As O'Gorman had no right to alter the original programme of the lottery, of course the dissenting voices to its continuance were in the minority; and the general clamour tailed upon fate to decide which of the two men was to become food for their famishing companions.

Le Gros still held the bag containing the two buttons. One of them should be black, the other red. It became a subject of dispute, which was to make the draw. It was not a question of who should draw first, since one button taken out would be sufficient. If the red one came out, the drawer must die; if the black, then the other must become the victim.

Some proposed that a third party should hold the bag, and that there should be a toss up for the first chance. Le Gros showed a disposition to oppose this plan. He said that, as he had been intrusted with the superintendence so far, he should continue it to the end. They all saw,—so urged he,—that he had not benefited by the office imposed upon him; but the contrary. It had brought nothing but ill-luck to him; and, as everybody knew, when a run of ill-luck once sets in, there was no knowing where it might terminate. He did not care much, one way or the other: since there could be no advantage in his holding the bag; but as he had done so all through,—as he believed to his disadvantage,—he was willing to hold on, even if it was death that was to be his award.

The speech of Le Gros had the desired effect. The majority declared themselves in favour of his continuing to hold the bag; and it was decided that the Irishman should make choice of the penultimate button.

The latter offered no opposition to this arrangement. There appeared no valid grounds for objecting to it. It was a simple toss of heads and tails,—"Heads I win, and tails you lose"; or, to make use of a formula more appropriate to the occasion, "Heads I live, and tails you die." With some such process of reasoning current through the brain of Larry O'Gorman, he stepped boldly up to the bag; plunged his fist into its obscure interior; and drew forth—the black button!



CHAPTER SEVENTY.

AN UNEXPECTED TERMINATION.

The red button remained in the bag. It was a singular circumstance that it should be the last; but such strange circumstances will sometimes occur. It belonged to Le Gros. The lottery was over; the Frenchman had forfeited life.

It seemed idle for him to draw the button out; and yet, to the astonishment of the spectators, he proceeded to do so.

"Sacre!" he exclaimed, "the luck's been against me. Eh bien!" he added, with a sangfroid that caused some surprise, "I suppose I must make a die of it. Let me see the accursed thing that's going to condemn me!"

As he said this, he held up the bag in his left hand,—at the same time plunging his right into its dark interior. For some seconds he appeared, to grope about, as if he had some difficulty in finding the button. While fumbling in this fashion he let go the mouth of the wallet, which he had been holding in his left hand,—adroitly transferring his hold to its bottom. This was done apparently for the purpose of getting the button into a corner,—in order that he might lay hold of it with his fingers.

For some moments the bag rested upon his left forearm, while he continued his hunt after the little piece of horn. He appeared successful at length; and drew forth his right hand, with the fingers closed over the palm, as if containing something,—of course the dread symbol of death. Stirred by a kind of curiosity, his comrades pressed mechanically around, and stood watching his movements.

For an instant he kept his fist closed, holding it on high to that all might see it: and then, slowly extending his fingers, he exhibited his spread palm before their eyes. It held the button that he had drawn forth from the bag; but, to the astonishment of all, it was a black one, and not the red token that had been expected!

There were but two men who did not partake of this surprise. One was Le Gros himself,—though, to all appearance, he was the most astonished individual of the party,—the other was the man who, some minutes before, might have been observed standing by his side, and stealthily transferring something from his own fingers to those of the Frenchman.

This unexpected termination of the lottery led to a scene of terrific excitement. Several seized hold of the bag,—jerking it out of the hand of him who had hitherto been holding it. It was at once turned inside out; when the red button fell upon the planking of the raft.

Most of the men were furious, and loudly declared that they had been cheated,—some offering conjectures as to how the cheat had been accomplished. The confederate of Le Gros—backed by the ruffian himself—suggested that there might have been no deception about the matter, but only a mistake made in the number of buttons originally thrown into the bag. "Like enough,—damned like enough!"—urged Le Gros's sharping partner; "there's been a button too many put into the bag,—twenty-seven instead of twenty-six. That's how it's come about. Well, as we all helped at the counting of 'em, therefore it's nobody's fault in particular. We'll have to draw again, and the next time we can be more careful."

As no one appeared able to contradict this hypothesis, it passed off, with a number, as the correct one. Most of the men, however, felt sure that a trick had been played; and the trick itself could be easily conjectured. Some one of the drawers had procured a button similar to those inside the bag; and holding this button, had simply inserted his hand, and drawn it out again.

Out of twenty-six draws it would have been impossible to fix upon the individual who had been guilty of the cheat, though there were not a few who permitted their suspicions to fall on Le Gros himself. There had been observed something peculiar in his mode of manipulation. He had inserted his hand into the wallet with the fist closed; and had drawn it out in similar fashion. This, with one or two other circumstances, looked suspicious enough; but it was remembered that some others had done the same; and as there was not enough of evidence to bring home the infamous act to its perpetrator, no one appeared either able or willing to risk making the accusation.

Yes, there was one who had not yet declared himself; nor did he do so until some time had elapsed after the final and disappointing draw made by the master of the ceremonies. This man was Larry O'Gorman.

While the rest of the crew had been listening to the arguments of the Frenchman's confederate,—and one by one signifying their acquiescence,—the Irishman stood apart, apparently busied in some profound mental calculation.

When at length all seemed to have consented to a second casting of lots, he roused himself from his reverie; and, stepping hastily into their midst, cried out in a determined manner, "No—

"No, yez don't," continued he, "no more drawin', my jewels, till we've had a betther undherstandin' ov this little matther. That there's been chatin' yez are all agreed; only yez can't identify the chate. Maybe I can say somethin' to point out the dirty spalpeen as hasn't the courage nor the dacency to take his chance along wid the rest ov us."

This unexpected interpolation at once drew the eyes of all parties upon the speaker; for all were alike interested in the revelation which O'Gorman was threatening to make.

Whoever had played foul,—if it could only be proved against him,—would be regarded as the man who ought to have drawn the red button; and would be treated as if he had done so. This was tacitly understood; even before the suggestion of such a course had passed the lips of anyone. Those who were innocent were of course desirous of discovering the "black sheep,"—in order to escape the danger of a second drawing,—and, as these comprehended almost the entire crew, it was natural that an attentive ear should be given to the statement which the Irishman proposed to lay before them.

All stood gazing upon him with expectant eyes. In those of Le Gros and his confederate there was a different expression. The look of the Frenchman was more especially remarkable. His jaws had fallen; his lips were white and bloodless; his eyes glared fiend-like out of their sunken sockets; while the whole cast of his features was that of a man threatened with some fearful and infamous fate, which he feels himself unable to avert.



CHAPTER SEVENTY ONE.

LE GROS UPON TRIAL.

As O'Gorman gave utterance to the last words of his preparatory speech, he fixed his eyes steadfastly upon the Frenchman. His look confirmed every one in the belief that the allusion had been to the latter.

Le Gros at first quailed before the Irishman's glance; but, perceiving the necessity of putting a bold front on the matter, he made an endeavour to reciprocate it.

"Sacre bleu!" he exclaimed. "Monsieur Irlandais why do you look at me? you don't mean to insinuate that I've acted unfairly?"

"The divil a bit," replied the Irishman. "If it's insinivation yez be talkin' about, the divil a bit ov that do I mane. Larry O'Gorman isn't agoin' to bate about the bush wan way or the tother, Misther Laygrow. He tells ye to yer teeth that it was yer beautiful self putt the exthra button into the bag,—yez did it, Misther Laygrow, and nobody else."

"Liar!" vociferated the Frenchman, with a menacing gesture. "Liar!"

"Kape cool, Frenchy. It isn't Larry the Galwayman that's goin' to be scared at yer blusther. I repate,—it was you yourself that putt that button into the bag."

"How do you know that, O'Gorman?" "Can you prove it?"

"What proof have you?" were questions that were asked simultaneously by several voices,—among which that of the Frenchman's confederate was conspicuous.

"Phwy, phwat more proof do yez want, than phwat's alriddy before yez? When I had me hand in the wallet, there wasn't only the two buttons,— the divil a more. I feeled thim both while I was gropin' about to make choice betwixt them; an if there had been a third, I wud a feeled that too. I can swear by the holy cross of Saint Pathrick there wasn't wan more than the two."

"That's no proof there wasn't three," urged the friend of Le Gros. "The third might have been in a wrinkle of the bag, without your feeling it!"

