 'cepting a big black heap o' someting.
Golly!  I b'lieve it war de _jumbe_,--de debbil!"

The terrified looks of the speaker, while giving utterance to these
words,--especially when pronouncing the dreaded name of the _jumbe_--
told that he was serious in what he said; and that he actually believed
the devil to have been the agent who had been causing the mysterious
commotion!

The English sailor, though not entirely free from a certain tinge of
superstition, did not share Snowball's belief.  Though unable, by any
experience he had ever gone through, to account for the odd incident,
still he could not ascribe it to supernatural agency.  The blow which
started the plank on which Snowball had been standing had communicated a
shock to the whole structure.  It might have been given by some huge
fish, or other monster of the deep; and though unaccountable and
unexpected, might, nevertheless, be quite natural.  It was the shaking
which the _Catamaran_ kept up afterwards,--almost to the spilling of the
whole crew into the water,--that most perplexed the old
man-o'-war's-man.  He could not imagine why a fish, or any other
creature, having butted its head once against the "keel" of the craft,
would not instantly desist from such an idle encounter, and make off as
fast as fins could carry it.

Ben's first impression was, that a whale had by chance risen under the
raft; as he had known them to do against the sides of ships.  But then
the persistence of the creature, whatever it was, in its odd attack,
argued something more than accident.  On the other hand, if the attack
was designed, and had been made by a whale, of whatever species, the
sailor knew that it would not have left off after merely shaking the
raft.  A whale, with a single flirt of his tail, would have sent the
whole structure flying into the air, sunk it down into the deep, or
scattered it in fifty fragments over the surface of the water.

One of these things a whale would undoubtedly have done.  So believed
Ben Brace; and therefore the creature that had come so near capsizing
them could not be a whale.  What was it, then?  A shark?  No.  It could
not be a shark.  Though there are two or three species of these
monsters, quite as large as good-sized whales, the sailor never knew of
their assaulting anything after that fashion.

As they stood speculating on the cause of their curious adventure, a
shout from Snowball announced that the ex-cook had at length discovered
the explanation.

Snowball's first thought, after having partially recovered from his
fright, was to examine the plank from which, like an acrobat from his
spring-board, he had made that involuntary somersault.

There, just by the spot on which he had been standing, appeared an
object that explained everything: a sharp, bony, proboscis-like
implement, standing up a full foot's length out of the timber, slightly
obliqued from the perpendicular, and as firmly imbedded in the wood as
if it had been driven in by the blows of a blacksmith's hammer!

That it had penetrated the plank from underneath could be easily seen,
by the ragged edge, and split pieces around the orifice where it came
out.

But the <DW64> did not stay to draw deductions of this nature.  On
catching sight of the object,--which he knew had not been there
before,--his terror at once came to an end; and a long cachinnation,
intended for a peal of laughter, announced that "Snowball was himself
again."

"Golly!" he exclaimed.  "Look dar, Massa Brace.  Look at de ting dat hab
gub us sich a frightnin.  Whuch!  Who'd a beliebed dat de long-nose had
got so much 'trength in im ugly body?  Whuch!"

"A sword-fish!" cried Ben.  The rostrum of one of these singular
creatures was the sharp bone protruding above the plank.  "You're right,
Snowy, it be a sword-fish, and nothing else."

"Only de snout o' one," jocularly rejoined the <DW64>.  "De karkiss ob de
anymal an't dar any more.  Dat was de black body I seed under de raff;
but he an't dar now.  He hab broke off him long perbossus; and no doubt
dat hab killed him.  He gone dead, and to de bottom, boaf at de same
time."

"Yes," assented the sailor.  "It must have broke off while he was
struggling to get clear, I heerd the crash o't, like the partin' o' a
spar; and just after, the raft stopped shakin', an' began to settle down
again.  Lor ha mercy on us! what a thrust he have made!  That plank be
five inches thick, at the very least, an' you see he's stuck his snout
through it more'n a foot!  Lor 'a mercy on us!  What wonderful queery
creeturs the ocean do contain!"

And with this philosophic reflection, from the lips of the
man-o'-war's-man, ended the adventure.



CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

AN AWKWARD GRIP.

To the two oldest of the _Catamaran's_ crew the curious circumstances of
the sword-fish thrusting his rostrum through the raft, and snapping it
asunder, needed no explanation.  Both knew that it was not with an
intention of attacking the _Catamaran_ that the "stab" had been given;
nor was the act a voluntary one, in any way.

Not likely, indeed; since it had proved fatal to the swordsman himself.
No one doubted his having gone dead to the bottom of the sea: for the
bony "blade" was found to have been broken close to the "hilt," and it
was not possible the owner could exist without this important weapon.
Even supposing that the fearful "fracture" had not killed him outright,
the loss of his long rapier, the only tool by which he could obtain his
living, would be sure to shorten his lease of life, and the final moment
could not be long delayed.

But neither sailor nor ex-sea-cook had any doubt of the fish having
committed suicide, no more than that the act was involuntary.

The explanation given by Ben Brace to his _protege_ was simple, as it
was also rational.  The sword-fish had been charging into a shoal of
albacores.  Partly blinded by the velocity of its impetuous rush, and
partly by its instinct of extreme voracity,--perhaps amounting to a
passion, it had seen nothing of the raft until its long weapon struck
the plank, piercing the latter through and through.  Unable to withdraw
its rostrum from the fibrous wood, the fish had instantly inaugurated
that series of struggles, and continued them, until the crash came,
caused, no doubt, by the upheaved raft lurching suddenly down in a
direction transverse to its snout.

Only a part of this explanatory information was extended to little
William: for only a part was required.  From some previous talk that had
occurred on the same subject, he was already acquainted with a few of
the facts relating to this foolish fencing on the part of the
sword-fish.

Nor was there at that moment any explanation either offered or asked;
for, as soon as the _Catamaran_ had settled into her proper position,
and Snowball had got aboard, the eyes of her whole crew,--those of the
Coromantee among the rest,--became once more directed to that which had
occupied their attention previous to receiving the shock,--the strange
behaviour of the frigate-bird.

This creature was still down on the surface of the water, darting from
point to point, fluttering and flopping, and throwing up the little
clouds of spray, that, surrounding it like a nimbus, seemed to follow it
wherever it went!

Though Ben Brace and Snowball had been able to explain the action of the
fish, they were both at fault about the behaviour of the bird.  In all
their sea experience neither had ever witnessed the like conduct
before,--either on the part of a frigate-bird, or any other bird of the
ocean.

For a long time they stood watching the creature, and exchanging
conjectures as to the cause of its singular action.  It was clear this
was not voluntary; for its movements partook of the nature of a
struggle.  Besides, its screams,--to which it gave an almost continuous
utterance,--betokened either terror or pain, or both.

But why did it keep to the surface of the sea, when it was well-known to
be a bird that could rise almost vertically into the air, and to the
highest point that winged creatures might ascend?

This was the query to which neither sailor nor sea-cook could give a
reply, either with positive truth or probable conjecture.

For full ten minutes it remained unanswered; that is, ten minutes after
the sword-fish adventure had ended, and twenty from the time the
frigate-bird had been seen to swoop at the flying-fish.  Then, however,
the problem received its solution; and the play of the _Pelicanus
aquila_ was at length explained.

It was no play on the part of the unfortunate bird, but a case of
involuntary and fearful captivity.

The bird had begun to show symptoms of exhaustion, and as its strength
became enfeebled, its wings flopped more gently against the water, the
spray no longer rose around it, and the sea underneath was less
agitated.

The spectators could now see that it was not alone.  Beneath, and
apparently clutching it by the leg, was a fish whose shape, size, and
sheen of azure hue proclaimed it an albacore,--no doubt, the one that
simultaneously with the bird itself had been balked in the pursuit of
the flying-fish.

So far the detention of the frigate-bird upon the surface of the sea was
explained; but not sufficiently.  There was still cause for conjecture.
The albacore seemed equally tired of the connection,--equally exhausted;
and as it swam slowly about,--no longer darting swiftly from point to
point, as at the beginning of the strife,--the spectators could now see
that the foot of the sea-hawk, instead of being held between the jaws of
the fish,--as at first they had supposed it to be,--appeared to be
resting on the back of its head, as if the bird had perched there, and
was balancing itself on one leg!

Mystery of mysteries!  What could it all mean?

The struggles of both bird and fish seemed coming to a termination: as
they were now only continued intermittently.  After each interval, the
wings of the former and the fins of the latter moved with feebler
stroke; until at length both wings and fins lay motionless,--the former
on, the latter _in_, the water.

But that the bird's wings were extended, it would, no doubt, have sunk
under the surface; and the fish was still making feeble endeavours to
draw it down; but the spread pinions, extending over nearly ten feet of
surface, frustrated the design.

It so chanced that the curious spectacle had occurred directly ahead of
the _Catamaran_, and the craft, making way down the wind, kept gradually
approaching the scene of the strife.

Every moment the respective positions of the two parties revealed
themselves more clearly; but it was not until the raft swept within
reach, and the exhausted adversaries were both taken up, that the
connection between them became thoroughly understood.

Then it was discovered that the contest which had occurred between them
was on both sides an involuntary affair,--had not been sought by either;
but was the result of sheer accident.

How could it be otherwise: since the albacore is too strong for the beak
of the frigate-bird,--too big for even _its_ capacious throat to
swallow; while, on the other hand, the frigate-bird never ventures to
intrude itself on the cruising-ground of this powerful fish?

The accident which had conducted to this encounter, leading to a fatal
entanglement, had been caused by a creature which is the common prey of
both,--the little flying-fish, that for once had escaped from his
enemies of both elements,--the air and the water.

In dashing down upon the flying-fish, the curving talons of the bird,
missing the object for which they had been braced, entered the eye of
the albacore.  Partly because they fitted exactly into the socket, and
partly becoming imbedded among the fibrous sutures of the skull, they
remained fixed; so that neither bird nor fish--equally desirous of
undoing the irksome yoke--was able to put an end to the partnership!

Snowball gave them a divorce, as effectual as could have been obtained
in the court, ever to be noted as that of Sir Cresswell Cresswell.

The process was brief,--the execution following quick upon the judgment;
though the sentences pronounced upon the criminals were not exactly the
same.

The fish was knocked on the head; while a different, though equally
expeditious, mode of punishment was executed upon the bird.  Its head
was twisted from its body!

Thus, somewhat after the fashion of Kilkenny cats, perished two tyrants
of the sea.  Let us hope that the tyrants of the land may all receive an
analogous compensation for their crimes!



CHAPTER FIFTY THREE.

GLOOMY PROSPECTS.

The reappearance of the sword-fish,--if it was the same that had already
paid them a visit,--or more likely the discovery and pursuit of the
"school" of flying-fish,--had caused the albacores to decamp from the
neighbourhood of the _Catamaran_; so that with the exception of that
taken from the talons of the frigate-bird, not one was any longer to be
seen.

Once recovered from the excitement, caused by the singular accident that
happened to the _Catamaran_,--as well as the other incident almost as
singular,--her crew made an inspection of their craft, to see if any
damage had accrued from the shock.

Fortunately there was none.  The piercing of the plank, in which the
bony rostrum remained firmly imbedded, was of no consequence whatever;
and, although several feet of the "sword,"--the whole of the blade, in
fact, excepting that which protruded above,--could be perceived jutting
out underneath, they made no attempt to "extract" it: since it could not
greatly interfere with the sailing qualities of the _Catamaran_.

The plank itself had been started slightly out of place aid one or two
other timbers loosened.  But in such able hands as those of Snowball and
the sailor, these trifling damages were soon made good again.

The two baited hooks were once more dropped into the water, but the sun
went down over the ocean without either of them receiving a nibble.  No
albacore,--no fish whatever,--no bird,--no living creature of any
kind,--was in sight at the setting of that sun; which, slowly
descending, as it were, into the silent depths of the ocean, left them
in the purple gleam of the twilight.

Notwithstanding the interesting events which had transpired,--enough to
secure them against a single moment of _ennui_,--they were far from
being cheerful in that twilight hour.  The stirring incidents of the day
had kept them from thinking of their real situation; but when all was
once more tranquil,--even to the ocean around them,--their thoughts
naturally reverted to their very narrow chances of ultimately escaping
from that wide, wild waste, stretching, as it seemed, to the ends of the
world!

With wistful glances they had watched the sun sinking over the sea.  The
point where the golden luminary disappeared from their sight was due
westward,--the direction in which they desired to go.  Could they have
only been at that moment where his glorious orb was shining down from
the vertex, they would have been upon dry land; and, O what a thrilling
thought is that of firm stable earth, to the wretched castaway clinging
upon his frail raft in the middle of the endless ocean!

They were discouraged by the dead calm that reigned around them; for
every breath of the breeze had died away before sunset.  The surface of
the sea was tranquil even to glassiness; and as the twilight deepened,
it began to mirror the millions of twinkling stars gradually thickening
in the sky.

There was something awful in the solemn stillness that reigned around
them; and with something like awe did it inspire them.

It was not unbroken by sounds; but these were of a character to sadden
rather than cheer them, for they were sounds to be heard only in the
wilderness of the great deep,--such as the half-screaming laugh of the
sea-mew, and the wild whistle of the boatswain-bird.

Another cause of discouragement to our castaways,--one which had that
day arisen,--was the loss of their valuable dried fish.

It is true that only a portion of their stock had been spilled into the
engulfing ocean; but even this was a cause of regret; since it might not
be so easy to make up the quantity lost.

While angling among the albacores, with the prospect of making a
successful troll, they had thought less of it.  Now that these fish had
forsaken them,--leaving only three in their possession,--and they were
in doubt whether they might ever come across another "school,"--more
acutely did they feel the misfortune.

Their spirits sank still lower, as the descending twilight darkened
around them; and for an hour or more not a cheerful word was heard or
spoken by that sad quartette composing the crew of the _Catamaran_.



CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR.

THANKSGIVING.

Despondency cannot endure forever.  Kind Nature has not ordained that it
should be so.  It may have its periods, longer or shorter as the case
may be; but always to be succeeded by intervals, if not of absolute
cheerfulness, at least of emotions less painful to endure.

About an hour after the going down of the sun, the spirits of those on
board the _Catamaran_ became partially freed from the weight that for
some time had been pressing upon them.

Of coarse this change was attributable to some cause; and as it was a
physical one, there could be no difficulty in tracing it.

It was simply the springing up of a breeze,--a fine breeze blowing
steadily, and to the west,--the very direction in which it was desirous
they should make way.

And they _did_ make way; the _Catamaran_, in spite of the terrible
"stab" she had received, scudding through the water, as if to show that
the assault of the sword-fish had in no way disabled her.

Motion has always a soothing effect upon anyone suffering from
despondent spirits; more especially when the movement is being made in
the right direction.  A boat stationary in the water, or drifting the
wrong way against the stroke of the rower,--a railway carriage at a
stand, or gliding back to the platform, contrary to the direction in
which the traveller intends to go,--such experiences always produce a
feeling of irksome uneasiness.  When either begins to progress in its
proper course,--no matter how slowly,--the unpleasant feeling instantly
passes away; for we know that we are going "onward!"

"Onward!" a word to cheer the drooping spirit,--a glorious word for the
despondent.

It was not that anyone on board the _Catamaran_ had the slightest idea
that that breeze would waft them to land; or even last long enough to
bear them many leagues over the ocean.  It was the thought that they
were making progress in the right course,--going _onward_,--simply that
thought that cheered them.

It roused them from their despondency sufficiently to beget thoughts of
supper; and Snowball was seen starting up with some alacrity, and
scrambling towards his _stores_.

His "locker" lay amidships; and as he had not far to go, nor any great
variety of comestibles to choose from, he soon returned to the stern,--
near which the others were seated,--carrying in his outstretched claws
half a dozen of the "pickled" biscuits, and some morsels of cured fish.

It was a coarse and meagre meal; at which even a pauper would have
pouted his lips; but to those for whom it was intended it had relish
enough to make it not only acceptable, but welcome.

A greater delicacy was before their eyes, lying on the deck of the
_Catamaran_.  That was the albacore,--a fish whose _flesh_ is equal in
excellence to that of any taken out of the ocean.  But the flesh of the
albacore was _raw_; while that of Snowball's stock, if not cooked, was
at least cured; and this, in the opinion of the Catamarans, rendered it
more palatable.

With a little "Canary" to wash it down, it was not to be despised,--at
least, under the circumstances in which they were who supped upon it;
but the wine was sparingly distributed, and drunk with a large admixture
of water.

The bump of economy stood high upon the skull of the Coromantee.
Perhaps to this might be attributed the fact of his being still in
existence: since but for the industry he had exhibited in collecting his
stores, and his careful hoarding of them, he might, with his _protege_,
have long before succumbed to starvation.

While eating their frugal supper, Snowball expressed regret at not
having a fire,--upon which he might have cooked a cut from the albacore.
The _chef-de-caboose_ was not ignorant of the excellence of the fish.

He really felt regret,--less on his own account, than in consideration
of his _protege_, Lilly Lalee; whose palate he would fain have indulged
with something more delicate than sun-dried fish and salty biscuit.

But as fire was out of the question, he was compelled to forego the
pleasure of cooking Lalee's supper; and could only gain gratification by
giving to the girl more than her share of the sweet Canary.

Small as was the quantity distributed to each, it had the effect of
still further cheering them; and, after supper, they sat for some time
indulging in lighter converse than that to which they had lately
accustomed themselves.

"Somethin'" said the sailor, "seem to tell me--jest as if I heerd it in
a whisper--that we'll yet reach land, or come in sight o' a ship.  I
doan' know what puts it in my head; unless it be because we've been so
many times near going down below, an' still we're above water yet, an' I
hope likely to keep so."

"Ya--ya!  Massa Ben.  We float yet,--we keep so long 's we kin,--dat fo'
sartin.  We nebba say die,--long 's de _Catamaran_ hold togedda."

"I war 'stonished," continued the sailor, without heeding the odd
interpolation of the sea-cook, "wonderful 'stonished when that
flyin'-fish chucked itself aboard our bit o' plankin', an' it no bigger
than the combin' o' a hatchway.  What kud 'a conducted it thear,--to
that spot above all others o' the broad ocean?  What but the hand o'
that angel as sits up aloft?  No, Snowy! ye may talk as ye like 'bout
your Duppys and Jumbes, and that other creetur ye call your Fetush; but
I tell ye, <DW65>, thear be somethin' up above us as is above all
them,--an' that's the God o' the Christyun.  He be thear; and He sent
the flyin'-fish into our wee bit o' raft, and He sent the shower as
saved me and little Will'm from dyin' o' thust; and He it war that made
you an' me drift to'rds each other,--so as that we might work thegither
to get out o' this here scrape, as our own foolishness and wickedness
ha' got us into."

"Dat am de troof, Massa Brace, dat las' remark,--only not altogedder!
'T want altogedder our own fault dat brought us on board de slabe-ship
_Pandora_,--neider you not maseff.  It mite a been our foolishness, dat
I do admit; but de wickedness war more de fault ob oder men, dat am
wickeder dan eider you or dis unfortunate Coromantee nigga."

"Never mind, Snowy," responded the sailor, "I know there be still some
good in ye; and maybe there be good in all o' us, to be favoured and
protected as we've been in the midst o' so many dangers.  I think after
what's happened this day,--especially our escaping from that sharks an'
the long swim as we had to make after'ards,--we ought to be uncommon
thankful, and say somethin' to show it, too."

"Say something! say what, Massa Brace?"

"I mean a prayer."

"Prayer! wha's dat?"

"Surely, Snowy, you know what a prayer be?"

"Nebba heerd ob de ting,--nebba in all ma life!"

"Well, it be to say somethin' to Him as keeps watch up aloft,--either by
way o' askin' for somethin' you want to get, or thankin' Him for what
you ha' got arready.  The first be called a prayer,--the t'other be a
thanksgivin'.  Thear ain't much difference, as I could ever see; tho'
I've heerd the ship's chaplain go through 'em both,--ay, scores o'
times; but the one as we want now be the thanksgivin'; an' I know little
Will'm here can go through it like a breeze.  Did you ever hear Will'm
pray, Snowy?"

"Nebba!  I tell ye, Massa Brace, a nebba heer anybody pray in de fashun
you 'peak 'bout.  Ob coas, I hab heer de nigga talk to da Fetish, de
which I, tho' I be a nigga maseff, nebba belieb'd in.  Dis child no
belieb in anyting he no see, an' he see many ting he no belieb in."

To this frank confession of faith on the part of the Coromantee Ben made
no rejoinder that might signify either assent or opposition.  His reply
was rather a continuation of the train of thought that had led to his
last interrogative.

"Ah, Snowy, if you heerd the lad!  He do pray beautiful!  Most equal to
the parson, as we had aboard the frigate; an' he warn't slow at it,
eyther.  Do 'ee think, Will'm," continued the sailor, turning to the lad
with an inquiring look, "do 'ee think ye can remember that prayer as is
in the Church Sarvice, and which I've heerd the frigate chaplain go
through,--specially after a storm,--as speaks about deliverin' us from
all dangers by sea and by land?  You've heerd it at home in the church.
D'ye think ye could gie it as?"

"O," answered William, "you mean the `Thanksgiving for Deliverance from
our Enemies.'  Certainly I remember it.  How could I forget what I've
heard so many Sundays in church, besides often on week-days at home?  O
yes, Ben, I can repeat it, if you wish!"

"I do, lad.  Gie it us, then.  It may do good.  At all events, we _owe_
it, for what's been done to us.  So take a reef out o' your tongue, lad,
an' fire away!"

Notwithstanding the _bizarrerie_ of manner in which the request was
made, the boy-sailor hesitated not to comply with it; and turning
himself round upon his knees,--a movement imitated by all the others,--
he repeated that _thanksgiving_ of the Church Service, which, though
well-known, is fortunately only heard upon very unfrequent occasions.

The thanksgiving appeared an appropriate finale to the toils and dangers
of the day; and after it was offered up, Snowball, William, and Lalee
lay down to rest,--leaving Ben Brace to attend to the steering-oar, and
otherwise perform the duties of the dog-watch.



CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE.

SNOWBALL SEES LAND.

The man-o'-war's-man kept watch during the long hours of the night.
True to his trust, he attended to the steering-oar: and as the breeze
continued to blow steadily in the same direction, the raft, under the
double propulsion of the wind and the "line current," made considerable
way to the westward.

A sort of filmy fog had arisen over the ocean, which hid the stars from
sight.  This might have rendered it impossible for the steersman to keep
his course; but, under the belief that there was no change occurring in
the direction of the wind, Ben guided himself by that, and very
properly, as it afterwards proved.

Just before daybreak, he was relieved by Snowball; who entered upon his
watch, at the same time taking his turn at the steering-oar.

Ben had not aroused the <DW64> for this purpose; and he would have
generously remained at his post until morning, had Snowball desired to
prolong his slumbers.

The act of arousing himself was not altogether voluntary on the part of
the <DW64>; though neither was it the doing of his comrade.  It was in
consequence of a physical feeling--a cold shivering caused by the damp
sea-fog--that Snowball had been disturbed from his sleep; and which, on
his awaking, kept him for some minutes oscillating in a sort of ague,
his ivories "dingling" against each other with a continuous rattle that
resembled the clattering of some loose bolt in a piece of machinery out
of repair.

It was some time before Snowball could recover his exact equilibrium;
for, of all sorts of climate, that least endurable to the Coromantee
<DW64> is a cold one.

After repeated flopping his arms over his broad chest, and striking
crosswise, until the tips of his fingers almost met upon the spinal
column of his back, Snowball succeeded in resuscitating the circulation;
and then, perceiving it was full time to take his turn at the helm, he
proposed relieving the sailor.

This proposal was agreed to; Ben, before putting himself in a position
for repose, giving Snowball the necessary directions as to the course in
which the _Catamaran_ was to be kept.

In five minutes after, the sailor was asleep; and the sea-cook was the
only one of the Catamarans who was conscious that the craft that carried
them was only a frail structure drifting in mid-ocean hundreds of miles
from land.

Little William was, perhaps, dreaming of his English, and Lilly Lalee of
her African, home; while the sailor, in all probability, was fancying
himself safely "stowed" in the forecastle of a British frigate, with all
sail rightly set, and a couple of hundred jolly Jacks like himself
stretched out in their "bunks" or swinging in their hammocks around him.

During the first hour of his watch, Snowball did not embarrass his brain
with any other idea than simply to follow the instructions of the
sailor, and keep the _Catamaran_ before the wind.

There had been something said about keeping a look-out, in the hope of
espying a sail; but in the dense fog that surrounded them there would be
no chance of seeing the biggest ship,--even should one be passing at an
ordinary cable's length from the _Catamaran_.

Snowball, therefore, did not trouble himself to scan the sea on either
side of their course; but for all that he kept the look-out enjoined on
him by the sailor,--that is, he _kept it with his ears_!

Though a ship might not be seen, the voices of her crew or other sounds
occurring aboard might be heard; for in this way the presence of a
vessel is often proclaimed in a very dark night or when the sea is
obscured by a fog.

Oftener, however, at such times, two ships will approach and recede from
one another, without either having been conscious of the proximity of
the other,--meeting in mid-ocean and gliding silently past, like two
giant spectres,--each bent on its own noiseless errand.

Daybreak arrived without the black pilot having heard any sound, beyond
that of the breeze rustling against the sail of the _Catamaran_ or the
hollow "sough" of the water as it surged against the empty casks lashed
along their sides.

As the day broke, however, and the upper edge of the sun's disk became
visible above the horizon,--the fog under the influence of his rays
growing gradually but sensibly thinner,--a sight became disclosed to the
eyes of Snowball that caused the blood to course with lightning
quickness through his veins; while his heart, beating delightfully
within his capacious chest, bounded far above the region of his
diaphragm.

At the same instant he sprang to his feet, dropped the steering-oar, as
if it had been a bar of red-hot iron; and, striding forward to the
starboard bow of the _Catamaran_ stood gazing outward upon the ocean!

What could have caused this sudden commotion in both the mind and body
of the Coromantee?  What spectacle could have thus startled him?

It was the sight of _land_!



CHAPTER FIFTY SIX.

IS IT LAND?

A sight so unexpected, and yet so welcome, should have elicited from him
a vociferous announcement of the fact.

It did not.  On the contrary, he kept silent while stepping forward on
the deck, and for some time after, while he stood gazing over the bow.

It was the very unexpectedness of seeing land--combined with the
_desirability_ of such a sight--that hindered him from proclaiming it to
his companions; and it was some time before he became convinced that his
senses were not deceiving him.

Though endowed with only a very limited knowledge of nautical geography,
the <DW64> knew a good deal about the lower latitudes of the Atlantic.
More than once had he made that dreaded middle passage,--once in
fetters, and often afterwards assisting to carry others across in the
same unfeeling fashion.  He knew of no land anywhere near where they
were now supposed to be; had never seen or heard of any,--neither
island, rock, nor reef.  He knew of the Isle of Ascension, and the lone
islet of Saint Paul's.  But neither of these could be near the track on
which the _Catamaran_ was holding her course.  It could not be either.

And yet what was it he saw? for, sure as eyes were eyes, there was an
island outlined upon the retina, so plainly perceptible, that his senses
could _not be deceiving him_!

It was after this conviction became fully established in his mind, that
he at length broke silence; and in a voice that woke his slumbering
companions with a simultaneous start.

"Land 'o!" vociferated Snowball.

"Land ho!" echoed Ben Brace, springing to his feet, and rubbing the
sleep out of his eyes, "Land, you say, Snowy?  Impossible!  You must be
mistaken, <DW65>."

"Land?" interrogated little William.  "Whereaway, Snowball?"

"Land?" cried the Portuguese girl, comprehending that word of joyful
signification, though spoken in a language not her own.

"Whar away?" inquired the sailor, as he scrambled over the planks of the
raft, to get on the forward side of the sail, which hindered his field
of view.

"Hya!" replied Snowball.  "Hya, Massa Brace, jess to la'bord, ober de
la'bord bow."

"It do look like land," assented the sailor, directing his glance upon
something of a strange appearance, low down upon the surface of the sea,
and still but dimly discernible through the fog.  "Shiver my timbers if
it don't!  An island it be,--not a very big 'un, but for all that, it
seem a island."

