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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHTY SEVEN.

AN UNLOOKED-FOR DELIVERANCE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



CHAPTER EIGHTY EIGHT.

A THREATENED STORM.

Thus, once more, were the Catamarans delivered from a terrible danger,— almost literally "from the jaws of death"; and once more, too, by what appeared a providential interference.

Ben Brace actually believed it so. It would have been difficult for anyone to have thought otherwise; but the moral mind of the sailor had of late undergone some very serious transformations; and the perils through which they had been passing,—with their repeated deliverances, all apparently due to some unseen hand,—had imbued him with a belief that the Almighty must be everywhere,—even in the midst of the illimitable ocean.

It was this faith that had sustained him through the many trials through which they had gone; and that, in the very latest and last,—when the ruffians upon the raft were fast closing upon the Catamaran,—had led him to give encouraging counsels to Snowball to keep on. It had encouraged him, in fine, to strike the boat-hook from the grasp of Le Gros,—which act had ended by putting their implacable enemy hors du combat, and conducting to their final deliverance.

It was this belief that still hindered the brave mariner,—now that the sea began to surge around them, and the spray to dash over the deck of their frail craft,—hindered him from giving way to a new despair; and from supposing that they had been only delivered from one danger to be overwhelmed by another.

For some time did it seem as if this was to be their fate,—as if, literally, they were to be overwhelmed. The breeze which had so opportunely carried the Catamaran beyond the reach of the pursuing raft, soon freshened into a gale; and threatened to continue increasing to that still more dreaded condition of the ocean atmosphere,—a storm.

The rafts were no longer in sight of each other. Scarce five minutes had elapsed, after being grappled by Le Gros, when the breeze had caught hold of the Catamaran; and, from her superior sailing qualities, she had soon become separated from the more clumsy embarkation of the enemy.

In another hour, the Catamaran, under good steering, had swept several miles to westward; while the raft, no longer propelled by oars, and its rudder but ill-directed, had gone drifting about: as if they who occupied it were making only a despairing effort to keep it before the wind.

Despite the rising gale and the increasing roughness of the water, there were no despairing people upon the Catamaran. Supported by his faith in providential protection, Ben Brace acted as if there was no danger; and encouraged his companions to do the same.

Every precaution was adopted to provide against accidents. As soon as they saw that the pursuer was left behind,—and they were no longer in any peril from that quarter,—the sail was lowered upon the mast, as there was too great a breadth of it for the constantly freshening breeze. It was not taken in altogether, but only "shortened,"—reefed in a rude fashion,—so as to expose only half its surface to the wind; and this proved just sufficient to keep the Catamaran "trim" and steady upon her course.

It would not be correct to say that her captain and crew felt no fears for her safety. On the contrary, they experienced the apprehensions natural to such a situation; and for this reason did they take every precaution against the danger that threatened. The Coromantee might have given way to a feeling of fatalism,—peculiar to his country and class,—but there was no danger of Ben Brace doing so. Notwithstanding his faith about being protected by Providence, the sailor also believed, that self-action is required on the part of those who stand in need of such protection; and that nothing should be left undone to deserve it.

The situation was altogether new to them. It was the first thing in the shape of a storm, or even a gale, they had encountered since the construction of their curious craft. Ever since the burning of the Pandora, they had been highly favoured in this respect. They had been navigating their various embarkations through a "summer sea," in the midst of the tropical ocean,—where ofttimes whole weeks elapse without either winds or waves occurring to disturb its tranquillity,—a sea, in short, where the "calm" is more dreaded than the "storm." Up to this time they had not experienced any violent commotion of the atmosphere,— nothing stronger than what is termed a "fresh breeze," and in that the Catamaran had proved herself an accomplished sailer.

It was now to be seen how she would behave under a gale that might end in a storm,—perhaps a terrific tempest.