"The divil a wrinkle it was in, except the wrinkles in the palm of that spalpeen's fist! That's where it was; and I can tell yez all who putt it there. It was this very chap who is so pit-a-pat at explainin' it. Yez needn't deny it, Bill Bowler. I saw somethin' passin' betwixt yerself and Frenchy,—jest before it come his turn to dhraw. I saw yer flippers touchin' van another, an' somethin' slippin' in betwane them. I couldn't tell phwat it was, but, by Jaysus! I thought it quare for all that. I know now phwhat it was,—it was the button."

The Irishman's arguments merited attention; and received it. The circumstances looked at the least suspicious against Le Gros. To the majority they were conclusive of his guilt.

The accusation was supported by other evidence. The man who had preceded O'Gorman in the drawing positively avowed that he could feel only three buttons in the bag; while the one before him, with equal confidence, asserted that when he drew, there were but four. Both declared that they could not be mistaken as to the numbers. They had separately "fingered" each button in the hope of being able to detect that which was bloodstained, and so avoid bringing it forth.

"Ach!" ejaculated the Irishman, becoming impatient for the conviction of his guilty antagonist; "phwat's the use ov talkin'. Frenchy's the wan that did it. That gropin' an fumblin' about the bottom of the wallet was all pretince. He had the button in his shut fist all the time, an' by Jaysus! he's entitled to the prize, the same as if he had dhrawn it. It's him that's got to die!"

"Canaille! liar!" shouted Le Gros; "if I have, you—"

And as the words issued from his lips he sprang forward, knife in hand, with the evident design of taking the life of his accuser.

"Kape cool!" cried the latter, springing out of reach of his assailant; and with his own blade bared, placing himself on the defensive. "Kape cool, ye frog-atin' son av a gun, or ye'll make mate for us sooner than ye expected, ay, before yez have time to put up a pater for yer ugly sowl, that stans most disperately in nade ov it.

"Now," continued the Irishman, after he had fairly placed himself in an attitude of defence; "come an whiniver yer loike. Larry O'Gorman is riddy for ye, an' another av the same at yer dhirty back. Hoch,—faugh-a-ballah,—hiloo,—whallabaloo!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY TWO.

A DUEL TO THE DEATH.

The strange ceremonial upon the raft,—hitherto carried on with some show of solemnity,—had reached an unexpected crisis.

A second appeal to the goddess of Fortune was no longer thought of. The deadly antagonism of the two chief castaways—Le Gros and O'Gorman— promised a result likely to supply the larder of that cannibal crew, without the necessity of their having recourse to her decrees.

One or other,—perhaps both,—of these men must soon cease to live; for the determined attitude of each told, beyond mistaking, that his bared blade would not be again sheathed, except in the flesh of his adversary.

There was no attempt at intervention. Not one of their comrades interposed to keep them apart. There was friendly feeling,—or, to use a more appropriate phrase, partisanship,—on the side of each; but it was of that character which usually exists among the brutal backers of two "champions of the ring."

Under other circumstances, each party might have regretted the defeat of the champion they had adopted; but upon that raft, the death of one or other of the combatants was not only desirable; but, rather than it should not occur, either side would have most gladly assented to see its especial favourite the victim.

Every man of that ruffian crew had a selfish interest in the result of the threatened conflict; and this far outweighed any feeling of partisanship with which he might have been inspired. A few may have felt friendlier than others towards their respective champions; but to the majority it mattered little which of the two men should die; and there were even some who, in the secret chambers of their hearts, would have reflected gleefully to behold both become victims of their reciprocal hostility. Such a result would cause a still further postponement of that unpopular lottery,—in which they had been too often compelled to take shares.

There was no very great difference in the number of the "friends" on either side. The partisans of the Frenchman would have far outnumbered those of his Irish adversary, but ten minutes before. But the behaviour of Le Gros in the lottery had lost him many adherents. That he had played the trick imputed to him was by most believed; and as the result of his unmanly subterfuge was of personal interest to all, there were many, hitherto indifferent, now inspired with hostility towards him.

Apart from personal considerations,—even amongst that conglomeration of outcasts,—there were some in whom the instinct of "fair-play" was not altogether dead; and the foul play of the Frenchman had freshly aroused this instinct within them.

As soon as the combatants had shown a fixed determination to engage in deadly strife, the crowd upon the raft became separated, as if by mechanical action, into two groups,—one forming in the rear of Le Gros, the other taking stand behind the Irishman.

As already stated, there was no great inequality between them in point of numbers; and as each occupied an end of the raft, the balance was preserved, and the stage upon which the death drama was about to be enacted—set horizontally—offered no advantage to either.

Knives were to be their weapons. There were others on the raft. There were axes, cutlasses, and harpoons; but the use of these was prohibited to either of the intended combatants: as nothing could be fairer than the sailor's knife,—with which each was provided,—and no weapon in close combat could be used with more certain or deadlier effect.

Each armed with his own knife, released from its lanyard fastenings in order to be freely handled,—each with his foot planted in front of him, to guard against the onset of his adversary,—each with an arm upraised, at the end of which appeared six inches of sharp, glittering steel,— each with muscles braced to their toughest tension, and eyes glaring forth the fires of a mutual hatred,—a hostility to end only in death,— such became the attitude of the antagonists.

Behind each stood their respective partisans, in a sort of semicircle, of which the champion was in the centre,—all eagerly intent on watching the movements of the two men, one of whom—perhaps both—was about to be hurried into eternity.

It was a setting sun that was to afford light for this fearful conflict. Already was the golden orb declining low upon the western horizon. His disc was of a lurid red,—a colour appropriate to the spectacle it was to illumine. No wonder that both combatants instinctively turned their eyes towards the west, and gazed upon the god of day. Both were under the belief they might never more look upon that luminary!



CHAPTER SEVENTY THREE.

HATE AGAINST HATE.

The combatants did not close on the instant. The sharp blades shining in their hands rendered them shy of a too near approach, and for some time they kept apart. They did not, however, remain motionless or inactive. On the contrary, both were on the alert,—moving in short curves from one side to the other, and all the while keeping vis-a-vis.

At irregular intervals one of them would make a feint to attack; or by feigning a retreat endeavour to get the other off guard; but, after several such passes and counter-passes had been delivered between them, still not a scratch had been given,—not a drop of blood drawn.

The spectators looked on with a curious interest. Some showed not the slightest emotion,—as if they cared not who should be the victor, or which the victim. To most it mattered but little if both should fall; and there were even some upon the raft who, for certain secret reasons, would have preferred such a termination to the sanguinary struggle.

A few there were slightly affected with feelings of partisanship. These doubtless felt a deeper interest in the result, at least they were more demonstrative of it; and by words of exhortation and cries of encouragement endeavoured to give support to their respective champions.

There were spectators of a different kind, that appeared to take as much interest in the fearful affair as any of those already described. These were the sharks! Looking at them, as they swam around the raft,—their eyes glaring upon those who occupied it,—one could not have helped thinking that they comprehended what was going on,—that they were conscious of a deed of violence about to be enacted,—and were waiting for some contingency that might turn up in their favour!

Whatever the crisis was to be, neither the spectators in the sea, nor those upon it, would have long to wait for the crisis. Two men, mutually enraged, standing in front of each other, armed with naked knives; each desperately desirous of killing the other,—with no one to keep them apart, but a score of spectators to encourage them in their intent of reciprocal destruction,—were not likely to be long in coming to the end of the affair. It was not a question of swords, where skilful fencing may protract a combat to an indefinite period of time; nor of pistols, where unskilful shooting may equally retard the result. The combatants knew that, on closing within arms' length, one or other must receive a wound that might in a moment prove mortal.

It was this thought that—for some minutes after their squaring up to each other—had influenced them to keep at a wary distance.

The cries of their companions began to assume an altered tone. Mingled with shouts of exhortation could be heard taunts and jeers,—several voices proclaiming that the "two bullies were afraid of each other."

"Go in, Le Gros! give him the knife!" cried the partisans of the Frenchman.

"Come, Larry! lay on to him!" shouted the backers of his antagonist.

"Bear a hand, both of you! go it like men!" vociferated the voice of some one, who did not seem particularly affected to the side of either.

These off-hand counsels, spoken in a varied vocabulary of tongues, seemed to produce the desired effect. As the last of them pealed over the heads of the spectators, the combatants rushed towards each other,— as they closed inflicting a mutual stab. But the blade of each was met by the left arm of his antagonist, thrown out to ward off the strokes and they separated again without either having received further injury than a flesh wound, that in no way disabled them. It appeared, however, to produce an irritation, which rendered both of them less careful of consequences: for in an instant after they closed again,—the spectators accompanying their collision with shouts of encouragement.