"My gollies! dar am people on it!  D'you see um, Massa Brace? movin'
'bout all ober it I see 'um plain as de sun in de hebbens!  Scores o'
people a'gwine about back'ard an' forrads.  See yonner!"

"Plain as the sun in the heavens," was not a very appropriate simile for
Snowball to make use of at that moment; for the orb of day was still
darkly obscured by the fog; and for the same reason, the outlines of the
island,--or whatever they were taking for one,--could be traced only
very indistinctly.

Certain it is, however, that Snowball, who had been gazing longer at the
supposed land, and had got his eyes more accustomed to the view, did see
some scores of figures moving about over it; and Ben Brace, with little
William as well, now that their attention was called to them, could
perceive the same forms.

"Bless my stars!" exclaimed the sailor, on making out that the figures
were in motion, "thear be men on 't sure enough,--an' weemen, I should
say,--seein' as there's some o' 'em in whitish clothes.  Who and what
can they be?  Shiver my timbers if I can believe it, tho' I see it right
afore my eyes!  I never heerd o' a island in this part of the Atlantic,
an' I don't believe thear be one, 'ceptin' it's sprung up within the
last year or two.  What do you think, Snowy?  Be it a Flyin' Dutchman,
or a rock, as if just showin' his snout above water, or a reg'lar-built
island?"

"Dat 'ere am no Flyin' Dutchman,--leas'wise a hope um no' be.  No, Massa
Brace, dis nigga wa right in de fuss speckelashun.  'Tarn a island,--a
bit ob do real terrer firmer, as you soon see when we puts de
_Cat'maran_ 'bout an' gits a leetle nearer to de place."

This hypothetic suggestion on the part of the Coromantee was also
intended as a counsel; and, acting upon it, the sailor scrambled back
over the raft, and seizing hold of the steering-oar, turned the
_Catamaran's_ head straight in the direction of the newly-discovered
land.

The island,--if such it should prove to be,--was of no very great
extent.  It appeared to run along the horizon a distance of something
like a hundred yards; but estimates formed in this fashion are often
deceptive,--more especially when a fog interferes, such as at that
moment hung over it.

The land appeared to be elevated several feet above the level of the
sea,--at one end having a bold bluff-like termination, at the other
shelving off in a gentle <DW72> towards the water.

It was principally upon the more elevated portion that the figures were
seen,--here standing in groups of three or four, and there moving about
in twos, or singly.

They appeared to be of different sizes, and differently dressed: for,
even through the film, it could be seen that their garments were of
various cuts and colours.  Some were stalwart fellows, beside whom were
others that in comparison were mere pygmies.  These Snowball said were
the "pickaninnies,"--the children of the taller ones.

They were in different attitudes too.  Some standing erect, apparently
carrying long lance-like weapons over their shoulders; others similarly
armed, in stooping positions; while not a few appeared to be actively
engaged, handling huge pickaxes, with which they repeatedly struck
downwards, as if excavating the soil!

It is true that their manoeuvres were seen only indistinctly: and it was
not possible for the Catamarans to come to any certain understanding, as
to what sort of work was going on upon the island.

It was still very doubtful whether what they saw was in reality an
island, or that the figures upon it were those of human beings.
Snowball believed them to be so, and emphatically asserted his belief;
but Ben was slightly incredulous and undecided, notwithstanding that he
had several times "shivered his timbers" in confirmation of the fact.

It was not the possibility of the existence of an island that the sailor
disputed.  That was possible and probable enough.  At the time of which
we speak, new islands were constantly turning up in the ocean, where no
land was supposed to exist; and even at the present hour, when one might
suppose that every inch of the sea has been sailed over, the discovery
of rocks, shoals, and even unknown islands, is far from unfrequent.

It was not the island, therefore, that now puzzled the
ex-man-o'-war's-man, but the number of people appearing upon it.

Had there been only a score, or a score and a half, he could have
explained the circumstance of its being inhabited; though the
explanation would not have been productive of pleasure either to himself
or his companions.  In that case he would have believed the moving forms
to be the shipwrecked crew of the _Pandora_ who on this ocean islet had
found a temporary resting-place; while the pickaxes, which were being
freely employed, would have indicated the sinking of wells in search
after fresh water.

The number of people on the island, however, with other circumstances
observed, at once contradicted the idea that it could be the crew of the
shipwrecked slaver; and the certainty that it was _not_ these ruffians
whom they saw emboldened the Catamarans in their approach.

In spite of appearances, still was the sailor disposed to doubt the
existence of an island; or, at least, that the forms moving to and fro
over its surface were those of human beings.

Nor could he be cured of his incredulity until the _Catamaran_,
approaching still nearer to the shore of the doubtful islet, enabled him
to see and distinguish beyond the possibility of doubt a flag floating
from the top of its staff, which rose tall and tapering from the very
highest point of land which the place afforded!

The flag was of crimson cloth,--apparently a piece of bunting.  It
floated freely upon the breeze; which the filmy mist, though half
disclosing, could not altogether conceal.  The deep red colour was too
scarce upon the ocean to be mistaken for the livery of any of its
denizens.  It could not be the tail-feathers of the tropic bird so
prized by the chiefs of Polynesia; nor yet the scarlet pouch of the
sea-hawk.

It could be nothing else than a "bit o' buntin'."

So, at length, believed Ben Brace, and his belief, expressed in his own
peculiar _patois_, produced conviction in the minds of all, that the
object extending along a hundred fathoms of the horizon, "must be eyther
a rock, a reef, or a island; and the creeturs movin' over it must be
men, weemen, an' childer!"



CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN.

THE KING OF THE CANNIBAL ISLANDS.

The emphatic declaration of the sailor,--that the dark disc before them
must be an island, and that the upright forms upon it were those of
human beings,--dispelled all doubts upon the subject; and produced a
feeling of wild excitement in the minds of all three of his companions.

So strong was this feeling, that they could no longer control
themselves; but gave vent to their emotions in a simultaneous shout of
joy.

Acting prudently, they would have restrained that mirthful exhibition,
for although, for reasons already stated, the people appearing upon the
island could not be the wicked castaways who had composed the crew of
the _Pandora_, still might they be a tribe of savages equally wicked and
murderous.

Who could tell that it was not a community of _Cannibals_.  No one
aboard the _Catamaran_.

It may seem singular that such a thought should have entered the mind of
any of the individuals who occupied the raft.  But it did occur to some
of them; and to one of the four in particular.  This was Ben Brace
himself.

The sailor's experience, so far from destroying the credences of
boyhood,--which included the existence of whole tribes of cannibals,--
had only strengthened his belief in such anthropophagi.

More than strengthened it: for it had been confirmed in every
particular.

He had been to the Fiji islands, where he had seen their
king, Thakombau,--a true descendant of the lineage of
"Hokey-Pokey-Winkey-Wum,"--with other dignitaries of this man-eating
nation.  He had seen their huge caldron for cooking the flesh of men,--
their pots and pans for stewing it,--their dishes upon which it was
served up,--the knives with which they were accustomed to carve it,--
their larders stocked with human flesh, and redolent of human blood!
Nay, more; the English sailor had been an eye-witness of one of their
grand festivals; where the bodies of men and women, cooked in various
styles,--stewed, roasted, and boiled,--had been served out and partaken
of by hundreds of Thakombau's courtiers; the sailor's own captain,--the
captain of a British frigate,--ay, the commodore of a British
squadron,--with cannon sufficient to have blown the island of Viti Vau
out of the water,--sitting alongside, apparently a tranquil and
contented spectator of the horrid ceremonial!

It is difficult to account for the behaviour of this Englishman, the
Hon. -- by name.  The only explanation of his conduct one can arrive at
is, to believe that his weak mind was fast confined by the trammels of
that absurd, but often too convenient, theory of international
non-interference,--the most dangerous kind of red-tape that ever
tethered the squeamish conscience of an official imbecile.

How different was the action of Wilkes,--that Yankee commander we are so
fond of finding fault with!  He, too, paid a visit to the cannibal
island of Viti Vau; and while there, taught both its king and its people
a lesson by the fire of his forty-pounders that, if not altogether
effective in extinguishing this national but unnatural custom, has
terrified them in its practice to this very day.

Non-interference, indeed!  International delicacy in the treatment of a
tribe of cruel savages!  A nation of man-eaters,--forsooth, a nation!
Why not apply the laws of nationality to every band of brigands who
chances to have conquered an independent existence?  Bah!  The world is
full of frivolous pretences,--drunk with the poison-cup of political
hypocrisy.

It was not Ben Brace who thus reasoned, but his biographer.  Ben's
reflections were of a strictly practical character His belief in
cannibalism was complete; and as the craft to which he had so
involuntarily attached himself drifted on towards the mysterious islet,
he was not without some misgivings as to the character of the people who
might inhabit it.

For this reason he would have approached its shores with greater
caution; and he was in the act of enforcing this upon his companions,
when his intention was entirely frustrated by the joyous _huzza_ uttered
by Snowball; echoed by little William; and chorussed by the childish,
feminine voice of Lilly Lalee.

The sailor's caution would have come too late,--even had it been
necessary to the safety of the _Catamaran's_ crew.  Fortunately it was
not: for that imprudent shout produced an effect which at once changed
the current of the thoughts, not only of Ben Brace, but of those who had
given utterance to it.

Their united voices, pealing across the tranquil bosom of the deep,
caused a sudden change in the appearance of the island; or rather among
the people who inhabited it.  If human beings, they must be of a strange
race,--very strange indeed,--to have been furnished with wings!  How
otherwise could they have forsaken their footing on _terra firma_,--if
the island was such,--and soared upward into the air, which one and all
of them did, on hearing that shout from the _Catamaran_?

There was not much speculation on this point on the part of the
_Catamaran's_ crew.  Whatever doubts may have been engendered as to the
nature of the island, there could be no longer any about the character
of its inhabitants.

"Dey am birds!" suggested the Coromantee; "nuffin more and nuffin less
dan birds!"

"You're right, Snowy," assented the sailor.  "They be birds; and all the
better they be so.  Yes; they're birds, for sartin.  I can tell the cut
o' some o' their jibs.  I see frigates, an' a man-o'-war's-man, an'
boobies among 'em; and I reckon Old Mother Carey has a brood o' her
chickens there.  They be all sizes, as ye see."

It was no more a matter of conjecture, as to what kind of creatures
inhabited the island.  The forms that had been mystifying the crew of
the _Catamaran_, though of the biped class, were no longer to be
regarded as human beings, or even creatures of the earth.  They had
declared themselves denizens of the air; and, startled by the shouts
that had reached them,--to them, no doubt, sounds strange, and never
before heard,--they had sought security in an element into which there
was no fear of being followed by their enemies, either of the earth or
the water.



CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT.

VERY LIKE A WHALE.

Though the birds by their flight had dissolved one half of the
speculative theory which the crew of the _Catamaran_ had constructed,
the other half still held good.  The island was still there, before
their eyes; though completely divested of its inhabitants,--whose sudden
eviction had cost only a single shout!

The flag was still waving over it; though, to all appearance, there was
not a creature on shore that might feel pride in saluting that solitary
standard!

There could be no one; else why should the birds have tarried so long
undisturbed, to be scared at last by the mere sound of human voices?

Since there was nobody on the island, there was no need to observe
further caution in approaching it,--except so far as regarded the
conduct of their craft; and in the belief that they were about to set
foot upon the shores of a desert isle, the sailor and Snowball, with
little William assisting them, now went to work with the oars and
hastened their approach to the land.

Partly impelled by the breeze, and partly by the strength of the rowers,
the _Catamaran_ moved, briskly through the water; and, before many
minutes had elapsed, the craft was within a few hundred fathoms of the
mysterious island, and still gliding nearer to it.  This proximity,--
along with the fact that the morning mist had meanwhile been gradually
becoming dispelled by the rays of the rising sun,--enabled her crew to
obtain a clearer view of the object before them; and Ben Brace,
suspending his exertions at the oar, once more slewed himself round to
have a fresh look at the supposed _land_.

"Land!" he exclaimed, as soon as his eyes again rested upon it.  "A
island, indeed!  Shiver my timbers if 't be a island after all!  That be
no land,--ne'er a bit o't.  It look like a rock, too; but there be
something else it look liker; an' that be a _whale_.  'Tis wery like a
whale!"

"Berry,--berry like a whale!" echoed Snowball, not too well satisfied at
discovering the resemblance.

"It _be_ a whale!" pronounced the sailor, in a tone of emphatic
confidence,--"a whale, an' nothin' else.  Ay," he continued speaking, as
if some new light had broken upon him, "I see it all now.  It be one o'
the great _spermaceti_ whales.  I wonder I didn't think o't afore.  It's
been killed by some whaling-vessel; and the flag you see on its back's
neyther more nor less than one o' their _whifts_.  They've stuck it
there, so as they might be able to find the sparmacety when they come
back.  Marcy heaven!  I hope they _will_ come back."

As Ben finished this explanatory harangue, he started into an erect
attitude, and placed himself on the highest part of the _Catamaran's_
deck,--his eyes no longer bent upon the whale, but, with greedy glances,
sweeping the sea around it.

The object of this renewed reconnoissance may be understood from the
words to which he had given utterance,--the hope expressed at the
termination of his speech.  The whale must have been killed, as he had
said.  He was looking for the _whaler_.

For full ten minutes he continued his optical search over the sea,--
until not a fathom of the surface had escaped his scrutiny.

At first his glances had expressed almost a confident hope; and,
observing them, the others became excited to a high degree of joy.

Gradually, however, the old shadow returned over the sailor's
countenance, and was instantly transferred to the faces of his
companions.

The sea,--as far as his eye could command a view of it,--showed neither
sail, nor any other object.  Its shining surface was absolutely without
a speck.

With a disappointed air, the captain of the _Catamaran_ descended from
his post of observation; and once more turned his attention to the dead
_cachalot_ from which they were now separated by less than a hundred
fathoms,--a distance that was constantly decreasing, as the raft, under
sail, continued to drift nearer.

The body of the whale did not appear anything like as large as when
first seen.  The mist was no longer producing its magnifying effect upon
the vision of our adventurers; but although the carcass of the
_cachalot_ could no more have been mistaken for an island, still was it
an object of enormous dimensions; and might easily have passed for a
great black rock standing several fathoms above the surface of the sea.
It was over twenty yards in length; and, seen sideways from the raft, of
course appeared much longer.

In five minutes after, they were close up to the dead whale; and, the
sail being lowered, the raft was brought to.  Ben threw a rope around
one of the pectoral fins; and, after making it fast, the _Catamaran_ lay
moored alongside the _cachalot_, like some diminutive tender attached to
a huge ship of war!  There were several reasons why Ben Brace should
mount up to the summit of that mountain of whalebone and blubber; and,
as soon as the raft had been safely secured, he essayed the ascent.

It was not such a trifling feat,--this climbing upon the carcass of the
dead whale.  Nor was it to be done without danger.  The slippery
epidermis of the huge leviathan,--lubricated as it was with that
unctuous fluid which the skin of the sperm-whale is known to secrete,--
rendered footing upon it extremely insecure.

It might be fancied no great matter for a swimmer like Ben Braco to
slide off: since a fall of a few feet into the water could not cause him
any great bodily hurt.  But when the individual forming this fancy has
been told that there was something like a score of sharks prowling
around the carcass, he will obtain a more definite idea of the danger to
which such a fall would have submitted the adventurous seaman.

Ben Brace was the last man to be cowed by a trifling danger, or even one
of magnitude; and partly by Snowball's assistance, and using the
pectoral flipper to which the raft was attached as a stirrup, he
succeeded in mounting upon the back of the defunct monster of the deep.

As soon as he had steadied himself in his new position, a piece of rope
was thrown up to him,--by which Snowball was himself hoisted to the
shoulders of the _cachalot_; and then the two seamen proceeded towards
the tail,--or, as the sailor pronounced it, the "starn" of this peculiar
craft.

A little aft of "midships" a pyramidal lump of fatty substance projected
several feet above the line of the vertebras.  It was the spurious or
rudimentary dorsal fin, with which the sperm-whale is provided.

On arriving at this protuberance,--which chanced to be the highest point
on the carcass where the flag was elevated on its slender shaft,--both
came to a halt; and there stood together, gazing around them over the
glittering surface of the sunlit sea.



CHAPTER FIFTY NINE.

ABOARD THE BODY OF A WHALE.

The object of their united reconnoissance was the same which, but a few
moments before, had occupied the attention of the sailor.  They were
standing on the dead body of a whale that had been killed by harpoons.
Where were the people who had harpooned it?

After scanning the horizon with the same careful scrutiny as before, the
sailor once more turned his attention to the huge leviathan, on whose
back they were borne.

Several objects not before seen now attracted the attention of himself
and companion.  The tall flag, known among whalers by the name of
"whift," was not the only evidence of the manner in which the _cachalot_
had met its death.  Two large harpoons were seen sticking out of its
side, their iron arrows buried up to the socket in its blubber; while
from the thick wooden shanks, protruding beyond the skin, were lines
extending into the water, at the ends of which were large blocks of wood
floating like buoys upon the surface of the sea.

Ben identified the latter as the "drogues," that form part of the
equipment of a regular whale-ship.  He knew them well, and their use.
Before becoming a man-o'-war's-man, he had handled the harpoon; and was
perfectly _au fait_ to all connected with the calling of a whaler.

"Yes," resumed he, on recognising the implements of his _ci-devant_
profession, "it ha' been jest as I said.  A whaler 'a been over this
ground, and killed the spermacety.  Maybe I'm wrong about that," he
added, after reflecting a short while.  "I may be wrong about the ship
being over this very ground.  I don't like the look o' them drogues."

"De drogue?" inquired the Coromantee.  "Dem block o' wood dat am
driffin' about?  Wha' for you no like dem, Massa Brace?"

"But for their bein' thear I could say for sartin a ship had been here."

"Must a' been!" asserted Snowball.  "If no', how you count for de
presence ob de flag and de hapoons?"

"Ah!" answered the sailor, with something like a sigh; "they kud a' got
thear, without the men as throwed 'em bein' anywhere near this.  You
know nothin' o' whalin', Snowy."

This speech put Snowball in a quandary.

"You see, <DW65>," continued the sailor, "the presence o' them drogues
indercates that the whale warn't dead when the boats left her."  (The
_ci-devant_ whaler followed the fashion of his former associates, in
speaking of the whale, among whom the epicene gender of the animal is
always feminine.) "She must a' been still alive," continued he, "and the
drogues were put thear to hinder her from makin' much way through the
water.  In coorse there must a' been a school o' the spermacetys; and
the crew o' the whaler didn't want to lose time with this 'un, which
they had wounded.  For that reason they have struck her with this pair
o' drogued harpoons; and stuck this whift into her back.  On fust seein'
that, I war inclined to think different.  You see the whift be stickin'
a'most straight up, an' how could that a' been done by them in the
boats?  If the whale hadn't a' been dead, nobody would a' dared to a
clombed on to her an' fix the flag that way."

"You are right dar," interrupted Snowball.

"No," rejoined the sailor, "I ain't.  I thought I war; but I war wrong,
as you be now, Snowy.  You see the flag-spear ain't straight into the
back o' the anymal.  It's to one side, though it now stand nearly on
top; because the body o' the whale be canted over a bit.  A first-rate
`_heads-man_' o' a whale-boat could easily a' throwed it that way from
the bottom o' his boat, and that's the way it ha' been done."

"Spose 'im hab been jest dat way," assented Snowball.  "But wha' matter
'bout dat?  De whale have been kill all de same."

"What matter?  Everything do it matter."

"'Splain, Massa Brace!"

"Don't ye see, <DW65>, that if the spermacety had been dispatched while
the boats were about it, it would prove that the whale-ship must a' been
here while they were a killin' the creature; an' that would go far to
prove that she couldn't be a great ways off now."

"So dat wud,--so im wud, fo' sa'tin sure."

"Well, Snowy, as the case stands, thear be no sartinty where the whaler
be at this time.  The anymal, after being drogued, may a' sweemed many a
mile from the place where she war first harpooned.  I've knowed 'em to
go a score o' knots afore they pulled up; an' this bein' a' old bull,--
one o' the biggest spermacetys I ever see,--she must a sweemed to the
full o' that distance afore givin' in.  If that's been so, thear ain't
much chance o' eyther her or we bein' overhauled by the whaler."

As the sailor ceased speaking he once more directed his glance over the
ocean; which, after another minute and careful scrutiny of the horizon,
fell back upon the body of the whale, with the same expression of
disappointment that before had been observable.



CHAPTER SIXTY.

A CURIOUS CUISINE.

During all that day, the sailor and the ex-cook of the _Pandora_ kept
watch from the _summit_ of the dead _cachalot_.

It was not altogether for this purpose they remained there,--since the
mast of the _Catamaran_ would have given them an observatory of equal
and even greater elevation.

There were several reasons why they did not cast off from the carcass,
and continue their westward course: the most important being the hope
that the destroyers of the whale might return to take possession of the
valuable prize which they had left behind them.

There was, moreover, an undefined feeling of security in lying alongside
the leviathan,--almost as great as they might have felt if anchored near
the beach of an actual island,--and this had some influence in
protracting their stay.

But there was yet another motive which would of itself have caused them
to remain at their present moorings for a considerable period of time.

During the intervals of their protracted vigil, they had not been
inattentive to the objects immediately around them: and the carcass of
the whale had come in for a share of their consideration.  A
consultation had been held upon it, which had resulted in a
determination not to leave the leviathan until they had rendered its
remains, or at least a portion of them, useful for some future end.

The old whaleman knew that under that dark epidermis over which, for two
days, they had been recklessly treading, there were many valuable
substances that might be made available to their use and comfort, on
board the _Catamaran_.

First, there was the "blubber," which, if boiled or "tried," would, from
the body of an old bull like that, yield at the very least, a hundred
barrels of oil.

This they cared nothing about: since they had neither the pots to boil,
the casks to hold, nor the craft to carry it,--even if rendered into oil
for the market.

But Ben knew that within the skull of the _cachalot_ there was a deposit
of pure sperm, that needed no preparation, which would be found of
service to them in a way they had already thought of.

This sperm could be reached by simply removing the "junk" which forms
the exterior portion of a _cachalot's_ huge snout, and sinking a shaft
into the skull.  Here would, or should, be found a cavity filled with a
delicate cellular tissue, containing ten or a dozen large barrels full
of the purest spermaceti.

They did not stand in need of anything like this quantity.  A couple of
casks would suffice for their need; and these they desired to obtain for
that want which had suggested itself to both Snowball and the sailor.
They had been long suffering from the absence of fuel,--not wherewith to
warm themselves,--but as a means of enabling them to cook their food.
They need suffer no longer.  With the spermaceti to be extracted from
the "case" of the _cachalot_, they could lay in a stock that would last
them for many a day.  They had their six casks,--five of them still
empty.  By using a couple of them to contain the oil, the raft would
still be sufficiently buoyant to carry all hands, and not a bit less
worthy of the sea.

Both of these brave men had observed the repugnance with which Lilly
Lalee partook of their raw repasts.  Nothing but hunger enabled her to
eat what they could set before her.  It had touched the feelings of
both; and rendered them desirous of providing her with some kind of food
more congenial to the delicate palate of the child.

Long before they had any intention of abandoning the dead body of the
whale,--in fact shortly after taking possession of it,--Ben Brace,
assisted by Snowball and little William,--the latter having also mounted
upon the monster's back,--cut open the great cavity of the "case" with
the axe; and then inserting a large tin pot,--which had turned up in the
sailor's sea-kit,--drew it put again full of liquid spermaceti.

This was carried down to the deck of the _Catamaran_ when the process of
making a fire was instantly proceeded with.

By means of some untwisted strands of tarry rope, ingeniously inserted
into the oil, the pot was converted into a sort of open lamp,--which
only required to be kindled into a flame.

But Ben Brace had not been smoking a pipe for a period of nearly thirty
years, without being provided with the means of lighting it.  In the
same depository from which the tin pot had been obtained was found the
proper implements for striking a light,--flint, steel, and tinder,--and,
as the latter, within the water-tight compartment of the
man-o'-war's-man's chest, having been preserved perfectly dry, there was
no difficulty in setting fire to the oil.

It was soon seen burning up over the rim of the pot with a bright clear
flame; and a large flake of the dried fish being held over the blaze, in
a very short space of time became done to a turn.

This furnished all of them with a meal much more palatable than any they
had eaten since they had been forced to flee from the decks of the
burning _Pandora_.



CHAPTER SIXTY ONE.

AN ASSEMBLY OF SHARKS.

As the spermaceti in the pot still continued to blaze up,--the wick not
yet having burnt out,--it occurred to Snowball to continue his culinary
operations, and broil a sufficient quantity of the dead fish to serve
for supper.  The ex-cook, unlike most others of his calling, did not
like to see his fuel idly wasted: and therefore, in obedience to the
thought that had suggested itself, he brought forth another flake of
shark-flesh, and submitted to the flames, as before.

While observing him in the performance of this provident task, a capital
idea also occurred to Ben Brace.  Since it was possible thus to cook
their supper in advance, why not also their breakfast for the following
morning, then dinner for the day, their supper of to-morrow night,--in
short, all the raw provisions which they had on their hands?  By doing
this, not only would a fire be no longer necessary, but the fish so
cooked,--or even thoroughly dried in the blaze and smoke,--would be
likely to keep better.  In fact, fish thus preserved,--as is often done
with herrings, ling, codfish, mackerel, and haddock,--will remain good
for months without suffering the slightest taint of decomposition.  It
was an excellent idea; and, Ben having communicated it to the others, it
was at once determined that it should be carried out.

There was no fear of their running short in the staple article of fuel.
Ben assured them that the "case" of a _cachalot_ of the largest size,--
such as the one beside them,--often contained five hundred gallons of
the liquid spermaceti!  Besides, there was the enormous quantity of junk
and blubber,--whole mountains of it,--both of which could be rendered
into oil by a process which the whalers term "trying."  Other
inflammable substances, too, are found in the carcass of the
sperm-whale: so that, in the article of fuel, the crew of the
_Catamaran_ had been unexpectedly furnished with a stock by which they
might keep up a blazing fire for the whole of a twelvemonth.

It was no longer any scarcity of fuel that could hinder them from
cooking on a large scale, but a scantiness of the provisions to be
cooked; and they were now greatly troubled at the thought of their
larder having got so low.

While Ben Brace and Snowball stood pondering upon this, and mutually
murmuring their regrets, a thought suddenly came into the mind of the
sailor which was calculated to give comfort to all.

"As for the provisions in our locker," said he, "we can easily 'plenish
them, such as they be.  Look there, <DW65>.  There be enough raw meat to
keep ye a' cookin' till your wool grows white."

The sailor, as he said this, simply nodded toward the sea.

It needed no further pointing out to understand what he meant by the
phrase "raw meat."  Scores of sharks,--both of the blue and white
species,--attended by their pilots and suckers, were swimming around the
carcass of the _cachalot_.  The sea seemed alive with them.  Scarce a
square rod, within a circle of several hundred fathoms' circumference,
that did not exhibit their stiff, wicked-looking dorsal fins cutting
sharply above the surface.

Of course the presence of the dead whale accounted for this unusual
concourse of the tyrants of the deep.  Not that they had any intention
of directing their attack upon it: for, from the peculiar conformation
of his mouth, the shark is incapable of feeding upon the carcass of a
large whale.  But having, no doubt, accompanied the chase at the time
the _cachalot_ had been harpooned, they were now staying by a dead body,
from an instinct that told them its destroyers would return, and supply
them with its flesh in convenient morsels,--while occupied in _flensing_
it.

"Ugh!" exclaimed the sailor; "they look hungry enough to bite at any
bait we may throw out to them.  We won't have much trouble in catchin'
as many o' 'em as we want."

"A doan b'lieve, Massa Brace, we hab got nebba such a ting as a
shark-hook 'board de _Cat'maran_."