It would be untrue to say that her crew looked forward to the event without fear. They did not. As said, they suffered considerable apprehension; and would have felt it more keenly, but for the cheering influence of that faith with which her captain was sustained, and which he endeavoured to impart to his companions.

Leaning upon this, they looked with less dread upon the sky lowering above and the storm gathering around them.

As the day advanced the wind continued to freshen until about the hour of noon. It was then blowing a brisk gale. Fortunately for the crew of the Catamaran, it did not become a storm. Had it done so their frail craft must have been shivered, and her component parts once more scattered over the ocean.

It was just as much as her crew could accomplish to keep them together, in a sea only moderately rough,—compared with what it would have been in a storm. This they discovered during the afternoon of that day; and it was no great comfort to them to reflect that, in the event of a real storm being encountered, the Catamaran would undoubtedly go to pieces. They could only console themselves with the hope that such an event might not arise until they should reach land, or, which was perhaps more probable, be picked up by a ship.

The chances of terminating their perilous voyage in either way were so slight and distant, that they scarce gave thought to them. When they did, it was only to be reminded of the extreme hopelessness of their situation, and yield to despairing reflections. On that particular day they had no time to speculate upon such remote probabilities as the ultimate ending of their voyage. They found occupation enough,—both for their minds and bodies,—in insuring its continuance. Not only had they to watch every wave as it came rolling upon them,—and keep the Catamaran trimly set to receive it,—but they had to look to the timbers of the craft, and see that the lashings did not get loose.

Several times did the sea break quite over them; and but that Lilly Lalee and little William were fast tied to the foot of the mast, they would both have been washed off, and probably lost amidst the dark waste of waters.

It was just as much as the two strong men could do to keep aboard and even they had ropes knotted round their wrists and attached to the timbers of the raft,—in case of their getting carried overboard.

Once a huge billow swept over, submerging them several feet under the sea. At this crisis all four thought that their last hour had come, and for some seconds were under the belief that they were going to the bottom, and would never more look upon the light of day.

But for the peculiar construction of their raft this, in all likelihood, would have been the result; but those buoyant water-casks were not to be "drowned" in such a fashion and soon "bobbed" back to the surface, once more bringing the Catamaran and her crew above water.

It was fortunate for them that Ben Brace and Snowball had not trusted too much to fate while constructing their abnormal craft. The experienced sailor had foreseen the difficulties that on this day beset them; and, instead of making a mere temporary embarkation, to suit the conditions of the summer sea that then surrounded them, he had spared no pains to render it seaworthy as far as circumstances would allow. He and Snowball had used their united strength in drawing tight the cords with which the timbers were bound together,—as well as those that lashed them to the casks,—and their united skill in disposing the rude materials in a proper manner.

Even after "launching" the Catamaran,—every day, almost every hour, had they been doing something to improve her,—either by giving the craft greater strength and compactness, or in some other way rendering her more worthy both of the sea and her sailors.

By this providential industry they were now profiting: since by it, and it alone, were they enabled to "ride out" the gale.

Had they trusted to chance and given way to indolence,—all the more natural under the very hopelessness of their situation,—they would never have outlived that day. The Catamaran might not have gone to the bottom, but she would have gone to pieces; and it is not likely that any of her crew would have survived the catastrophe.

As it was, both raft and crew weathered the gale in safety. Before sunset the wind had fallen to a gentle zephyr; the tropical sea was gradually returning to its normal state of comparative calm; and the Catamaran, with her broad sail once more spread to the breeze, was scudding on,—guided in her course by the golden luminary slowly descending towards the western edge of a cloudless heaven.



CHAPTER EIGHTY NINE.

A STARTLING SHRIEK.

The night proved pleasanter than the day. The wind was no longer an enemy; and the breeze that succeeded was more advantageous than would have been a dead calm; since it steadied the craft amidst the rolling of the swell.

Before midnight the swell itself had subsided. It had never reached any great height, as the gale had been of short continuance; and for the same reason it had suddenly gone down again.

