The Ocean Waifs: A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea

Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

The Ocean Waifs, by Captain Mayne Reid.

________________________________________________________________________ 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-coloured 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 negro, 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 negro'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 negro 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 negro 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 negro.

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 negro 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 negro 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 negro'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 negro performed his duty as protector. When all the others had forsaken the ship, and the flames were fast spreading over her decks, the faithful negro 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 negro 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 negro 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 negro 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 negro 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 negro 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 negro 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 negro," 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 negro'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 negro 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 negro 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 negro 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 negro, 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 negro 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 negro been making away, instead of swimming towards it, and showing signs of a desire to escape, its onset would have been made on the instant.

As it was, the shark saw itself _vis-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 negro seemed slightly perplexed by this unexpected manoeuvre. He had anticipated an instantaneous attack, and had made every preparation to receive and repel it. He had even taken the knife from his teeth, and was holding it tightly clutched in his right hand, ready to deal his deadly blow.

The shyness of the shark produced a disappointment.

Something besides: for it now occurred to Snowball that the cunning zygaena was trying to pass him, with the design of making a _razzia_ towards the helpless party in his rear.

The moment this suspicion arose to him he turned short in the water, and struck out in a direction that would enable him to head the shark, and, if possible, intercept it.

Whether the creature intended to pursue his original plan of attacking the sailor and his charge, or whether he was manoeuvring to _turn_ the Coromantee, it mattered not. In either case Snowball was pursuing the correct strategy. He knew that if his supple antagonist could once get round to his rear, his chances of safety for himself or the others would be sadly diminished. Should the zygaena once get past him and continue on towards the sailor, swift swimmer as Snowball was, he could have no chance of overtaking a fish.

At this crisis a thought occurred to him which promised to avert the calamity he most dreaded,--that is, the shark getting past him, and continuing on to the others. The thought found expression in speech.

"Ho! Massa Brace!" he cried, once more taking the steel from between his teeth. "Swim roun' to de right. Keep a-gwine in de circle. For de Lord sake, keep ahind me, or you loss fo' sartin!"

The sailor scarcely needed the counsel. He saw the danger before Snowball had spoken, and had already commenced the movement which the Coromantee was requesting him to make.

Once more the tableau changed. The _dramatis persona_ in their relative positions first formed an isosceles triangle, then a scalene, afterwards a right line. Now all were moving in a circle, or rather in three circles concentric to one another; the sailor, with his charge, revolving round the centre, Snowball in mid radius, while the shark, flanked by his satellites, went gliding along the outer circumference, his lurid eyes glaring continually inward, as if watching for an opportunity to break the line so carefully guarded by the Coromantee!

For full five minutes was this "ring" performance kept up, without any great alteration occurring in the relative positions of the parties. But it was a game in which the outside player had all the advantage; for, although the zygaena had by far the greater distance to traverse, what was but sport to it was fatigue and the danger of drowning to its adversaries.

Had its skull been of a different formation, and filled with a better set of brains, it would have endeavoured to keep up that game, without in the least degree changing the mode of playing it. In due time, its chief antagonist, Snowball, must have cried quarter or gone to the bottom; and far sooner must have sunk the weighted swimmer in his wake.

But sharks, like other creatures both aquatic and terrestrial, have their moments of impatience and anger; and the zygaena, yielding to these passions, common to both piscine and human nature, at length determined to break through the rules of the game, and bring the play to an abrupt termination.

In obedience to this impulse, it suddenly swerved from its circular course, and, heading towards the spot where Ben Brace, with Lilly Lalee clinging to his shoulder, was performing his shorter revolutions, it made a reckless and determined rush for the centre,--equally regardless of the admonition of its brace of monitors and the cold steel of the Coromantee, gleaming clear under the water through which it would have to make its way. So near had it to pass to the negro's flat nose that its glutinous skin would be almost in contact with his prominent lips, and with his outstretched hand he need have no difficulty in striking his slippery antagonist.