"Don't make yourself uneasy 'bout that," rejoined the sailor, in a
confident tone.  "Shark-hook be blowed!  I see somethin' up yonder worth
a score o' shark-hooks.  The brutes be as tame as turtles turned on
their backs.  They're always so about a dead spermacety.  Wi' one o'
them ere tools as be stickin' in the side o' the old bull, if I don't
pull a few o' them out o' water, I never handled a harpoon, that's all.
Ye may stop your cookin' Snowy, an' go help me.  When we've got a few
sharks catched an' cut up, then you can go at it again on a more
'stensive scale.  Come along, my hearty!"

As Ben terminated his speech, he strode across the deck of the raft, and
commenced clambering up on the carcass.

Snowball, who perceived the wisdom of his old comrade's design, let go
the flake of fish he had been holding in the blaze; and, parting from
the pot, once more followed the sailor up the steep side of the
_cachalot_.



CHAPTER SIXTY TWO.

A DANGEROUS EQUILIBRIUM.

Ben had taken along with him the axe; and, proceeding towards one of the
harpoons,--still buried in the body of the whale,--he commenced cutting
it out.

In a few moments a deep cavity was hewn out around the shank of the
harpoon; which was further deepened, until the barbed blade was wellnigh
laid bare.  Snowball, impatiently seizing the stout wooden shaft, gave
it a herculean pluck, that completely detached the arrow from the soft
blubber in which it had been imbedded.

Unfortunately for Snowball, he had not well calculated the strength
required for clearing that harpoon.  Having already made several
fruitless attempts to extract it, he did not expect it to draw out so
easily; and, in consequence of his making an over-effort, his balance
became deranged; his feet, ill-planted upon the slippery skin, flew
simultaneously from beneath him; and he came down upon the side of the
leviathan with a loud "slap,"--similar to what might have been heard had
he fallen upon half-thawed ice.

Unpleasant as this mishap may have been, it was not the worst that might
have befallen him on that occasion.  Nor was it the fall itself that
caused him to "sing out" at the top of his voice, and in accents
betokening a terrible alarm.

What produced this manifestation was a peril of far more fearful kind,
which at the moment menaced him.

The spot where the harpoon had been sticking was in the side of the
_cachalot_, and, as the carcass lay, a broad space around the weapon
presented an inclined plane, sloping abruptly towards the water.
Lubricated as it was with the secreted oil of the animal, it was smooth
as glass.  Upon this <DW72> Snowball had been standing; and upon it had
he fallen.

But the impetus of the fall not only hindered him from lying where he
had gone down, but also from being able to get up again; and, instead of
doing either one or the other, he commenced sliding down the slippery
surface of the leviathan's body, where it shelved towards the water.

Good heavens! what was to become of him?  A score of sharks were just
below,--waiting for him with hungry jaws, and eyes glancing greedily
upward.  Seeing the two men mounted upon the carcass of the whale, and
one wielding an axe, they had gathered upon that side,--in the belief
that the _flensing_ was about to begin!

It was a slight circumstance that saved the sea-cook from being eaten
up,--not only raw, but alive.  Simply the circumstance of his having
held on to the harpoon.  Had he dropped that weapon on falling, it would
never have been grasped by him again.  Fortunately, he had the presence
of mind to hold on to it; or perhaps the tenacity was merely mechanical.
Whatever may have been the reason, he _did_ hold on.  Fortunately,
also, he was gliding down on the side _opposite_ to that on which
floated the "drogue."

These two circumstances saved him.

When about half-way to the water,--and still sliding rapidly
downwards,--his progress was suddenly arrested, or rather impeded,--for
he was not altogether brought to a stop,--by a circumstance as
unexpected as it was fortunate.  That was the tightening of the line
attached to the handle of the harpoon.  He had slidden to the end of his
tether,--the other end of which was fast to the drogue drifting about in
the sea, as already said, on the opposite side of the carcass.

Heavy as was the piece of wood,--and offering, as it did, a considerable
amount of resistance in being dragged through the water,--it would not
have been sufficient to sustain the huge body of the Coromantee.  It
only checked the rapidity of his descent; and in the end he would have
gone down into the sea,--and shortly after into the stomachs of,
perhaps, half a score of sharks,--but for the opportune interference of
the ex-man-o'-war's-man; who, just in the nick of time,--at the very
moment when Snowball's toes were within six inches of the water's edge,
caught hold of the cord and arrested his farther descent.

But although the sailor had been able to accomplish this much, and was
also able to keep Snowball from slipping farther down, he soon
discovered that he was unable to pull him up again.  It was just as much
as his strength was equal to,--even when supplemented by the weight of
the drogue,--to keep the sea-cook in the place where he had succeeded in
checking him.  There hung Snowball in suspense,--holding on to the
slippery skin of the _cachalot_, literally "with tooth and toe-nail."

Snowball saw that his position was perilous,--more than that: it was
frightful.  He could hear noises beneath him,--the rushing of the sharks
through the water.  He glanced apprehensively below.  He could see their
black triangular fins, and note the lurid gleaming of their eyeballs, as
they rolled in their sunken sockets.  It was a sight to terrify the
stoutest heart; and that of Snowball did not escape being terrified.

"Hole on, Massa Brace!" he instinctively shouted.  "Hole on, for de lub
o' God!  Doan't leab me slip an inch, or dese dam brute sure cotch hold
ob me!  Fo' de lub o' de great Gorramity, hole on!"

Ben needed not the stimulus of this pathetic appeal.  He was holding on
to the utmost of his strength.  He could not have added another pound to
the pull.  He dared not even renew either his attitude, or the grip he
had upon the rope.  The slightest movement he might make would endanger
the life of his black-skinned comrade.

A slackening of the cord, even to the extent of twelve inches, would
have been fatal to the feet of Snowball--already within six of the
surface of the water and the snouts of the sharks!

Perhaps never in all his checkered career had the life of the <DW64> been
suspended in such dangerous balance.  The slightest circumstance would
have disturbed the equilibrium,--an ounce would have turned the scale,--
and delivered him into the jaws of death.

It is scarcely necessary to conjecture what would ultimately have been
the end of this perilous adventure, had the sailor and sea-cook been
permitted to terminate it between themselves.  The strength of the
former was each instant decreasing; while the weight of the latter,--now
more feebly clinging to the slippery epidermis of the whale,--was in
like proportion becoming greater.

With nothing to intervene, the result might be easily guessed.  In
figurative parlance Snowball must have "gone overboard."

But his time was not yet come; and his comrade knew this, when a pair of
hands,--small, but strong ones,--were seen grasping the cord, alongside
of his own.  They were the hands of Little Will'm!

At the earliest moment, after Snowball had slipped and fallen, the lad
had perceived his peril; and "swarming" up by the flipper of the whale,
had hurried to the assistance of Ben, laying hold of the rope,--not one
second too soon.

It was soon enough, however, to save the suspended Coromantee; whose
body, now yielding to the united strength of the two, was drawn up the
slippery <DW72>,--slowly, but surely,--until it rested upon the broad
horizontal space around the summit of that mountain of bones and
blubber.



CHAPTER SIXTY THREE.

A HARPOON WELL HANDLED.

It was some time before either his breath or the tranquillity of his
spirits was restored to the Coromantee.

The sailor was equally suffering from the loss of the former; and both
remained for a good many minutes without taking any further steps
towards the accomplishment of the design which had brought them on the
back of the whale.

As soon, however, as Snowball could find wind enough for a few words,
they were uttered in a tone of gratitude,--first to Ben, who had
hindered him from sinking down into something worse than a watery grave;
and then to little William, who had aided in raising him up from it.

Ben less regarded the old comrade whom he had rescued than the young one
who had been instrumental in aiding him.

He stood gazing upon the youth with eyes that expressed a lively
satisfaction.

The promptitude and prowess which his _protege_ had exhibited in the
affair was to him a source of the greatest gratification.

Many a boy old as he,--ay, older, thought Ben Brace,--instead of having
the sense shown by the lad in promptly running to the rescue, would have
remained upon the raft in mute surprise; or, at the best, have evinced
his sympathy by a series of unserviceable shouts, or a continued and
idle screaming.

Ben did not wish to spoil his _protege_ by any spoken formula of praise,
and therefore he said nothing: though, from his glances directed towards
little William, it was easy to see that the bosom of the brave tar was
swelling with a fond pride in the youth, for whom he had long felt an
affection almost equalling that of a father.

After indulging a short while in the mutual congratulations that
naturally follow such a crisis of danger, all three proceeded to the
execution of the duty so unexpectedly interrupted.

William had succeeded Snowball in that simple culinary operation which
the latter, commanded by his captain, had so suddenly relinquished.

The lad now returned to the raft, partly to complete the process of
broiling the fish; but perhaps with a greater desire to tranquillise the
fears of Lilly Lalee,--who, ignorant of the exact upshot of what had
transpired, was yet in a state of unpleasant agitation.

Ben only waited for the return of his breath; and as soon as that was
fairly restored to him, he once more set about the design that had
caused him for the second time to climb upon the back of the _cachalot_.

Taking the harpoon from the hands of the Coromantee,--who still kept
clutching it, as if there was danger in letting it go,--the sailor
proceeded to draw up the drogue.  Assisted by Snowball, he soon raised
it out of the water, and hoisted it to the horizontal platform, on which
they had placed themselves.

He did not want the block of wood just then,--only the line tied to it;
and this having been detached, the drogue was left lying upon the
carcass.

Armed with the harpoon, the _ci-devant_ whaleman now took a survey,--not
of the land, but of the sea around him.

There was an assemblage of sharks close in to the body of the whale,--at
the spot where they had so lately threatened Snowball.

Some of them had since scattered away, with a full consciousness of
their disappointment; but the greater number had stayed, as if
unsatisfied, or expecting that the banquet that had been so near their
noses might be brought back to them.

Ben's purpose was to harpoon some half-dozen of these ill-featured
denizens of the deep, and with their flesh replenish the stores of the
_Catamaran_; for repulsive as the brutes may appear to the eye, and
repugnant to the thoughts, they nevertheless,--that is, certain species
of them, and certain parts of these species,--afford excellent food:
such as an epicure,--to say nothing of a man half-famished,--may eat
with sufficient relish.

There could have been no difficulty in destroying any of the sharks so
late threatening to swallow Snowball, had the harpooner been able to get
within striking distance of them.  But the slippery skin of the whale
deterred the sailor from trusting himself on that dangerous incline; and
he determined, therefore, to try elsewhere.

In the direction of the _cachalot's_ tail the descent was gradual.
Scarcely perceptible was its declination towards the water, upon which
lay the two great flukes, slightly sunk below the surface, and extending
on each side to a breadth of many yards.

There were several sharks playing around the tail of the _cachalot_.
They might come within the pitch of a harpoon.  If not, the old whaleman
knew how to attract them within easy reach of that formidable weapon.

Directing Snowball to bring after him some of the pieces of blubber,--
which, in cutting out the harpoon, had been detached from the carcass,--
Ben proceeded towards the tail.  Here and there as he advanced, with the
sharp edge of the harpoon blade; he cut out a number of holes in the
spongy skin, in order to give both himself and his follower a more sure
footing on the slimy surface.

At the point where he intended to take his stand,--close in by the
"crutch" of the _cachalot's_ tail-fin,--he made three excavations with
more care.  At length, satisfied with his preparations, he stood, with
pointed harpoon, waiting for we of the sharks to come within striking
distance.  They "fought shy" at first; but the old whaleman knew a way
of overcoming their shyness.  It only required that "chunk" of blubber,
held in the hands of Snowball, to be thrown into the water, and
simultaneous with the plunge a score of sharks would be seen rushing,
open-mouthed, to seize upon it.

This in effect was precisely what transpired.

The blubber was dropped into the sea, close as possible to the carcass
of the whale,--the sharks came charging towards it,--nearly twenty of
them.  The same number, however, did not go back as they had come; for
one of them, impaled by the harpoon of Ben Brace, was dragged out of his
native element, and hauled up the well-greased incline towards the
highest point on the carcass of the _cachalot_.

There, notwithstanding his struggles and the desperate as well as
dangerous fluking of his posterior fins, he was soon despatched by the
axe, wielded with all the might and dexterity which the Coromantee could
command.

Another shark was "hooked," and then despatched in a similar fashion;
and then another and another, until Ben Brace believed that enough
shark-flesh had been obtained to furnish the _Catamaran_ with stores for
the most prolonged voyage.

At all events, they would now have food--such as it was--to last as long
as the water with which the hand of Providence alone seemed to have
provided them.



CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR.

THE THICK WATERS.

The most palatable portions of the sharks' flesh having been stripped
from the bones and cut into thin slices, were now to be submitted to a
drying, or rather broiling process.  This was to be accomplished by a
fire of spermaceti.

As already stated, there was no scarcity on the score of this fuel.  The
"case" of the _cachalot_ contained enough to have roasted all the sharks
within a circle of ten mile around it; and, to all appearance, there
were hundreds of them inside that circumference.  Indeed, that part of
the ocean where the dead whale had been found, though far from any land,
is at all times most prolific in animal life.  Sometimes the sea for
miles around a ship will be seen swarming with fish of various kinds,
while the air is filled with birds.  In the water may be seen large
"schools" of whales, "basking"--as the whalers term it--at intervals,
"spouting" forth their vaporous breath, or moving slowly onward,--some
of them, every now and then, exhibiting their uncouth gambols.  Shoals
of porpoises, albacores, bonitos, and other gregarious fishes will
appear in the same place,--each kind in pursuit of its favourite prey,
while sharks, threshers, and sword-fish, accompanied by their "pilots"
and "suckers," though in lesser numbers, here also abound,--from the
very abundance of the species on which these sea-monsters subsist
"Flocks" of flying-fish sparkle in the sun with troops of bonitos
gliding watchful below, while above them the sky will sometimes be
literally clouded with predatory birds,--gulls, boobies, gannets, tropic
and frigate-birds, albatrosses, and a score of other kinds but little
known, and as yet undescribed by the naturalist.

It may be asked why so many creatures of different kinds congregate in
this part of the ocean?  Upon what do they subsist? what food can they
find so far from land?

A ready reply to these questions may be given, by saying, that they
subsist upon each other; and this would be, to some extent, true.  But
then there must be a base forming the food for all, and produced by some
process of nature.  What process can be going on in the midst of the
ocean to furnish the subsistence of such myriads of large and voracious
creatures?  In the waters of the great deep, apparently so pure and
clear, one would think that no growth,--either animal or vegetable,
could spring up,--that nothing could come out of nothing.  For all this,
in that pure, clear water, there is a continual process of production,--
not only from the soil at the bottom of the sea, but the salt-water
itself contains the germs of material substances, that sustain life, or
become, themselves, living things, by what appears, to our ignorant
eyes, spontaneous production.

There is no spontaneity in the matter.  It is simply the principle of
creation, and acting under laws and by ways that, however ill-understood
by us, have existed from the beginning of the world.

It is true that the whole extent of the great oceans are not thus
thickly peopled.  Vast tracts may be traversed, where both fish and
birds of all kinds are extremely scarce; and a ship may sail for days
without seeing an individual of either kind.  A hundred miles may be
passed over, and the eye may not be gratified by the sight of a living
thing,--either in the water or the air.  These tracts may truly be
termed the deserts of the sea; like those of the land, apparently
uninhabited and uninhabitable.

It may be asked, Why this difference, since the sea seems all alike?
The cause lies not in a difference of depth: for the tracts that teem
with life are variable in this respect,--sometimes only a few fathoms in
profundity, and sometime unfathomable.

The true explanation must be sought for elsewhere.  It will be found not
in _depth_, but in _direction_,--in the direction of the currents.

Every one knows that the great oceans are intersected here and there by
currents,--often hundreds of miles in breadth, but sometimes narrowing
to a width of as many "knots."  These oceanic streams are regular,
though not regularly defined.  They are not caused by mere temporary
storms, but by winds having a constant and regular direction; as the
"trades" in the Atlantic and Pacific, the "monsoons" in the Indian
Ocean, the "pamperos" of South America, and the "northers" of the
Mexican Gulf.

There is another cause for these currents, perhaps of more powerful
influence than the winds, yet less taken into account.  It is the
_spinning_ of the earth on its axis.  Undoubtedly are the "trades"
indebted to this for their direction towards the west,--the simple
centrifugal tendency of the atmosphere.  Otherwise, would these winds
blow due northward and southward, coming into collision on the line of
the equator.

But it is not my purpose to attempt a dissertation either on winds or
oceanic streams.  I am not learned enough for this, though enough to
know that great misconception prevails on this subject, as well as upon
that of the _tides_; and that meteorologists have not given due credit
to the revolving motion of our planet, which is in truth the principal
producer of these phenomena.

Why I have introduced the subject at all is, not because our little book
is peculiarly a book of the ocean, but, because that ocean currents have
much to do with "Ocean Waifs," and that these last afford the true
explanation of the phenomenon first-mentioned,--the fact that some parts
of the ocean teem with animal life, while others are as dead as a
desert.  The currents account for it, thus:--where two of them meet,--as
is often the case,--vast quantities of material substances, both
vegetable and animal, are drifted together; where they are held, to a
certain extent, stationary; or circling around in great _ocean eddies_.
The wrack of sea-weed,--waifs from the distant shores,--birds that have
fallen lifeless into the ocean, or drop their excrement to float on its
surface,--fish that have died of disease, violence, or naturally,--for
the finny tribes are not exempt from the natural laws of decay and
death,--all these organisms, drifted by the currents, meet upon the
neutral "ground,"--there to float about, and furnish food to myriads of
living creatures,--many species of which are, to all appearance, scarce
organised more highly than the decomposed matters that appear first to
give them life, and afterwards sustain their existence.

In such tracts of the ocean are found the lower marine animals, in
incalculable numbers; the floating shell-fish, as _Janthina_, _Hyalaea_
and _Cleodora_; the sea-lizards, as _Velellae, Porpitae_, and their
kindred; the squids, and other molluscs; with myriads of _medusa_.

These are the oceanic regions known to the sailors as "thick waters,"
the favourite resort of the whale and its concomitant creatures, whose
food they furnish; the shark, and its attendants; the dolphins,
porpoises, sword-fish and flying-fish; with other denizens of the water;
and a like variety of dwellers in the air, hovering above the surface,
either as the enemies of those below, or aids to assist them in
composing the inscrutable "chain of destruction."



CHAPTER SIXTY FIVE.

A WHALE ON FIRE!

Perhaps we have _drifted_ too far adown the currents of the ocean.  From
our digression let us return to out special "Waifs."  We left them
making preparations to roast the shark-flesh,--not in single steaks, but
in a wholesale fashion,--as if they had intended to prepare a "fish
dinner" for the full crew of a frigate.

As already stated, fuel they had in sufficiency; or, at all events, the
best of oil, that would serve as such.  The spermaceti could not be
readily kindled, nor its blaze kept up, without wicks.  But neither was
there any difficulty about this.  There was a quantity of old rope trash
on the raft, which had been fished up among the wreck of the _Pandora_,
and kept in case of an emergency.  It needed only to restore this to its
original state of tarry fibre, when they would be provided with wick
enough to keep the lamp long burning.  It was the lamp itself, or rather
the cooking furnace, that caused them uneasiness.  They had none.  The
tiny tin vessel that had already served for a single meal would never do
for the grand _roti_ they now designed making.  With it, along with time
and patience, they might have accomplished the task; but time to them
was too precious to be so wasted; and as to patience,--circumstanced as
they were, it could scarcely be expected.

They stood in great need of a cooking-stove.  There was nothing on board
the _Catamaran_ that could be used as a substitute.  Indeed, to have
kindled such a fire as they wanted on the raft,--without a proper
material for their hearth,--would have seriously endangered the
existence of the craft; and might have terminated in a conflagration.

It was a dilemma that had not suggested itself sooner--that is, until
the shark-steaks had been made ready for roasting.  Then it presented
itself to their contemplation in full force, and apparently without any
loophole to escape from it.

What was to be done for a cooking-stove?

Snowball sighed as he thought of his caboose, with all its paraphernalia
of pots and pans,--especially his great copper, in which he had been
accustomed to boil mountains of meat and oceans of pea-soup.

But Snowball was not the individual to give way to vain regrets,--at
least, not for long.  Despite that absence of that superior intellect,--
which flippant gossips of so-called a "Social Science" delight in
denying to his race, themselves often less gifted than he,--Snowball was
endowed with rare ingenuity,--especially in matters relating to the
_cuisine_, and in less than ten minutes after the question of a
cooking-stove had been started, the Coromantee conceived the idea of one
that might have vied with any of the various "patents" so loudly
extolled by the ironmongers, and yet not so effective when submitted to
the test.  At all events, Snowball's plan was suited to the
circumstances in which its contriver was placed; and perhaps it was the
only one which the circumstances would have allowed.

Unlike other inventors, the Coromantee proclaimed the plan of his
invention as soon as he had conceived it.

"Wha' for?" he asked, as the idea shaped itself in his skull,--"wha' for
we trouble 'bout a pot fo' burn de oil?"

"What for, Snowy!" echoed the sailor, turning upon his interrogator an
expectant look.

"Why we no make de fire up hya?"

The conversation was carried on upon the back of the whale,--where the
sharks had been butchered and cut up.

"Up here!" again echoed the sailor, still showing surprise.  "What
matter whether it be up here or down theear, so long's we've got no
vessel,--neyther pot nor pan?"

"Doan care a dam fo' neyder," responded the ex-cook.  "I'se soon show
ye, Mass' Brace, how we find vessel, big 'nuff to hold all de oil in de
karkiss ob de ole cashlot, as you call him."

"Explain, <DW65>, explain!"

"Sartin I do.  Gib me dat axe.  I soon 'splain de whole sarkumstance."

Ben passed the axe, which he had been holding, into the hands of the
Coromantee.

The latter, as he had promised, soon made his meaning clear, by setting
to work upon the carcass of the _cachalot_, and with less than a dozen
blows of the sharp-edged tool hollowing out a large cavity in the
blubber.

"Now, Mass' Brace," cried he, when he had finished, triumphantly
balancing the axe above his shoulder, "wha' you call dat?  Dar's a lamp
hold all de oil we want set blaze.  You d'sire me `crow' de hole any
wida or deepa, I soon make 'im deep's a draw-well an' wide as de track
ob a waggon.  Wha' say, Mass' Brace?"

"Hurraw for you, Snowy!  It be just the thing.  I dar say it's deep
enough, and wide as we'll want it.  You ha got good brains, <DW65>,--
not'ithstanding what them lubbers as they call filosaphurs say.  I'm a
white, an' niver thought o' it.  This'll do for the furness we want.
Nothin' more needed than to pour the sparmacety into it, chuck a bit o'
oakum on the top, an' set all ablaze.  Let's do it, and cook the wittles
at once."

The cavity, which Snowball had "crowed" in the carcass of the whale was
soon filled with oil taken from the case.  In this was inserted with due
care a quantity of the fibre, obtained by "picking" the old ropes into
oakum.

A crane was next erected over the cavity,--a handspike forming one
support and an oar the other.  The crane itself consisted of the long
iron arrow and socket of one of the harpoons found in the carcass of the
_cachalot_.

Upon this was suspended, as upon a spit, so many slices of shark-meat as
could be accommodated with room, and when all was arranged, a "taper"
was handed up from below, and the wick set on fire.

The tarry strands caught like tinder; and soon after a fierce bright
blaze was seen rising several feet above the back of the _cachalot_,--
causing the shark-steaks to frizzle and fry, and promising in a very
short space of time to "do them to a turn."

Any one who could have witnessed the spectacle from distance, and not
understanding its nature, might have fancied that the _whale was on
fire_!



CHAPTER SIXTY SIX.

THE BIG RAFT.

While the strange phenomenon of a blazing fire upon the back of a whale
was being exhibited to the eyes of ocean-birds and ocean-fishes,--all
doubtless wondering what it meant,--another and very different spectacle
was occurring scarce twenty miles from the spot,--of course also upon
the surface of the ocean.

If in the former there was something that might be called comic, there
was nothing of this in the latter.  On the contrary, it was a true
tragedy,--a drama of death.

The stage upon which it was being enacted was a platform of planks and
spars, rudely united together,--in short, a raft.  The _dramatis
persona_ were men,--all men; although it might have required some
stretch of imagination,--aided by a little acquaintanceship with the
circumstances that had placed them upon that raft,--to have been certain
that they were human beings.  A stranger to them, looking upon them in
reality,--or upon a picture, giving a faithful representation of them,--
might have doubted their humanity, and mistaken them for _fiends_.  No
one could have been blamed for such a misconception.

If human beings in shape, and so in reality, they were fiends in aspect,
and not far from it in mental conformation.  Even in appearance they
were more like skeletons than men.  One actually was a skeleton,--not a
living skeleton, but a corpse, clean-stripped of its flesh.  The
ensanguined bones, with some fragments of the cartilage still adhering
to them, showed that the despoliation had been recent.  The skeleton was
not perfect.  Some of the bones were absent.  A few were lying near on
the timbers of the raft, and a few others might have been seen in places
where it was horrible to behold them!

The raft was an oblong platform of some twenty feet in length by about
fifteen in width.  It was constructed out of pieces of broken masts and
spars of a ship, upon which was supported an irregular sheeting of
planks, the fragments of bulwarks, hatches, cabin-doors that had been
wrested from their hinges, lids of tea-chests, coops, and a few other
articles,--such as form the paraphernalia of movables on board a ship.
There was a large hogshead with two or three small barrels upon the
raft; and around its edge were lashed several empty casks, serving as
buoys to keep it above water.  A single spar stood up out of its centre,
or "midships," to which was rigged--in a very slovenly manner--a large
lateen sail,--either the spanker or spritsail of a ship, or the mizzen
topsail of a bark.

Around the "step" of the mast a variety of other objects might have been
seen: such as oars, handspikes, pieces of loose boards, some tangled
coils of rope, an axe or two, half a dozen tin pots and "tots,"--such as
are used by sailors,--a quantity of shark-bones clean picked, with two
or three other bones, like those already alluded to, and whose size and
form told them to be the _tibia_ of a human skeleton.

Between twenty and thirty men were moving amid this miscellaneous
collection,--not all moving: for they were in every conceivable
attitude, of repose as of action.  Some were seated, some lying
stretched, some standing, some staggering,--as if reeling under the
influence of intoxication, or too feeble to support their bodies in an
erect attitude.  It was not any rocking on the part of the raft that was
producing these eccentric movements.  The sea was perfectly quiescent,
and the rude embarkation rested upon it like a log.

The cause might have been discovered near the bottom of the mast, where
stood a barrel or cask of medium size, from which proceeded an
exhalation, telling its contents to be rum.

The staggering skeletons were _drunk_!

It was not that noisy intoxication that tells of recent indulgence, but
rather of the nervous wreck which succeeds it; and the words heard,
instead of being the loud banterings of inebriated men, were more like
the ravings and gibbering of maniacs.  No wonder: since they who uttered
them _were_ mad,--mad with _mania potu_!  If they were ever to recover,
it would be the last time they were likely to be afflicted by the same
disease,--at least on board that embarkation.  Not from any virtuous
resolve on their parts, but simply from the fact that the cause of their
insanity no longer existed.

The rum-cask was as dry inside as out.  There was no longer a drop of
the infernal liquor on the raft; no more spirit of any kind to produce
fresh drunkenness or renewed _delirium tremens_!

The madmen were not heeded by the others; but allowed to totter about,
and give speech to their incoherent mumblings!--sometimes diversified by
yells, or peals of mania laughter,--always thickly interlarded with
oaths and other blasphemous utterances.

It was only when disturbing the repose of some one less _exalted_ than
themselves, or when two of them chanced to come into collision, that a
scene would ensue,--in some instances extending to almost every
individual on the raft, and ending by one or other of the delirious
disputants getting "chucked" into the sea, and having a swim before
recovering foothold on the frail embarkation.  This the ducked
individual would be certain to do.  Drunk as he might have been, and
maudlin as he might be, his instincts were never so benumbed as to
render him regardless of self-preservation.  Even from out his haggard
eyes still gleamed enough of intelligence to tell that those dark
triangular objects, moving in scores around the raft, and cutting the
water, so swift and sheer, were the dorsal fins of the dreaded sharks.
Each one was a sight that, to a sailor's eye, even when "blind drunk,"
brings habitual dread.