With the return of smooth water they were able to betake themselves to rest. They needed it, after such a series of fatigues and fears; and having swallowed a few morsels of their unpalatable food, and washed it down by a cup of diluted Canary, they all went to rest.

Neither the wet planking on which they were compelled to encouch themselves, nor the sea-soaked garments clinging round their bodies, hindered them from obtaining sleep.

In a colder clime their condition would have been sufficiently comfortless; but in the ocean atmosphere of the torrid zone the night hours are warm enough to render "wet sheets" not only endurable, but at times even pleasant.

I have said that all of them went to sleep. It was not their usual custom to do so. On other nights one was always upon the watch,—either the captain himself, the ex-cook, or the boy. Of course Lilly Lalee enjoyed immunity from this kind of duty: since she was not, properly speaking, one of the "crew," but only a "passenger."

Their customary night-watch had a twofold object: to hold the Catamaran to her course, and to keep a lookout over the sea,—the latter having reference to the chance if seeing a sail.

On this particular night their vigil,—had it been kept,—might have had a threefold purpose: for it is not to be forgotten that they were still not so very far from their late pursuers. They too must have been making way with the wind.

Neither had the Catamarans forgotten it; but even with this thought before their minds, they were unable to resist the fascinations of Morpheus; and leaving the craft to take her own course, the ships, if there were any, to sail silently by, and the big raft, if chance so directed it, to overtake them, they yielded themselves to unconscious slumber.

Simultaneously were they awakened, and by a sound that might have awakened the dead. It was a shriek that came pealing over the surface of the ocean,—as unearthly in its intonation as if only the ocean itself could have produced it! It was short, sharp, quick, and clear; and so loud as to startle even Snowball from his torpidity.

The Coromantee was the first to inquire into its character.

"Wha' de debbil am dat?" he asked, rubbing his ears to make sure that he was not labouring under a delusion.

"Shiver my timbers if I can tell!" rejoined the sailor, equally puzzled by what he had heard.

"Dat soun' berry like da voice o' some un go drown,—berry like. Wha' say you, Massa Brace?"

"It was a good bit like the voice of a man cut in two by a shark. That's what it minded me of."

"By golly! you speak de troof. It wa jess like that,—jess like the lass s'riek ob Massa Grow."

"And yet," continued the sailor, after a moment's reflection, "'t warn't like that neyther. 'T warn't human, nohow: leastwise, I niver heerd such come out o' a human throat."

"A don't blieb de big raff can be near. We hab been runnin' down de wind ebba since you knock off dat boat-hook. We got de start o' de Pandoras; an' dar's no mistake but we hab kep de distance. Dat s'riek no come from dem."

"Look yonder!" cried little William, interrupting the dialogue. "I see something."

"Whereaway? What like be it?" inquired the sailor.

"Yonder!" answered the lad, pointing over the starboard bow of the Catamaran; "about three cables' length out in the water. It's a black lump; it looks like a boat."

"A boat! Shiver my timbers if thee bean't right, lad. I see it now. It do look somethin' as you say. But what ul a boat be doin' here,—out in the middle o' the Atlantic?"

"Dat am a boat," interposed Snowball. "Fo' sartin it am."

"It must be," said the sailor, after more carefully scrutinising it. "It is! I see its shape better now. There's some un in it. I see only one; ah, he be standin' up in the middle o' it, like a mast. It be a man though; an' I dare say the same as gi'ed that shout, if he be a human; though, sartin, there warn't much human in it."

As if to confirm the sailor's last assertion, the shriek was repeated, precisely as it had been uttered before; though now, entering ears that were awake, it produced a somewhat different impression.

The voice was evidently that of a man. Even under the circumstances, it could be nothing else, but of a man who had taken leave of his senses. It was the wild cry of a maniac!

The crew of the Catamaran might have continued in doubt as to this had they been treated only to a repetition of the shriek; but this was followed by a series of speeches,—incoherent, it is true, but spoken in an intelligible tongue, and ending in a peal of laughter such as might be heard echoing along the corridors of a lunatic asylum!