All were now looking for a quick termination to the affair; but in this they were disappointed. After several random thrusts had been given on both sides, the combatants again became separated without either having received any serious injury. The wild rage which blinded both, rendering their blows uncertain,—combined with the weakness of their bodies from long starvation,—may account for their thus separating for the second time, without either having received a mortal wound.

Equally innocuous proved the third encounter,—though differing in character from either of those that preceded it. As they came together, each grasped the right arm of his antagonist,—that which wielded the weapon,—in his left hand; and firmly holding one another by the wrists, they continued the strife. In this way it was no longer a contest of skill, but of strength. Nor was it at all dangerous, as long as the "grip" held good; since neither could use his knife. Either could have let go with his left hand at any moment; but by so doing he would release the armed hand of his antagonist, and thus place himself in imminent peril.

Both were conscious of the danger; and, instead of separating, they continued to preserve the reciprocal "clutch" that had been established between them.

For some minutes they struggled in this strange fashion,—the intention of each being to throw the other upon the raft. That done, he who should be uppermost would obtain a decided advantage.

They twisted, and turned, and wriggled their bodies about; but both still managed to keep upon their feet.

The contest was not carried on in any particular spot, but all over the raft; up against the mast, around the empty casks, among the osseous relics of humanity,—the strewed bones rattling against their feet as they trod over them. The spectators made way as they came nearer, nimbly leaping from side to side; while the stage upon which this fearful drama was being enacted,—despite the ballast of its water-logged beams, and the buoyancy of its empty casks,—was kept in a continual commotion.

It soon became evident that Le Gros was likely to get the worst of it, in this trial of strength. The muscular power of the Frenchman was inferior to that of his island antagonist; and had it been a mere contest of toughness, the former would have been defeated.

In craft, however, Le Gros was the Irishman's superior: and at this crisis stratagem came to his aid.

In turning about, the Frenchman had got his head close to the sleeve of O'Gorman's jacket,—that one which encircled his right wrist, and touched the hand holding the dangerous knife. Suddenly craning his neck to its fullest stretch, he seized the sleeve between his teeth, and held it with all the strength of his powerful jaws. Quick as thought, his left hand glided towards his own right; his knife was transferred to it; and the next moment gleamed beneath, threatening to penetrate the bosom of his antagonist.

O'Gorman's fate appeared to be sealed. With both arms pinioned, what chance had he to avoid the blow? The spectators, silent and breathless, looked for it as a certain thing. There was scarce time for them to utter an exclamation, before they were again subjected to surprise at seeing the Irishman escape from his perilous position.

Fortunate it was for him, that the cloth of his pea-jacket was not of the best quality. It had never been, even when new; and now, after long-continued and ill-usage, it was almost rotten. For this reason, by a desperate wrench, he was enabled to release his arm from the dental grip which his antagonist had taken upon it,—leaving only a rag between the Frenchman's teeth.

The circumstances had suddenly changed! the advantage being now on the side of the Irishman. Not only was his right arm free again; but with the other he still retained his hold upon that of his antagonist. Le Gros could only use his weapon with the left arm; which placed him at a disadvantage.

The shouts that had gone up to hail the Frenchman's success—so late appearing certain—had become suddenly hushed; and once more the contest proceeded in silence.

It lasted but a few seconds longer; and then was it terminated in a manner unexpected by all.

Beyond doubt, O'Gorman would have been the victor, had it ended as every one was anticipating it would,—in the death of one or other of the combatants. As it chanced, however, neither succumbed in that sanguinary strife. Both were preserved for a fate equally fearful: one, indeed, for a death ten times more terrible.

As I have said, the circumstances had turned in favour of the Irishman. He knew it; and was not slow to avail himself of the advantage.

Still retaining his grasp of Le Gros's right wrist, he plied his own dexter arm with a vigour that promised soon to settle the affair; while the left arm of the Frenchman could offer only a feeble resistance, either by thrusting or parrying.

Their knife-blades came frequently in collision; and for a few passes neither appeared to give or receive a wound. This innocuous sparring, however, was of short continuance and ended by the Irishman making a dexterous stroke, by which his blade was planted in the hand of his antagonist,—transfixing the very fingers which were grasping the knife!

The weapon fell from his relaxed clutch; and passing through the interstices of the timber, sank to the bottom of the sea! A scream of despair escaped from the lips of the Frenchman, as he saw the blade of his antagonist about to be thrust into his body!

The thrust was threatened, but not made. Before it could be given, a hand interfered to prevent it. One of the spectators had seized the uplifted arm of the Irishman,—at the same time vociferating, in a stentorian voice—

"Don't kill him! we won't need to eat him! Look yonder! We're saved! we're saved!"



CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR.

A LIGHT!

The man who had so unexpectedly interrupted the deadly duello, while giving utterance to his strange speech, kept one of his arms extended towards the ocean,—as if pointing to something he had descried above the horizon.

The eyes of all were suddenly turned in the direction thus indicated. The magic words, "We are saved!" had an immediate effect,—not only upon the spectators of the tragedy thus intruded upon, but upon its actors. Even rancour became appeased by the sweet sound; and that of the Irishman, as with most of his countrymen, being born "as the flint bears fire," subsided on the instant.

He permitted his upraised arm to be held in restraint; it became relaxed, as did also his grasp on the wrist of his antagonist; while the latter, finding himself free, was allowed to retire from the contest.

O'Gorman, among the rest, had faced round; and stood looking in the direction where somebody had seen something that promised salvation of all.

"What is it?" inquired several voices in the same breath,—"the land?"

No: it could not be that. There was not one of them such a nautical ignoramus as to believe himself within sigh of land.

"A sail?—a ship?"

That was more likely: though, at the first glance, neither tail nor ship appeared upon the horizon, "What is it?" was the interrogatory reiterated by a dozen voices.

"A light! Don't you see it?" asked the lynx-eyed individual, whose interference in the combat had caused this sudden departure from the programme. "Look!" he continued; "just where the sun's gone down yonder. It's only a speck; but I can see it plain enough. It must be the light from a ship's binnacle!"

"Carrajo!" exclaimed a Spaniard; "it's only a spark the sun's left behind him. It's the ignis fatuus you've seen, amigo!"

"Bah!" added another; "supposing it is a binnacle-lamp, as you say, what would be the use, except to tantalise us. If it be in the binnacle, in course the ship as carries it must be stern towards us. What chance would there be of our overhaulin' her?"

"Par Dieu! there be von light!" cried a sharp-eyed little Frenchman. "Pe Gar! I him see. Ver true, vraiment! An—pe dam!—zat same est no lamp in ze binnacle!"

"I see it too!" cried another.

"And I!" added a third.

"Io tambien!" (I also) echoed a fourth, whose tongue proclaimed him of Spanish nativity.

"Ich sehe!" drawled out a native of the German Confederacy; and then followed a volley of voices,—each saying something to confirm the belief that a light was really gleaming over the ocean.

This was a fact that nobody—not even the first objectors—any longer doubted.

It is true that the light seen appeared only a mere sparkle, feebly glimmering against the sky, and might have been mistaken for a star. But it was just in that part of the heavens where a star could not at that time have been seen,—on the western horizon, still slightly reddened by the rays of the declining sun.

The men who speculated upon its appearance,—rude as they were in a moral sense,—were not so intellectually stupid as to mistake for a star that speck of yellowish hue, struggling to reveal itself against the almost kindred colour of the occidental sky.

"It isn't a star,—that's certain," confidently declared one of their number; "and if it be a light aboard ship, it's no binnacle-lamp, I say. Bah! who'd call that a binnacle glim, or a lamp of any kind? If't be a ship's light at all, it's the glare o' the galley-fire,—where the cook's makin' coffee for all hands."

The superb picture of comfort thus called forth was too much for the temper of the starving men, to whom the idea was addressed; and a wild cry of exultation responded to the speech.

A galley; a galley-fire; a cook; coffee for all hands; lobscouse; plum-duff; sea-pies; even the much-despised pea-soup and salt junk, had been long looked upon as things belonging to another world,—pleasures of the past, never more to be indulged in!

Now that the gleam of a galley-fire—as they believed the light to be— rose up before their eyes, the spirits of all became suddenly electrified by the wildest imaginings; and the contest so lately carried on,—as well as the combatants engaged in it,—was instantaneously forgotten; while the thoughts, and eager glances, of every individual on the raft were now directed towards that all-absorbing speck,—still gleaming but obscurely against the reddish background of the sun-stained horizon.