The _douche_, and the fright attending it, would usually restore his
reason to the delirious individual,--or, at all events, would have the
effect of restoring tranquillity upon the raft,--soon after to be
disturbed by some scene of like, or perhaps more terrible, activity.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The reader, unacquainted with the history of this raft and the people
upon it, may require some information concerning them.  A few words must
suffice for both.

As already stated, at the beginning of our narrative, a raft was
constructed out of such timbers as could be detached from the slave-bark
_Pandora_,--after that vessel had caught fire, and previous to her
blowing up.  Upon this embarkation the slaver's crew had escaped,
leaving her _cargo_ to perish,--some by the explosion, some by drowning,
and not a few by the teeth of sharks.  The _Pandora's_ captain, along
with five others,--including the mates and carpenter,--had stolen away
with the gig.  As this was the only boat found available in the fearful
crisis of the conflagration, the remainder of the crew had betaken
themselves to the large raft, hurriedly constructed for the occasion.

As already related, Snowball and the Portuguese girl were the only
individuals on board the _Pandora_ who had remained by the wreck, or
rather among its _debris_.  There the Coromantee, by great courage and
cunning, had succeeded not only in keeping himself and his _protege_
afloat, but in establishing a chance for sustaining existence,
calculated to last for some days.  It is known also that Ben Brace with
_his protege_, having been informed by the captain's parting speech that
there was a barrel of gunpowder aboard the burning bark, apprehensive of
the explosion, had silently constructed a little raft of his own; which,
after being launched from under the bows of the slaver, he had brought
_en rapport_ with the "big raft," and thereto attached it.  This
"tender," still carrying the English sailor and the boy, had been
afterwards cut loose from its larger companion in the dead hour of
night, and permitted to fall far into the wake.  The reason of this
defection was simply to save little William from being eaten up by the
ex-crew of the _Pandora_, then reduced to a famished condition,--if we
may use the phrase, screwed up to the standard of anthropophagy.

Since the hour in which the two rafts became separated from each other,
the reader is acquainted, in all its minute details, with the history of
the lesser: how it joined issue with the embarkation that carried the
ex-cook and his _protege_; how the union with the latter produced a
cross between the two,--afterwards yclept the _Catamaran_; with all the
particulars of the _Catamaran's_ voyage, up to the time when she became
moored alongside the carcass of the _cachalot_; and for several days
after.

During this time, the "big raft" carrying the crew of tin burnt bark,--
being out of sight, may also have escaped from the reader's mind.  Both
it and its occupants were still in existence.  Not all of them, it is
true, but the greater number; and among these, the most prominent in
strength of body, energy of mind; and wickedness of disposition.

It is scarce necessary to say, that the raft now introduced as lying
upon the ocean some twenty miles from the dead _cachalot_ was that which
some days before had parted from the _Pandora_, or that the fiendish
forms that occupied it were the remnant of the _Pandora's_ crew.

These were not all there: nearly a score of them were absent.  The
absence of the captain, with five others who had accompanied him in his
gig, has been explained.  The ex-cook, the English sailor and
sailor-boy, with the cabin passenger, Lilly Lalee, have also been
accounted for; but there were several others aboard the big raft, on its
first starting "to sea," that were no longer to be seen amidst the crowd
still occupying this ungainly embarkation.  Half a dozen,--perhaps
more,--seemed to be missing.  Their absence might have appeared
mysterious, to anyone who had not been kept "posted" up in the
particulars of the ill-directed cruise through which the raft had been
passing; though the skeleton above described, and the dissevered _tibia_
scattered around, might have given a clew to their disappearance,--at
least, to anyone initiated into the shifts and extremities of
starvation.

To those of less experience,--or less quick comprehension,--it may be
necessary to repeat the conversation which was being carried on upon the
raft,--at the moment when it is thus reintroduced to the notice of the
reader.  A correct report of this will satisfactorily explain why its
original crew had been reduced, from over thirty, to the number of
six-and-twenty, exclusive of the skeleton!



CHAPTER SIXTY SEVEN.

A CREW OF CANNIBALS.

"_Allons_!" cried a black-bearded man, in whose emaciated frame it was
not easy to recognise the once corpulent bully of the slave-ship,--the
Frenchman, Le Gros.  "_Allons! messieurs_!  It's time to try fortune
again.  _Sacre_! we must eat, or die!"

The question may be asked, What were these men to eat?  There appeared
to be no food upon the raft.  There _was_ none,--not a morsel of any
kind that might properly be called meat for man.  Nor had there been,
ever since the second day after the departure of the raft from the side
of the burning bark.  A small box of sea-biscuits, that, when
distributed, gave only two to each man, was all that had been saved in
their hurried retreat from the decks of the _Pandora_.  These had
disappeared in a day.  They had brought away water in greater abundance,
and caught some since in their shirts, and on the spread sail,--nearly
after the same fashion and in the same rain-storm that had afforded the
well-timed supply to Ben Brace and his _protege_.

But the stock derived from both sources was on the eve of being
exhausted.  Only a small ration or two to each man remained in the cask;
but thirsty as most of them might be, they were suffering still more
from the kindred appetite of hunger.

What did Le Gros mean when he said they must eat?  What food was there
on the raft, to enable them to avoid the terrible alternative appended
to his proposal,--"eat, or die"!  What _had_ kept them from dying: since
it was now many days, almost weeks, since they had swallowed the last
morsel of biscuit so sparingly distributed amongst them?

The answer to all these interrogatories is one and the some.  It is too
fearful to be pronounced,--awful even to think of!

The clean-stripped skeleton lying upon the raft, and which was clearly
that of a human being; the bones scattered about,--some of them, as
already observed, held in hand, and in such fashion as to show the
horrid use that was being made of them,--left no doubt as to the nature
of the food upon which the hungering wretches had been subsisting.

This, and the flesh of a small shark, which they had succeeded in luring
alongside, and killing with the blow of a handspike, had been their only
provision since parting with the _Pandora_.  There were sharks enough
around them now.  A score, at the very least, might have been quartering
the sea, within sight of the raft; but these monsters, strange to say,
were so shy, that not one of them would approach near enough to allow
them an opportunity of capturing it!  Every attempt to take them had
proved unsuccessful.  Such of the crew as kept sober had been trying for
days.  Some were even at that moment engaged with hook and line, angling
for the ferocious fish,--their hooks floating far out in the water,
baited with _human flesh_.

It was only the mechanical continuation of a scheme that had long since
proved to be of no avail,--a sort of despairing struggle against
improbability.  The sharks had taken the alarm; perhaps from observing
the fate of that one of their number that had gone too near the odd
embarkation; or, perhaps, warned by some mysterious instinct, that,
sooner or later, they would make a grand banquet on those who were so
eager to feast upon them.

In any case, no sharks had been taken, or were likely to be taken; and
once more the eyes of the famishing castaways were wolfishly turned upon
one another, while their thoughts reverted to that horrible alternative
that was to save them from starvation.

Le Gros--on board the raft, as upon the deck of the slave-ship--still
held a sort of fatal ascendency over his comrades; and with Ben Brace no
longer to oppose his despotic propensities, he had established over his
fellow-skeletons a species of arbitrary rule.

His conduct had all along been guided by no more regard for fair-play
than was just necessary to keep his subordinates from breaking out into
open mutiny; and among these the weaker ones fared even worse than their
fellows, bad as that was.

A few of the stronger,--who formed a sort of bodyguard to the bully, and
were ready to stand up for him in case of extremity,--shared his
ascendency over the rest; and to these were distributed larger rations
of water, along with the more choice morsels of their horrid food.

This partiality had more than once led to scenes, that promised to end
in bloodshed; and but for this occasional show of resistance, Le Gros
and his party might have established a tyranny that would have given
them full power over the _lives_ of their feebler companions.

Things were fast tending in this direction,--merging, as it were, into
absolute monarchy,--a monarchy of "cannibals," of which Le Gros himself
would be "king."  It had not yet, however, quite come to that,--at least
when it became a question of life and death.  When the necessity arose
of finding a fresh victim for their horrible but necessary sacrifice,
there was still enough republicanism left among the wretches to
influence the decision in a just and equitable manner, and cause the
selection to be made by lot.  When it comes to crises like these,--to
questions of life and death,--men must yield up their opposition to the
_ballot_, and acknowledge its equity.

Le Gros and his cruel bodyguard would have opposed it had they been
strong enough,--as do equally cruel politicians who are strong enough,--
but the bully still doubted the strength of his party.  A proposal so
atrocious had beep made, in the case of little William, at the very
outset, and had met with but slight opposition.  Had it not been for the
brave English sailor, the lad would certainly have fallen a sacrifice to
the horrid appetites of these horrid men.  With one of themselves,
however, the case was different.  Each had a few adherents, who would
not have submitted to such an arbitrary cruelty; and Le Gros was
influenced by the fear of a general "skrimmage," in which more than one
life,--among the rest perhaps his own,--might be forfeited.  The time
for such a high-handed measure had not yet arrived; and when it came to
the question of "Who dies next?" it was still found necessary to resort
to the _ballot_.

That question was once more propounded,--now for the third time,--Le
Gros himself acting as the spokesman.  No one said anything in reply, or
made any sign of being opposed to an answer being given.  On the
contrary, all appeared to yield, if not a cheerful, at least a tacit
assent to what they all knew to be meant for a proposal,--knowing also
its fearful nature and consequences.

They also comprehended whence the answer was to come.  Twice before had
they consulted that dread oracle, whose response was certain death to
one of their number.  Twice before had they recognised and submitted to
its decree.  No preliminaries needed to be discussed.  These had been
long ago arranged.  There was nothing more to do than cast the lots.

On the moment after Le Gros had put the question, a movement was visible
among the men to whom it was addressed.  One might have expected it to
startle them; but it did not appear to do this,--at least, to any great
extent.  Some only showed those signs of fear distinguishable by
blanched cheeks and white lips; but there were some too delirious to
understand the full import of what was to follow; and the majority of
the crew had become too callow with suffering to care much even for
life!

Most that could, however,--for there were some too feeble to stand
erect,--rose to their feet, and gathered around the challenger,
exhibiting both in their words and attitudes, an earnestness that told
them not altogether indifferent to death.

By a sort of tacit agreement among them, Le Gros acted as master of the
ceremonies,--the dispenser of that dread lottery of life and death, in
which he himself was to take a share.  Two or three of his fellows stood
on each side of him, acting as aids or _croupiers_.

Solemn and momentous as was the question to be decided, the mode of
decision was simple in the extreme.  Le Gros held in his hand a canvas
bag, of oblong bolster shape,--such as sailors use to carry their spare
suit of "Sunday go-ashores."  In the bottom of this bag,--already
carefully counted into it,--were twenty-six buttons: the exact number of
those who were to take part in the drawing.  They were the common black
buttons of horn,--each pierced with four holes,--such as may be seen
upon the jacket of the merchant sailor.  They had been cut from their
own garments for the purpose in which they were now, a third time, to be
employed, and all chosen so exactly alike, that even the eye would have
found it difficult to distinguish one from the other.  One, however,
offered an exception to this statement.  While all its fellows were jet
black, it exhibited a reddish hue,--a dark crimson,--as if it had been
defiled with blood.  And so it had been; stained on purpose,--that for
which it was to be employed,--to be the exponent of the _prize_, in that
lottery of blood, of which its colour was an appropriate emblem.

The difference between it and the others was not perceptible to the
touch.  The fingers of a man born blind could not have distinguished it
among the rest,--much less the callous and tar-bedaubed "claws" of a
sailor.

The red button was cast into the bag along with the others.  "_He who
should draw it forth must die_."

As we have said, there was no settling about preliminaries, no talking
about choice as to the time of drawing.  These matters had been
discussed before, both openly and by secret mental calculations.  All
had arrived at the conclusion that the chances were even, and that it
could make no difference in the event as to whose fate was first
decided.  The red button might be the last in the bag, or it might be
the first drawn out of it.

Under this impression, no one hesitated to inaugurate the dread ceremony
of the drawing; and as soon as Le Gros held out the bag,--just open
enough to admit a hand,--a man stepped up, and, with an air of reckless
indifference, plunged his arm into the opening!



CHAPTER SIXTY EIGHT.

THE LOTTERY OF LIFE AND DEATH.

One by one the buttons were drawn forth from the bag,--each man, as he
drew his, exhibiting it in his open palm, to satisfy the others as to
its colour, and then placing it in a common receptacle,--against the
contingency of its being required again for another like lottery!

Solemn as was the character of the ceremony, it was not conducted either
in solemnity or silence.  Many of the wretches even jested while it was
in progress; and a stranger to the dread conditions under which the
drawing was being made might have supposed it a raffle for some trifling
prize!

The faces of a few, however, would have contradicted this supposition.
A few there were who approached the oracle with cowed and craven looks;
and their trembling fingers, as they inserted them into the bag,
proclaimed an apprehension stronger than could have arisen from any mere
courting of chance in an ordinary casting of lots.

Those men who were noisiest and most gleeful _after_ they had drawn were
the ones who before it had shown the strongest signs of fear, and who
trembled most while performing the operation.

Some of them could not conceal even their demoniac joy at having drawn
blank, but danced about over the raft as if they had suddenly succeeded
to some splendid fortune.

The difference between this singular lottery and most others, was that
the blanks were the prizes,--the prize itself being the true blank,--the
ending of existence.

Le Gros continued to hold the bag, and with an air of nonchalance;
though anyone closely observing his countenance could tell that it was
assumed.  As had been already proved, the French bully was at heart a
coward.  Under the influence of angry passion, or excited by a desire
for revenge, he could show fight, and even fling himself into positions
of danger; but in a contest such as that in which he was now engaged a
cool strife, in which Fortune was his only antagonist, and in which he
could derive no advantage from any unfair subterfuge, his artificial
courage had entirely forsaken him.

So long as the lottery was in its earlier stages, and only a few buttons
had been taken out of the bag, he preserved his assumed air of
indifference.  There were still many chances of life against that one of
death,--nearly twenty to one.  As the drawing proceeded, however, and
one after another exhibited his black button, a change could be observed
passing over the features of the Frenchman.  His apparent _sangfroid_
began to forsake him; while his glances betokened a feverish excitement,
fast hastening towards apprehension.

As each fresh hand came up out of the dark receptacle bearing the
evidence of its owner's fate, Le Gros was seen to cast hurried and
anxious glances towards the tiny circle of horn, held between the thumb
and forefinger, and each time that he saw the colour to be black his
countenance appeared to darken at the sight.

When the twentieth button had been brought forth, and still the red one
remained in the bag, the master of the ceremonies became fearfully
excited.  He could no longer conceal his apprehension.  His chances of
life were diminished to a point that might well inspire him with fear.
It was now but six to one,--for there were only six more tickets to be
disposed of.

At this crisis, Le Gros interrupted the drawing to reflect.  Would he be
in a better position, if some one else held the bag?  Perhaps that might
change the run of luck hitherto against him; and which he had been
cursing with all his might ever since the number had been going through
the teens.  He had tried every way he could think of to tempt the red
ticket out of the bag.  He had shaken the buttons time after time,--in
hopes of bringing it to the top, or in some position that might insure
its being taken up.  But all to no purpose.  It would obstinately stay
to the last.

What difference could it make were he to hand the bag over to some other
holder, and try his luck for the twenty-first chance?  "Not any!" was
the mental reply he received to this mental inquiry.  Better for him to
hold on as he had been doing.  It was hardly possible--at least highly
improbable--that the red button should be the last.  There had been
twenty-five chances to one against its being so.  It is true twenty
black buttons had been drawn out before it,--in a most unexpected
manner,--still it was as likely to come next as any of the remaining
six.

It would be of no use changing the process,--so concluded he, in his own
mind,--and, with an air of affected recklessness, the Frenchman
signified to those around him that he was ready to continue the drawing.

Another man drew forth Number 21.  Like those preceding it, the button,
was black!

Number 22 was fished out of the bag,--black also!

23 and 24 were of the like hue!

But two buttons now remained,--two men only whose fate was undecided.
One of them was Le Gros himself,--the other, an Irish sailor, who was,
perhaps, the least wicked among that wicked crew.  One or other of them
must become food for their cannibal comrades!

It would scarce be true to say that the interest increased as the dread
lottery progressed towards its ending.  Its peculiar conditions had
secured an interest from the first as intense as it was possible for it
to be.  It only became changed in character,--less selfish, if we may
use the phrase,--as each individual escaped from the dangerous
contingency involved in the operation.  As the drawing approached its
termination, the anxiety about the result, though less painful to the
majority of the men, was far more so to the few whose fate still hung
suspended in the scale; and this feeling became more intensified in the
breasts of the still smaller number, who saw their chances of safety
becoming constantly diminished.  When, at length, only two buttons
remained in the bag, and only two men to draw them out, the interest,
though changed in character, was nevertheless sufficiently exciting to
fix the attention of every individual on the raft.

There were circumstances, apart from the mere drawing, that influenced
this attention.  Fate itself seemed to be taking a part in the dread
drama; or, if not, a very singular contingency had occurred.

Between the two men, thus left to decide its decree, there existed a
rivalry,--or, rather, might it be called a positive antipathy,--deadly
as any _vendetta_ ever enacted on Corsican soil.

It had not sprung up on the raft.  It was of older date--old as the
earliest days of the _Pandora's_ voyage, on whose decks it had
originated.

Its first seeds had been sown in that quarrel between Le Gros and Ben
Brace,--in which the Frenchman had been so ignominiously defeated.  The
Irish sailor,--partly from some slight feeling of co-nationality, and
partly from a natural instinct of fair-play,--had taken sides with the
British tar; and, as a consequence, had invoked the hostility of the
Frenchman.  This feeling he had reciprocated to its full extent; and
from that time forward Larry O'Gorman--such was the Irishman's name--
became the true _bete noir_ of Le Gros, to be insulted by the latter on
every occasion that might offer.  Even Ben Brace was no longer regarded
with as much dislike.  For him the Frenchman had been taught, if not
friendship, at least, a certain respect, springing from fear; and,
instead of continuing his jealous rivalry towards the English sailor, Le
Gros had resigned himself to occupy a secondary place on the slaver, and
transferred his spite to the representative of the Emerald Isle.

More than once, slight collisions had occurred between them,--in which
the Frenchman, gifted with greater cunning, had managed to come off
victorious.  But there had never arisen any serious matter to test the
strength of the two men to that desperate strife, of which death might
be the ending.  They had generally fought shy of each other; the
Frenchman from a latent fear of his adversary,--founded, perhaps, on
some suspicion of powers not yet exhibited by him, and which might be
developed in a deadly struggle,--the Irishman from a habitude, not very
common among his countrymen, of being little addicted to quarrelling.
He was, on the contrary, a man of peaceful disposition, and of few
words,--also a rare circumstance, considering that his name was Larry
O'Gorman.

There were some good traits in the Irishman's character.  Perhaps we
have given the best.  In comparison with the Frenchman, he might be
described as an angel; and, compared with the other wretches on the
raft, he was, perhaps, the _least bad_: for the word _best_ could not,
with propriety, be applied to anyone of that motley crew.

Personally, the two men were unlike as could well be.  While the
Frenchman was black and bearded, the Irishman was red and almost
beardless.  In size, however, they approximated nearer to each other,--
both being men of large stature.  Both had been stout,--almost
corpulent.

Neither could be so described as they assisted at that solemn ceremonial
that was to devote one or other of them to a doom--in which their
_condition_ was a circumstance of significant interest to those who were
to survive them.

Both were shrunken in shape, with their garments hanging loosely around
their bodies, their eyes sunk in deep cavities, their cheek-bones
prominently protruding, their breasts flat and fleshless, the ribs
easily discernible,--in short, they appeared more like a pair of
skeletons, covered with shrivelled skin, than breathing, living men.
Either was but ill-adapted for the purpose to which dire necessity was
about to devote one or other of them.

Of the two, Le Gros appeared the less attenuated.  This may have arisen
from the fact of his greater ascendency over the crew of the raft,--by
means of which he had been enabled to appropriate to himself a larger
share of the food sparsely distributed amongst them.  His ample covering
of hair may have had something to do with this appearance,--concealing
as it did the unevenness of the surface upon which it grew, and
imparting a plumper aspect to his face and features.

If there was a superiority in the quantity of flesh still clinging to
his bones, its quality might be questioned,--at all events, in regard to
the use that might soon be made of it.  In point of tenderness, his
muscular integuments could scarcely compare with those of the Irishman,
whose bright skin promised--

These are horrid thoughts.  They should not be her repeated, were it not
to show in its true light the terrible extremes, both of thought and
action, to which men may be reduced by starvation.  Horrid as they may
appear, they were entertained at that crisis by the castaway crew of the
_Pandora_!



CHAPTER SIXTY NINE.

A CHALLENGE DECLINED.

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.

"_Sacre_!" 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.  _Sacre_! 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_!



CHAPTER SEVENTY.

AN UNEXPECTED TERMINATION.

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.

"_Sacre_!" 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.



CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

LE GROS UPON TRIAL.

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.

"_Sacre 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_!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

A DUEL TO THE DEATH.

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!



CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

HATE AGAINST HATE.

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-a-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 <DW44> 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!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR.

A LIGHT!

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.



CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

TOWARDS THE BEACON!

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.



CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

A DOUBLE DARKNESS.

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.



CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN.

A WHISPERED CONSPIRACY.

Although most of the men had surrendered themselves to such slumber as
they might obtain, the silence was neither profound nor continuous.  At
times no sounds were heard save the whisperings of the breeze, as it
brushed against the spread canvas, or a slight "swashing" in the water
as it was broken by the rough timbers of the craft.

These sounds were intermingled with the loud breathing of some of the
sleepers,--an occasional snore,--and now and then a muttered speech the
involuntary utterance of someone dreaming a dreadful dream.

At intervals other noises would arise, when one or more of the waking
castaways chanced to come together, to hold a short conversation; or
when one of them, scarce conscious of what he did, stumbled over the
limbs of a prostrate comrade,--perhaps awaking him from a pleasant
repose to the consciousness of the painful circumstances under which he
had been enjoying it.

Such occurrences usually led to angry altercations,--in which threats
and ribald language would for some minutes freely find vent from the
lips both of the disturbed and the disturber; and then both would
growlingly subside into silence.

At that hour, when the night was at its darkest, and the fog at its
thickest, two men might have been seen,--though only by an eye very
close to where they were,--in a sitting posture at the bottom of the
mast.  They were crouching rather than seated; for they were upon their
knees, with their bodies bent forward, and one or both of their hands
resting upon the planks.

The attitude was plainly not one of repose; and anyone near enough to
have observed the two men, or to have heard the whispered conversation
that was being carried on between them, would have come to the
conclusion that sleep was far from their thoughts.

In that deep darkness, however, no one noticed them; and although
several of their companions were lying but a few feet from the bottom of
the mast, these were either asleep or too distant to hear the
whisperings that passed between the two men kneeling in juxtaposition.

They continued to talk in very low whispers,--each in turn putting his
lips close to the ear of the other; and while doing so the subject of
their conversation might have been guessed at by their glances, or at
least the individual about whom they conversed.

This was a man who was lying stretched along the timbers, not far from
the bottom of the mast, and apparently asleep.  In fact he must have
been asleep, as was testified by the stentorian snores that occasionally
escaped from his wide-spread nostrils.

This noisy slumberer was the Irishman, O'Gorman,--one of the parties to
that suspended fight, to be resumed by day break in the morning.
Whatever evil deeds this man may have done during his life,--and he had
performed not a few, for we have styled him only the least guilty of
that guilty crew,--he was certainly no coward.  Thus to sleep, with such
a prospect on awaking, at least proved him recklessly indifferent to
death.

The two men by the mast,--whose eyes were evidently upon him,--had no
very clear view of him where he lay.  Through the white mist they could
see only something like the shape of a human being recumbent along the
planks; and of that only the legs and lower half of the body.  Even had
it been daylight they could not, from their position, have seen his head
and shoulders; for both would have been concealed by the empty rum-cask,
already mentioned, which stood upon its end exactly by the spot where
O'Gorman had rested his head.

The Irishman, above all others, had taken a delight in the contents of
that cask,--so long as a drop was left; and now that it was all gone,
perhaps the smell of the alcohol had influenced him in choosing his
place of repose.

Whether or not, he was now sleeping on a spot which was to prove the
last resting-place of his life.  Cruel destiny had decreed that from
that slumber he was never more to awaken!

This destiny was now being shaped out for him; and by the two
individuals who were regarding him from the bottom of the mast.

"He's sound asleep," whispered one of them to the other.  "You hear that
snore?  _Parbleu_! only a hog could counterfeit that."

"Sound as a top!" asserted the other.

"_C'est bon_!" whispered the first speaker, with a significant shrug of
the shoulders.  "If we manage matters smartly, he need never wake again.
What say you, comrade?"

"I agree to anything you may propose," assented the other.  "What is
it?"

"There need be no noise about it.  A single blow will be sufficient,--if
given in the right place.  With the blade of a knife through his heart,
he'll not make three kicks.  He'll never know it till he's in the next
world.  _Peste_!  I could almost envy him such an easy way of getting
out of this!"

"You think it might be done without making a noise?"

"Easy as falling overboard.  One could hold something over his mouth, to
keep his tongue quiet; while the other--You know what I mean?"

The horrid act to be performed by the other was left unspoken,--even in
those confidential whisperings.

"But," replied the confederate, objectingly, "suppose the thing done,--
how about matters in the morning?  They'd know who did it.  Leastwise,
their suspicions would fall upon us,--upon you to a certainty, after
what's happened.  You haven't thought of that?"

"Haven't I?  But I have, _mon ami_!"

"Well; and what?"

"First place.  They're not in the mind to be particular,--none of
them,--so long as they get something to eat.  Secondly; if they should
kick up a row, our party is the strongest; and I don't care what comes
of it.  We may as well all die at once, as die by bits."

"That's true enough."

"But there's no fear of any trouble from the others.  I've got an idea
that'll prevent that.  To save appearances, he can commit suicide."

"What do you mean?"

"Bah! _camarade_! how dull you are.  The fog has got into your skull.
Don't you know the _Irlandais_ has got a knife, and a sharp one.
_Peste_!  I know it.  Well,--perhaps it can be stolen from him.  If so,
it can also be found sticking in the wound that will deprive him of
life.  Now do you comprehend me?"

"I do,--I do!"

"First, to steal the knife.  Go you: I daren't: it would look suspicious
for me to be seen near him,--that is, if he should wake up.  You may
stray over that way, as if you were after nothing particular.  It'll do
no harm to try."

"I'll see if I can hook it then," responded the other.  "What if I try
now?"

"The sooner the better.  With the knife in our possession, we'll know
better how to act.  Get it, if you can."

The last speaker remained in his place.  The other, rising into an erect
attitude, stepped apart from his fellow-conspirator, and moved away from
the mast,--going apparently without any design.  This, however, led him
towards the empty rum-cask,--alongside of which the Irishman lay asleep,
utterly unconscious of his approach.



CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT.

A FOUL DEED DONE IN A FOG.

It is scarce necessary to tell who were the two men who had been thus
plotting in whispers.  The first speaker was, of course, the Frenchman,
Le Gros,--the other being the confederate who had assisted him in the
performance of his unfair trick in the lot-casting.

Their demoniac design is already known from their conversation,--nothing
more nor less than to murder O'Gorman in his sleep!

The former had two motives prompting him to this horrid crime,--either
sufficiently strong to sway such a nature as his to its execution.  He
had all along felt hostility to the Irishman,--which the events of that
day had rendered both deep and deadly.  He was wicked enough to have
killed his antagonist for that alone.  But there was the other motive,
more powerful and far more rational to influence him to the act.  As
above stated, it had been finally arranged that the suspended fight was
to be finished by the earliest light of the morning.  Le Gros knew that
the next scene in that drama of death was to be the last; and, judging
from his experience of the one already played, he felt keenly
apprehensive as to the result.  He had been fully aware, before the
curtain fell upon the first act, that his life could then have been
taken; and, conscious of a certain inferiority to his antagonist, he now
felt cowed, and dreaded the final encounter.

To avoid it, he was willing to do anything, however mean or wicked,--
ready to commit even the crime of murder!

He knew that if he should succeed in destroying his adversary,--so long
as the act was not witnessed by their associates,--so long as there
should be only circumstantial evidence against him,--he would not have
much to fear from such judges as they.  It was simply a question as to
whether the deed could be done silently and in the darkness; and that
question was soon to receive an answer.