Had Snowball been anticipating this change of tactics, he could not have acted more adroitly, or with greater promptness. As the zygaena was gliding onward, and just as its rough _pectoral_ passed within an inch of his nose, he suddenly returned the knife between his teeth, and, simultaneously using both hands and limbs, he sprang upward in the waiter, and, with a vigorous effort, launched himself on its back!

In the next instant he was seen,--or might have been seen,--with one hand, the left, firmly grasping the bony protuberance of the zygaena's left eye, his muscular fingers deeply imbedded in the socket, while his right, clutching the long knife, was inflicting a series of stabs against the side of his adversary, now flashing high in the air, now gleaming under water, going up and down with all the measured regularity of a trip-hammer.

When it pleased the Coromantee to dismount from his slippery saddle, the zygaena floated by his side,--a carcass stained with its own blood, that for fathoms around encrimsoned the azure waters of the ocean!

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

THE CHASE OF THE CATAMARAN.

As we have said, little William, standing near the stern of the _Catamaran_, had watched the spectacle with suspended breath. It was only after seeing the zygaena float lifeless on the water, and becoming satisfied that Snowball had come out of the struggle safe as well as victorious, that the boy gave utterance to a shout. Then, unable longer to restrain himself, he raised a cry of joyful exultation.

It was neither prolonged nor repeated. It had scarce passed his lips, ere it was succeeded by another of very different import. This was the very opposite to a shout of joy: rather was it a cry of consternation. That little drama of the ocean, of which he had been the sole spectator, was not yet over. There was another act to come of equally thrilling interest with that just ended,--an act in which he himself would be called upon to play an important part along with the others.

It had already commenced; and the wild cry which escaped from the lips of the sailor-lad announced his first perception of the new phase into which the drama had entered.

Absorbed in the contemplation of the combat between Snowball and the shark, he had hitherto remained unobservant of a circumstance of the most alarming character,--one that threatened not only the destruction of the Coromantee, but Ben Brace as well, and Lilly Lalee, and in time little William himself,--in short, of the whole party.

The lives of all were at that moment in the hands of the sailor-lad, or if not in his hands, then were all of them doomed to certain destruction.

You may be wondering what strange circumstance this was, fraught with such a terrible contingency. There was nothing mysterious in or about it. It was simply that the _Catamaran_, carrying its large spread sail, was drifting to leeward, and rapidly increasing the distance between itself and the swimmers.

Relieved from the anxiety with which he had regarded the conflict, little William at once became aware of this new danger,--hence his cry of consternation. Ben Brace either perceived it at the same instant, or else the shout of his _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 negro really began to feel anxiety about the result.

This anxiety kept increasing as the minutes passed, and the broad stretch of blue water between him and the _Catamaran_ appeared to grow no narrower, strike out as he would with all the strength of his sinewy arms, and kick as he might with all the muscular energy that lay in his stout legs.

His anxiety became anguish, when, after one of his most vigorous efforts, he believed, or fancied, that all had been in vain, and that the _Catamaran_ had actually gained upon him. Whether fancy or not, it produced conviction in his mind that to overtake the craft was impossible; and all at once he discontinued the attempt. He did not, however, remain stationary in the water. Far from that. On abandoning the pursuit of the _Catamaran_, he turned like an otter, and looked back in the direction from which he had come. In this direction, nearly two hundred fathoms distant, two dark objects, so close together as to seem one, were visible over the "curl" of the water.

They were just visible to an eye elevated several inches above the surface; and Snowball was obliged to buoy himself into an erect attitude,--like a seal taking a survey of the circle around it, or a dog pitched unexpectedly into a deep pond,--before he could see them.

He saw them, however; he knew what they were; and, without a moment's pause or hesitation, he recommenced cleaving the water in a line leading directly towards them.

The mind of the Coromantee, hitherto distracted by conflicting emotions, had now but one thought. It was less purpose than a despairing instinct. It was to support the child who had been intrusted to him-- the Lilly Lalee--above water as long as he should have strength; and then to go down along with her into that vast, fathomless tomb, that leaves no trace and carries no epitaph!

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

THE SAIL OUT OF SIGHT.