One and all of them stood looking and listening.

It was a moonless night, and had been a dark one; but it was now close upon morning. Already had the aurora tinged the horizon with roseate hues. The grey light of dawn was beginning to scatter its soft rays over the surface of the ocean; and objects—had there been any—could be distinguished at a considerable distance.

Certainly there was an object,—a thing of boat-shape, with a human form standing near its middle. It was a boat, a man in it; and, from the exclamation and laughter to which they had listened, there could be no doubt about the man being mad.

Mad or sane, why should they shun him? There were two strong men on the raft, who need not fear to encounter a lunatic under any circumstances,—even in the midst of the ocean. Nor did they fear it; for as soon as they became fully convinced that they saw a boat with a man in it, they "ported" the helm of the Catamaran, and stood directly towards it.

Less than ten minutes' sailing in the altered course brought them within fair view of the object that had caused them to deviate; and, after scrutinising it, less than ten seconds enabled them to satisfy their minds as to the strange craft and its yet stranger occupant.

They saw before them the "gig" of the slaver; and, standing "midships" in the boat,—just half-way between stem and stern,—they saw the captain of that ill-starred, ill-fated vessel!



CHAPTER NINETY.

A MADMAN IN MID-OCEAN.

In the minds of the Catamaran's crew there was no longer any cause for conjecture. The boat-shaped object on the water, and the human form standing up within it, were mysteries no more; nor was there any when that boat and that human being were identified.

If in the spectacle there was aught still to puzzle them, it was the seeing only one man in the boat instead of six.

There should have been six; since that was the number that the gig had originally carried away from the burning bark,—five others besides the one now seen,—and who, notwithstanding a great change in his appearance, was still recognisable as the slaver's captain.

Where were the missing men,—the mates, the carpenter and two common sailors, who had escaped along with him? Were they in the boat, lying down, and so concealed from the view of those upon the Catamaran? Or had they succumbed to some fearful fate, leaving only that solitary survivor?

The gig sat high in the water. Those upon the Catamaran could not see over its gunwale unless by approaching nearer, and this they hesitated to do.

Indeed, on identifying the boat and the individual standing in it, they had suddenly hauled down the sail and were lying to, using their oar to keep them from drifting any nearer.

They had done so from an instinctive apprehension. They knew that the men who had gone off in the gig were not a whit better than those upon the big raft; for the officers of the slaver, in point of ruffianism, were upon a par with their crew. With this knowledge, it was a question for consideration whether the Catamarans would be safe in approaching the boat. If the six were still in it, and out of food and water, like those on the large raft, they would undoubtedly despoil the Catamaran, just as the others had designed doing. From such as they no mercy need be expected; and as it was not likely any succour could be obtained from them, it would, perhaps, be better, in every way, to "give them a wide berth."

Such were the thoughts that passed hastily through the mind of Ben Brace, and were communicated to his companions.

Were the five missing men still aboard the boat?

They might be lying down along the bottom,—though it was not likely they could be asleep? That appeared almost impossible, considering the shouts and screams which the captain at intervals still continued to send forth.

"By de great gorramity!" muttered Snowball, "a doan't b'lieb one ob dem's leff 'board dat boat, 'ceptin de ole 'kipper himseff; an ob him dar am nuffin leff cep'n de body. Dat man's intlek am clar gone. He am ravin' mad!"

"You're right, Snowy," assented the sailor; "there be ne'er a one there but himself. At all events they ain't all there. I can tell by the way the gig sits up out o' the water. No boat o' her size, wi' six men aboard, could have her gunnel as high as that ere. No! If there be any besides the captain, there's only one or two. We needn't fear to go as nigh as we like. Let's put about, an' board the craft, anyhow. What say ye?"

