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

Chapter Eighty Four.
Chapter Lxxxiv

The Chase.

Half pulling, half trusting to the sail, in a few seconds they were alongside the carcass of the cachalot. They saw what it was and divined how it came to be there; though still puzzled by the pyrotechnic display exhibited on its summit.

As they passed under the shadow of the huge mass some proposed that they should stay by it, – alleging that it would furnish food for all; but this proposal was rejected by the majority.

“Pardieu!” exclaimed the directing voice of Le Gros; “we have food a plenty. It’s drink we want now. There’s no water upon the whale; and there must be some in possession of these runaways, whoever they be. Let us first follow them! If we overhaul them, we can come back. If not, we can return all the same!”

This proposal appeared too reasonable to be rejected. A muttered assent of the majority decided its acceptance; and the raft, yielding to the renewed impulse of the rowers, swept past the carcass, – leaving both the black mass and the blazing beacon astern.

As if further to justify the course of action he had counselled, Le Gros continued —

“No fear about our finding the dead fish. This fog is clearing away. In half an hour there won’t be a trace of it. We shall be able to make out the carcass if the whale twenty miles off, – especially with the smoke of that infernal fire to guide us. Pull like the devil! Be sure of it, there’s water in one of those casks we see. Only think of it, —water!”

It scarce needed the repetition of this magic word to stimulate his thirsty companions. They were already pulling with all their strength.

For about ten minutes the chase continued, – both the pursued and the pursuer equally enveloped in vapour. They were less than two hundred yards apart, and virtually within view, – though not so near as to distinguish one another’s features. Each crew could make out the forms of the other; but only to tell that they were human beings clad in some sort of costume.

In this respect the Catamarans had the advantage. They knew who were their pursuers; and all about them.

The latter were still in a state of ignorance as to who were the four individuals so zealously endeavouring to avoid an interview with them. They could perceive that only two of them were full-grown men, and that the other two were of smaller size; but this gave them no clew for the identification of the fugitives.

Of course it did not occur to any of them to think over the rest of the Pandora’s people; and even if it had, there was no one who would have for a moment supposed that either the black cook, Snowball, or the little Portuguese pickaninny, – rarely seen upon the slaver’s deck, – could be among the survivors.

Such a conjecture never occurred to any of the ruffians upon the great raft; and therefore they were continuing the chase still ignorant of the identity of those who seemed so desirous of escaping them.

It was only after the fog had floated entirely away, – or grown so thin as to appear but transparent film, – that the pursuers identified those they were pursuing.

Then did their doubts cease and their conjectures come to a termination.

Of the four forms distinguishable upon the deck of the escaping craft, there was one that could not be mistaken.

That huge, rounded bust covered with its sable epidermis – for the negro had stripped to his work, – surmounted by a spherical occiput, – could belong to no living creature but the ex-cook of the Pandora. It was Snowball to a certainty!

A general shout proclaimed the recognition; and for some moments the air was rent with the voices of his ci-devant comrades calling upon the Coromantee to “come to an anchor.”

“Lie to, Snowball!” cried several of his old comrades. “Why have you cut your cable in that fashion? Hold on till we come up. We mean you no harm!”

Snowball did hold on; though not in the sense that his former associates desired. On the contrary, their request only stimulated him to fresh exertions, to avoid the renewal of an acquaintance which he knew would certainly end in his ruin.

The Coromantee was not to be cajoled. With Ben Brace by his side, muttering wholesome counsel, he lent a deaf ear to the proposal of the pursuers; and only answered it by pulling more energetically at his oar.

What had been only a request, now became a demand, – accompanied by threats and protestation. Snowball was menaced with the most dire vengeance; and told of terrible punishments that awaited him on his capture.

Their threats had no more influence than their solicitations; and they who had given utterance to them arriving after a time, at this conviction, ceased talking altogether.

Snowball’s silent, though evidently determined, rejection of their demands had the effect of irritating those who had made them; and stimulated by their spite with more energy than ever did they bend themselves to the task of overtaking the fugitive craft.

Two hundred yards still lay between pursuer and pursued. Two hundred yards of clear, unobstructed ocean. Was that distance to become diminished, to the capture of the Catamaran; or was it to be increased, to her escape?