As they continued to gaze, the tiny spark seemed to increase, not only in size, but intensity; and, before many minutes had elapsed, it proclaimed itself no longer a mere spark, but a blaze of light, with its own luminous halo around it. The gradual chastening of colour in the western sky, along with the increased darkness of the atmosphere around it, would account for this change in the appearance of the light. So reasoned the spectators,—now more than ever convinced that what they saw was the glare of a galley-fire.



CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

TOWARDS THE BEACON!

As soon as they were satisfied that the bright spark upon the horizon was a burning light, every individual on the raft became inspired with the same impulse,—to make for the spot where the object appeared. Whether in the galley or not,—and whether the glow of a fire or the gleam of a lamp,—it must be on board a ship. There was no land in that part of the ocean; and a light could not be burning upon the water, without something in the shape of a ship to carry it.

That it was a ship, no one for a moment doubted. So sure were they, that several of the men, on the moment of making it out, had vociferated, at the top of their voices, "Ship ahoy!"

The voices of none of them were particularly strong just then. They were weak, in proportion to their attenuated frames; but had they been ten times as strong as they were, they could not have been heard at such a distance as that light was separated from the raft.

It was not less than twenty miles from them. In the excited state of their senses,—arising from thirst, starvation, and all the wild emotions which the discovery itself had roused within them,—they had formed a delusive idea of the distance; many of them fancying that the light was quite near!

There were some among them who reasoned more rationally. These, instead of wasting their strength in idle shouting, employed their time in impressing upon the others the necessity of making some exertion to approach the light.

Some thought that much exertion would not be required; as the light appeared to be approaching them. And, in truth, it did appear so; but the wiser ones knew that this might be only an optical illusion,—caused by the sea and sky each moment assuming a more sombre hue.

These last—both with voice and by their example—urged their companions to use every effort towards coming up with what they were sure must be a ship.

"Let us meet her," they said, "if she's standing this way; if not, we must do all we can to overtake her."

It needed no persuasion to put the most slothful of the crew upon their mettle. A new hope of life,—an unexpected prospect of being rescued from what most of them had been contemplating as almost certain death,— inspired all to the utmost effort; and with an alacrity they had never before exhibited in their raft navigation,—and a unanimity of late unknown to them,—they went to work to propel their clumsy craft across the ocean.

Some sprang to the oars, while others assisted at the sail. For days the latter had received no attention; but had been permitted to hang loosely from the mast,—flopping about in whatever way the breeze chanced to blow it. They had entertained no idea of what course they ought to steer in; or if they did think of a direction, they had not sufficient decision to follow it. For days they had been drifting about over the surface of the sea, at the discretion of the currents.

Now the sail was reset, with all the trimness that circumstances would admit of. The sheets were drawn home and made fast; and the mast was stayed taut, so as to hinder it from slanting.

As the object upon which they were directing their course was not exactly to leeward, it was necessary to manage the sail with the wind slightly abeam; and for this purpose two men were appointed to the rudder,—which consisted of a broad plank, poised on its edge and hitched to the stern timbers of the raft. By means of this rude rudder, they were enabled to keep the raft "head on" towards the light.

The rowers were seated along both sides. Nearly every individual of the crew, who was not occupied at the sail or steering-board, was employed in propelling. A few only were provided with oars; others wielded handspikes, capstan-bars, or pieces of split plank,—in short, anything that would assist in the "pulling," if only to the value of a pound.

It was,—or, at all events, they thought it was,—a life and death struggle. They were sure that a ship was near them. By reaching her they would be saved; by failing to do so they would be doomed. Another day without food would bring death, at least to one of them; another day without water would bring worse than death to almost every man of them.

Their unanimous action, assisted by the broad sail, caused the craft, cumbersome as it was, to make considerable way through the water,— though by far too slow to satisfy their wishes. At times they kept silent; at times their voices could be heard mingled with the plunging of the oars; and too often only in profane speech.

They cursed the craft upon which they were carried,—its clumsiness,— the slowness with which they were making way towards the ship,—the ship itself, for not making way towards them: for, as they continued on, those who formerly believed that the light was approaching them, no longer held to that faith. On the contrary, after rowing nearly an hour, all were too ready to agree in the belief that the ship was wearing away.

Not an instant passed, without the eyes of some one being directed towards the light. The rowers, whose backs were turned upon it, kept occasionally twisting their necks around, and looking over their shoulders,—only to resume their proper attitudes with countenances that expressed disappointment.

There were not wanting voices to speak discouragement. Some declared that the light was growing less; that the ship was in full sail, going away from them; and that there would not be the slightest chance of their coming up with her.

These were men who began to feel fatigued at the oar.

There were even some who professed to doubt the existence of a ship, or a ship's light. What they saw was only a bright spot upon the ocean,— some luminous object—perhaps the carcass of some phosphorous fish, or "squid," floating upon the surface. They had many of them seen such things; and the conjecture was not offered to incredulous ears.

These surmises produced discontent,—which in time would have exhibited itself in the gradual dropping of the oars, but for a circumstance which brought this climax about, in a more sudden and simultaneous manner,— the extinction of the light.

It went out while the eyes of several were fixed upon it; not by any gradual disappearance,—as a waning star might have passed out of sight,—but with a quick "fluff;"—so one of the spectators described it,—likening its extinction to "a tub of salt-water thrown over the galley-fire."

On the instant of its disappearance, the oars were abandoned,—as also the rudder. It would have been idle to attempt steering any longer. There was neither moon nor stars in the sky. The light was the only thing that had been guiding them; and that gone, they had not the slightest clue as to their course. The breeze was buffeting about in every direction; but, even had it been blowing steadily, every one of them knew how uncertain it would be to trust to its guidance,— especially with such a sail, and such a steering apparatus.

Already half convinced that they had been following an ignis fatuus,— and half resolved to give over the pursuit,—it needed only what had occurred to cause a complete abandonment of their nocturnal navigation.

Once more giving way to despair,—expressed in wild wicked words,—they left the sail to itself, and the winds to waft them to whatever spot of the ocean fate had designed for the closing scene of their wretched existence.



CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

A DOUBLE DARKNESS.

The night was a dark one; by a Spanish figure of speech, comparable to a "pot of pitch." It was scarce further obscured by a thick fog that shortly after came silently over the surface of the ocean, enveloping the great raft along with its ruffian crew.

Through such an atmosphere nothing could be seen,—not even the light, had it continued to burn.

Before the coming on of the fog, they had kept a look-out for the light,—one or other remaining always on the watch. They had done so, with a sort of despairing hope that it might reappear; but, as the surrounding atmosphere became impregnated with the filmy vapour, this dreary vigilance was gradually relaxed, and at length abandoned altogether.

So thick fell the fog during the mid-hours of the night, that nothing could be seen at the distance of over six feet from the eye. Even they who occupied the raft could only distinguish those who were close by their side; and each appeared to the others as if shrouded under a screen of grey gauze.

The darkness did not hinder them from conversing. As nearly all hope of succour from a supposed ship had been extinguished, along with that fanciful light, it was but natural that their thoughts should lapse into some other channel; and equally so, that they should turn back to that from which they had been so unexpectedly diverted.

Hunger,—keen, craving hunger,—easily transported them to the spectacle which the sheen of that false torch had brought to an unsatisfactory termination; and their minds now dwelt on what would have been the different condition of affairs, had they not yielded to the delusion.

Not only had their thoughts reference to this theme, but their speeches; and in the solemn hour of midnight,—in the midst of that gloomy vapour, darkly overshadowing the great deep,—they might have been heard again discussing the awful question, "Who dies next?"

To arrive at a decision was not so difficult as before. The majority of the men had made up their minds as to the course that should be pursued. It was no longer a question of casting lots. That had been done already; and the two who had not yet drawn clear—and between whom the thing still remained undecided—were undoubtedly the individuals to determine the matter.

Indeed, there was no debate. All were unanimous that either Le Gros or O'Gorman should furnish food for their famishing companions,—in other words, that the combat, so unexpectedly postponed, should be again resumed.

There was nothing unfair in this,—except to the Irish man. He had certainly secured his triumph, when interrupted. If another half-second had been allowed him, his antagonist would have lain lifeless at his feet.

Under the judgment of just umpires this circumstance would have weighed in his favour; and, perhaps, exempted him from any further risk; but, tried by the shipwrecked crew of a slaver,—more than a moiety of whom leaned towards his antagonist,—the sentence was different; and the majority of the judges proclaimed that the combat between him and Le Gros should be renewed, and continued to the death.

The renewal of it was not to take place on the moment. Night and darkness both forbade this; but the morning's earliest light was to witness the resumption of that terrible strife.