"Haben't de leas' objecshun, Massa Brace, so long you link dar no fear. Dis chile ready take de chance. If dar be any odder cep'n de 'kipper, it no like dey am 'trong 'nuff to bully we nohow. De two ob us be equal match fo' any four ob dem,—say nuffin ob lilly Will'm."

"I feel a'most sartin," rejoined the sailor, still undecided, "there be only him. If that's the case, our best way is to close up, and take possession o' the boat. We may have some trouble wi' him if be's gone mad; an' from the way he be runnin' on, it do look like it. Never mind! I dare say we'll be able to manage him. Port about, an' let a see the thing through."

Snowball was at the steering-oar, and, thus commanded by her captain, he once more headed the Catamaran in the direction of the drifting boat,—while the sailor and William betook them to the oars.

Whether the occupant of the gig had yet perceived the raft was not certain. It is likely he had not, since the yells and incoherent speeches to which he had been giving utterance appeared to be addressed to no one, but were more like—what they believed them to be—the wild ravings of a lunatic.

It was still only the grey twilight of morning, with a slight fog upon the water; and although through this the Catamarans had recognised the gig and captain of the Pandora they had done so with certain souvenirs to guide them. Both the boat and its occupant had been seen only indistinctly: and it was possible that the latter had not seen them, and was still unsuspicious of their presence.

As they drew nearer, the light at each moment increasing in brightness, there was no longer any uncertainty as to their being seen; for, along with the yells uttered by the occupant of the gig, could be heard the significant speeches of, "Sail ho! Ship ahoy! What ship's that? Heave to, and be—Heave to, you infernal lubbers! if you don't I'll sink you!"

The manner in which these varied phrases were jumbled together, intermingled with screeching exclamations, as well as the excited and grotesque gestures that accompanied them, might have been ludicrous, but for the painful impression it produced.

There was no longer any doubt in the minds of those who witnessed his behaviour, that the ex-skipper of the Pandora was mad. None but a madman would have spoken, or acted, as he was doing.

In the state he was in, it would be dangerous to go near him. This was evident to the occupants of the raft; and when they had arrived within a half-cable's length of the boat, they suspended the stroke of the oars,—with the intention of entering upon a parley, and seeing how far their words might tranquillise him.

"Captain!" cried the sailor, hailing his former commander in a friendly tone of voice: "it's me! Don't you know me? It's Ben Brace, one o' the old Pandora. We've been on this bit o' raft ever since the burnin' o' the bark. Myself and Snowball—"

At this moment the sailor's epitomised narrative was interrupted by a fiendish yell, proceeding from the throat of the maniac. They were now near enough to have a clear view of his face, and could note the expression of his features. The play of these, and the wild rolling of his eyes, confirmed them in their belief as to his insanity. There could be no doubt about it; but if there had, what soon after succeeded was proof sufficient to satisfy them.

During the continuance of the discourse addressed to him by the sailor, he had kept silent, until the word "Snowball" fell upon his ears. Then all at once he became terribly excited,—as was testified by a terrible shriek, a twitching contortion of his features, and a glaring in his eyes that was awful to behold.

"Snowball!" screamed he; "Snowball, you say, do you? Snowball, the infernal dog! Show him to me! Ach! Blood and furies! it was he that fired my ship. Where is he? Let me at him! Let me lay my hands upon his black throat! I'll teach the sneaking nigger how to carry a candle that'll light him into the next world. Snowball! Where,—where is he?"

At this moment his rolling orbs became suddenly steadied; and all could see that his gaze was fixed upon the Coromantee with a sort of desperate identification.

Snowball might have quailed under that glance, had there been time for him to take heed of it. But there was not: for upon the instant it was given the madman uttered another wild screech, and, rising into the air, sprang several feet over the gunwale of the gig.

For a second or two he was lost to sight under the water. Then, rising to the surface, he was seen swimming with vigorous sweep towards the Catamaran.



CHAPTER NINETY ONE.

THE INSANE SWIMMER.