The sea-cook and the sailor were now swimming towards each other. It is true that Ben was not making very rapid way, nor did Snowball return on his course with any great alacrity. Despair had rendered the latter somewhat irresolute; and he scarcely knew why he was swimming back, unless it was to be drowned in company with the others; for drowning now appeared their inevitable fate.

Slowly as both swam, they soon came together,--the countenances of both, as they met, exhibiting that fixed, despairing look which bespeaks the utter extinction of hope.

The _Catamaran_ was now at such a distance, that even could she have been suddenly arrested in her course, and brought to an anchor, it was doubtful whether either Snowball or the sailor could have reached her by swimming. The raft itself and the water-casks lashed around it were no longer to be seen. Only the white sail, that like a bit of fleecy cloud, equally fleeting, was fast lessening to a speck upon the distant horizon. No wonder that hope had forsaken them!

The sailor wondered that the sail was still set. During the first moments, while endeavouring to come up with the craft, he had shouted to William to let go the halliards. He had kept repeating this order, until his voice, already hoarse and faltering, grew almost inarticulate from sheet exhaustion of breath, and the rail, moreover, had drifted to such a distance that it was not likely the lad could hear him. Under this impression he had at length discontinued his feeble cries, and swam on in slow and gloomy silence, wondering why William had not obeyed his injunctions, feeling chagrin at his not doing so, and with good reason, since the lowering of the sail might have still given them some chance of overtaking the craft.

It was just as the sailor had given over calling out, and relapsed into sullen silence, that Snowball was seen returning towards him. It was an additional argument for despair this abandonment of the chase on the part of the Coromantee. When such a swimmer had given it up, Ben knew it was hopeless.

In a moment after they met face to face. The glance exchanged between them was mutually understood without a word spoken by either. Each tacitly read in the eyes of the other the dread destiny that awaited them,--near, and soon to be fulfilled,--drowning!

Snowball was the first to break the terrible silence.

"You nigh done up, Massa Ben,--you muss be! Gib me de lilly gal. You Lally! you lay hold on ma shoulder, and let Massa Brace ress a bit."

"No,--no!" protested the sailor, in a despairing tone. "It bean't no use. I can carry her a bit longer. 'Tain't much longer as any o' us 'll be--"

"Sh! Massa Brace," interrupted the negro, speaking in a suppressed whisper, and looking significantly towards the child. "Hope dar 's no danger yet," he added, in a voice intended for the ear of Lalee. "We oberhaul de _Catamaran_ by 'm by. De wind change, and bring dat craff down on us. 'Peak in de French, Massa Ben," he continued, at the same time adroitly adopting a _patois_ of that language. "De _pauvre jeune fille_ don't understan' de French lingo. I know it am all ober wi' boaf you an' me, and de gal, too but doan let her know it to de lass minute. It be no use to do dat,--only make her feel wuss."

"_Eh bien_! all right!" muttered Ben, indiscriminately mingling his French and English phrases. "_Pauvre enfant_! She shan't know nothin' from me o' what be afore her. Lord a marcy on all o' us! I don't see the raft any more! Whar be it? Can you see it, Snowball?"

"Gorramity, no!" replied the black, raising himself up in the water to get a better view. "Gone out o' de sight altogedder! We nebba see dat _Catamaran_ any more,--no, nebba!"

The additional accent of despair with which these words were uttered was scarce perceptible. Had there been a hope, it would have been shattered by the disappearance of the raft,--whose white sail was now no longer visible against the blue background of the horizon. But all hope had previously been abandoned; and this new phase of the drama produced but slight change in the minds of its chief actors. Death was already staring them in the face with that determination which promised no prospect of avoiding it, and none was cherished. The only change that occurred was in the action. The swimmers no longer directed themselves in a particular course. There was none for them to follow. With the disappearance of the sail they no longer knew in what direction to look for the raft. For all they now knew of it, it might have gone to the bottom, leaving them alone upon the bosom of the limitless ocean.

"No use swimmin' on'ards!" said Ben, despairingly. "It'll only waste the bit of strength that be left us."