Thus resolved, the ex-crew of the Pandora laid themselves down to sleep,—not quite so calmly as they might have done in the forecastle of the slaver; for thirst, hunger, and fears for a hopeless future,— without saying anything of a hard couch,—were not the companions with which to approach the shrine of Somnus. As a counterpoise, they felt lassitude both of mind and body, approaching to prostration.

Some of them slept. Some of them could have slept within the portals of Pluto, with the dog Cerberus yelping in their ears!

A few there were who seemed either unable to take rest or indifferent to it. All night long some one or other—sometimes two at a time—might be seen staggering about the raft, or crawling over its planks, as if unconscious of what they were doing. It seemed a wonder that some of them—semi-somnambulists in a double sense—did not fall overboard into the water. But they did not. Notwithstanding the eccentricity of their movements, they all succeeded in maintaining their position on the raft. To tumble over the edge would have been tantamount to toppling into the jaws of an expectant shark, and getting "scrunched" between no less than six rows of sharp teeth. Perhaps it was an instinct—or some presentiment of this peril—that enabled these wakeful wanderers to preserve their equilibrium.



CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN.

A WHISPERED CONSPIRACY.

Although most of the men had surrendered themselves to such slumber as they might obtain, the silence was neither profound nor continuous. At times no sounds were heard save the whisperings of the breeze, as it brushed against the spread canvas, or a slight "swashing" in the water as it was broken by the rough timbers of the craft.

These sounds were intermingled with the loud breathing of some of the sleepers,—an occasional snore,—and now and then a muttered speech the involuntary utterance of someone dreaming a dreadful dream.

At intervals other noises would arise, when one or more of the waking castaways chanced to come together, to hold a short conversation; or when one of them, scarce conscious of what he did, stumbled over the limbs of a prostrate comrade,—perhaps awaking him from a pleasant repose to the consciousness of the painful circumstances under which he had been enjoying it.

Such occurrences usually led to angry altercations,—in which threats and ribald language would for some minutes freely find vent from the lips both of the disturbed and the disturber; and then both would growlingly subside into silence.

At that hour, when the night was at its darkest, and the fog at its thickest, two men might have been seen,—though only by an eye very close to where they were,—in a sitting posture at the bottom of the mast. They were crouching rather than seated; for they were upon their knees, with their bodies bent forward, and one or both of their hands resting upon the planks.

The attitude was plainly not one of repose; and anyone near enough to have observed the two men, or to have heard the whispered conversation that was being carried on between them, would have come to the conclusion that sleep was far from their thoughts.

In that deep darkness, however, no one noticed them; and although several of their companions were lying but a few feet from the bottom of the mast, these were either asleep or too distant to hear the whisperings that passed between the two men kneeling in juxtaposition.

They continued to talk in very low whispers,—each in turn putting his lips close to the ear of the other; and while doing so the subject of their conversation might have been guessed at by their glances, or at least the individual about whom they conversed.

This was a man who was lying stretched along the timbers, not far from the bottom of the mast, and apparently asleep. In fact he must have been asleep, as was testified by the stentorian snores that occasionally escaped from his wide-spread nostrils.

This noisy slumberer was the Irishman, O'Gorman,—one of the parties to that suspended fight, to be resumed by day break in the morning. Whatever evil deeds this man may have done during his life,—and he had performed not a few, for we have styled him only the least guilty of that guilty crew,—he was certainly no coward. Thus to sleep, with such a prospect on awaking, at least proved him recklessly indifferent to death.

The two men by the mast,—whose eyes were evidently upon him,—had no very clear view of him where he lay. Through the white mist they could see only something like the shape of a human being recumbent along the planks; and of that only the legs and lower half of the body. Even had it been daylight they could not, from their position, have seen his head and shoulders; for both would have been concealed by the empty rum-cask, already mentioned, which stood upon its end exactly by the spot where O'Gorman had rested his head.

The Irishman, above all others, had taken a delight in the contents of that cask,—so long as a drop was left; and now that it was all gone, perhaps the smell of the alcohol had influenced him in choosing his place of repose.

Whether or not, he was now sleeping on a spot which was to prove the last resting-place of his life. Cruel destiny had decreed that from that slumber he was never more to awaken!

This destiny was now being shaped out for him; and by the two individuals who were regarding him from the bottom of the mast.

"He's sound asleep," whispered one of them to the other. "You hear that snore? Parbleu! only a hog could counterfeit that."

"Sound as a top!" asserted the other.

"C'est bon!" whispered the first speaker, with a significant shrug of the shoulders. "If we manage matters smartly, he need never wake again. What say you, comrade?"

"I agree to anything you may propose," assented the other. "What is it?"

"There need be no noise about it. A single blow will be sufficient,—if given in the right place. With the blade of a knife through his heart, he'll not make three kicks. He'll never know it till he's in the next world. Peste! I could almost envy him such an easy way of getting out of this!"

"You think it might be done without making a noise?"

"Easy as falling overboard. One could hold something over his mouth, to keep his tongue quiet; while the other—You know what I mean?"

The horrid act to be performed by the other was left unspoken,—even in those confidential whisperings.

"But," replied the confederate, objectingly, "suppose the thing done,— how about matters in the morning? They'd know who did it. Leastwise, their suspicions would fall upon us,—upon you to a certainty, after what's happened. You haven't thought of that?"

"Haven't I? But I have, mon ami!"

"Well; and what?"

"First place. They're not in the mind to be particular,—none of them,—so long as they get something to eat. Secondly; if they should kick up a row, our party is the strongest; and I don't care what comes of it. We may as well all die at once, as die by bits."

"That's true enough."

"But there's no fear of any trouble from the others. I've got an idea that'll prevent that. To save appearances, he can commit suicide."

"What do you mean?"

"Bah! camarade! how dull you are. The fog has got into your skull. Don't you know the Irlandais has got a knife, and a sharp one. Peste! I know it. Well,—perhaps it can be stolen from him. If so, it can also be found sticking in the wound that will deprive him of life. Now do you comprehend me?"

"I do,—I do!"

"First, to steal the knife. Go you: I daren't: it would look suspicious for me to be seen near him,—that is, if he should wake up. You may stray over that way, as if you were after nothing particular. It'll do no harm to try."

"I'll see if I can hook it then," responded the other. "What if I try now?"

"The sooner the better. With the knife in our possession, we'll know better how to act. Get it, if you can."

The last speaker remained in his place. The other, rising into an erect attitude, stepped apart from his fellow-conspirator, and moved away from the mast,—going apparently without any design. This, however, led him towards the empty rum-cask,—alongside of which the Irishman lay asleep, utterly unconscious of his approach.



CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT.

A FOUL DEED DONE IN A FOG.

It is scarce necessary to tell who were the two men who had been thus plotting in whispers. The first speaker was, of course, the Frenchman, Le Gros,—the other being the confederate who had assisted him in the performance of his unfair trick in the lot-casting.

Their demoniac design is already known from their conversation,—nothing more nor less than to murder O'Gorman in his sleep!

The former had two motives prompting him to this horrid crime,—either sufficiently strong to sway such a nature as his to its execution. He had all along felt hostility to the Irishman,—which the events of that day had rendered both deep and deadly. He was wicked enough to have killed his antagonist for that alone. But there was the other motive, more powerful and far more rational to influence him to the act. As above stated, it had been finally arranged that the suspended fight was to be finished by the earliest light of the morning. Le Gros knew that the next scene in that drama of death was to be the last; and, judging from his experience of the one already played, he felt keenly apprehensive as to the result. He had been fully aware, before the curtain fell upon the first act, that his life could then have been taken; and, conscious of a certain inferiority to his antagonist, he now felt cowed, and dreaded the final encounter.

To avoid it, he was willing to do anything, however mean or wicked,— ready to commit even the crime of murder!

He knew that if he should succeed in destroying his adversary,—so long as the act was not witnessed by their associates,—so long as there should be only circumstantial evidence against him,—he would not have much to fear from such judges as they. It was simply a question as to whether the deed could be done silently and in the darkness; and that question was soon to receive an answer.

The trick of killing the unfortunate man with his own knife,—and making it appear that he had committed self-destruction,—would have been too shallow to have been successful under any other circumstances; but Le Gros felt confident that there would be no very strict investigation; and that the inquest likely to be held on the murdered man would be a very informal affair.

In any case, the risk to him would be less than that he might expect on the consummation of the combat,—the finale of which would in all probability, be the losing of his life.

He was no longer undecided about doing the foul deed. He had quite determined upon it; and the attempt now being made by his confederate to steal the knife was the first stop towards its perpetration.