Chapter Eighty Five.
Nearer and Nearer

Were the Catamarans to escape or be captured? Though not propounded as above, this was the question that occupied the minds of both crews, – the pursued and the pursuing.

Both were doing their very utmost, – the former to make their escape, the latter to prevent it; and very different were the motives by which the two parties were actuated. The occupants of the lesser raft believed themselves to be rowing and sailing for their lives; and they were not far astray in this belief; while those upon the larger embarkation were pulling after them with the most hostile intentions, – to rob them of everything they had got, – even their lives included.

So went they over the wide ocean: the pursued exerting themselves under the influence of fear; the pursuer, under that of a ferocious instinct.

In sailing qualities the Catamaran was decidedly superior to the larger raft; and had the wind been only a little fresher she would soon have increased the distance between herself and her pursuer.

Unfortunately it was a very gentle breeze that was blowing at the time; and therefore it was a contest of speed that would most likely have to be decided by the oars. In this respect the Catamaran laboured under a great disadvantage, – she could only command a single pair of oars; while, taking into account the various implements – capstan-bars and handspikes – possessed by her competitor, nearly a dozen oars might be reckoned upon. In fact, when her crew had got fairly settled down to the chase, quite this number of men could be seen acting as rowers.

Though their strokes were by no means either regular or efficient, still did they produce a rate of speed greater than that of the Catamaran; and the crew of the latter saw, to their dismay, that their pursuers were gaining upon them.

Not very rapidly, but sufficiently so to be perceived, and to inspire them with the dread belief, that in course of time they would be overtaken.

Under this belief, men of a despairing turn of mind would have ceased to exert themselves, and yielded to a fate that appeared almost certain to ensue.

But neither the English sailor nor the Coromantee sea-cook were individuals of the yielding kind. They were both made of sterner stuff, – and even when the chase was undoubtedly going against them, they were heard muttering to each other words of encouragement, and a mutual determination never to lay down their oars, so long as six feet of water separated them from their unpitying pursuers.

“No,” ejaculated the sailor, “it ’ud be no use. They’d show us no more marcy than so many sharks. I know it by their ways. Don’t lose a stroke, Snowy. We may tire ’em out yet.”

“Nebba fear fo’ me, Massa Brace!” replied the Coromantee. “A keep pullin’ so long’s de be a poun’ o’ trength in ma arms, or a bit o’ breff in ma body. Nebba fear!”

It might appear as though the crew of the Catamaran were now contending against fate, and without hope. This, however, was not the case; for there was still something like a hope to cheer them on, and nerve them to continue their exertions. What was it?

The answer to this interrogatory would have been found by anyone who could have looked upon the sea, – at some distance astern of the chase.

There might have been observed an appearance upon the water, which betokened it different from that through which they were making their way.

It resembled a dark, shadowy line, extending athwart the horizon. It might not have attracted the notice of an ordinary observer, but to the eye of Ben Brace, – as he sat by his oar facing it, – that dark line had a peculiar signification.

He knew that it denoted rougher water, and a stiffer breeze than that blowing upon them; and from this, as well as the clouds fast gathering astern, he knew there was a wind coming from that quarter.

He had imparted his observation to Snowball, and it was this that continued to inspire them with a hope of ultimate escape. Both believed that, with a strong wind in their favour, they would have the advantage of the pursuer; and so, while still bending all their energies to the propulsion of the Catamaran, they kept their eyes almost continually fixed upon the sea astern, – even with a more anxious glance than that with which they regarded their pursuers.

“If we can keep out o’ their way,” muttered he to his fellow oarsman, “only twenty minutes longer! By that time yonder breeze ’ll be down on us; and then we’ll ha’ some chance. There be no doubt but they’re gainin’ on us now. But the breeze be a gainin’ on them, – equally, if not faster. O if we only had a puff o’ yonder wind! It be blowin’ fresh and strong. I can see it curlin’ up the water not three knots astarn o’ the big raft. Pull for your life, Snowy. Shiver my timbers! they be a gainin’ on us faster than ever!”