"No use," assented the negro. "Less lay to, and float on de water. Dat be easier, and we can keep up de longer. Do, Massa Ben,--gib me de gal. You mo' tired dan I. Come, lilly Lally, you grasp hold on ma shoulder! Dat's de bess way. Come, now,--come, dear lilly gal."

And as Snowball spoke, he swam close alongside the girl and, gently detaching her hand from the shoulder of the sailor, transferred its feeble grasp to his own.

Ben no longer offered resistance to this generous action on the part of his old comrade: for, in truth, he stood in dire necessity of the relief; and, the transfer having been effected, both continued to float upon the water, sustaining themselves with no more effort than was absolutely necessary to keep their heads above the surface.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

WAITING FOR DEATH.

For several minutes the wretched castaways of the _Catamaran_ remained in their perilous position,--almost motionless in the midst of the deep blue water,--precariously suspended upon its surface,--suspended between life and death!

Under any circumstances the situation would have been trying to the stoutest nerves,--even under circumstances where a hope of deliverance might have been indulged in. Without this it was awful.

Neither black man nor white one any longer contemplated the _danger_ of death: both believed in its _certainty_.

How could they doubt it?

Had either been standing upon the scaffold, with the condemned cap drawn over his eyes and the rope adjusted around his neck, he could not have felt surer of the nearness of his end.

Both believed it to be simply a question of time; an hour or two,-- perhaps not so much, since the fatigues and struggles through which they had just passed had already made sad inroads upon their strength,--but an hour or two at most, and all would be over. Both must succumb to the laws of Nature,--the laws of gravitation,--or rather of specific gravity,--and sink below the surface,--down, down into the fathomless and unknown abysm of the ocean. Along with them, sharing their sad fate, Lilly Lalee,--that pretty, uncomplaining child, the innocent victim of an ill-starred destiny, must disappear forever from a world of which she had as yet seen so little, and that little of the least favourable kind.

Throughout the whole affair the girl had shown but slight signs of the terrible affright that, under the circumstances, might have been expected. Born in a land and brought up among a people where human life was lightly and precariously held, she had been often accustomed to the spectacle of death,--which to some extent robs it of its terrors. At all events, they who are thus used appear to meet it with a more stoical indifference.

It would be a mistake to suppose that the girl appeared indifferent. Nothing of the sort. She exhibited apprehension,--fear sufficient; but whether her mind was overwhelmed by the extreme peril of the situation, or that she was still ignorant of its being extreme, certain it is that her behaviour, from beginning to end, was characterised by a calmness that seemed supernatural, or at all events superhuman. Perhaps she was sustained by the confidence she had in the brace of brave protectors swimming alongside of her,--both of whom, even in that extreme hour, carefully refrained from communicating to her the belief which they themselves in all fulness entertained,--that their lives were fast approaching to a termination.

The minds of both were fully imbued with this conviction, though not in the same degree of fulness. If possible, the white man felt more certain of the proximity of his end than did the negro. It is not easy to tell why it was so. The reason may, perhaps, be found in the fact, that the latter had been so often on the edge of the other world, had so often escaped entering it, that, despite the impossibility of escaping from his present peril,--to all appearance absolute,--there still lingered in his breast some remnant of hopefulness.

Not so with the sailor. From the bosom of Ben Brace every vestige of hope had vanished. He looked upon life as no longer possible. Once or twice the thought had actually entered his mind to put an end to the struggle, and, along with it, the agony of that terrible hour, by suspending the action of his arms, and suffering himself to sink to the bottom of the sea. He was only restrained from the suicidal act, by the influence of that instinct of our nature, which abhors self-destruction, and admonishes, or rather compels us, to abide the final moment when death comes to claim us as its own.

Thus, by different circumstances, and under different influences, were the three castaways of the _Catamaran_ sustained upon the surface of the water,--Lilly Lalee by Snowball,--Snowball, by the slightest ray of hope still lingering in a corner of his black bosom,--the sailor by an instinct causing him to refrain from the committal of that act which, in civilised society, under all circumstances, is considered as a crime.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

A CHEST AT SEA.