The theft was too successfully accomplished. The wretch on getting up to the rum-cask, was seen to sit down silently by its side; and, after a few moments passed in this position he again rose erect, and moved back towards the mast. Dark as was the night, Le Gros could perceive something glittering in the hand of his accomplice, which he knew must be the coveted weapon.

It was so. The sleeper had been surreptitiously disarmed.

For a moment the two men might have been seen standing in juxtaposition; and while thus together the knife was furtively transferred from the hand of the accomplice into that of the true assassin.

Then both, assuming a careless attitude, for a while remained near the mast, apparently engaged in some ordinary conversation. An occasional shifting of their position, however, took place,—though so slight that, even under a good light, it would scarce have been observed. A series of these movements, made at short intervals, ended in bringing the conspirators close up to the empty hogshead; and then one of them sat down by it. The other, going round it, after a short lapse of time, imitated the example of his companion by seating himself on the opposite side.

Thus far there was nothing in the behaviour of the two men to have attracted the attention of their associates on the raft,—even had the latter been awake. Even so, the obscurity that surrounded their movements would have hindered them from being very clearly comprehended.

There was no eye watching the assassins, as they sat down by the side of their sleeping victim; none fixed upon them as both simultaneously leant over him with outstretched arms,—one holding what appeared a piece of blanket over his face, as if to stifle his breath,—the other striking down upon his breast with a glittering blade, as if stabbing him to the heart.

The double action occupied scarce a second of time. In the darkness, no one appeared to perceive it, except they were its perpetrators. No one seemed to hear that choking, gurgling cry that accompanied it; or if they did, it was only to shape a half conjecture, that some one of their companions was indulging in a troubled dream!

The assassins, horror-stricken at what they had done, skulked tremblingly back to their former position by the mast.

Their victim, stretched on his back, remained motionless upon the spot where they had visited him; and anyone standing over him, as he lay, might have supposed that he was still slumbering!

Alas! it was the slumber of death!



CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE.

DOUSING THE GLIM.

We left the crew of the Catamaran in full occupation,—"smoking" shark-flesh on the back of a cachalot whale.

To make sure of a sufficient stock,—enough to last them with light rations for a voyage, if need be, to the other side of the Atlantic,— they had continued at the work all day long, and several hours into the night. They had kept the fire ablaze by pouring fresh spermaceti into the furnace of flesh which they had constructed, or rather excavated, in the back of the leviathan; and so far as that kind of fuel was concerned, they might have gone on roasting shark-steaks for a twelvemonth. But they had proved that the spermaceti would not burn to any purpose without a wick; and as their spare ropes were too precious to be all picked into oakum, they saw the necessity of economising their stock of the latter article. But for this deficiency, they might have permitted the furnace-lamp to burn on during the whole night, or until it should go out by the exhaustion of the wick.

As they were not yet quite satisfied with the supply of broiled shark-meat, they had resolved to take a fresh spell at roasting on the morrow; and in order that the wick should not be idly wasted, they had "doused the glim" before retiring to rest.

They had extinguished the flame in a somewhat original fashion,—by pouring upon it a portion of the liquid spermaceti taken out of the case. The light, after giving a final flash, had gone out, leaving them in utter darkness.

But they had no difficulty in finding their way back to the deck, of their craft, where they designed passing the remainder of the night. During the preceding days they had so often made the passage from Catamaran to cachalot, and vice versa, that they could have gone either up or down blindfolded; and indeed they might as well have been blindfolded on this their last transit for the night, so dense was the darkness that had descended over the dead whale.

After groping their way over the slippery shoulders of the leviathan, and letting themselves down by the rope they had attached to his huge pectoral fin, they made their supper upon a portion of the hot roast they had brought along with them; and, washing it down with a little diluted "canary," they consigned themselves to rest.

Better satisfied with their prospects than they had been for some time past, they soon fell asleep; and silence reigned around the dark floating mass that included the forms of cachalot and Catamaran.

At that same moment a less tranquil scene was occurring scarce ten miles from the spot; for it is scarce necessary to say that the light seen by the ruffians on the great raft—and which they had fancifully mistaken for a ship's galley-fire,—was the furnace fed by spermaceti on the back of the whale.

The extinction of the flame had led to a scene which was reaching its maximum of noisy excitement at about the time that the crew of the Catamaran were munching their roast shark-meat and sipping their canary. This scene had continued long after every individual of the latter had sunk into a sweet oblivion of the dangers that surrounded them.

All four slept soundly throughout the remainder of the night. Strange to say, they felt a sort of security, moored alongside that monstrous mass, which they would not have experienced had their frail tiny craft been by itself alone upon the ocean. It was but a fancied security, it is true: still it had the effect of giving satisfaction to the spirit, and through this, producing an artificial incentive to sleep.

It was daylight before any of them awoke,—or it should have been daylight, by the hour: but there was a thick fog around them,—so thick and dark that the carcass of the cachalot was not visible from the deck of the Catamaran, although only a few feet of water lay between them.

Ben Brace was the first to bestir himself. Snowball had never been an early riser; and if permitted by his duties, or the neglect of them either, he would have kept his couch till midday. Ben, however, knew that there was work to be done, and no time to be wasted in idleness. The captain of the Catamaran had given up all hopes of the return of the whaler; and therefore the sooner they could complete their arrangements for cutting adrift from the carcass, and continuing their interrupted course towards the west, the better would be their chance of ultimately reaching land.

Snowball, sans ceremonie, was shaken out of his slumbers; and the process of restoring him to wakefulness also awoke little William and Lilly Lalee,—so that the whole crew were now up and ready for action.

A hasty dejeuner a la matelot served for the morning repast; after which Snowball and the sailor, accompanied by the boy, climbed once more upon the back of the cachalot to resume the operations which had been suspended for the night; while the girl, as usual, remained in charge of the Catamaran.



CHAPTER EIGHTY.

SUSPICIOUS SOUNDS.

The ex-cook, in the lead of those who ascended to the summit of the carcass, had some difficulty in finding his kitchen; but, after groping some time over the glutinous epidermis of the animal, he at length laid his claws upon the edge of the cavity.

The others joined him just as he had succeeded in inserting a bit of fresh wick; and soon after a strong flame was established, and a fresh spitful of shark-steaks hung frizzling over it.

Nothing more could be done than wait until the meat should be done. There was no "basting" required,—only an occasional turning of the steaks and a slight transposition of them on the harpoon spit,—so that each should have due exposure to the flame.

These little culinary operations needed only occasional attention on the part of the cook. Snowball, who preferred the sedentary pose, as soon as he saw his "range" in full operation, squatted down beside it. His companions remained standing.

Scarcely five minutes had passed, when the negro was seen to make a start as if some one had given him a kick in the shin. Simultaneously with that start the exclamation "Golly!" escaped from his lips.

"What be the matter, Snowy?" interrogated Brace.

"Hush! Hab ye no hear nuffin'?"

"No," answered the sailor,—little William chiming in with the negative.

"I hab den,—I hab hear someting."

"What?"

"Dat I doan know."

"It's the frizzlin' o' those shark-steaks; or, maybe, some sea-bird squeaking up in the air."

"No, neyder one nor todder. Hush! Massa Brace, I hab hear some soun' 'tirely diffrent,—somethin' like de voice ob human man. You obsarb silence. Maybe we hear im agen."

Snowball's companions, though inclined to incredulity, obeyed his injunction. They might have treated it with less regard, had they not known the Coromantee to be gifted with a sense of hearing that was wonderfully acute. His largely-developed ears would have proved this capacity; but they knew that he possessed it, from having witnessed many exhibitions of it previous to that time. For this reason they yielded to his double solicitation,—to remain silent and listen.

At this moment, to the surprise of Ben Brace and William, and not a little to the astonishment of the negro, a tiny voice reached them from below,—which they all easily recognised as that of Lilly Lalee.

"O Snowball," called out the girl, addressing herself to her especial protector, "I hear people speaking. It's out upon the water. Do you not hear them?"

"Hush! Lilly Lally," answered the negro, speaking down to his protege in a sort of hoarse whisper; "hush, Lilly, pet; doan you 'peak above him Lilly Breff. Keep 'till, dat a good gal."

The child, restrained by this string of cautionary appeals, offered no further remark; and Snowball, making a sign for his companions to continue silent, once more resumed his listening attitude.

Ben Brace and the boy, convinced by this additional testimony that the Coromantee must have heard something more than the frizzling of the shark-flesh, without saying a word, imitated his example, and eagerly bent their ears to listen.

