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

by Mayne Reid · English · Gutenberg #27982 · 665,662 chars · public domain (US)

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

Author: Mayne Reid


        
Release date: February 3, 2009 [eBook #27982]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27982

Credits: Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 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 attribut

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