All conversation had come to an end. Even the few phrases at intervals exchanged between Snowball and the sailor,--the solemn import of which had been zealously kept from the child by their being spoken in _French_--were no longer heard.

The swimmers, now wellnigh exhausted, had for a long interval preserved this profound silence, partly for the reason of their being exhausted, and partly that no change had occurred in the circumstances surrounding them,--nothing that required a renewal of the conversation. The awe of approaching death,--now so near, that twenty minutes or a quarter of an hour might be regarded as the ultimate moment,--held, as if spellbound, the speech both of Snowball and the sailor.

There were no other sounds to interrupt the silence of that solemn moment,--at least none worthy of being mentioned. The slightest ripple of the water, stirred by a zephyr breeze, as it played against the bodies of the languid swimmers, might have been heard, but was not heeded. No more did the scream of the sea-mew arrest the attention of any of them, or if it did, it was only to add to the awe which reigned above and around them.

In this moment of deep silence and deepest misery, a voice fell upon the ears of the two swimmers that startled both of them, as if it had been a summons from the other world. It sounded sweet as if from the world of eternal joy. There was no mystery in the voice; it was that of the Lilly Lalee.

The child, sustained upon the shoulder of the buoyant black, was in such a position that her eyes were elevated over the surface of the water several inches above those either of him who supported her, or the sailor who swam by her side. In this situation she had a better view than either; and, as a consequence of this advantage, she saw what was visible to neither,--a dark object floating upon the surface of the sea at no great distance from the spot where the exhausted swimmers were feebly struggling to sustain themselves.

It was the announcement of this fact that had fallen with such startling effect upon the ears of the two men, simultaneously rousing both from that torpor of despair which for some time had held possession of them.

"Who you see, Lilly Lally? Who you see?" exclaimed Snowball, who was the first to interrogate the girl. "Look at 'im 'gain,--look, good lilly gal!" continued he, at the same time making an effort to elevate the shoulder which gave support to his _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, nigger. You had better do that. Mount the barrel, an' I'll keep a tight hold o' the kit."

Snowball, releasing his arm from the sennit loop, swam up to the floating cask; and, after some dodging about, succeeded in getting astride of it.

It required a good deal of dexterous manoeuvring to keep the cask from rolling, and pitching him back into the water. But Snowball was just the man to excel in this sort of aquatic gymnastics; and after a time he became balanced in his seat with sufficient steadiness to admit of his taking a fair survey of the ocean around him.

The sailor had watched his movements with a sage yet hopeful eye: for these repeated indications of both the presence and providence of his own _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 negro, "am for me to obertake dat ere craff. As you said, de sail am down; an' de ole Cat no go fasser dan a log o' 'hogany wood in a calm o' de tropic. If dis child swim affer, he soon come up; and den wif de oar an' de help ob lilly Willy, he meet you more dan half-way,--dat fo' sartin."

"You think you can overtake her, Snowball?"

"I be sartin ob dat ere. You tay here wif Lilly Lally. Keep by de chess and de cask boaf,--for de latter am better dan de former. No fear, I soon bring de _Cat'maran_ long dis way, once I get 'board o' her."

So saying, the negro gave the cask a "cant" to one side, slipped off into the water; and, with a final caution to his comrade to keep close to the spot where they were parting, he stretched out his muscular arms to their full extent, and commenced surging through the water,--snorting as he went like some huge cetacean of the tribe of the _Mysticeti_.

CHAPTER FORTY.

LAUNCHING THE LIFE-PRESERVER.

It is scarce necessary to say that, during all this time. Little William, on board the _Catamaran_, was half wild with anxious thoughts. He had obeyed the first instructions shouted to him by Ben Brace, and taken to the steering-oar; but, after struggling for some time to get the craft round, and seeing that his efforts were of no avail, he dropped it to comply with the still later orders given by the sailor: to let loose the halliards and lower the sail. Ben had wondered, and with a slight feeling of chagrin, why this last order had not been executed,--at least more promptly,--for at a later period he knew the sail had been lowered; but Ben was of course ignorant of the cause of the delay.