They had not long to wait before becoming convinced that Snowball had heard something besides the spirting of the shark-steaks. They heard something more themselves. They heard sounds that could not be mistaken for those of the sea. They were the voices of Men!

They were still at some distance,—though, perhaps, not so distant as they seemed. The thick fog, which, as every one knows, has the effect of deadening sound, was to be taken into account; and, making allowance for this, the voices heard might not be such a great way off.

Whatever was the distance, it was constantly becoming less. The listeners could tell this, ere they had stood many minutes listening. Whoever gave utterance to those sounds—words they were—must be moving onward,—coming towards the carcass of the cachalot.

How were they coming? They could not be walking upon the water: they must be aboard a ship?

This interrogatory occurred to those who stood upon the whale. Could they have answered it in the affirmative, their own voices would soon have been uplifted in a joyous huzza; while the hail "Ship ahoy!" would have been sent through the sombre shadows of the mist, in the hope of its receiving an answer.

Why was the hail not heard? Why did the crew of the Catamaran stand listening to those voices without making challenge, and with looks that betokened apprehension rather than relief?

Six words that escaped from the lips of Ben Brace will explain the silence of himself and his companions, as well at the dissatisfied air that had impressed itself upon their faces. The six words were:—

"Dangnation! it be the big raft!"



CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE.

UNPLEASANT CONJECTURES.

"Dangnation! it be the big raft."

Such was the singular speech that fell from the lips of the sailor, and with an accent that proclaimed it ominous. And why ominous? Why should the presence of that embarkation—known to them as the "big raft"—cause apprehension to the crew of the Catamaran?

So far as Ben Brace and little William were concerned, the question has been already answered. It may be remembered with what feelings of alarm they first listened to the voices of Snowball and Lilly Lalee,—heard in a similar manner during the darkness of the night,—and with what suspicious caution they had made their approach to the Coromantee in the middle of his casks. It may be remembered for what reason they were thus suspicious, for it was then given,—a dread on the part of William—and a great one, too—of being devoured by that cannibal crew; and on the part of his generous protector a fear of becoming a victim to their revenge.

The same motive for their fears still existed; and their apprehension of being approached by the raft was as unabated as ever.

Snowball's dread of the Pandora's people might not have been so acute, but for a certain circumstance that came before his mind. He had been made aware,—by sundry ill-usage he had received from the slaver's captain and mate, just previous to the climax of the catastrophe,—that he was himself regarded as the author of it. He knew he had been; and he supposed that the thing must have become known to the rest of the crew. He had not encountered them afterwards; and well had it been for him,—for certainly they would have wreaked their vengeance upon him without stint Snowball had sense enough to be aware of this; and therefore his aversion to any further intercourse with the castaways of the lost ship was quite as strong as that of either Ben Brace or the boy.

As for Lilly Lalee, her fears were due to a less definite cause, and only arose from observing the apprehension of her companions.

"De big raff," said Snowball, mechanically repeating the sailor's last words. "You b'lieve 'im be dat, Massa Brace?"

"Shiver my timbers if I know what to think, Snowy! If it be that—"

"Ef 'im be dat, wha' den?" inquired the Coromantee, seeing that Brace had stopped short in what he was going to say.

"Why, only that we're in an ugly mess. There's no reason to think they have picked up a stock o' provisions, since we parted wi' them. I don't know how they've stuck it out,—that is, supposin' it be them. They may have got shark-meat like ourselves; or they have lived upon—"

The sailor suddenly suspended his speech, glancing towards William, as if what he was about to say had better not reach the ears of the lad.

Snowball, however, understood him,—as was testified by a significant shake of the head.

"As for water," continued the sailor, "they had some left; but not enough to have lasted them to this time. They had rum,—oceans o' that,—but it 'ud only make things worse. True, they mout a caught some o' the rain in their shirts and tarpaulins, as we did; but they weren't the sort to be careful o' it wi' a rum-cask standin' by; an' I dar say, by this time, though they may have some'at to eat,—as you knows, Snowy,—they'll be dyin' for a drop o' drink. In that case—"

"In dat case, dey rob us ob de whole stock we hab save. Den we perish fo' sartin."

"Sure o' that, at least," continued the sailor. "But they wouldn't stop by robbin' us o' our precious water. They'd take everything; an' most likely our lives into the bargain. Let us hope it ain't them we've heard."

"Wha' you say, Master Brace? 'Pose 'um be de capten an' dem odders in de gig? Wha' you tink?"

"It mout," answered the sailor. "I warn't thinkin' o' them. It mout be; an' if so, we han't so much to fear as from t' other 'uns. They arn't so hard up, I should say; or even if they be, there arn't so many o' 'em to bully us. There were only five or six o' them. I should be good for any three o' that lot myself; an' I reckon you an' Will'm here could stan' a tussle wi' the others. Ah! I wish it war them. But it arn't likely: they had a good boat an' a compass in it; and if they've made any use o' their oars, they ought to be far from here long afore this. You've got the best ears, nigger: keep them well set, an' listen. You know the voices o' the ole Pan's crew. See if you can make 'em out."

During the above dialogue, which had been carried on in an undertone,—a whisper, in fact,—the mysterious voices had not been again distinguished. When first heard, they appeared to proceed from two or more men engaged in conversation; and, as we have said, were only very indistinct,—either from the speakers being at a distance or talking in a low tone of voice.

The Catamarans now listened, expecting to hear some words pronounced in a louder tone; and yet not wishing to hear them. Rather would they that those voices should never again sound in their ears.

For a time it seemed us if they were going to have this wish gratified. Full ten minutes elapsed, and no sound reached their ears, either of human or other voice.

This silence was at first satisfactory; but all at once a reflection came across the mind of Ben Brace, which gave a new turn to his thoughts and wishes.

What if the voices heard had come from a different sort of men? Why should they be those of the slaver's castaway crew,—either the ruffians on the raft or the captain's party in the gig? What, after all, if they had proceeded from the decks of the whaler?

The old whalesman had not thought of this before; and, now that he did think of it, it caused such a commotion in his mind, that he could hardly restrain himself from crying out "Ship ahoy!"

He was hindered, however, by a quick reflection that counselled him to caution. In case of its not being the whaler's men that had been heard it must be those of the slaver; and the hail would but too certainly be the precursor to his own destruction, as well as that of his companions.

In a whisper he communicated his thoughts to Snowball, who became equally affected by them,—equally inclined to cry "Ship ahoy!" and alike conscious of the danger of doing so.

A strife of thought was now carried on in the bosoms of both. It was lamentable to reflect, that they might be close to a ship,—within hailing distance of her,—which could at once have rescued them from all the perils that surrounded them; and that this ship might be silently gliding past, shrouded from their sight under that thick fog,—in another hour to be far off upon the ocean, never to come within hailing distance again!

A single word—a shout—might save them; and yet they dared not utter it; for the same shout might equally betray, and lead to their destruction.

They were strongly tempted to risk the ambiguous signal. For some seconds they stood wavering between silence and "Ship ahoy!" but caution counselled the former, and prudence at length triumphed.

This course was not adopted accidentally. A process of reasoning that passed through the mind of the old whalesman,—founded upon his former professional experiences,—conducted him to it.

If it be the whale-ship, reasoned he, she must have come back in search of the cachalot. Her crew must have known that they had killed it. The "drogues" and flag proved that belief on their part, and the ex-whalesman knew that it would be well worth their while to return in search of the whale. It was this very knowledge that had sustained his hopes, and delayed him so long by its carcass. A whale, which would have yielded nearly a hundred barrels of spermaceti, was a prize not to be picked up every day in the middle of the ocean; and he knew that such a treasure would not be abandoned without considerable search having first been made to recover it.

All this was in favour of the probability that the voices heard had proceeded from the whale-ship; and if so, it was farther probable that in the midst of that fog, while bent upon such an errand, the crew would not care to make way; but, on the contrary, would "lay to," and wait for the clearing of the atmosphere.

In that case the Catamarans might still expect to see the welcome ship when the fog should rise; and with this hope they came to the determination to keep silence.

The hour was still very early,—the sun scarce yet above the horizon. When that luminary should appear, his powerful rays would soon dissipate the darkness; and then, if not before, would they ascertain whether those voices had proceeded from the throats of monsters or of men.



CHAPTER EIGHTY TWO.

AN INFORMAL INQUEST.

They did not have to stay for the scattering of the fog. Long before the sun had lifted that veil from off the face of the sea, the crew of the Catamaran had discovered the character of their neighbours. They were not friends, but dire enemies,—the very enemies they so much dreaded.