A dozen strokes would have carried him up to the craft; which they could not have hindered him from boarding, except by using some deadly violence. To avoid this, the oars were plied; and the raft rapidly pulled in a contrary direction.

For all this, so swiftly did the maniac make way through the water, that it was just as much as they could do to keep the Catamaran clear of his grasp; and it was only after Ben Brace and Snowball had got fairly bent to their oars, that they could insure themselves against being overtaken. Then became it a chase in which there was no great advantage in speed between the pursued and the pursuer; though what little there might have been was in favour of the former.

How long this singular chase might have continued, it is impossible to say. Perhaps until the lunatic had exhausted his insane strength, and sunk into the sea: since he appeared to have no idea of making an attempt to return to the boat. He never looked round to see how far he was leaving it behind him. On the contrary, he swam straight on, his eyes steadfastly fixed upon the one object that seemed to have possession of his soul,—the Coromantee! That it was of him only he was thinking could be told from his speech,—for even while in the water he continued to utter imprecations on the head of the negro,—his name being every moment mentioned in terms of menace.

The chase could not have lasted much longer,—even had it been permitted to terminate by the exhaustion of the insane swimmer. The supernatural strength of insanity could not forever sustain him; and in due time he would have sunk helplessly to the bottom of the sea.

But this was not the sort of death that Fate had designed for him. A still more violent ending of his life was in store for the unfortunate wretch. Though he himself knew it not, those aboard the Catamaran had now become aware of its approach.

Behind him,—scarce half a cable's length,—two creatures were seen moving through the water. Horrible-looking creatures they were: for they were hammer-headed sharks! Both were conspicuously seen: for they had risen to the surface, and were swimming with their dark dorsal fins protruded above, and set with all the triangular sharpness of staysails. Although they had not been observed before by those on the Catamaran, they appeared to have been swimming in the proximity of the gig,—on which, beyond doubt, they had been for some time attending.

They were now advancing side by side, in the same direction as the swimmer, and there could be no doubt as to their design. They were evidently in chase of him, with as much eagerness as he was in chase of the Catamaran.

The wretched man neither saw nor thought of them. Even had he seen them it is questionable whether he would have made any attempt to escape from them. They would, in all likelihood, have appeared a part of the fearful phantasmagoria already filling his brain.

In any case he could not have eluded those earnest and eager pursuers,— unless by the intervention of those upon the raft; and even had these wished to succour him, it would have required a most prompt and adroit interference. They did wish it, even became desirous to save him. Their hearts melted within them as they saw the unfortunate man, maniac though he was, in such a situation. Fear him as they might,—and deem him an enemy as they did,—still was he a human being,—one of their own kind,—and their natural instinct of hostility towards those ravenous monsters of the deep had now obliterated that which they might have felt for him about to become their prey.

Risking everything from the encounter which they might expect with a madman, they suspended their oars, and then commenced backing towards him. Even Snowball exerted himself to bring the Catamaran within saving distance of the wretch who, in his insane hatred, was threatening his own destruction.

Their good intentions, however, proved of no avail. The man was destined to destruction. Before they could get near enough to make any effective demonstration in his favour, the sharks had closed upon him. They who would have saved him saw it, and ceased their exertions to become spectators of the tragical catastrophe.

It was a brief affair. The monsters swam up, one on each side of their intended victim, till their uncouth bodies were parallel with his. He saw one of them first, and, with an instinct more true than his dethroned powers of reason, swerved out of the way to avoid it. The effort resulted in placing him within reach of the other, that, suddenly turning upon its side, grasped him between its extended jaws.

The shriek that followed appeared to proceed from only the half of his body; for the other half, completely dissevered, had been already carried off between the terrible teeth of the zygaena.

There was but one cry. There was not time for another, even had there been strength. Before it could have been uttered, the remaining moiety of the madman's body was seized by the second shark, and borne down into the voiceless abysm of the ocean!



CHAPTER NINETY TWO.

BOARDING THE BOAT.