The trick of killing the unfortunate man with his own knife,--and making
it appear that he had committed self-destruction,--would have been too
shallow to have been successful under any other circumstances; but Le
Gros felt confident that there would be no very strict investigation;
and that the inquest likely to be held on the murdered man would be a
very informal affair.

In any case, the risk to him would be less than that he might expect on
the consummation of the combat,--the _finale_ of which would in all
probability, be the losing of his life.

He was no longer undecided about doing the foul deed.  He had quite
determined upon it; and the attempt now being made by his confederate to
steal the knife was the first stop towards its perpetration.

The theft was too successfully accomplished.  The wretch on getting up
to the rum-cask, was seen to sit down silently by its side; and, after a
few moments passed in this position he again rose erect, and moved back
towards the mast.  Dark as was the night, Le Gros could perceive
something glittering in the hand of his accomplice, which he knew must
be the coveted weapon.

It was so.  The sleeper had been surreptitiously disarmed.

For a moment the two men might have been seen standing in juxtaposition;
and while thus together the knife was furtively transferred from the
hand of the accomplice into that of the true assassin.

Then both, assuming a careless attitude, for a while remained near the
mast, apparently engaged in some ordinary conversation.  An occasional
shifting of their position, however, took place,--though so slight that,
even under a good light, it would scarce have been observed.  A series
of these movements, made at short intervals, ended in bringing the
conspirators close up to the empty hogshead; and then one of them sat
down by it.  The other, going round it, after a short lapse of time,
imitated the example of his companion by seating himself on the opposite
side.

Thus far there was nothing in the behaviour of the two men to have
attracted the attention of their associates on the raft,--even had the
latter been awake.  Even so, the obscurity that surrounded their
movements would have hindered them from being very clearly comprehended.

There was no eye watching the assassins, as they sat down by the side of
their sleeping victim; none fixed upon them as both simultaneously leant
over him with outstretched arms,--one holding what appeared a piece of
blanket over his face, as if to stifle his breath,--the other striking
down upon his breast with a glittering blade, as if stabbing him to the
heart.

The double action occupied scarce a second of time.  In the darkness, no
one appeared to perceive it, except they were its perpetrators.  No one
seemed to hear that choking, gurgling cry that accompanied it; or if
they did, it was only to shape a half conjecture, that some one of their
companions was indulging in a troubled dream!

The assassins, horror-stricken at what they had done, skulked
tremblingly back to their former position by the mast.

Their victim, stretched on his back, remained motionless upon the spot
where they had visited him; and anyone standing over him, as he lay,
might have supposed that he was still slumbering!

Alas! it was the slumber of death!



CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE.

DOUSING THE GLIM.

We left the crew of the _Catamaran_ in full occupation,--"smoking"
shark-flesh on the back of a _cachalot_ whale.

To make sure of a sufficient stock,--enough to last them with light
rations for a voyage, if need be, to the other side of the Atlantic,--
they had continued at the work all day long, and several hours into the
night.  They had kept the fire ablaze by pouring fresh spermaceti into
the furnace of flesh which they had constructed, or rather excavated, in
the back of the leviathan; and so far as that kind of fuel was
concerned, they might have gone on roasting shark-steaks for a
twelvemonth.  But they had proved that the spermaceti would not burn to
any purpose without a wick; and as their spare ropes were too precious
to be all picked into oakum, they saw the necessity of economising their
stock of the latter article.  But for this deficiency, they might have
permitted the furnace-lamp to burn on during the whole night, or until
it should go out by the exhaustion of the wick.

As they were not yet quite satisfied with the supply of broiled
shark-meat, they had resolved to take a fresh spell at roasting on the
morrow; and in order that the wick should not be idly wasted, they had
"doused the glim" before retiring to rest.

They had extinguished the flame in a somewhat original fashion,--by
pouring upon it a portion of the liquid spermaceti taken out of the
case.  The light, after giving a final flash, had gone out, leaving them
in utter darkness.

But they had no difficulty in finding their way back to the deck, of
their craft, where they designed passing the remainder of the night.
During the preceding days they had so often made the passage from
_Catamaran_ to _cachalot_, and _vice versa_, that they could have gone
either up or down blindfolded; and indeed they might as well have been
blindfolded on this their last transit for the night, so dense was the
darkness that had descended over the dead whale.

After groping their way over the slippery shoulders of the leviathan,
and letting themselves down by the rope they had attached to his huge
pectoral fin, they made their supper upon a portion of the hot roast
they had brought along with them; and, washing it down with a little
diluted "canary," they consigned themselves to rest.

Better satisfied with their prospects than they had been for some time
past, they soon fell asleep; and silence reigned around the dark
floating mass that included the forms of _cachalot_ and _Catamaran_.

At that same moment a less tranquil scene was occurring scarce ten miles
from the spot; for it is scarce necessary to say that the light seen by
the ruffians on the great raft--and which they had fancifully mistaken
for a ship's galley-fire,--was the furnace fed by spermaceti on the back
of the whale.

The extinction of the flame had led to a scene which was reaching its
maximum of noisy excitement at about the time that the crew of the
_Catamaran_ were munching their roast shark-meat and sipping their
canary.  This scene had continued long after every individual of the
latter had sunk into a sweet oblivion of the dangers that surrounded
them.

All four slept soundly throughout the remainder of the night.  Strange
to say, they felt a sort of security, moored alongside that monstrous
mass, which they would not have experienced had their frail tiny craft
been by itself alone upon the ocean.  It was but a fancied security, it
is true: still it had the effect of giving satisfaction to the spirit,
and through this, producing an artificial incentive to sleep.

It was daylight before any of them awoke,--or it should have been
daylight, by the hour: but there was a thick fog around them,--so thick
and dark that the carcass of the _cachalot_ was not visible from the
deck of the _Catamaran_, although only a few feet of water lay between
them.

Ben Brace was the first to bestir himself.  Snowball had never been an
early riser; and if permitted by his duties, or the neglect of them
either, he would have kept his couch till midday.  Ben, however, knew
that there was work to be done, and no time to be wasted in idleness.
The captain of the _Catamaran_ had given up all hopes of the return of
the whaler; and therefore the sooner they could complete their
arrangements for cutting adrift from the carcass, and continuing their
interrupted course towards the west, the better would be their chance of
ultimately reaching land.

Snowball, _sans ceremonie_, was shaken out of his slumbers; and the
process of restoring him to wakefulness also awoke little William and
Lilly Lalee,--so that the whole crew were now up and ready for action.

A hasty _dejeuner a la matelot_ served for the morning repast; after
which Snowball and the sailor, accompanied by the boy, climbed once more
upon the back of the _cachalot_ to resume the operations which had been
suspended for the night; while the girl, as usual, remained in charge of
the _Catamaran_.



CHAPTER EIGHTY.

SUSPICIOUS SOUNDS.

The ex-cook, in the lead of those who ascended to the summit of the
carcass, had some difficulty in finding his kitchen; but, after groping
some time over the glutinous epidermis of the animal, he at length laid
his claws upon the edge of the cavity.

The others joined him just as he had succeeded in inserting a bit of
fresh wick; and soon after a strong flame was established, and a fresh
spitful of shark-steaks hung frizzling over it.

Nothing more could be done than wait until the meat should be _done_.
There was no "basting" required,--only an occasional turning of the
steaks and a slight transposition of them on the harpoon spit,--so that
each should have due exposure to the flame.

These little culinary operations needed only occasional attention on the
part of the cook.  Snowball, who preferred the sedentary _pose_, as soon
as he saw his "range" in full operation, squatted down beside it.  His
companions remained standing.

Scarcely five minutes had passed, when the <DW64> was seen to make a
start as if some one had given him a kick in the shin.  Simultaneously
with that start the exclamation "Golly!" escaped from his lips.

"What be the matter, Snowy?" interrogated Brace.

"Hush!  Hab ye no hear nuffin'?"

"No," answered the sailor,--little William chiming in with the negative.

"I hab den,--I hab hear someting."

"What?"

"Dat I doan know."

"It's the frizzlin' o' those shark-steaks; or, maybe, some sea-bird
squeaking up in the air."

"No, neyder one nor todder.  Hush!  Massa Brace, I hab hear some soun'
'tirely diffrent,--somethin' like de voice ob human man.  You obsarb
silence.  Maybe we hear im agen."

Snowball's companions, though inclined to incredulity, obeyed his
injunction.  They might have treated it with less regard, had they not
known the Coromantee to be gifted with a sense of hearing that was
wonderfully acute.  His largely-developed ears would have proved this
capacity; but they knew that he possessed it, from having witnessed many
exhibitions of it previous to that time.  For this reason they yielded
to his double solicitation,--to remain silent and listen.

At this moment, to the surprise of Ben Brace and William, and not a
little to the astonishment of the <DW64>, a tiny voice reached them from
below,--which they all easily recognised as that of Lilly Lalee.

"O Snowball," called out the girl, addressing herself to her especial
protector, "I hear people speaking.  It's out upon the water.  Do you
not hear them?"

"Hush!  Lilly Lally," answered the <DW64>, speaking down to his _protege_
in a sort of hoarse whisper; "hush, Lilly, pet; doan you 'peak above him
Lilly Breff.  Keep 'till, dat a good gal."

The child, restrained by this string of cautionary appeals, offered no
further remark; and Snowball, making a sign for his companions to
continue silent, once more resumed his listening attitude.

Ben Brace and the boy, convinced by this additional testimony that the
Coromantee must have heard something more than the frizzling of the
shark-flesh, without saying a word, imitated his example, and eagerly
bent their ears to listen.

They had not long to wait before becoming convinced that Snowball _had_
heard something besides the spirting of the shark-steaks.  They heard
something more themselves.  They heard sounds that could not be mistaken
for those of the sea.  _They were the voices of Men_!

They were still at some distance,--though, perhaps, not so distant as
they seemed.  The thick fog, which, as every one knows, has the effect
of deadening sound, was to be taken into account; and, making allowance
for this, the voices heard might not be such a great way off.

Whatever was the distance, it was constantly becoming less.  The
listeners could tell this, ere they had stood many minutes listening.
Whoever gave utterance to those sounds--words they were--must be moving
onward,--coming towards the carcass of the _cachalot_.

How were they coming?  They could not be walking upon the water: they
must be aboard a ship?

This interrogatory occurred to those who stood upon the whale.  Could
they have answered it in the affirmative, their own voices would soon
have been uplifted in a joyous huzza; while the hail "Ship ahoy!" would
have been sent through the sombre shadows of the mist, in the hope of
its receiving an answer.

Why was the hail not heard?  Why did the crew of the _Catamaran_ stand
listening to those voices without making challenge, and with looks that
betokened apprehension rather than relief?

Six words that escaped from the lips of Ben Brace will explain the
silence of himself and his companions, as well at the dissatisfied air
that had impressed itself upon their faces.  The six words were:--

"_Dangnation! it be the big raft_!"



CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE.

UNPLEASANT CONJECTURES.

"Dangnation! it be the big raft."

Such was the singular speech that fell from the lips of the sailor, and
with an accent that proclaimed it ominous.  And why ominous?  Why should
the presence of that embarkation--known to them as the "big raft"--cause
apprehension to the crew of the _Catamaran_?

So far as Ben Brace and little William were concerned, the question has
been already answered.  It may be remembered with what feelings of alarm
they first listened to the voices of Snowball and Lilly Lalee,--heard in
a similar manner during the darkness of the night,--and with what
suspicious caution they had made their approach to the Coromantee in the
middle of his casks.  It may be remembered for what reason they were
thus suspicious, for it was then given,--a dread on the part of
William--and a great one, too--of being devoured by that cannibal crew;
and on the part of his generous protector a fear of becoming a victim to
their revenge.

The same motive for their fears still existed; and their apprehension of
being approached by the raft was as unabated as ever.

Snowball's dread of the _Pandora's_ people might not have been so acute,
but for a certain circumstance that came before his mind.  He had been
made aware,--by sundry ill-usage he had received from the slaver's
captain and mate, just previous to the climax of the catastrophe,--that
he was himself regarded as the author of it.  He knew he had been; and
he supposed that the thing must have become known to the rest of the
crew.  He had not encountered them afterwards; and well had it been for
him,--for certainly they would have wreaked their vengeance upon him
without stint Snowball had sense enough to be aware of this; and
therefore his aversion to any further intercourse with the castaways of
the lost ship was quite as strong as that of either Ben Brace or the
boy.

As for Lilly Lalee, her fears were due to a less definite cause, and
only arose from observing the apprehension of her companions.

"De big raff," said Snowball, mechanically repeating the sailor's last
words.  "You b'lieve 'im be dat, Massa Brace?"

"Shiver my timbers if I know what to think, Snowy!  If it be that--"

"Ef 'im be dat, wha' den?" inquired the Coromantee, seeing that Brace
had stopped short in what he was going to say.

"Why, only that we're in an ugly mess.  There's no reason to think they
have picked up a stock o' provisions, since we parted wi' them.  I don't
know how they've stuck it out,--that is, supposin' it be them.  They may
have got shark-meat like ourselves; or they have lived upon--"

The sailor suddenly suspended his speech, glancing towards William, as
if what he was about to say had better not reach the ears of the lad.

Snowball, however, understood him,--as was testified by a significant
shake of the head.

"As for water," continued the sailor, "they had some left; but not
enough to have lasted them to this time.  They had rum,--oceans o'
that,--but it 'ud only make things worse.  True, they mout a caught some
o' the rain in their shirts and tarpaulins, as we did; but they weren't
the sort to be careful o' it wi' a rum-cask standin' by; an' I dar say,
by this time, though they may have some'at to eat,--as you knows,
Snowy,--they'll be dyin' for a drop o' drink.  In that case--"

"In dat case, dey rob us ob de whole stock we hab save.  Den we perish
fo' sartin."

"Sure o' that, at least," continued the sailor.  "But they wouldn't stop
by robbin' us o' our precious water.  They'd take everything; an' most
likely our lives into the bargain.  Let us hope it ain't them we've
heard."

"Wha' you say, Master Brace?  'Pose 'um be de capten an' dem odders in
de gig?  Wha' you tink?"

"It mout," answered the sailor.  "I warn't thinkin' o' them.  It mout
be; an' if so, we han't so much to fear as from t' other 'uns.  They
arn't so hard up, I should say; or even if they be, there arn't so many
o' 'em to bully us.  There were only five or six o' them.  I should be
good for any three o' that lot myself; an' I reckon you an' Will'm here
could stan' a tussle wi' the others.  Ah!  I wish it war them.  But it
arn't likely: they had a good boat an' a compass in it; and if they've
made any use o' their oars, they ought to be far from here long afore
this.  You've got the best ears, <DW65>: keep them well set, an' listen.
You know the voices o' the ole _Pan's_ crew.  See if you can make 'em
out."

During the above dialogue, which had been carried on in an undertone,--a
whisper, in fact,--the mysterious voices had not been again
distinguished.  When first heard, they appeared to proceed from two or
more men engaged in conversation; and, as we have said, were only very
indistinct,--either from the speakers being at a distance or talking in
a low tone of voice.

The Catamarans now listened, expecting to hear some words pronounced in
a louder tone; and yet not wishing to hear them.  Rather would they that
those voices should never again sound in their ears.

For a time it seemed us if they were going to have this wish gratified.
Full ten minutes elapsed, and no sound reached their ears, either of
human or other voice.

This silence was at first satisfactory; but all at once a reflection
came across the mind of Ben Brace, which gave a new turn to his thoughts
and wishes.

What if the voices heard had come from a different sort of men?  Why
should they be those of the slaver's castaway crew,--either the ruffians
on the raft or the captain's party in the gig?  What, after all, if they
had proceeded from the decks of the whaler?

The old whalesman had not thought of this before; and, now that he did
think of it, it caused such a commotion in his mind, that he could
hardly restrain himself from crying out "Ship ahoy!"

He was hindered, however, by a quick reflection that counselled him to
caution.  In case of its not being the whaler's men that had been heard
it must be those of the slaver; and the hail would but too certainly be
the precursor to his own destruction, as well as that of his companions.

In a whisper he communicated his thoughts to Snowball, who became
equally affected by them,--equally inclined to cry "Ship ahoy!" and
alike conscious of the danger of doing so.

A strife of thought was now carried on in the bosoms of both.  It was
lamentable to reflect, that they might be close to a ship,--within
hailing distance of her,--which could at once have rescued them from all
the perils that surrounded them; and that this ship might be silently
gliding past, shrouded from their sight under that thick fog,--in
another hour to be far off upon the ocean, never to come within hailing
distance again!

A single word--a shout--might save them; and yet they dared not utter
it; for the same shout might equally betray, and lead to their
destruction.

They were strongly tempted to risk the ambiguous signal.  For some
seconds they stood wavering between silence and "Ship ahoy!" but caution
counselled the former, and prudence at length triumphed.

This course was not adopted accidentally.  A process of reasoning that
passed through the mind of the old whalesman,--founded upon his former
professional experiences,--conducted him to it.

If it be the whale-ship, reasoned he, she must have come back in search
of the _cachalot_.  Her crew must have known that they had killed it.
The "drogues" and flag proved that belief on their part, and the
ex-whalesman knew that it would be well worth their while to return in
search of the whale.  It was this very knowledge that had sustained his
hopes, and delayed him so long by its carcass.  A whale, which would
have yielded nearly a hundred barrels of spermaceti, was a prize not to
be picked up every day in the middle of the ocean; and he knew that such
a treasure would not be abandoned without considerable search having
first been made to recover it.

All this was in favour of the probability that the voices heard had
proceeded from the whale-ship; and if so, it was farther probable that
in the midst of that fog, while bent upon such an errand, the crew would
not care to make way; but, on the contrary, would "lay to," and wait for
the clearing of the atmosphere.

In that case the Catamarans might still expect to see the welcome ship
when the fog should rise; and with this hope they came to the
determination to keep silence.

The hour was still very early,--the sun scarce yet above the horizon.
When that luminary should appear, his powerful rays would soon dissipate
the darkness; and then, if not before, would they ascertain whether
those voices had proceeded from the throats of monsters or of men.



CHAPTER EIGHTY TWO.

AN INFORMAL INQUEST.

They did not have to stay for the scattering of the fog.  Long before
the sun had lifted that veil from off the face of the sea, the crew of
the _Catamaran_ had discovered the character of their neighbours.  They
were not friends, but dire enemies,--the very enemies they so much
dreaded.

The discovery was not delayed.  It was made soon after, and in the
following manner:--

The three--Snowball, the sailor, and little William--had kept their
place on the carcass of the _cachalot_, all three attentively
listening,--the two last standing up, and the former in a reclining
attitude, with his huge ear laid close to the skin of the whale,--as
though he believed that to be a conductor of sound.  There was no need
for them to have been thus straining their ears: for when a sound
reached them at length, it was that of a voice,--so harsh and loud, that
a deaf man might almost have heard it.

"_Sacre_!" exclaimed the voice, apparently pronounced in an accent of
surprise, "look here, comrades!  Here's a dead man among us!"

Had it been the demon of the mist that gave utterance to these speeches,
they could not have produced a more fearful effect upon those who heard
them from the back of the _cachalot_.  The accent, along with that
profane shibboleth, might have proceeded from anyone who spoke the
language of France; but the tone of the voice could not be mistaken.  It
had too often rung in their ears with a disagreeable emphasis.  "Massa
Le Grow, dat am," muttered the <DW64>.  "Anybody tell dat."

Snowball's companions made no reply.  None was required.  Other voices
rose up out of the mist.

"A dead man!" shouted a second.  "Sure enough.  Who is it?"

"It's the Irishman!" proclaimed a third.  "See!  He's been killed!
There's a knife sticking between his ribs!  He's been murdered!"

"That's his own knife," suggested some one.  "I know it; because it once
belonged to me.  If you look you'll find his name on the haft.  He
graved it there the very day he bought it from me."

There was an interval of silence, as if they had paused to confirm the
suggestion of the last speaker.

"You're right," said one, resuming the informal inquest.  "There's his
name, sure enough,--_Larry O'Gorman_."

"He's killed himself!" suggested a voice not hitherto heard.  "He's
committed suicide!"

"I don't wonder at his doing so," said another, confirmingly.  "He
expected to have to die anyhow; and I suppose he thought the sooner it
was off his mind the better it would be for him."

"How's that?" inquired a fresh speaker, who appeared to dissent from the
opinions of those that had preceded him.  "Why should he expect to die
any more than the rest of us?"

"You forget, mate, that the fight was not finished between him and
Monsieur Le Gros?"

"No, I don't forget it.  Well?"

"Well, yourself!"

"It don't follow he was to be the next to die,--not as I can see.  Look
at this, comrades!  There's been foul play here!  The Irishman's been
stabbed with his own knife.  That's plain enough; but it is not so sure
he did it himself, Why should he?  I say again, there's been foul play?"

"And who do you accuse of foul play?"

"I don't accuse anyone.  Let them bring the charge, as have seen
something.  Somebody must know how this came about.  There's been a
murder.  Can anyone tell who did it?"

There was a pause of silence of more than a minute in duration.  No one
made answer.  If anyone knew who was the murderer, they failed to
proclaim it.

"Look here, mates!" put in one, whose sharp voice sounded like the cry
of a hyena, "I'm hungry as a starved shark.  Suppose we suspend this
inquest, till we've had breakfast.  After that we can settle who's done
the deed,--if there's been anyone, except the man himself.  What say ye
all?"

The horrid proposal was not replied to by anyone.  The loud shout that
succeeded it sprang from a different cause; and the words that were
afterwards uttered had no reference to the topic under consideration.

"A light! a light!" came the cry, vociferated by several voices.

"It's the light we saw last night.  It's the galley-fire!  There's a
ship within a hundred yards of us!"

"Ship ahoy! ship ahoy!"

"Ship ahoy! what ship's that?"

"Why the devil don't you answer our hail?"

"To the oars, men! to the oars.  _Sacre-dieu_!  The lubbers must be
asleep.  Ship ahoy! ship ahoy!"

There was no mistaking the signification of these speeches.  The sailor
and Snowball exchanged glances of despair.  Both had already looked
behind them.  There, blazing fiercely up, was the fire of spermaceti,
with the shark-steaks browning in its flame.  In the excitement of the
moment they had forgotten all about it.  Its light, gleaming through the
fog, had betrayed their presence to those upon the raft; and the order
issued to take to the oars, with the confused plashing that quickly
followed, told the Catamarans that the big raft was about to bear down
upon them!



CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE.

SLIPPING THE CABLE.

"Dar coming on!" muttered Snowball.  "Wha' we better do, Massa Brace?
Ef we stay hya dey detroy us fo' sartin."

"Stay here!" exclaimed the sailor, who no longer spoke in whispers,
since such would no longer avail.  "Anything but that.  Quick, Snowy,--
quick, Will'm!  Back down to the deck o' our craft.  Let's make all
speed, and cast off from the karkiss o' the whale.  There be time enough
yet; and then it'll be, who's got the heels.  Don't be so bad skeeart,
Snowy.  The ole _Catamaran_ be a trim craft.  I built her myself, wi'
your help, <DW65>; an' I've got faith in her speed.  We'll outsail 'em
yet."

"Dat we will, Massa Brace," assented Snowball, as, close following the
sailor, he glided down the rope on to the deck of the _Catamaran_, where
little William had already arrived.

It was the work of only a few minutes to cut the tiny cable by which the
little embarkation had been attached to the fin of the _cachalot_, and
push the craft clear of its moorings.

But, short as was the time, during its continuance the sun had produced
a wonderful change in that oceanic panorama.

The floating fog, absorbed by his fervid rays, had almost disappeared
from the deep, or at all events had become so dissipated that the
different objects composing that strange tableau in the proximity of the
dead _cachalot_ could all be seen by a single _coup d'oeil_; and were
also in sight of one another.

There was the huge carcass itself, looming like a great black rock above
the surface of the sea.  Just parting from its side was the little
_Catamaran_, with its sail set, and its crew,--consisting of two men and
a boy,--the little Portuguese girl appearing as a passenger,--the two
men energetically bending to the oars while the boy held hold of the
rudder.

Scarce a hundred yards astern was the larger embarkation,--supporting
its score of dark forms,--some seated, and straining at the oars,--some
steering,--others attending to the sail; and one or two standing by the
head, shouting directions to the rest,--all apparently in wonder at the
tableau thus suddenly disclosed, and uncertain what to make of it, or
what course to pursue!

The occupants of the great raft were infinitely more astonished than
those of the _Catamaran_.  On the part of the latter there was no longer
any astonishment.  On recognising the voices taking part in that
ceremonious inquest they had comprehended all.  The surprise they had at
first felt was now changed into terror.

The men on the raft were still under the influence of astonishment; and
no wonder.  The apparition that had so suddenly loomed up before their
eyes,--at first obscurely seen through the fog, but gradually becoming
more distinct,--was enough to cause any amount of surprise.  Such a
grouping of strange objects in such a situation!  The huge carcass of a
whale,--a fire upon its back, with bright flames blazing upward,--a
crane over the fire with the curious flitches suspended from it,--a
raft, in some respects resembling their own, supported by empty casks,
and carrying a sail, with four human beings seen upon its deck,--all
these formed a series of phenomena, or facts, that was enough to have
excited the surprise of the most indifferent observers.  Some of the men
were even speechless with wonder, and so continued for a time, while
others gave vent to their astonishment in loud shouts and excited
gesticulations.

That first order issued by Le Gros--for it was his voice that had been
heard giving it--had no other object than to cause a rapid movement
towards the dark mass, or rather the beacon seen blazing upon its
summit.  The order had been instantly obeyed; for there was an
instinctive apprehension on the part of all that, as before, the light
might again vanish from their view.

As they drew nearer, however, and the fog continued to disperse, they
obtained a fairer view.  Their surprise was not much diminished, though
their comprehension of the objects before them became rapidly clearer.

The retreat of the Catamarans--for the movements of the latter
proclaimed this design--was of itself suggestive; and, perhaps, more
than aught else, enabled those from whom they were retreating to
comprehend the situation.

At first they could not even conjecture who they were that occupied the
little raft.  They saw four human beings upon it; but the mist was still
thick enough to hinder them from having a clear view of either their
forms, faces, or features.  Through the filmy atmosphere to recognise
them was impossible.  Had there been but two, and had the embarkation
that carried them been a mere platform of planks, they might have shaped
a conjecture.  They remembered that upon such a structure Ben Brace and
the boy had given them the slip; and it might be them.  But who were the
two others?  And whence came the six water-casks, the sail, and other
paraphernalia seen upon the escaping craft?

They did not stay to waste time in conjectures.  It was enough for them
to perceive that the four individuals thus seen were trying to get out
of their reach.  This was _prima facie_ proof that they had something
worth carrying along with them; perhaps water!

Some one made use of the word.  It was like proclaiming a reprieve to a
wretch upon the scaffold about to be launched into eternity.  It caused
such excitement in the minds of the motley crew--all of them suffering
from extreme thirst--that, without further hesitancy, they bent eagerly
to their oars,--putting forth the utmost effort of their strength in
chase of the _Catamaran_.



CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR.



CHAPTER LXXXIV.

The Chase.

Half pulling, half trusting to the sail, in a few seconds they were
alongside the carcass of the _cachalot_.  They saw what it was and
divined how it came to be there; though still puzzled by the pyrotechnic
display exhibited on its summit.

As they passed under the shadow of the huge mass some proposed that they
should stay by it,--alleging that it would furnish food for all; but
this proposal was rejected by the majority.

"_Pardieu_!" exclaimed the directing voice of Le Gros; "we have food a
plenty.  It's drink we want now.  There's no water upon the whale; and
there must be some in possession of these runaways, whoever they be.
Let us first follow _them_!  If we overhaul them, we can come back.  If
not, we can return all the same!"

This proposal appeared too reasonable to be rejected.  A muttered assent
of the majority decided its acceptance; and the raft, yielding to the
renewed impulse of the rowers, swept past the carcass,--leaving both the
black mass and the blazing beacon astern.