The discovery was not delayed. It was made soon after, and in the following manner:—

The three—Snowball, the sailor, and little William—had kept their place on the carcass of the cachalot, all three attentively listening,—the two last standing up, and the former in a reclining attitude, with his huge ear laid close to the skin of the whale,—as though he believed that to be a conductor of sound. There was no need for them to have been thus straining their ears: for when a sound reached them at length, it was that of a voice,—so harsh and loud, that a deaf man might almost have heard it.

"Sacre!" exclaimed the voice, apparently pronounced in an accent of surprise, "look here, comrades! Here's a dead man among us!"

Had it been the demon of the mist that gave utterance to these speeches, they could not have produced a more fearful effect upon those who heard them from the back of the cachalot. The accent, along with that profane shibboleth, might have proceeded from anyone who spoke the language of France; but the tone of the voice could not be mistaken. It had too often rung in their ears with a disagreeable emphasis. "Massa Le Grow, dat am," muttered the negro. "Anybody tell dat."

Snowball's companions made no reply. None was required. Other voices rose up out of the mist.

"A dead man!" shouted a second. "Sure enough. Who is it?"

"It's the Irishman!" proclaimed a third. "See! He's been killed! There's a knife sticking between his ribs! He's been murdered!"

"That's his own knife," suggested some one. "I know it; because it once belonged to me. If you look you'll find his name on the haft. He graved it there the very day he bought it from me."

There was an interval of silence, as if they had paused to confirm the suggestion of the last speaker.

"You're right," said one, resuming the informal inquest. "There's his name, sure enough,—Larry O'Gorman."

"He's killed himself!" suggested a voice not hitherto heard. "He's committed suicide!"

"I don't wonder at his doing so," said another, confirmingly. "He expected to have to die anyhow; and I suppose he thought the sooner it was off his mind the better it would be for him."

"How's that?" inquired a fresh speaker, who appeared to dissent from the opinions of those that had preceded him. "Why should he expect to die any more than the rest of us?"

"You forget, mate, that the fight was not finished between him and Monsieur Le Gros?"

"No, I don't forget it. Well?"

"Well, yourself!"

"It don't follow he was to be the next to die,—not as I can see. Look at this, comrades! There's been foul play here! The Irishman's been stabbed with his own knife. That's plain enough; but it is not so sure he did it himself, Why should he? I say again, there's been foul play?"

"And who do you accuse of foul play?"

"I don't accuse anyone. Let them bring the charge, as have seen something. Somebody must know how this came about. There's been a murder. Can anyone tell who did it?"

There was a pause of silence of more than a minute in duration. No one made answer. If anyone knew who was the murderer, they failed to proclaim it.

"Look here, mates!" put in one, whose sharp voice sounded like the cry of a hyena, "I'm hungry as a starved shark. Suppose we suspend this inquest, till we've had breakfast. After that we can settle who's done the deed,—if there's been anyone, except the man himself. What say ye all?"

The horrid proposal was not replied to by anyone. The loud shout that succeeded it sprang from a different cause; and the words that were afterwards uttered had no reference to the topic under consideration.

"A light! a light!" came the cry, vociferated by several voices.

"It's the light we saw last night. It's the galley-fire! There's a ship within a hundred yards of us!"

"Ship ahoy! ship ahoy!"

"Ship ahoy! what ship's that?"

"Why the devil don't you answer our hail?"

"To the oars, men! to the oars. Sacre-dieu! The lubbers must be asleep. Ship ahoy! ship ahoy!"

There was no mistaking the signification of these speeches. The sailor and Snowball exchanged glances of despair. Both had already looked behind them. There, blazing fiercely up, was the fire of spermaceti, with the shark-steaks browning in its flame. In the excitement of the moment they had forgotten all about it. Its light, gleaming through the fog, had betrayed their presence to those upon the raft; and the order issued to take to the oars, with the confused plashing that quickly followed, told the Catamarans that the big raft was about to bear down upon them!



CHAPTER EIGHTY THREE.

SLIPPING THE CABLE.

"Dar coming on!" muttered Snowball. "Wha' we better do, Massa Brace? Ef we stay hya dey detroy us fo' sartin."

"Stay here!" exclaimed the sailor, who no longer spoke in whispers, since such would no longer avail. "Anything but that. Quick, Snowy,— quick, Will'm! Back down to the deck o' our craft. Let's make all speed, and cast off from the karkiss o' the whale. There be time enough yet; and then it'll be, who's got the heels. Don't be so bad skeeart, Snowy. The ole Catamaran be a trim craft. I built her myself, wi' your help, nigger; an' I've got faith in her speed. We'll outsail 'em yet."

"Dat we will, Massa Brace," assented Snowball, as, close following the sailor, he glided down the rope on to the deck of the Catamaran, where little William had already arrived.

It was the work of only a few minutes to cut the tiny cable by which the little embarkation had been attached to the fin of the cachalot, and push the craft clear of its moorings.

But, short as was the time, during its continuance the sun had produced a wonderful change in that oceanic panorama.

The floating fog, absorbed by his fervid rays, had almost disappeared from the deep, or at all events had become so dissipated that the different objects composing that strange tableau in the proximity of the dead cachalot could all be seen by a single coup d'oeil; and were also in sight of one another.

There was the huge carcass itself, looming like a great black rock above the surface of the sea. Just parting from its side was the little Catamaran, with its sail set, and its crew,—consisting of two men and a boy,—the little Portuguese girl appearing as a passenger,—the two men energetically bending to the oars while the boy held hold of the rudder.

Scarce a hundred yards astern was the larger embarkation,—supporting its score of dark forms,—some seated, and straining at the oars,—some steering,—others attending to the sail; and one or two standing by the head, shouting directions to the rest,—all apparently in wonder at the tableau thus suddenly disclosed, and uncertain what to make of it, or what course to pursue!

The occupants of the great raft were infinitely more astonished than those of the Catamaran. On the part of the latter there was no longer any astonishment. On recognising the voices taking part in that ceremonious inquest they had comprehended all. The surprise they had at first felt was now changed into terror.

The men on the raft were still under the influence of astonishment; and no wonder. The apparition that had so suddenly loomed up before their eyes,—at first obscurely seen through the fog, but gradually becoming more distinct,—was enough to cause any amount of surprise. Such a grouping of strange objects in such a situation! The huge carcass of a whale,—a fire upon its back, with bright flames blazing upward,—a crane over the fire with the curious flitches suspended from it,—a raft, in some respects resembling their own, supported by empty casks, and carrying a sail, with four human beings seen upon its deck,—all these formed a series of phenomena, or facts, that was enough to have excited the surprise of the most indifferent observers. Some of the men were even speechless with wonder, and so continued for a time, while others gave vent to their astonishment in loud shouts and excited gesticulations.

That first order issued by Le Gros—for it was his voice that had been heard giving it—had no other object than to cause a rapid movement towards the dark mass, or rather the beacon seen blazing upon its summit. The order had been instantly obeyed; for there was an instinctive apprehension on the part of all that, as before, the light might again vanish from their view.

As they drew nearer, however, and the fog continued to disperse, they obtained a fairer view. Their surprise was not much diminished, though their comprehension of the objects before them became rapidly clearer.

The retreat of the Catamarans—for the movements of the latter proclaimed this design—was of itself suggestive; and, perhaps, more than aught else, enabled those from whom they were retreating to comprehend the situation.

At first they could not even conjecture who they were that occupied the little raft. They saw four human beings upon it; but the mist was still thick enough to hinder them from having a clear view of either their forms, faces, or features. Through the filmy atmosphere to recognise them was impossible. Had there been but two, and had the embarkation that carried them been a mere platform of planks, they might have shaped a conjecture. They remembered that upon such a structure Ben Brace and the boy had given them the slip; and it might be them. But who were the two others? And whence came the six water-casks, the sail, and other paraphernalia seen upon the escaping craft?

They did not stay to waste time in conjectures. It was enough for them to perceive that the four individuals thus seen were trying to get out of their reach. This was prima facie proof that they had something worth carrying along with them; perhaps water!

Some one made use of the word. It was like proclaiming a reprieve to a wretch upon the scaffold about to be launched into eternity. It caused such excitement in the minds of the motley crew—all of them suffering from extreme thirst—that, without further hesitancy, they bent eagerly to their oars,—putting forth the utmost effort of their strength in chase of the Catamaran.



CHAPTER EIGHTY FOUR.



CHAPTER LXXXIV.

The Chase.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHTY FIVE.

NEARER AND NEARER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHTY SIX.

CUT IN TWAIN.

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

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

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

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