There was a despairing tone in these last words, that told how fearful appeared their situation to the captain of the Catamaran; and the sign of assent made by Snowball in reply, – an ominous shake of the head, – showed that the ex-cook shared the apprehensions of his comrade.

Chapter Eighty Six.
Cut in Twain

For some seconds the sailor and Snowball remained silent, – both too busy with their oars, as well as their eyes, to find time for speech.

Their pursuers were noisy enough. They had kept quiet, so long as there appeared to be any uncertainty about the results of the chase; but as soon as they became assured that their clumsy craft was going faster than that of which they were in pursuit, – and they no longer felt doubt about overtaking the latter, – their fiendish voices once more filled the air; and commands for the Catamarans to come to, – with threats of revenge in case of non-compliance, – were hurled after the fugitives.

One man was conspicuous among the rest both for the position which he held upon the raft and the menacing words and gestures of which he made use. This man was Le Gros.

Standing prominently forward, near the head of the embarkation, with a long boat-hook in his hand, he appeared to direct the movements of the others, – urging them in every way to their utmost exertions. He was heard telling them that he saw both food and water in possession of the fugitives – a cask of the latter, as he stated, being lashed to the Catamaran.

It need scarce be said that the statement – whether true or fallacious, – acted as a stimulus to his comrades at the oar. The word “water” was music to their ears; and, on hearing it pronounced, one and all of them put forth their utmost strength.

The increased speed thus obtained for the larger craft war likely to bring about the crisis. She was now seen to gain upon the lesser more rapidly than ever; and, before another ten minutes had elapsed, she had forged so close to the stern timbers of the Catamaran that an active man might almost have leaped from one to the other.

The crew of the latter beheld the proximity with despair. They saw the black waves, with white curling crests, coming on behind. They saw the sky becoming overcast above their heads; but it appeared only to scowl upon them, – as if to make darker the dread doom that was now threatening so near.

“Shiver my timbers!” cried the sailor, alluding to that too tardy wind, “it will be too late to save us!”

“Too late!” echoed the voice of Le Gros from the big raft, his white teeth, as they shone through his black beard, imparting to him a ferocity of aspect that was hideous to behold. “Too late, you say, Monsieur Brace. For what, may I ask? Not too late for us to get a drink out of your water-cask. Ha! ha! ha!”

“You son of a sea-cook!” he continued, addressing himself to the negro; “why don’t you hold your oars? Sacré-Dieu! what’s the use, you ugly nigger? Don’t you see we’ll board you in six seconds more? Drop your oars, I say, and save time. If you don’t, we’ll skin you alive when we’ve got our flippers upon you.”

“Nebba, Massa Grow!” defiantly retorted Snowball? “you nebba ’kin dis nigga ’live. He go die ’fore you do dat. He got him knife yet. By golly! me kill more than one ob you ’fore gib in. So hab a care, Massa Grow! You lay hand on ole Snowy, you cotch de tarnel goss.”

To this threat of resistance the Frenchman did not vouchsafe reply: for the rafts were now so near to each other that his attention became engrossed by something that left no time for further speech.

He saw that the Catamaran was within reach of his boat-hook, and, leaning forwards with the long shaft extended, he struck its grappling-iron into her stern timber.

For a second or two there was a struggle, which would have ended in the two rafts being brought in contact with one another but for an adroit stroke given by the oar of the English sailor. This not only detached the boat-hook from its grip, but also from the grasp of Le Gros, and sent the implement shivering through the air.

At the same instant of time the Frenchman, losing his balance, was seen to stagger, and then sink suddenly downwards; not into a prostrate position, but perpendicularly, – as if his legs had penetrated between the timbers of the raft.

This was exactly what had occurred: for as soon as the spectators in both crafts could recover from their surprise, they saw only so much of Monsieur Le Gros as lay between his armpits and the crown of his head, – his limbs and the lower half of his body being concealed between the planks that prevented him from sinking wholly into the water.

Perhaps it would have been better for him had he made a complete plunge of it. At all events, a bold “header” could not have had for him a more unfortunate ending. Scarce had he sunk between the timber when a wild shriek came forth from his throat, – accompanied by a pallor of countenance, and a contortion of his features, that proclaimed something more than a mere “start” received by suddenly sinking waist-deep into the sea.