As if further to justify the course of action he had counselled, Le Gros
continued--

"No fear about our finding the dead fish.  This fog is clearing away.
In half an hour there won't be a trace of it.  We shall be able to make
out the carcass if the whale twenty miles off,--especially with the
smoke of that infernal fire to guide us.  Pull like the devil!  Be sure
of it, there's water in one of those casks we see.  Only think of
it,--_water_!"

It scarce needed the repetition of this magic word to stimulate his
thirsty companions.  They were already pulling with all their strength.

For about ten minutes the chase continued,--both the pursued and the
pursuer equally enveloped in vapour.  They were less than two hundred
yards apart, and virtually within view,--though not so near as to
distinguish one another's features.  Each crew could make out the forms
of the other; but only to tell that they were human beings clad in some
sort of costume.

In this respect the Catamarans had the advantage.  They knew who were
their pursuers; and all about them.

The latter were still in a state of ignorance as to who were the four
individuals so zealously endeavouring to avoid an interview with them.
They could perceive that only two of them were full-grown men, and that
the other two were of smaller size; but this gave them no clew for the
identification of the fugitives.

Of course it did not occur to any of them to think over the rest of the
_Pandora's_ people; and even if it had, there was no one who would have
for a moment supposed that either the black cook, Snowball, or the
little Portuguese pickaninny,--rarely seen upon the slaver's deck,--
could be among the survivors.

Such a conjecture never occurred to any of the ruffians upon the great
raft; and therefore they were continuing the chase still ignorant of the
identity of those who seemed so desirous of escaping them.

It was only after the fog had floated entirely away,--or grown so thin
as to appear but transparent film,--that the pursuers identified those
they were pursuing.

Then did their doubts cease and their conjectures come to a termination.

Of the four forms distinguishable upon the deck of the escaping craft,
there was one that could not be mistaken.

That huge, rounded bust covered with its sable epidermis--for the <DW64>
had stripped to his work,--surmounted by a spherical occiput,--could
belong to no living creature but the ex-cook of the _Pandora_.  It was
Snowball to a certainty!

A general shout proclaimed the recognition; and for some moments the air
was rent with the voices of his _ci-devant_ comrades calling upon the
Coromantee to "come to an anchor."

"Lie to, Snowball!" cried several of his old comrades.  "Why have you
cut your cable in that fashion?  Hold on till we come up.  We mean you
no harm!"

Snowball did hold on; though not in the sense that his former associates
desired.  On the contrary, their request only stimulated him to fresh
exertions, to avoid the renewal of an acquaintance which he knew would
certainly end in his ruin.

The Coromantee was not to be cajoled.  With Ben Brace by his side,
muttering wholesome counsel, he lent a deaf ear to the proposal of the
pursuers; and only answered it by pulling more energetically at his oar.

What had been only a request, now became a demand,--accompanied by
threats and protestation.  Snowball was menaced with the most dire
vengeance; and told of terrible punishments that awaited him on his
capture.

Their threats had no more influence than their solicitations; and they
who had given utterance to them arriving after a time, at this
conviction, ceased talking altogether.

Snowball's silent, though evidently determined, rejection of their
demands had the effect of irritating those who had made them; and
stimulated by their spite with more energy than ever did they bend
themselves to the task of overtaking the fugitive craft.

Two hundred yards still lay between pursuer and pursued.  Two hundred
yards of clear, unobstructed ocean.  Was that distance to become
diminished, to the capture of the _Catamaran_; or was it to be
increased, to her escape?



CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE.

NEARER AND NEARER.

Were the _Catamarans_ to escape or be captured?  Though not propounded
as above, this was the question that occupied the minds of both crews,--
the pursued and the pursuing.

Both were doing their very utmost,--the former to make their escape, the
latter to prevent it; and very different were the motives by which the
two parties were actuated.  The occupants of the lesser raft believed
themselves to be rowing and sailing for their lives; and they were not
far astray in this belief; while those upon the larger embarkation were
pulling after them with the most hostile intentions,--to rob them of
everything they had got,--even their lives included.

So went they over the wide ocean: the pursued exerting themselves under
the influence of fear; the pursuer, under that of a ferocious instinct.

In sailing qualities the _Catamaran_ was decidedly superior to the
larger raft; and had the wind been only a little fresher she would soon
have increased the distance between herself and her pursuer.

Unfortunately it was a very gentle breeze that was blowing at the time;
and therefore it was a contest of speed that would most likely have to
be decided by the oars.  In this respect the _Catamaran_ laboured under
a great disadvantage,--she could only command a single pair of oars;
while, taking into account the various implements--capstan-bars and
handspikes--possessed by her competitor, nearly a dozen oars might be
reckoned upon.  In fact, when her crew had got fairly settled down to
the chase, quite this number of men could be seen acting as rowers.

Though their strokes were by no means either regular or efficient, still
did they produce a rate of speed greater than that of the _Catamaran_;
and the crew of the latter saw, to their dismay, that their pursuers
were gaining upon them.

Not very rapidly, but sufficiently so to be perceived, and to inspire
them with the dread belief, that in course of time they would be
overtaken.

Under this belief, men of a despairing turn of mind would have ceased to
exert themselves, and yielded to a fate that appeared almost certain to
ensue.

But neither the English sailor nor the Coromantee sea-cook were
individuals of the yielding kind.  They were both made of sterner
stuff,--and even when the chase was undoubtedly going _against_ them,
they were heard muttering to each other words of encouragement, and a
mutual determination never to lay down their oars, so long as six feet
of water separated them from their unpitying pursuers.

"No," ejaculated the sailor, "it 'ud be no use.  They'd show us no more
marcy than so many sharks.  I know it by their ways.  Don't lose a
stroke, Snowy.  We may tire 'em out yet."

"Nebba fear fo' me, Massa Brace!" replied the Coromantee.  "A keep
pullin' so long's de be a poun' o' trength in ma arms, or a bit o' breff
in ma body.  Nebba fear!"

It might appear as though the crew of the _Catamaran_ were now
contending against fate, and without hope.  This, however, was not the
case; for there was still something like a hope to cheer them on, and
nerve them to continue their exertions.  What was it?

The answer to this interrogatory would have been found by anyone who
could have looked upon the sea,--at some distance astern of the chase.

There might have been observed an appearance upon the water, which
betokened it different from that through which they were making their
way.

It resembled a dark, shadowy line, extending athwart the horizon.  It
might not have attracted the notice of an ordinary observer, but to the
eye of Ben Brace,--as he sat by his oar facing it,--that dark line had a
peculiar signification.

He knew that it denoted rougher water, and a stiffer breeze than that
blowing upon them; and from this, as well as the clouds fast gathering
astern, he knew there was a wind coming from that quarter.

He had imparted his observation to Snowball, and it was this that
continued to inspire them with a hope of ultimate escape.  Both believed
that, with a strong wind in their favour, they would have the advantage
of the pursuer; and so, while still bending all their energies to the
propulsion of the _Catamaran_, they kept their eyes almost continually
fixed upon the sea astern,--even with a more anxious glance than that
with which they regarded their pursuers.

"If we can keep out o' their way," muttered he to his fellow oarsman,
"only twenty minutes longer!  By that time yonder breeze 'll be down on
us; and then we'll ha' some chance.  There be no doubt but they're
gainin' on us now.  But the breeze be a gainin' on them,--equally, if
not faster.  O if we only had a puff o' yonder wind!  It be blowin'
fresh and strong.  I can see it curlin' up the water not three knots
astarn o' the big raft.  Pull for your life, Snowy.  Shiver my timbers!
they be a gainin' on us faster than ever!"

There was a despairing tone in these last words, that told how fearful
appeared their situation to the captain of the _Catamaran_; and the sign
of assent made by Snowball in reply,--an ominous shake of the head,--
showed that the ex-cook shared the apprehensions of his comrade.



CHAPTER EIGHTY SIX.

CUT IN TWAIN.

For some seconds the sailor and Snowball remained silent,--both too busy
with their oars, as well as their eyes, to find time for speech.

Their pursuers were noisy enough.  They had kept quiet, so long as there
appeared to be any uncertainty about the results of the chase; but as
soon as they became assured that their clumsy craft was going faster
than that of which they were in pursuit,--and they no longer felt doubt
about overtaking the latter,--their fiendish voices once more filled the
air; and commands for the Catamarans to come to,--with threats of
revenge in case of non-compliance,--were hurled after the fugitives.

One man was conspicuous among the rest both for the position which he
held upon the raft and the menacing words and gestures of which he made
use.  This man was Le Gros.

Standing prominently forward, near the head of the embarkation, with a
long boat-hook in his hand, he appeared to direct the movements of the
others,--urging them in every way to their utmost exertions.  He was
heard telling them that he saw both food and water in possession of the
fugitives--a cask of the latter, as he stated, being lashed to the
_Catamaran_.

It need scarce be said that the statement--whether true or fallacious,--
acted as a stimulus to his comrades at the oar.  The word "water" was
music to their ears; and, on hearing it pronounced, one and all of them
put forth their utmost strength.

The increased speed thus obtained for the larger craft war likely to
bring about the crisis.  She was now seen to gain upon the lesser more
rapidly than ever; and, before another ten minutes had elapsed, she had
forged so close to the stern timbers of the _Catamaran_ that an active
man might almost have leaped from one to the other.

The crew of the latter beheld the proximity with despair.  They saw the
black waves, with white curling crests, coming on behind.  They saw the
sky becoming overcast above their heads; but it appeared only to scowl
upon them,--as if to make darker the dread doom that was now threatening
so near.

"Shiver my timbers!" cried the sailor, alluding to that too tardy wind,
"it will be too late to save us!"

"Too late!" echoed the voice of Le Gros from the big raft, his white
teeth, as they shone through his black beard, imparting to him a
ferocity of aspect that was hideous to behold.  "Too late, you say,
Monsieur Brace.  For what, may I ask?  Not too late for us to get a
drink out of your water-cask.  Ha! ha! ha!"

"You son of a sea-cook!" he continued, addressing himself to the <DW64>;
"why don't you hold your oars?  _Sacre-Dieu_! what's the use, you ugly
<DW65>?  Don't you see we'll board you in six seconds more?  Drop your
oars, I say, and save time.  If you don't, we'll skin you alive when
we've got our flippers upon you."

"Nebba, Massa Grow!" defiantly retorted Snowball? "you nebba 'kin dis
nigga 'live.  He go die 'fore you do dat.  He got him knife yet.  By
golly! me kill more than one ob you 'fore gib in.  So hab a care, Massa
Grow!  You lay hand on ole Snowy, you cotch de tarnel goss."

To this threat of resistance the Frenchman did not vouchsafe reply: for
the rafts were now so near to each other that his attention became
engrossed by something that left no time for further speech.

He saw that the _Catamaran_ was within reach of his boat-hook, and,
leaning forwards with the long shaft extended, he struck its
grappling-iron into her stern timber.

For a second or two there was a struggle, which would have ended in the
two rafts being brought in contact with one another but for an adroit
stroke given by the oar of the English sailor.  This not only detached
the boat-hook from its grip, but also from the grasp of Le Gros, and
sent the implement shivering through the air.

At the same instant of time the Frenchman, losing his balance, was seen
to stagger, and then sink suddenly downwards; not into a prostrate
position, but perpendicularly,--as if his legs had penetrated between
the timbers of the raft.

This was exactly what had occurred: for as soon as the spectators in
both crafts could recover from their surprise, they saw only so much of
Monsieur Le Gros as lay between his armpits and the crown of his head,--
his limbs and the lower half of his body being concealed between the
planks that prevented him from sinking wholly into the water.

Perhaps it would have been better for him had he made a complete plunge
of it.  At all events, a bold "header" could not have had for him a more
unfortunate ending.  Scarce had he sunk between the timber when a wild
shriek came forth from his throat,--accompanied by a pallor of
countenance, and a contortion of his features, that proclaimed something
more than a mere "start" received by suddenly sinking waist-deep into
the sea.

One of his comrades,--the confederate ruffian already spoken of,--rushed
forward to raise him out of the trap,--from which he was evidently
unable to extricate himself.

The man caught hold of him by the arms, and was dragging him up; when,
all at once, he was seen to let go, and start back with a cry of horror!

This singular conduct was explained on looking at the object from which
he had made such a precipitate retreat.  It was no longer Le Gros, nor
even Le Gros's body; but only the upper half of it, cut off by the
abdomen, as clean as if it had been severed by a pair of gigantic
shears!

"A shark!" cried a voice, which only gave utterance to the thought that
sprung up simultaneously in the minds of all,--both the occupants of the
big raft, and the crew of the Catamaran.

Thus deplorably terminated the life of a sinful man; who certainly
merited punishment, and, perhaps deserved no better fate.



CHAPTER EIGHTY SEVEN.

AN UNLOOKED-FOR DELIVERANCE.

A spectacle so unexpected,--but, above all, of such a horrid nature,--
could not fail to produce a powerful impression upon those who were
witnesses to it.  It even caused a change of proceedings on the part of
the pursuers,--almost a suspension of the pursuit,--and on that of the
pursued some relaxation in their efforts to escape.  Both parties
appeared for some seconds as if spellbound, and the oars on both rafts
were for a while held "apeak."

This pause in the action was in favour of the _Catamaran_, whose sailing
qualities were superior to those of her pursuer.  Her crew, moreover,
less caring for what had happened to Monsieur Le Gros, were the first to
recover from their surprise; and before the comrades of the half-eaten
Frenchman thought of continuing the chase, they had forced ahead several
lengths of their craft from the dangerous contiguity so near being
established between them.

The ruffian crew--now castaways--of the _Pandora_ had been awed by the
strange incident,--so much so as to believe, for a time, that something
more than chance had interfered to bring it about.  They were not all
friends of the unfortunate man, who had succumbed to such a singular
fate.  The inquest that had been interrupted was still fresh in their
minds, and many of them believed that the inquiry--had it proceeded to a
just termination--would have resulted in proving the guilt of Le Gros,
and proclaiming him the murderer of O'Gorman.

Under this belief, there were many aboard the big raft that would not
have cared to continue the chase any further, had it merely been to
avenge the death of their late leader.  With them, as with the others,
there was a different motive for doing so,--a far more powerful
incentive,--and that was the thirst which tortured all, and the belief
that the escaping craft carried the means to relieve it.

The moiety of their mutilated chief, lying along the planks of the raft,
engaged their thoughts only for a very short while; and was altogether
forgotten, when the cry of "Water!" once more rising in their midst,
urged them to resume the pursuit.

Once more did they betake themselves to their oars,--once more did they
exert their utmost strength,--but with far less effect than before.
They were still stimulated by the torture of thirst; but they no longer
acted with that unanimity which secures success.  The head that had
hitherto guided them with those imperious eyes--now glaring ghastly from
the extremity of the severed trunk--was no longer of authority among
them; and they acted in that undecided and irregular manner always
certain to result in defeat.

Perhaps, had things continued as they were, they might have made up for
the lost opportunity; and, in time, have overtaken the fugitives on the
_Catamaran_; but during that excited interval a change had come over the
surface of the sea, which influenced the fate both of pursuers and
pursued.

The dark line, first narrowly observed by the crew of the _Catamaran_
upon the distant verge of the horizon, was no longer a mere streak of
shadowed water.  It had developed during the continuance of the chase,
and now covered both sea and sky,--the latter with black cumbrous
clouds, the former with quick curling waves, that lashed the water-casks
supporting both rafts, and proclaimed the approach, if not of a storm,
at least a fresh breeze,--likely to change the character of the chase
hitherto kept up between them.

And very quickly came that change to pass.  By the time that the
castaways on the great raft had once more headed their clumsy
embarkation to the pursuit, they saw the more trim craft,--by her
builders yclept the _Catamaran_--with her sails spread widely to the
wind, gliding rapidly out of their reach, and "walking the water like a
thing of life."

They no longer continued the pursuit.  They might have done so, but for
the waves that now, swelling up around the raft, admonished them of a
danger hitherto unknown.  With the spray rushing over them, and the sea,
at each fresh assault, threatening to engulf their ill-governed craft,
they found sufficient employment for their remaining strength, in
clinging to the timbers of their rude embarkation.



CHAPTER EIGHTY EIGHT.

A THREATENED STORM.

Thus, once more, were the Catamarans delivered from a terrible danger,--
almost literally "from the jaws of death"; and once more, too, by what
appeared a providential interference.

Ben Brace actually believed it so.  It would have been difficult for
anyone to have thought otherwise; but the moral mind of the sailor had
of late undergone some very serious transformations; and the perils
through which they had been passing,--with their repeated deliverances,
all apparently due to some unseen hand,--had imbued him with a belief
that the Almighty must be everywhere,--even in the midst of the
illimitable ocean.

It was this faith that had sustained him through the many trials through
which they had gone; and that, in the very latest and last,--when the
ruffians upon the raft were fast closing upon the _Catamaran_,--had led
him to give encouraging counsels to Snowball to keep on.  It had
encouraged him, in fine, to strike the boat-hook from the grasp of Le
Gros,--which act had ended by putting their implacable enemy _hors du
combat_, and conducting to their final deliverance.

It was this belief that still hindered the brave mariner,--now that the
sea began to surge around them, and the spray to dash over the deck of
their frail craft,--hindered him from giving way to a new despair; and
from supposing that they had been only delivered from one danger to be
overwhelmed by another.

For some time did it seem as if this was to be their fate,--as if,
literally, they were to be overwhelmed.  The breeze which had so
opportunely carried the _Catamaran_ beyond the reach of the pursuing
raft, soon freshened into a gale; and threatened to continue increasing
to that still more dreaded condition of the ocean atmosphere,--a storm.

The rafts were no longer in sight of each other.  Scarce five minutes
had elapsed, after being grappled by Le Gros, when the breeze had caught
hold of the _Catamaran_; and, from her superior sailing qualities, she
had soon become separated from the more clumsy embarkation of the enemy.

In another hour, the _Catamaran_, under good steering, had swept several
miles to westward; while the raft, no longer propelled by oars, and its
rudder but ill-directed, had gone drifting about: as if they who
occupied it were making only a despairing effort to keep it before the
wind.

Despite the rising gale and the increasing roughness of the water, there
were no despairing people upon the _Catamaran_.  Supported by his faith
in providential protection, Ben Brace acted as if there was no danger;
and encouraged his companions to do the same.

Every precaution was adopted to provide against accidents.  As soon as
they saw that the pursuer was left behind,--and they were no longer in
any peril from that quarter,--the sail was lowered upon the mast, as
there was too great a breadth of it for the constantly freshening
breeze.  It was not taken in altogether, but only "shortened,"--reefed
in a rude fashion,--so as to expose only half its surface to the wind;
and this proved just sufficient to keep the _Catamaran_ "trim" and
steady upon her course.

It would not be correct to say that her captain and crew felt no fears
for her safety.  On the contrary, they experienced the apprehensions
natural to such a situation; and for this reason did they take every
precaution against the danger that threatened.  The Coromantee might
have given way to a feeling of fatalism,--peculiar to his country and
class,--but there was no danger of Ben Brace doing so.  Notwithstanding
his faith about being protected by Providence, the sailor also believed,
that self-action is required on the part of those who stand in need of
such protection; and that nothing should be left undone to deserve it.

The situation was altogether new to them.  It was the first thing in the
shape of a storm, or even a gale, they had encountered since the
construction of their curious craft.  Ever since the burning of the
_Pandora_, they had been highly favoured in this respect.  They had been
navigating their various embarkations through a "summer sea," in the
midst of the tropical ocean,--where ofttimes whole weeks elapse without
either winds or waves occurring to disturb its tranquillity,--a sea, in
short, where the "calm" is more dreaded than the "storm."  Up to this
time they had not experienced any violent commotion of the atmosphere,--
nothing stronger than what is termed a "fresh breeze," and in that the
_Catamaran_ had proved herself an accomplished sailer.

It was now to be seen how she would behave under a gale that might end
in a storm,--perhaps a terrific tempest.

It would be untrue to say that her crew looked forward to the event
without fear.  They did not.  As said, they suffered considerable
apprehension; and would have felt it more keenly, but for the cheering
influence of that faith with which her captain was sustained, and which
he endeavoured to impart to his companions.

Leaning upon this, they looked with less dread upon the sky lowering
above and the storm gathering around them.

As the day advanced the wind continued to freshen until about the hour
of noon.  It was then blowing a brisk gale.  Fortunately for the crew of
the _Catamaran_, it did not become a storm.  Had it done so their frail
craft must have been shivered, and her component parts once more
scattered over the ocean.

It was just as much as her crew could accomplish to keep them together,
in a sea only moderately rough,--compared with what it would have been
in a storm.  This they discovered during the afternoon of that day; and
it was no great comfort to them to reflect that, in the event of a real
storm being encountered, the _Catamaran_ would undoubtedly go to pieces.
They could only console themselves with the hope that such an event
might not arise until they should reach land, or, which was perhaps more
probable, be picked up by a ship.

The chances of terminating their perilous voyage in either way were so
slight and distant, that they scarce gave thought to them.  When they
did, it was only to be reminded of the extreme hopelessness of their
situation, and yield to despairing reflections.  On that particular day
they had no time to speculate upon such remote probabilities as the
ultimate ending of their voyage.  They found occupation enough,--both
for their minds and bodies,--in insuring its continuance.  Not only had
they to watch every wave as it came rolling upon them,--and keep the
_Catamaran_ trimly set to receive it,--but they had to look to the
timbers of the craft, and see that the lashings did not get loose.

Several times did the sea break quite over them; and but that Lilly
Lalee and little William were fast tied to the foot of the mast, they
would both have been washed off, and probably lost amidst the dark waste
of waters.

It was just as much as the two strong men could do to keep aboard and
even they had ropes knotted round their wrists and attached to the
timbers of the raft,--in case of their getting carried overboard.

Once a huge billow swept over, submerging them several feet under the
sea.  At this crisis all four thought that their last hour had come, and
for some seconds were under the belief that they were going to the
bottom, and would never more look upon the light of day.

But for the peculiar construction of their raft this, in all likelihood,
would have been the result; but those buoyant water-casks were not to be
"drowned" in such a fashion and soon "bobbed" back to the surface, once
more bringing the _Catamaran_ and her crew above water.

It was fortunate for them that Ben Brace and Snowball had not trusted
too much to fate while constructing their abnormal craft.  The
experienced sailor had foreseen the difficulties that on this day beset
them; and, instead of making a mere temporary embarkation, to suit the
conditions of the summer sea that then surrounded them, he had spared no
pains to render it seaworthy as far as circumstances would allow.  He
and Snowball had used their united strength in drawing tight the cords
with which the timbers were bound together,--as well as those that
lashed them to the casks,--and their united skill in disposing the rude
materials in a proper manner.

Even after "launching" the _Catamaran_,--every day, almost every hour,
had they been doing something to improve her,--either by giving the
craft greater strength and compactness, or in some other way rendering
her more worthy both of the sea and her sailors.

By this providential industry they were now profiting: since by it, and
it alone, were they enabled to "ride out" the gale.

Had they trusted to chance and given way to indolence,--all the more
natural under the very hopelessness of their situation,--they would
never have outlived that day.  The _Catamaran_ might not have gone to
the bottom, but she would have gone to pieces; and it is not likely that
any of her crew would have survived the catastrophe.

As it was, both raft and crew weathered the gale in safety.  Before
sunset the wind had fallen to a gentle zephyr; the tropical sea was
gradually returning to its normal state of comparative calm; and the
_Catamaran_, with her broad sail once more spread to the breeze, was
scudding on,--guided in her course by the golden luminary slowly
descending towards the western edge of a cloudless heaven.



CHAPTER EIGHTY NINE.

A STARTLING SHRIEK.

The night proved pleasanter than the day.  The wind was no longer an
enemy; and the breeze that succeeded was more advantageous than would
have been a dead calm; since it steadied the craft amidst the rolling of
the swell.

Before midnight the swell itself had subsided.  It had never reached any
great height, as the gale had been of short continuance; and for the
same reason it had suddenly gone down again.

With the return of smooth water they were able to betake themselves to
rest.  They needed it, after such a series of fatigues and fears; and
having swallowed a few morsels of their unpalatable food, and washed it
down by a cup of diluted Canary, they all went to rest.

Neither the wet planking on which they were compelled to encouch
themselves, nor the sea-soaked garments clinging round their bodies,
hindered them from obtaining sleep.

In a colder clime their condition would have been sufficiently
comfortless; but in the ocean atmosphere of the torrid zone the night
hours are warm enough to render "wet sheets" not only endurable, but at
times even pleasant.

I have said that all of them went to sleep.  It was not their usual
custom to do so.  On other nights one was always upon the watch,--either
the captain himself, the ex-cook, or the boy.  Of course Lilly Lalee
enjoyed immunity from this kind of duty: since she was not, properly
speaking, one of the "crew," but only a "passenger."

Their customary night-watch had a twofold object: to hold the
_Catamaran_ to her course, and to keep a lookout over the sea,--the
latter having reference to the chance if seeing a sail.

On this particular night their vigil,--had it been kept,--might have had
a threefold purpose: for it is not to be forgotten that they were still
not so very far from their late pursuers.  They too must have been
making way with the wind.

Neither had the Catamarans forgotten it; but even with this thought
before their minds, they were unable to resist the fascinations of
Morpheus; and leaving the craft to take her own course, the ships, if
there were any, to sail silently by, and the big raft, if chance so
directed it, to overtake them, they yielded themselves to unconscious
slumber.

Simultaneously were they awakened, and by a sound that might have
awakened the dead.  It was a shriek that came pealing over the surface
of the ocean,--as unearthly in its intonation as if only the ocean
itself could have produced it!  It was short, sharp, quick, and clear;
and so loud as to startle even Snowball from his torpidity.

The Coromantee was the first to inquire into its character.

"Wha' de debbil am dat?" he asked, rubbing his ears to make sure that he
was not labouring under a delusion.

"Shiver my timbers if I can tell!" rejoined the sailor, equally puzzled
by what he had heard.

"Dat soun' berry like da voice o' some un go drown,--berry like.  Wha'
say you, Massa Brace?"

"It was a good bit like the voice of a man cut in two by a shark.
That's what it minded me of."

"By golly! you speak de troof.  It wa jess like that,--jess like the
lass s'riek ob Massa Grow."

"And yet," continued the sailor, after a moment's reflection, "'t warn't
like that neyther.  'T warn't human, nohow: leastwise, I niver heerd
such come out o' a human throat."

"A don't blieb de big raff can be near.  We hab been runnin' down de
wind ebba since you knock off dat boat-hook.  We got de start o' de
_Pandoras_; an' dar's no mistake but we hab kep de distance.  Dat s'riek
no come from dem."

"Look yonder!" cried little William, interrupting the dialogue.  "I see
something."

"Whereaway?  What like be it?" inquired the sailor.

"Yonder!" answered the lad, pointing over the starboard bow of the
_Catamaran_; "about three cables' length out in the water.  It's a black
lump; it looks like a boat."

"A boat!  Shiver my timbers if thee bean't right, lad.  I see it now.
It do look somethin' as you say.  But what ul a boat be doin' here,--out
in the middle o' the Atlantic?"

"Dat am a boat," interposed Snowball.  "Fo' sartin it am."

"It must be," said the sailor, after more carefully scrutinising it.
"It is!  I see its shape better now.  There's some un in it.  I see only
one; ah, he be standin' up in the middle o' it, like a mast.  It be a
man though; an' I dare say the same as gi'ed that shout, if he be a
human; though, sartin, there warn't much human in it."

As if to confirm the sailor's last assertion, the shriek was repeated,
precisely as it had been uttered before; though now, entering ears that
were awake, it produced a somewhat different impression.

The voice was evidently that of a man.  Even under the circumstances, it
could be nothing else, but of a man who had taken leave of his senses.
It was the wild cry of a maniac!

The crew of the _Catamaran_ might have continued in doubt as to this had
they been treated only to a repetition of the shriek; but this was
followed by a series of speeches,--incoherent, it is true, but spoken in
an intelligible tongue, and ending in a peal of laughter such as might
be heard echoing along the corridors of a lunatic asylum!

One and all of them stood looking and listening.

It was a moonless night, and had been a dark one; but it was now close
upon morning.  Already had the aurora tinged the horizon with roseate
hues.  The grey light of dawn was beginning to scatter its soft rays
over the surface of the ocean; and objects--had there been any--could be
distinguished at a considerable distance.