His conjecture, however, afterwards expressed, when he half-remembered having put "a ugly knot on the haulyards"; which he, little William, "maybe warn't able to get clear as fast as mout a been wished," was perfectly correct; as was also the additional hypothesis that the sail had been got down at last, "either by loosin' the belay or cuttin' the piece o' rope."

The latter was in reality the mode by which the sailor-lad had succeeded in lowering the sail.

As Ben had conjectured, the belaying loop had proved too much for the strength of William's fingers; and, after several fruitless efforts to untie the knot, he had at length given it up, and, seizing the axe, had severed the halliard by cutting it through and through.

Of course the sail came down upon the instant; but it was then too late; and when William again looked out over the ocean, he saw only the ocean itself, with neither spot nor speck to break the uniformity of its boundless bosom of blue.

In that glance he perceived that he was alone,--he felt for the first time that he was alone upon the ocean!

The thought was sufficient to beget despair,--to paralyse him against all further action; and, had he been a boy of the ordinary stamp, such might have been the result. But he was not one of this kind. The spirit which had first impelled him to seek adventure by sea, proved a mind moulded for enterprise and action. It was not the sort of spirit to yield easily to despair; nor did it then.

Instead of resigning himself up to fate or chance, he continued to exert the powers both of his mind and body, in the hope that something might still be done to retrieve the misfortune which had befallen the crew of the _Catamaran_. He again returned to the steering-oar; and, hastily detaching it from the hook upon which it had been mounted as a rudder, he commenced using it as a paddle, and endeavoured to propel the raft against the wind.

It is scarce necessary to say that he employed all his strength in the effort; but, notwithstanding this, he soon became convinced that he was employing it in vain. The huge _Catamaran_ lay just as Snowball had characteristically described her,--"like a log o' 'hogany wood in a calm ob de tropic."

Even worse than this; for, paddle as he would, the sailor-lad soon perceived that the raft, instead of making way against the wind, or even holding its ground, still continued to drift rapidly to leeward.

At this crisis another idea occurred to him. It might have occurred sooner, had his mind not been monopolised with the hope of being able to row the raft to windward. Failing in this, however, his next idea was to throw something overboard,--something that might afford a support to the swimmers struggling in the water.

The first object that came under his eyes promising such rapport was the sea-kit of the sailor. As already stated, it was amidships,--where its owner had been exploring it. The lid was open, and little William perceived that it was wellnigh empty; since its contents could be seen scattered on all sides, just as the sailor had rummaged them out, forming a _paraphernalia_ of sufficient variety and extent to have furnished the forecastle of a frigate.

The sight of the chest, with its painted canvas covering, which Little William knew to be water-tight, was suggestive. With the lid locked down, it might act as a buoy, and serve for a life-preserver. At all events, no better appeared to offer itself; and, without further hesitation, the lad slammed down the lid, which fortunately had the trick of locking itself with a spring, and, seizing the chest by one of the sennit handles, he dragged it to the edge of the raft, gave it a final push, and launched it overboard into the blue water of the ocean.

Little William was pleased to see that the kit, even while in the water, maintained its proper position,--that is, it swam bottom downwards. It floated buoyantly, moreover, as if it had been made of cork. He was prepared for this; for he remembered having listened to a conversation in the forecastle of the _Pandora_, relating to this very chest, in which Ben Brace had taken the principal part, and in which the sea-going qualities of his kit had been freely and proudly commented upon. William remembered how the _ci-devant_ man-o'-war's-man had boasted of his _craft_, as he called the kit, proclaiming it "a reg'lar life-buoy in case o' bein' cast away at sea," and declaring that, "if 't war emp'y,--as he hoped it never should be,--it would float the whole crew o' a pinnace or longboat."

It was partly through this reminiscence that the idea of launching the chest had occurred to little William; and, as he saw it receding from the stern of the _Catamaran_, he had some happiness in the hope, that the confidence of his companion and protector might not be misplaced; but that the vaunted kit might prove the preserver, not only of _his_ life, but of the life of one who to little William was now _even_ dearer than Ben Brace. That one was Lilly Lalee.

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 shril