One of his comrades, – the confederate ruffian already spoken of, – rushed forward to raise him out of the trap, – from which he was evidently unable to extricate himself.

The man caught hold of him by the arms, and was dragging him up; when, all at once, he was seen to let go, and start back with a cry of horror!

This singular conduct was explained on looking at the object from which he had made such a precipitate retreat. It was no longer Le Gros, nor even Le Gros’s body; but only the upper half of it, cut off by the abdomen, as clean as if it had been severed by a pair of gigantic shears!

“A shark!” cried a voice, which only gave utterance to the thought that sprung up simultaneously in the minds of all, – both the occupants of the big raft, and the crew of the Catamaran.

Thus deplorably terminated the life of a sinful man; who certainly merited punishment, and, perhaps deserved no better fate.

Chapter Eighty Seven.
An unlooked-for Deliverance

A spectacle so unexpected, – but, above all, of such a horrid nature, – could not fail to produce a powerful impression upon those who were witnesses to it. It even caused a change of proceedings on the part of the pursuers, – almost a suspension of the pursuit, – and on that of the pursued some relaxation in their efforts to escape. Both parties appeared for some seconds as if spellbound, and the oars on both rafts were for a while held “apeak.”

This pause in the action was in favour of the Catamaran, whose sailing qualities were superior to those of her pursuer. Her crew, moreover, less caring for what had happened to Monsieur Le Gros, were the first to recover from their surprise; and before the comrades of the half-eaten Frenchman thought of continuing the chase, they had forced ahead several lengths of their craft from the dangerous contiguity so near being established between them.

The ruffian crew – now castaways – of the Pandora had been awed by the strange incident, – so much so as to believe, for a time, that something more than chance had interfered to bring it about. They were not all friends of the unfortunate man, who had succumbed to such a singular fate. The inquest that had been interrupted was still fresh in their minds, and many of them believed that the inquiry – had it proceeded to a just termination – would have resulted in proving the guilt of Le Gros, and proclaiming him the murderer of O’Gorman.

Under this belief, there were many aboard the big raft that would not have cared to continue the chase any further, had it merely been to avenge the death of their late leader. With them, as with the others, there was a different motive for doing so, – a far more powerful incentive, – and that was the thirst which tortured all, and the belief that the escaping craft carried the means to relieve it.

The moiety of their mutilated chief, lying along the planks of the raft, engaged their thoughts only for a very short while; and was altogether forgotten, when the cry of “Water!” once more rising in their midst, urged them to resume the pursuit.

Once more did they betake themselves to their oars, – once more did they exert their utmost strength, – but with far less effect than before. They were still stimulated by the torture of thirst; but they no longer acted with that unanimity which secures success. The head that had hitherto guided them with those imperious eyes – now glaring ghastly from the extremity of the severed trunk – was no longer of authority among them; and they acted in that undecided and irregular manner always certain to result in defeat.

Perhaps, had things continued as they were, they might have made up for the lost opportunity; and, in time, have overtaken the fugitives on the Catamaran; but during that excited interval a change had come over the surface of the sea, which influenced the fate both of pursuers and pursued.

The dark line, first narrowly observed by the crew of the Catamaran upon the distant verge of the horizon, was no longer a mere streak of shadowed water. It had developed during the continuance of the chase, and now covered both sea and sky, – the latter with black cumbrous clouds, the former with quick curling waves, that lashed the water-casks supporting both rafts, and proclaimed the approach, if not of a storm, at least a fresh breeze, – likely to change the character of the chase hitherto kept up between them.

And very quickly came that change to pass. By the time that the castaways on the great raft had once more headed their clumsy embarkation to the pursuit, they saw the more trim craft, – by her builders yclept the Catamaran– with her sails spread widely to the wind, gliding rapidly out of their reach, and “walking the water like a thing of life.”

They no longer continued the pursuit. They might have done so, but for the waves that now, swelling up around the raft, admonished them of a danger hitherto unknown. With the spray rushing over them, and the sea, at each fresh assault, threatening to engulf their ill-governed craft, they found sufficient employment for their remaining strength, in clinging to the timbers of their rude embarkation.