Certainly there was an object,--a thing of boat-shape, with a human form
standing near its middle.  It was a boat, a man in it; and, from the
exclamation and laughter to which they had listened, there could be no
doubt about the man being mad.

Mad or sane, why should they shun him?  There were two strong men on the
raft, who need not fear to encounter a lunatic under any
circumstances,--even in the midst of the ocean.  Nor did they fear it;
for as soon as they became fully convinced that they saw a boat with a
man in it, they "ported" the helm of the _Catamaran_, and stood directly
towards it.

Less than ten minutes' sailing in the altered course brought them within
fair view of the object that had caused them to deviate; and, after
scrutinising it, less than ten seconds enabled them to satisfy their
minds as to the strange craft and its yet stranger occupant.

They saw before them the "gig" of the slaver; and, standing "midships"
in the boat,--just half-way between stem and stern,--they saw the
captain of that ill-starred, ill-fated vessel!



CHAPTER NINETY.

A MADMAN IN MID-OCEAN.

In the minds of the _Catamaran's_ crew there was no longer any cause for
conjecture.  The boat-shaped object on the water, and the human form
standing up within it, were mysteries no more; nor was there any when
that boat and that human being were identified.

If in the spectacle there was aught still to puzzle them, it was the
seeing only one man in the boat instead of six.

There should have been six; since that was the number that the gig had
originally carried away from the burning bark,--five others besides the
one now seen,--and who, notwithstanding a great change in his
appearance, was still recognisable as the slaver's captain.

Where were the missing men,--the mates, the carpenter and two common
sailors, who had escaped along with him?  Were they in the boat, lying
down, and so concealed from the view of those upon the _Catamaran_?  Or
had they succumbed to some fearful fate, leaving only that solitary
survivor?

The gig sat high in the water.  Those upon the _Catamaran_ could not see
over its gunwale unless by approaching nearer, and this they hesitated
to do.

Indeed, on identifying the boat and the individual standing in it, they
had suddenly hauled down the sail and were lying to, using their oar to
keep them from drifting any nearer.

They had done so from an instinctive apprehension.  They knew that the
men who had gone off in the gig were not a whit better than those upon
the big raft; for the officers of the slaver, in point of ruffianism,
were upon a par with their crew.  With this knowledge, it was a question
for consideration whether the Catamarans would be safe in approaching
the boat.  If the six were still in it, and out of food and water, like
those on the large raft, they would undoubtedly despoil the _Catamaran_,
just as the others had designed doing.  From such as they no mercy need
be expected; and as it was not likely any succour could be obtained from
them, it would, perhaps, be better, in every way, to "give them a wide
berth."

Such were the thoughts that passed hastily through the mind of Ben
Brace, and were communicated to his companions.

Were the five missing men still aboard the boat?

They might be lying down along the bottom,--though it was not likely
they could be asleep?  That appeared almost impossible, considering the
shouts and screams which the captain at intervals still continued to
send forth.

"By de great gorramity!" muttered Snowball, "a doan't b'lieb one ob
dem's leff 'board dat boat, 'ceptin de ole 'kipper himseff; an ob him
dar am nuffin leff cep'n de body.  Dat man's intlek am clar gone.  He am
ravin' mad!"

"You're right, Snowy," assented the sailor; "there be ne'er a one there
but himself.  At all events they ain't all there.  I can tell by the way
the gig sits up out o' the water.  No boat o' her size, wi' six men
aboard, could have her gunnel as high as that ere.  No!  If there be any
besides the captain, there's only one or two.  We needn't fear to go as
nigh as we like.  Let's put about, an' board the craft, anyhow.  What
say ye?"

"Haben't de leas' objecshun, Massa Brace, so long you link dar no fear.
Dis chile ready take de chance.  If dar be any odder cep'n de 'kipper,
it no like dey am 'trong 'nuff to bully we nohow.  De two ob us be equal
match fo' any four ob dem,--say nuffin ob lilly Will'm."

"I feel a'most sartin," rejoined the sailor, still undecided, "there be
only him.  If that's the case, our best way is to close up, and take
possession o' the boat.  We may have some trouble wi' him if be's gone
mad; an' from the way he be runnin' on, it do look like it.  Never mind!
I dare say we'll be able to manage him.  Port about, an' let a see the
thing through."

Snowball was at the steering-oar, and, thus commanded by her captain, he
once more headed the _Catamaran_ in the direction of the drifting
boat,--while the sailor and William betook them to the oars.

Whether the occupant of the gig had yet perceived the raft was not
certain.  It is likely he had not, since the yells and incoherent
speeches to which he had been giving utterance appeared to be addressed
to no one, but were more like--what they believed them to be--the wild
ravings of a lunatic.

It was still only the grey twilight of morning, with a slight fog upon
the water; and although through this the Catamarans had recognised the
gig and captain of the _Pandora_ they had done so with certain souvenirs
to guide them.  Both the boat and its occupant had been seen only
indistinctly: and it was possible that the latter had not seen them, and
was still unsuspicious of their presence.

As they drew nearer, the light at each moment increasing in brightness,
there was no longer any uncertainty as to their being seen; for, along
with the yells uttered by the occupant of the gig, could be heard the
significant speeches of, "Sail ho!  Ship ahoy!  What ship's that?  Heave
to, and be--Heave to, you infernal lubbers! if you don't I'll sink you!"

The manner in which these varied phrases were jumbled together,
intermingled with screeching exclamations, as well as the excited and
grotesque gestures that accompanied them, might have been ludicrous, but
for the painful impression it produced.

There was no longer any doubt in the minds of those who witnessed his
behaviour, that the ex-skipper of the _Pandora_ was mad.  None but a
madman would have spoken, or acted, as he was doing.

In the state he was in, it would be dangerous to go near him.  This was
evident to the occupants of the raft; and when they had arrived within a
half-cable's length of the boat, they suspended the stroke of the
oars,--with the intention of entering upon a parley, and seeing how far
their words might tranquillise him.

"Captain!" cried the sailor, hailing his former commander in a friendly
tone of voice: "it's me!  Don't you know me?  It's Ben Brace, one o' the
old _Pandora_.  We've been on this bit o' raft ever since the burnin' o'
the bark.  Myself and Snowball--"

At this moment the sailor's epitomised narrative was interrupted by a
fiendish yell, proceeding from the throat of the maniac.  They were now
near enough to have a clear view of his face, and could note the
expression of his features.  The play of these, and the wild rolling of
his eyes, confirmed them in their belief as to his insanity.  There
could be no doubt about it; but if there had, what soon after succeeded
was proof sufficient to satisfy them.

During the continuance of the discourse addressed to him by the sailor,
he had kept silent, until the word "Snowball" fell upon his ears.  Then
all at once he became terribly excited,--as was testified by a terrible
shriek, a twitching contortion of his features, and a glaring in his
eyes that was awful to behold.

"Snowball!" screamed he; "Snowball, you say, do you?  Snowball, the
infernal dog!  Show him to me!  Ach!  Blood and furies! it was he that
fired my ship.  Where is he?  Let me at him!  Let me lay my hands upon
his black throat!  I'll teach the sneaking <DW65> how to carry a candle
that'll light him into the next world.  Snowball!  Where,--where is he?"

At this moment his rolling orbs became suddenly steadied; and all could
see that his gaze was fixed upon the Coromantee with a sort of desperate
identification.

Snowball might have quailed under that glance, had there been time for
him to take heed of it.  But there was not: for upon the instant it was
given the madman uttered another wild screech, and, rising into the air,
sprang several feet over the gunwale of the gig.

For a second or two he was lost to sight under the water.  Then, rising
to the surface, he was seen swimming with vigorous sweep towards the
_Catamaran_.



CHAPTER NINETY ONE.

THE INSANE SWIMMER.

A dozen strokes would have carried him up to the craft; which they could
not have hindered him from boarding, except by using some deadly
violence.  To avoid this, the oars were plied; and the raft rapidly
pulled in a contrary direction.

For all this, so swiftly did the maniac make way through the water, that
it was just as much as they could do to keep the _Catamaran_ clear of
his grasp; and it was only after Ben Brace and Snowball had got fairly
bent to their oars, that they could insure themselves against being
overtaken.  Then became it a chase in which there was no great advantage
in speed between the pursued and the pursuer; though what little there
might have been was in favour of the former.

How long this singular chase might have continued, it is impossible to
say.  Perhaps until the lunatic had exhausted his insane strength, and
sunk into the sea: since he appeared to have no idea of making an
attempt to return to the boat.  He never looked round to see how far he
was leaving it behind him.  On the contrary, he swam straight on, his
eyes steadfastly fixed upon the one object that seemed to have
possession of his soul,--the Coromantee!  That it was of him only he was
thinking could be told from his speech,--for even while in the water he
continued to utter imprecations on the head of the <DW64>,--his name
being every moment mentioned in terms of menace.

The chase could not have lasted much longer,--even had it been permitted
to terminate by the exhaustion of the insane swimmer.  The supernatural
strength of insanity could not forever sustain him; and in due time he
would have sunk helplessly to the bottom of the sea.

But this was not the sort of death that Fate had designed for him.  A
still more violent ending of his life was in store for the unfortunate
wretch.  Though he himself knew it not, those aboard the _Catamaran_ had
now become aware of its approach.

Behind him,--scarce half a cable's length,--two creatures were seen
moving through the water.  Horrible-looking creatures they were: for
they were hammer-headed sharks!  Both were conspicuously seen: for they
had risen to the surface, and were swimming with their dark dorsal fins
protruded above, and set with all the triangular sharpness of staysails.
Although they had not been observed before by those on the _Catamaran_,
they appeared to have been swimming in the proximity of the gig,--on
which, beyond doubt, they had been for some time attending.

They were now advancing side by side, in the same direction as the
swimmer, and there could be no doubt as to their design.  They were
evidently in chase of _him_, with as much eagerness as he was in chase
of the _Catamaran_.

The wretched man neither saw nor thought of them.  Even had he seen them
it is questionable whether he would have made any attempt to escape from
them.  They would, in all likelihood, have appeared a part of the
fearful phantasmagoria already filling his brain.

In any case he could not have eluded those earnest and eager pursuers,--
unless by the intervention of those upon the raft; and even had these
wished to succour him, it would have required a most prompt and adroit
interference.  They _did_ wish it, even became desirous to save him.
Their hearts melted within them as they saw the unfortunate man, maniac
though he was, in such a situation.  Fear him as they might,--and deem
him an enemy as they did,--still was he a human being,--one of their own
kind,--and their natural instinct of hostility towards those ravenous
monsters of the deep had now obliterated that which they might have felt
for him about to become their prey.

Risking everything from the encounter which they might expect with a
madman, they suspended their oars, and then commenced backing towards
him.  Even Snowball exerted himself to bring the _Catamaran_ within
saving distance of the wretch who, in his insane hatred, was threatening
his own destruction.

Their good intentions, however, proved of no avail.  The man was
destined to destruction.  Before they could get near enough to make any
effective demonstration in his favour, the sharks had closed upon him.
They who would have saved him saw it, and ceased their exertions to
become spectators of the tragical catastrophe.

It was a brief affair.  The monsters swam up, one on each side of their
intended victim, till their uncouth bodies were parallel with his.  He
saw one of them first, and, with an instinct more true than his
dethroned powers of reason, swerved out of the way to avoid it.  The
effort resulted in placing him within reach of the other, that, suddenly
turning upon its side, grasped him between its extended jaws.

The shriek that followed appeared to proceed from only the half of his
body; for the other half, completely dissevered, had been already
carried off between the terrible teeth of the _zygaena_.

There was but one cry.  There was not time for another, even had there
been strength.  Before it could have been uttered, the remaining moiety
of the madman's body was seized by the second shark, and borne down into
the voiceless abysm of the ocean!



CHAPTER NINETY TWO.

BOARDING THE BOAT.

Back to the boat!  In the minds of the _Catamaran's_ crew naturally did
this resolve succeed to the spectacle they had just witnessed.  There
was nothing to stay them on that spot.  The bloodstained water, which
momentarily marked the scene of the tragedy, had no further interest for
those who had been spectators to it; and once more heading their craft
for the drifting gig, they made way towards it as fast as their oars and
the sail, now reset, would carry them.

They no longer speculated as to the boat being occupied by a crew,--
either sleeping or awake.  In view of the events that had occurred, it
was scarce possible that anyone, in either condition, could be aboard of
her.  She must have been abandoned, before that hour, by all but the
solitary individual standing amidships, and pouring out his insane
utterances to the ears of the ocean.

Where were the men that were missing?  This was the question that
occupied the crew of the _Catamaran_,--as they advanced towards the
deserted gig--and to which they could give no satisfactory answer.

They could only shape conjectures,--none of which had much air of
probability.

From what they knew or suspected to have occurred upon the large raft
they could draw inferences of a revolting nature.  It might be that the
same course had been pursued among those in the gig; and yet it seemed
scarce probable.  It was known that the latter had gone off from the
burning bark, if not sufficiently provided for a long voyage, at least
with a stock of both food and water that should have sustained them for
many days.  Little William had been a witness of their departure, and
could confirm these facts.  Why then had their boat-voyage resulted so
disastrously?  It could not have arisen from want.  It could not have
been the gale.

In all probability, had the sea washed over them, the boat would either
have been swamped or capsized.  The captain alone could not have righted
her.  Besides, why should he be the only survivor of the six?

But there had not been storm enough for a disaster of this kind; and
unless by some dire mismanagement, the men could not have fallen
overboard.

Still puzzled to account for the strange condition of things, the crew
of the _Catamaran_ continued to pull towards the gig, and at length came
up with it.

There they beheld a horrid spectacle, though it afforded no clue to what
had occurred.  In fact it left the affair as inexplicable as ever.  What
they saw gave them reason to believe that some terrible tragedy had
transpired on board the boat; and that not the elements, but the hand of
man, had caused the disappearance of the crew.

Along the bottom timbers lay stretched a human form.  It was not only
lifeless, but disfigured by many wounds,--anyone of which would have
proved mortal.  The face was gashed in the most frightful manner; and
the skull crushed in several places, as if by repeated blows of a heavy
hammer, while numerous wounds, that had been inflicted by some
sharp-bladed weapon or implement, appeared over the breast and body.

This mutilated shape of humanity was lying half submerged in the
bilge-water contained in the boat, and which looked more like blood.  So
deep was it in colour, and in such quantity, that it was difficult to
believe it could have been stained by the blood of only that one body,
to which in turn, as the red fluid went washing over it, had been
imparted the same sanguinary hue.

The features of the hideous corpse could not be identified.  The axe,
knife, or whatever weapon it was, had defaced them beyond recognition;
but for all this, both Ben Brace and Snowball recognised the mutilated
remains.  Something in the garments still clinging round the corpse was
remembered, and by this they were enabled to identify it as that of one
too well-known to them,--the first mate of the slaver.

Instead of elucidating the mystery, this knowledge only rendered it more
inexplicable.  It was evident the man had been murdered.  The wounds
proved that; for from the appearance of the extravasated blood they must
have been given while he was still alive.

It was but natural to suppose that the deed had been done by his insane
companion.  The number and character of the wounds,--consisting of
blows, cuts, and gashes, showed that they had been inflicted by some one
out of his senses; for life must have been extinct before half of them
could have been given.

So far the circumstances seemed clear enough.  The maniac captain had
murdered the mate.  No motive could be guessed at; for no motive was
needed to inspire a madman.

Beyond this all was shrouded in mystery.  What was to explain the
absence of the other four?  What had become of them?  The crew of the
_Catamaran_ could only frame conjectures,--all of a horrid nature.  That
of Snowball was the most rational that could be arrived at.

It suggested the probability that the first mate and captain had
combined in the destruction of the others,--their motive being to get
all the food and water themselves, and thus secure a better chance of
prolonging their lives.  They might have accomplished their atrocious
design in various ways.  There might have been a struggle in which these
two men,--much stronger than their fellows,--had proved victorious; or
there might not have been any contest at all.  The foul crime could have
been committed in the night, when their unsuspicious comrades were
asleep; or even by the light of day, when the latter were under the
spell of intoxication,--produced by the brandy that had furnished part
of the stores of the gig.

All these were horrid imaginings; but neither Snowball nor the sailor
could help giving way to them.  Otherwise they could not account for the
dreadful drama of which that bloodstained boat must have been the scene.

Supposing their conjectures to have been correct, no wonder that the
sole survivor of such scenes should have been found a raving lunatic,--
no wonder the man had gone mad!



CHAPTER NINETY THREE.

THE CATAMARAN ABANDONED.

For some time the crew of the _Catamaran_ stood contemplating the gig
and its lifeless occupant, with looks that betokened repugnance.

By reason of the many dread scenes they had already passed through, this
feeling was the less intense, and gradually wore away.  It was neither
the time nor the place for any show of sentimentalism.  Their own
perilous situation was too strongly impressed on their minds to admit of
unprofitable speculations; and instead of indulging in idle conjectures
about the past, they directed their thoughts to the future.

The first consideration was, what was to be done with the gig?

They would take possession of her, of course.  There could be no
question about this.

It is true the _Catamaran_ had done them good service.  She had served
to keep them afloat, and thus far saved their lives.

In calm weather they could have made themselves very comfortable on
their improvised embarkation; and might have remained safe upon it, so
long as their water and provisions lasted.  But with such a slow-sailing
craft the voyage might last longer than either; and then it could only
result in certain death.  They might not again have such good fortune in
obtaining fish; and their stock of water once exhausted, it was too
improbable to suppose they should ever be able to replenish it.  There
might not be another shower of rain for weeks; and even should it fall,
it might be in such rough weather that they could not collect a single
quart of it.  Her slow-sailing was not the only objection to the
_Catamaran_.  Their experience in the gale of the preceding night had
taught them, how little they could depend upon her in the event of a
real storm.  In very rough weather she would certainly be destroyed.
Her timbers under the strain would come apart; or, even if they should
stick together, and by the buoyancy of the empty casks continue to keep
afloat, the sea would wash over them all the same and either drown or
otherwise destroy them.

In such a long time as it must take before reaching land, they could not
expect to have a continuance of fair weather.

With the gig,--a first-rate craft of its kind,--the case would be
different.

Ben Brace well knew the boat, for he had often been one of its crew of
rowers.

It was a fast boat,--even under oars,--and with a sail set to it, and a
fair wind, they might calculate upon making eight or ten knots an hour.
This would in no great time enable them to run down the "trades," and
bring them to some port of the South American coast,--perhaps to Guiana,
or Brazil.

These speculations occupied them only a few seconds of time.  In fact
they had passed through their minds long before they arrived alongside
the gig; for they were but the natural considerations suggested by the
presence of the boat.

They were now in possession of a seaworthy craft.  It seemed as if
Providence had thrown it in their way; and they had no idea of
abandoning it.  On the contrary, it was the raft which was to be
deserted.

If they hesitated about transferring themselves and their chattels from
the _Catamaran_ to the gig, it was but for a moment; and that brief
space of time was only spent in considering how they might best
accomplish the transfer.

The boat had first to be got into a fit state for their reception; and
as soon as they had recovered from the shock caused by that hideous
spectacle, the sailor and Snowball set to work to remove the body out of
sight, as well as every trace of the sanguinary strife that must have
taken place.

The mutilated corpse was cast into the sea, and sank at once under the
surface,--though perhaps never to reach the bottom, for those two
ravenous monsters were still hovering around the spot, in greedy
expectation of more food for their insatiable stomachs.

The red bilge-water was next baled out of the boat,--the inside timbers
cleared of their ensanguined stains, and swilled with clean water from
the sea; which was in its turn thrown out, until no trace remained of
the frightful objects so lately seen.

A few things that had been found in the boat were permitted to remain:
as they might prove of service to the crew coming into possession.
Among these there was not a morsel of food, nor a drop of drinking
water; but there was the ship's compass, still in good condition; and
the sailor knew that this treasure was too precious to be parted with:
as it would enable them to keep to their course under the most clouded
skies.

As soon as the gig was ready to receive them, the "stores" of the
_Catamaran_ were transferred to it.  The cask of water was carefully
hoisted aboard the boat,--as also the smaller cask containing the
precious "Canary."  The dried fish packed inside the chest, the oars,
and other implements were next carried over the "gangway" between the
two crafts,--each article being stowed in a proper place within the gig.

There was plenty of room for everything: as the boat was a large one,
capable of containing a dozen men; and of course ample for the
accommodation of the _Catamaran's_ crew, with all their _impedimenta_.

The last transfer made was the mast and sail, which were "unshipped"
from the _Catamaran_ to be set up on the gig, and which were just of the
right size to suit the latter craft.

There was nothing left upon the raft that could be of any use to them on
their boat-voyage; and after the mast and sail had been removed, the
_Catamaran_ appeared completely dismantled.

As they undid the lashings,--which during the transfer had confined her
to the gig,--a feeling of sadness pervaded the minds of her former crew.
They had grown to feel for that embarkation,--frail and grotesque as it
was,--a sort of attachment; such as one may have for a loved home.  To
them it had been a home in the midst of the wilderness of waters; and
they could not part from it without a strong feeling of regret.

Perhaps it was partly for this reason they did not at once dip their
oars into the water and row away from the raft; though they had another
reason for lingering in its proximity.

The mast had to be "stepped" in the gig and the sail bent on to it; and,
as it seemed better that these things should be done at once, they at
once set about doing them.

During the time they were thus engaged, the boat drifted on with the
breeze, making two or three knots to the hour.  But this caused no
separation between the two crafts; for the same breeze carried the
dismantled raft--now lying light upon the water--at the like rate of
speed; and when at length the mast stood amidships in the gig, and the
sailyard was ready to be hauled up to it, there was scarce a cable's
length between them.

The _Catamaran_ was astern, but coming on at a fair rate of speed,--as
if determined not to be left behind in that lone wilderness of waters!



CHAPTER NINETY FOUR.

A "SCHOOL" OF SPERM-WHALES.

To all appearance the hour had arrived when they were to look their last
on the embarkation that had safely carried them through so many dangers.
In a few minutes their sail would be spread before a breeze, that would
impel their boat at a rapid rate through the water; and in a short time
they would see no more of the _Catamaran_, crawling slowly after them.
A few miles astern, and she would be out of sight,--once and forever.

Such was their belief, as they proceeded to set the sail.

Little were they thinking of the destiny that was before them.  Fate had
not designed such a sudden separation; and well was it for them that the
_Catamaran_ had clung so closely upon their track, as still to offer
them an asylum,--a harbour of refuge to which they might retreat,--for
it was not long before they found themselves in need of it.

As stated, they were proceeding to set the sail.  They had got their
rigging all right,--the canvas bent upon the yard, the halliards rove,
and everything except hauling up and sheeting home.

These last operations would have been but the work of six seconds, and
yet they were never performed.

As the sailor and Snowball stood, halliards in hand, ready to hoist up,
an exclamation came from little William, that caused both of them to
suspend proceedings.

The boy stood gazing out upon the ocean,--his eyes fixed upon some
object that had caused him to cry out.  Lalee was by his side also,
regarding the same object.

"What is it, Will'm?" eagerly inquired the sailor, hoping the lad might
have made out a sail.

William had himself entertained this hope.  A whitish disk over the
horizon had come under his eye; which for a while looked like spread
canvas, but soon disappeared,--as if it had suddenly dissolved into air.

William was ashamed of having uttered the exclamation,--as being guilty
of causing a "false alarm."  He was about to explain himself, when the
white object once more rose up against the sky,--now observed by all.

"That's what I saw," said the alarmist, confessing himself mistaken.

"If ye took it for a sail, lad," rejoined the sailor, "you war mistaken.
It be only the spoutin' o' a sparmacety."

"There's more than one," rejoined William, desirous of escaping from his
dilemma.  "See, yonder's half a dozen of them!"

"Theer ye be right, lad,--though not in sayin' there's half a dozen.
More like there be half a hundred o' 'em.  There's sure to be that
number, whar you see six a-blowin' at the same time.  There be a
`school' o' them, I be bound,--maybe a `body.'"

"Golly!" cried Snowball, after regarding the whales for a moment, "dey
am a-comin' dis way!"

"They be," muttered the old whalesman, in a tone that did not show much
satisfaction at the discovery.  "They're coming right down upon us.  I
don't like it a bit.  They're on a `passage,'--that I can see; an' it be
dangerous to get in their way when they're goin' so,--especially aboard
a craft sich as this un'."

Of course the setting of the sail was adjourned at this announcement; as
it would have been, whether there had been danger or not.  A school of
whales, either upon their "passage" or when "gambolling," is a spectacle
so rare, at the same time so exciting, as not to be looked upon without
interest; and the voyager must be engrossed in some very serious
occupation who can permit it to pass without giving it his attention.

Nothing can be more magnificent than the movements of these vast
leviathans, as they cleave their track through the blue liquid
element,--now sending aloft their plume-like spouts of white vapour,--
now flinging their broad and fan-shaped flukes into the air; at times
bounding with their whole bodies several feet above the surface, and
dropping back into the water with a tremendous concussion, that causes
the sea to swell into huge foam-crested columns, as if a storm was
passing over it.

It was the thought of this that came into the mind of the ex-whalesman;
and rendered him apprehensive,--as he saw the school of _cachalots_
coming on towards the spot occupied by the frail embarkation.  He knew
that the swell caused by the "breaching" of a whale is sufficient to
swamp even a large-sized boat; and if one of the "body" now bowling down
towards them should chance to spring out of the water while passing
near, it would be just as much as they could do to keep the gig from
going upon her beam-ends.

There was not much time to speculate upon chances, or probabilities.
When first seen, the whales could not have been more than a mile
distant: and going on as they were, at the rate of ten knots an hour,
only ten minutes elapsed before the foremost was close up to the spot
occupied by the boat and the abandoned raft.

They were not proceeding in a regular formation; though here and there
four or five might have been seen moving in a line, abreast with one
another.  The whole "herd" occupied a breadth extending about a mile
across the sea; and in the very centre of this, as ill-luck would have
it, lay the cockle-shell of a boat and the abandoned raft.

It was one of the biggest "schools" that Ben Brace had ever seen,
consisting of nearly a hundred individuals,--full-grown females,
followed by their "calves,"--and only one old bull, the patron and
protector of the herd.  There was no mistaking it for a "pod" of
whales,--which would have been made up of young males just escaped from
maternal protection, and attended by several older individuals of their
own sex,--acting as trainers and instructors.

Just as the _ci-devant_ whalesman had finished making this observation,
the _cachalots_ came past, causing the sea to undulate for miles around
the spot,--as if a tempest had swept over, and was succeeded by its
swell.  One after another passed with a graceful gliding, that might
have won the admiration of an observer viewing it from a position of
safety.  But to those who beheld it from the gig, there was an idea of
danger in their majestic movement,--heightened by the surf-like sound of
their respirations.

They had nearly all passed, and the crew of the gig were beginning to
breathe freely; when they perceived the largest of the lot--the old
bull--astern of the rest and coming right towards them.  His head, with
several fathoms of his back, protruded above the surface, which at
intervals he "fluked" with his tail,--as if giving a signal to those
preceding him, either to direct their onward course, or warn them of
some threatened danger.

He had a vicious look about him,--notwithstanding his patriarchal
appearance,--and the ex-whalesman uttered an exclamation of warning as
he approached.

The utterance was merely mechanical, since nothing could be done to ward
off the threatened encounter.

Nothing was done.  There was no time to act, nor even to think.  Almost
on the same instant in which the warning cry was heard the whale was
upon them.  He who had uttered it, along with his companions, felt
themselves suddenly projected into the air, as if they had been tossed
from a catapult, and their next sensation was that of taking "a
tremendous header" into the depths of the fathomless ocean!

All four soon came to the surface again; and the two who had best
retained their senses,--the sailor and Snowball,--looked around for the
gig.  There was no gig in sight, nor boat of any kind!  Only some
floating fragments; among which could be distinguished a cask or two,
with a scattering of loose boards, oars, handspikes, and articles of
apparel.  Among these were struggling two youthful forms,--recognisable
as little William and Lilly Lalee.

A quick transformation took place in the tableau.

A cry arose, "Back to the _Catamaran_!" and in a score of seconds the
boy-sailor was swimming alongside the A.B. for the raft; while the
Coromantee, with Lilly Lalee hoisted upon his left shoulder, was
cleaving the water in the same direction.

Another minute and all four were aboard the embarkation they had so
lately abandoned,--once more saved from the perils of the deep!



CHAPTER NINETY FIVE.

WORSE OFF THAN EVER.

There was no mystery about the incident that had occurred.  It had
scarce created surprise; for the moment that the old whalesman felt the
shock, he knew what had caused it, as well as if he had been a simple
spectator.

The others, warned by him that danger might be expected in the passage
of the whales--though then unapprised of its exact nature--were fully
aware of it now.  It had come and passed,--at least, after mounting once
more upon the raft, they perceived that their lives were no longer in
peril.

The occurrence needed no explanation.  The detached timbers of the gig
floating about on the water, and the shock they had experienced, told
the tale with sufficient significance.  They had been "fluked" by the
bull-whale, whose fan-shaped tail-fins, striking the boat in an upward
direction, had shattered it as easily as an eggshell, tossing the
fragments, along with the contents, both animate and inanimate, several
feet into the air.

Whether it were done out of spite or wanton playfulness, or for the
gratification of a _whalish_ whim, the act had cost the huge leviathan
no greater effort than might have been used in brushing off a fly; and
after its accomplishment the old bull went bowling on after its
frolicsome school, gliding through the water apparently with as much
unconcern as if nothing particular had transpired!

It might have been nothing to him,--neither the capsize nor its
consequences; but it was everything to those he had so unceremoniously
upset.

It was not until they had fairly established themselves on the raft, and
their tranquillity had become a little restored, that they could reflect
upon the peril through which they had passed, or realise the fulness of
their misfortune.

They saw their stores scattered about over the waves,--their oars and
implements drifting about; and, what was still worse, the great
sea-chest of the sailor, which, in the hurry of the late transfer, had
been packed full of shark-flesh, they could not see.  Weighted as it
was, it must have gone to the bottom, carrying its precious contents
along with it.

The water-cask and the smaller one containing the Canary were still
afloat, for both had been carefully bunged; but what mattered drink if
there was no meat?--and not a morsel appeared to be left them.

For some minutes they remained idly gazing upon the wreck,--a spectacle
of complete ruin.  One might have supposed that their inaction proceeded
from despair, which was holding them as if spellbound.

It was not this, however.  They were not the sort to give way to
despair.  They only waited for an opportunity to act, which they could
not do until the tremendous swell, caused by the passage of the whales,
should to some extent subside.

Just then the sea was rolling "mountains high," and the raft on which
they stood--or rather, crouched--was pitching about in such a manner,
that it was as much as they could do to hold footing upon it.

Gradually the ocean around them resumed its wonted tranquillity; and, as
they had spent the interval in reflection, they now proceeded to action.

They had formed no definite plans, further than to collect the scattered
materials,--such of them as were still above water,--and, if possible,
re-rig the craft which now carried them.

Fortunately the mast, which had been forced out of its "stepping" in the
timbers of the gig and entirely detached from the broken boat, was seen
drifting at no great distance off, with the yard and sail still adhering
to it.  As these were the most important articles of which the
_Catamaran_ had been stripped, there would be no great difficulty in
restoring her to her original entirety.

Their first effort was to recover some of the oars.  This was not
accomplished without a considerable waste of time and a good deal of
exertion.  On the dismantled embarkation there was not a stick that
could be used for rowing; and it was necessary to propel it with their
outspread palms.

During the interval of necessary inaction, the floating fragments of the
wreck had drifted to a considerable distance,--or rather had the raft,
buoyed up by its empty casks, glided past them, and was now several
cable-lengths to leeward.

They were compelled, therefore, to work up the wind and their progress
was consequently slow,--so slow as to become vexatious.

Snowball would have leaped overboard, and recovered the oars by
swimming: but the sailor would not listen to this proposal, pointing out
to his sable companion the danger to be apprehended from the presence of
the sharks.  The <DW64> made light of this, but his more prudent comrade
restrained him; and they continued patiently to paddle the raft with
their hands.  At length a pair of oars were got hold of; and from that
moment the work went briskly on.

The mast and sail were fished out of the sea and dragged aboard; the
casks of water and wine were once more secured; and the stray implements
were picked up one after another,--all except those of iron, including
the axe, which had gone to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Their greatest loss had been the chest and its contents.  This was
irreparable; and in all probability the precursor of a still more
serious misfortune,--the loss of their lives.



CHAPTER NINETY SIX.

THE DARKEST HOUR.

Death in all its dark reality once more stared them in the face.  They
were entirely without food.  Of all their stores, collected and cured
with so much care and ingenuity, not a morsel remained.  Besides what
the chest contained there had been some loose flitches of the dried fish
lying about upon the raft.  These had been carried into the boat, and
must have been capsized into the sea.  While collecting the other
_debris_, they had looked for them in hopes that some stray pieces might
still be picked up; not one had been found.  If they floated at all,
they must have been grabbed by the sharks themselves, or some other
ravenous creatures of the deep.

Had any such waifs come in their way, the castaways just at that crisis
might not have cared to eat them with the bitterness they must have
derived from their briny immersion; still they knew that in due time
they would get over any daintiness of this kind; and, indeed, before
many hours had elapsed, all four of them began to feel keenly the
cravings of a hunger not likely to refuse the coarsest or most
unpalatable food.  Since that hurried retreat from their moorings by the
carcass of the _cachalot_ they had not eaten anything like a regular
meal.

The series of terrible incidents, so rapidly succeeding one another,
along with the almost continuous exertions they had been compelled to
make, had kept their minds from dwelling upon the condition of their
appetites.  They had only snatched a morsel of food at intervals, and
swallowed a mouthful of water.

Just at the time the last catastrophe occurred they had been intending
to treat themselves to a more ceremonious meal, and were only waiting
until the sail should be set, and the boat gliding along her course, to
enter upon the eating of it.

This pleasant design had been frustrated by the flukes of the whale;
which, though destroying many other things, had, unfortunately, not
injured their appetites.  These were keen enough when they first
reoccupied their old places on the _Catamaran_; but as the day advanced,
and they continued to exert themselves in collecting the fragments of
the wreck, their hunger kept constantly increasing, until all four
experienced that appetite as keenly as they had ever done since the
commencement of their prolonged and perilous "cruise."

In this half-famished condition it was not likely they should have any
great relish for work; and as soon as they had secured the various
waifs, against the danger of being carried away, they set themselves to
consider what chance they had to provide themselves with a fresh stock
of food.

Of course their thoughts were directed towards the deep, or rather its
finny denizens.  There was nothing else above, beneath, or around them
that could have been coupled with the idea of food.

Their former success in fishing might have given them confidence,--and
would have done so but for an unfortunate change that had taken place in
their circumstances.

Their hooks were among the articles now missing.  The harpoons which
they had handled with such deadly effect upon the carcass of the
_cachalot_ had been there left,--sticking up out of the back of the dead
leviathan composing that improvised spit erected for roasting the
shark-steaks.  In short, every article of iron,--even to their own
knives, which had been thrown loosely into the boat,--was now at the
bottom of the sea.

There was not a moiety of metal left out of which they could manufacture
a fish-hook; and if there had been it would not have mattered much,
since they could not discover a scrap of meat sufficient to have baited
it.

There seemed no chance whatever of fishing or obtaining fish in any
fashion; and after turning the subject ever and over in their minds,
they at length relinquished it in despair.

At this crisis their thoughts reverted to the _cachalot_,--not the live,
leaping leviathan, whose hostile behaviour had so suddenly blighted
their bright prospects; but the dead one, upon whose huge carcass they
had so lately stood.  There they might still find food,--more
shark-meat.  If not, there was the whale-beef, or blubber: coarse
viands, it is true, but such as may sustain life.  Of that there was
enough to have replenished the larder of a whole ship's crew,--of a
squadron!

It was just possible they could find their way back to it, for the wind,
down which they had been running, was still in the same quarter; and the
whole distance they had made during the night might in time be
recovered.

At the best, it would have been a difficult undertaking and doubtful of
success, even if there had been no other obstacle than the elements
standing in their way.

But there was,--one more dreaded than either the opposition of the wind
or the danger of straying from their course.

In all likelihood their pursuers had returned to the spot which they had
forsaken; and might at that very moment be mooring their craft to the
huge pectoral fin that had carried the cable of the _Catamaran_.

In view of this probability, the idea of returning to the dead whale was
scarce entertained, or only to be abandoned on the instant.

Cheerless were the thoughts of the Catamarans as they sat pondering upon
that important question,--how they were to find food,--cheerless as the
clouds of night that were now rapidly descending over the surface of the
sea, and shrouding them in sombre gloom.

Never before had they felt so dispirited, and yet never had they been so
near being relieved from their misery.  It was the darkest hour of their
despondency, and the nearest to their deliverance; as the darkest hour
of the night is that which precedes the day.



CHAPTER NINETY SEVEN.

A CHEERING CUP.

They made no attempt to move from the spot upon which the sun saw them
at setting.

As yet they had not restored the mast with its sail; and they had no
motive for toiling at the oar.  All the little way they might make by
rowing was not worth the exertion of making it; and indeed it had now
become a question whether there was any use in attempting to continue
their westward course.  There was not the slightest chance of reaching
land before starvation could overtake them; and they might as well
starve where they were.  Death in that shape would not be more endurable
in one place than another; and it would make no difference under what
meridian they should depend the last few minutes of their lives.

Into such a state of mind had these circumstances now reduced them,--a
stupor of despair rather than the calmness of resignation.

After some time had been passed in this melancholy mood,--passed under
darkness and in sombre silence,--a slight circumstance partially aroused
them.  It was the voice of the sailor, proposing "supper!"  One hearing
him might have supposed that he too had taken leave of his senses.  Not
so, nor did his companions so judge him.  They knew what he meant by the
word, and that the assumed tone of cheerfulness in which he pronounced
it had been intended to cheer them.  Ben's proposal was not without some
significance; though to call it "supper" of which it was designed they
should partake was making a somewhat figurative use of the phrase.

No matter; it meant something,--something to supply the place of a
supper,--if not so substantial as they would have wished, at least
something that would not only prolong their lives, but for a while
lighten their oppressed spirits.  It meant a cup of Canary.

They had not forgotten their possession of this.  Had they done so, they
might have yielded to even a deeper despair.  A small quantity of the
precious grape-juice was still within the cask, safe stowed in its old
locker.  They had hitherto abstained from touching it, with the view of
keeping it to the last moment that it could be conveniently hoarded.
That moment seemed to Ben Brace to have arrived, when he proposed a cup
of Canary for their supper.

Of course no objection was made to a proposition equally agreeable to
all; and the stopper was taken from the cask.

The little measure of horn, which had been found floating among the
_debris_ of the wrecked gig, was carefully inserted upon its string,
drawn out filled with the sweet wine, and then passed from lip to lip,--
the pretty lips of the Lilly Lalee being the first to come in contact
with it.

The "dipping" was several times repeated; and then the stopper was
restored to its place, and without any further ceremony, the "supper"
came to an end.

Whether from the invigorating effects of the wine, or whether from that
natural reaction of spirits ever consequent on a "spell" of despondency,
both the sailor and Snowball, after closing the cask, began to talk over
plans for the future.  Hope, however slight, had once more made entry
into their souls.

The subject of their discourse was whether they should not forthwith
re-step the mast and set the sail.  The night was as dark as pitch, but
that signified little.  They could manipulate the "sticks," ropes, and
canvas without light; and as to the lashings that would be required,
there could be no difficulty in making them good, if the night had been
ten times darker than it was.  This was a trope used by Snowball on the
occasion, regardless of its physical absurdity.

One argument which the sailor urged in favour of action was, that by
moving onward they could do no harm.  They might as well be in motion as
at rest, since, with the sail as their motive power, it would require no
exertion on their part.  Of course this reasoning was purely negative,
and might not have gone far towards convincing the Coromantee,--whose
fatalist tendencies at times strongly inclined him to inaction.  But his
comrade backed it by another argument, of a more positive kind, to which
Snowball more readily assented.

"By keepin' on'ard," said Ben, "we'll be more like to come in sight o'
somethin',--if there be anythin' abroad.  Besides, if we lay here like a
log, we'll still be in danger o' them ruffians driftin' down on us.  Ye
know they be a win'ard, an' ha' got theer sail set,--that is, if they
bean't gone back to the sparmacety, which I dar say they've done.  In
that case there moutn't be much fear o' 'em; but whether or no, it be
best for us to make sure.  I say let's set the sail."

"Berra well, Massa Brace," rejoined the Coromantee, whose opposition had
been only slight.  "Dar am troof in wha you hab 'ledged.  Ef you say set
de sail, I say de same.  Dar am a lubbly breeze bowlum.  'Pose we 'tick
up de mass dis berry instam ob time?"

"All right!" rejoined the sailor.  "Bear a hand, my hearties, and let's
go at it!  The sooner we spread the canvas the better."

No further words passed, except some muttered phrases of direction or
command proceeding from the captain of the _Catamaran_ while engaged
with his crew in stepping the mast.  This done, the yard was hauled
"apeak," the "sheets" drawn "taut" and "belayed," and the wet canvas,
spread out once more, became filled with the breeze, and carried the
craft with a singing sound through the water.



CHAPTER NINETY EIGHT.

A PHANTOM SHIP OR A SHIP ON FIRE?

With the _Catamaran_ once more under sail, and going on her due course,
her crew might have seemed restored to the situation held by them
previous to their encountering the dead _cachalot_ Unfortunately for
them, this was far from being the case.

A change for the worse had occurred in their circumstances.  Then they
were "victualled"--if not to full rations, at least with stores
calculated to last them for some time.  They were provided, moreover,
with certain weapons and implements that might be the means of
replenishing their stores in the event of their falling short.

Now it was altogether different.  The _Catamaran_ was as true and
seaworthy as ever, her "rig" as of yore, and her sailing qualities not
in the least impaired.  But her "fitting out" was far inferior,
especially in the "victualling department"; and this weighed heavily
upon the minds of her crew.

Notwithstanding the depression of their spirits, which soon returned
again, they could not resist an inclination for sleep.  It is to be
remembered that they had been deprived of this on the preceding night
through the violence of the gale, and that they had got but very little
on the night before that from being engaged in scorching their
shark-meat.

Exhausted nature called loudly for repose; and so universally, that the
complete crew yielded to the call, not even one of them remaining in
charge of the helm.

It had been agreed upon that the craft should be left to choose its own
track; or rather, that which the wind might select for it.

Guided by the breath of heaven, and by that alone, did the _Catamaran_
continue her course.

How much way she made thus left alone to herself is not written down in
her "log."  The time alone is recorded; and we are told that it was the
hour of midnight before any individual of her crew awoke from that
slumber, to which "all hands" had surrendered after setting her sail.

The first of them who awoke was little William.  The sailor-lad was not
a heavy sleeper at any time, and on this night in particular his
slumbers had been especially _unsound_.  There was trouble on his mind
before going to sleep, an uneasiness of no ordinary kind.  It was not
any fear for his own fate.  He was a true English tar in miniature, and
could not have been greatly distressed with any apprehensions of a
purely selfish nature.  Those that harassed him were caused by his
consideration for another,--for Lilly Lalee.

For days he had been observing a change in the appearance of the child.
He had noticed the gradual paling of her cheek, and rapid attenuation of
her form,--the natural consequence of such a terrible exposure to one
accustomed all her days to a delicate and luxurious mode of existence.

On that day in particular, after the fearful shock they had all
sustained, the young Portuguese girl had appeared,--at least, in the
eyes of little William,--more enfeebled than ever; and the boy-sailor
had gone to sleep under a sad foreboding that she would be the first to
succumb,--and that soon,--to the hardships they were called upon to
encounter.

Little William loved Lilly Lalee with such love as a lad may feel for
one of his own age,--a love perhaps the sweetest in life, if not the
most lasting.

Inspired by this juvenile passion, and by the apprehensions he had for
its object, the boy-sailor did not sleep very soundly.

Fortunate that it was so; else that brilliant flame that near the
mid-hours of night glared athwart the deck of the _Catamaran_ might not
have awakened him; and had it not done so, neither he nor his three
companions might ever again have looked upon human face except their
own, and that only to see one another expire in the agonies of death.

There was a flame far lighting up the sombre surface of the ocean that
shone upon the sleepy Catamarans.  Gleaming in the half-closed eye of
the sailor-lad, it awoke him.

Starting up, he beheld an apparition, which caused him surprise, not
unmingled with alarm.  It was a ship beyond doubt,--or the semblance of
one,--but such as the sailor-lad had never before seen.

She appeared to be on fire.  Vast clouds of smoke were rising up from
her decks, and rolling away over her stern, illuminated by columns of
bright flame that jetted up forward of her foremast, almost to the
height of her lower shrouds.  No man unaccustomed to such a sight could
have looked upon that ship without supposing that she was on fire.

Little William should have been able to judge of what he saw.
Unfortunately for himself, the spectacle of a ship on fire was not new
to him.  He had witnessed the burning of the bark which had borne him
into the middle of the Atlantic, and left him where he now was, in a
position of extremest peril.

But the memory of that conflagration did not assist him in determining
the character of the spectacle now before his eyes.  On the decks of the
_Pandora_ he had seen men endeavouring to escape from the flames, in
every attitude of wild terror.  On the ship now in sight he beheld the
very reverse.  He saw human beings standing in front of the column of
fire, not only unconcerned at its proximity, but apparently feeding the
flames!

It was a spectacle to startle the most experienced mariner, and call
forth the keenest alarm,--a sight to suggest the double
interrogatory,--"Is it a phantom ship, or a ship on fire?"



CHAPTER NINETY NINE.

A WHALER "TRYING-OUT."

In making the observations above detailed, the boy-sailor had been
occupied scarce ten seconds of time,--only while his eye took in the
singular spectacle thus abruptly brought before it.  He did not stay to
seek out of his own thoughts an answer to the question that suggested
itself; but giving way to the terrified surprise which the apparition
had caused him, he raised a shout which instantly awoke his companions.

Each of the three, on the instant of their awaking, gave utterance to a
quick cry, but their shouts, although heard simultaneously, were
significant of very different emotions.  The cry of the girl was simply
a scream, expressive of the wildest terror.  That of Snowball was a
confused mingling of surprise and alarm; while to the astonishment of
William, and the other as well, the utterance of the sailor was a shout
of unrestrained joy, accompanied by the action of suddenly springing to
his feet,--so suddenly that the _Catamaran_ was in danger of being
capsized by the abrupt violence of the movement.

He did not give them time to ask for an explanation, but on the moment
of getting himself into an erect attitude he commenced a series of
shouts and exclamations, all uttered in the very highest key of which
his voice was capable.

And among these utterances, and conspicuously intoned, was the
well-known hail, "Ship ahoy!" followed by other nautical phrases,
denoting the recognition of a ship.

"Golly! it am a ship," interposed Snowball, "a ship on de fire!"

"No! no!" impatiently answered the ex-whalesman, "nothing o' the sort.
It's a whaler `tryin'-out' her oil.  Don't you see the men yonder,
standin' by the try-works, are throwin' in the `scraps'?  Lord o' mercy!
if they should pass us without hearing our hail!  Ship ahoy! whaler
ahoy!"  And the sailor once more put forth his cries with all the power
that lay in his lungs.

To this was added the stentorian voice of the Coromantee, who, quickly
catching the explanation given by the ex-whalesman, saw the necessity of
making himself heard.

For some moments the deck of the _Catamaran_ rang with the shouts, "Ship
ahoy!"

"Whaler ahoy!" that might have been heard far over the ocean,--much
farther than the distance at which the strange vessel appeared to be;
but, to the consternation of those who gave utterance to those cries, no
answer was returned.

They could now distinctly see the ship, and almost everything aboard of
her; for the two columns of flame rising high in forward of her
foremast, out of the huge double furnace of the "try-works," illuminated
not only the decks of the vessel, but the surface of the sea for miles
around her.

They could see rolling sternward immense volumes of thick smoke,
gleaming yellow under the light of the blazing fires; and the figures of
men looming like giants in the glare of the garish flames,--some
standing in front of the furnace, others moving about, and actively
engaged in some species of industry, that to the eye of any other than a
whalesman might have appeared supernatural.

Notwithstanding the distinctness with which they saw all these things,
and the evident proximity of the ship, those on the raft could not make
themselves heard, shout as loudly as they would.

This might have appeared strange to the Catamarans, and led them to
believe that it was, in reality, a phantom ship they were hailing, and
the gigantic figures they saw were those of spectres instead of men.

But the experience of the ex-whalesman forbade any such belief.  He knew
the ship to be a whaler, the moving forms to be men,--her crew,--and he
knew, moreover, the reason why these had not answered his hail.  They
had not heard it.  The roaring of the great furnace fires either drowned
or deadened _every_ other sound; even the voices of the whalesmen
themselves, as they stood close to each other.

Ben Brace remembered all this; and the thought that the ship might pass
them, unheard and unheeded, filled his mind with dread apprehension.

But for a circumstance in their favour this might have been the
lamentable result.  Fortunately, however, there was a circumstance that
led to a more happy termination of that chance encounter of the two
strange crafts,--the _Catamaran_ and the whale-ship.

The latter, engaged, as appearances indicated, in the process of
"trying-out" the blubber of some whale lately harpooned, was "laying-to"
against the wind; and, of course not making much way, nor caring to make
it, through the water.

As she was coming up slowly, her head set almost "into the wind's eye,"
the Catamarans, well to windward, would have no difficulty in getting
their craft close up to her.

The sailor was not slow in perceiving their advantageous position; and
as soon as he became satisfied that the distance was too great for their
hail to be heard, he sprang to the steering-oar, turned the helm "hard a
port," and set his craft's head on towards the whaler, as if determined
to run her down.

In a few seconds the raft was surging along within a cable's length of
the whaler's bows, when the cry of "Ship ahoy!" was once more raised by
both Snowball and the sailor.  Though the hail was heard, the reply was
not instantaneous; for the crew of the whale-ship, guided by the shouts
of those on the raft, had looked forth upon the illumined water, and,
seeing such a strange embarkation right under their bows, were for some
moments silent through sheer surprise.

The ex-whalesman, however, soon made himself intelligible, and in ten
minutes after the crew of the _Catamaran_, instead of shivering in wet
clothes, with hungry stomachs to make them still more miserable, might
have been seen standing in front of an immense fire, with an ample
supply of wholesome food set before them, and surrounded by a score of
rude but honest men, each trying to excel the other in contributing to
their comfort.



CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED.

THE END OF THE "YARN."

Ocean Waifs no longer, the crew of the _Catamaran_ became embodied with
that of the ship, and her little passenger found kindness and protection
in the cabin of the whaler.

The _Catamaran_ herself was not "cut loose" in the nautical sense of the
term, and abandoned, but she was cut loose in a literal sense, and in
pieces hoisted aboard the ship to be employed for various purposes,--her
ropes, spars, and sail to be used at some time as they had been
originally intended--her other timbers to go to the stock of the
carpenter, and her casks to the cooper, to be eventually filled with the
precious sperm-oil which the ship's crew were engaged in trying out.

The old whalesman was not long aboard before getting confirmed in his
conjecture that the ship was the same whose boats had harpooned and
"drogued" the _cachalot_, the carcass of which had been encountered by
the _Catamaran_.  It was one of a large "pod" of whales, of which the
boats had been in pursuit, and these, along with the ship, having
followed its companions to a great distance, and killed several of them
in the chase, had lost all bearings of the one first struck.

It had been their intention to go in search of it, as soon as they
should try out the others that had been captured; and the information
now given by Ben Brace to the captain of the whaler would enable the
latter the more easily to discover the lost prize, which he estimated at
the value of seventy or eighty barrels of oil, and therefore well worth
the trouble of going back for.  On the day after the castaways had been
taken aboard, the whale-ship, having extinguished the fires of her
try-works, started in search of the drogued whale.

The ex-crew of the _Catamaran_ had by this time given a full account of
their adventures to the whalesmen; at the same time expressing their
belief that the ruffians on the big raft would be found by the carcass
they were in search of.  The prospect of such an encounter could not
fail to interest the crew of the whaler; and as they advanced in the
direction in which they expected to find the drogued _cachalot_, all
eyes were bent searchingly upon the sea.

So far as the dead whale was concerned, they were successful in their
search.  Just as the sun was going down, they came in sight of it; and
before the twilight had passed they "hove to" along side of it.  The
vast flock of sea birds perched upon the floating mass, and that rose
into the air as the ship approached them, proclaimed the absence of
human beings.  The great raft was not there, nor were there any
indications that it had revisited the carcass.  On the contrary, that
curious structure, the crane, which the Catamarans had erected on the
summit of the floating mass, was still standing just as they had left
it; only that the flakes of shark's flesh were scorched to the hue and
texture of a cinder, and the fire that had burnt them was no longer
blazing beneath.

The fate of the slaver's castaway crew did not long remain a mystery.
Three days after, when the carcass of the _cachalot_ had been "flensed"
and tried out, and the whaler had once more proceeded upon her cruise,
she chanced upon a spot where the sea was strewn with a variety of
objects, among which were two or three spars of a ship, and several
empty water-casks.  In these objects there was no difficulty in
recognising the wreck of the _Pandora's_ raft, which was drifting at no
great distance from the place where they had been cutting up the
_cachalot_.

The conclusion was easily arrived at.  The gale, which had been
successfully weathered by the carefully constructed _Catamaran_, had
proved too violent for the larger embarkation, loosely lashed together,
and negligently navigated as it was.  As a consequence it had gone to
pieces; while the wretches who had occupied it, not having the strength
to cling either to cask or spar, had indubitably gone to the bottom.  As
little William afterwards related--

"So perished the slaver's crew.  Not one of them,--either those in the
gig or on the raft, ever again saw the shore.  They perished upon the
face of the wide ocean--miserably perished, without hand to help or eye
to weep over them!"

In truth did it seem as if their destruction had been an act of the
Omnipotent Himself, to avenge the sable-skinned victims of their
atrocious cruelty!

Were it our province to write the after history of the Catamarans, we
could promise ourselves a pleasant task, perhaps pleasanter than
recording the cruise of that illustrious craft.

We have space only to epitomise.  The day after setting foot upon the
deck of the whale-ship, Snowball was appointed _chef de caboose_, in
which distinguished office he continued for several years; and only
resigned it to accept of a similar situation on board a fine bark,
commanded by _Captain Benjamin Brace_, engaged in the African trade.
But not _that African trade_ carried on by such ships as the _Pandora_.
No; the merchandise transported in Captain Brace's bark was not black
men, but white ivory, yellow gold-dust, palm-oil, and ostrich-plumes;
and it was said, that, after each "trip" to the African coast, the
master, as well as owner, of this richly laden bark, was accustomed to
make a trip to the Bank of England, and there deposit a considerable sum
of money.

After many years spent thus professionally, and with continued success,
the _ci-devant_ whalesman, man-o'-war's-man, ex-captain of the
_Catamaran_, and master of the African trader, retired from active life;
and, anchored in a snug craft in the shape of a Hampstead Heath villa,
is now enjoying his pipe, his glass of grog, and his _otium cum
dignitate_.

As for "Little William," he in turn ceased to be known by this
designation.  It was no longer appropriate when he became the captain of
a first-class clipper-ship in the East Indian trade,--standing upon his
own quarter-deck full six feet in his shoes, and finely proportioned at
that,--so well as to both face and figure, that he had no difficulty in
getting "spliced" to a wife that dearly loved him.

She was a very beautiful woman, with a noble round eye, jet black waving
hair, and a deep brunette complexion.  Many of his acquaintances were
under the impression that she had Oriental blood in her veins, and that
he had brought her home from India on one of his return voyages from
that country.  Those more intimate with him could give a different
account,--one received from himself; and which told them that his wife
was a native of Africa, of Portuguese extraction, and that her name was
_Lalee_.

They had heard, moreover, that his first acquaintance with her had
commenced on board a slave bark; and that their friendship as
children,--afterwards ripening into love,--had been cemented while both
were castaways upon a raft--Ocean Waifs in the middle of the Atlantic.

THE END.






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Ocean Waifs, by Mayne Reid

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