Back to the boat! In the minds of the Catamaran's crew naturally did this resolve succeed to the spectacle they had just witnessed. There was nothing to stay them on that spot. The bloodstained water, which momentarily marked the scene of the tragedy, had no further interest for those who had been spectators to it; and once more heading their craft for the drifting gig, they made way towards it as fast as their oars and the sail, now reset, would carry them.

They no longer speculated as to the boat being occupied by a crew,— either sleeping or awake. In view of the events that had occurred, it was scarce possible that anyone, in either condition, could be aboard of her. She must have been abandoned, before that hour, by all but the solitary individual standing amidships, and pouring out his insane utterances to the ears of the ocean.

Where were the men that were missing? This was the question that occupied the crew of the Catamaran,—as they advanced towards the deserted gig—and to which they could give no satisfactory answer.

They could only shape conjectures,—none of which had much air of probability.

From what they knew or suspected to have occurred upon the large raft they could draw inferences of a revolting nature. It might be that the same course had been pursued among those in the gig; and yet it seemed scarce probable. It was known that the latter had gone off from the burning bark, if not sufficiently provided for a long voyage, at least with a stock of both food and water that should have sustained them for many days. Little William had been a witness of their departure, and could confirm these facts. Why then had their boat-voyage resulted so disastrously? It could not have arisen from want. It could not have been the gale.

In all probability, had the sea washed over them, the boat would either have been swamped or capsized. The captain alone could not have righted her. Besides, why should he be the only survivor of the six?

But there had not been storm enough for a disaster of this kind; and unless by some dire mismanagement, the men could not have fallen overboard.

Still puzzled to account for the strange condition of things, the crew of the Catamaran continued to pull towards the gig, and at length came up with it.

There they beheld a horrid spectacle, though it afforded no clue to what had occurred. In fact it left the affair as inexplicable as ever. What they saw gave them reason to believe that some terrible tragedy had transpired on board the boat; and that not the elements, but the hand of man, had caused the disappearance of the crew.

Along the bottom timbers lay stretched a human form. It was not only lifeless, but disfigured by many wounds,—anyone of which would have proved mortal. The face was gashed in the most frightful manner; and the skull crushed in several places, as if by repeated blows of a heavy hammer, while numerous wounds, that had been inflicted by some sharp-bladed weapon or implement, appeared over the breast and body.

This mutilated shape of humanity was lying half submerged in the bilge-water contained in the boat, and which looked more like blood. So deep was it in colour, and in such quantity, that it was difficult to believe it could have been stained by the blood of only that one body, to which in turn, as the red fluid went washing over it, had been imparted the same sanguinary hue.

The features of the hideous corpse could not be identified. The axe, knife, or whatever weapon it was, had defaced them beyond recognition; but for all this, both Ben Brace and Snowball recognised the mutilated remains. Something in the garments still clinging round the corpse was remembered, and by this they were enabled to identify it as that of one too well-known to them,—the first mate of the slaver.

Instead of elucidating the mystery, this knowledge only rendered it more inexplicable. It was evident the man had been murdered. The wounds proved that; for from the appearance of the extravasated blood they must have been given while he was still alive.

It was but natural to suppose that the deed had been done by his insane companion. The number and character of the wounds,—consisting of blows, cuts, and gashes, showed that they had been inflicted by some one out of his senses; for life must have been extinct before half of them could have been given.

So far the circumstances seemed clear enough. The maniac captain had murdered the mate. No motive could be guessed at; for no motive was needed to inspire a madman.

Beyond this all was shrouded in mystery. What was to explain the absence of the other four? What had become of them? The crew of the Catamaran could only frame conjectures,—all of a horrid nature. That of Snowball was the most rational that could be arrived at.

It suggested the probability that the first mate and captain had combined in the destruction of the others,—their motive being to get all the food and water themselves, and thus secure a better chance of prolonging their lives. They might have accomplished their atrocious design in various ways. There might have been a struggle in which these two men,—much stronger than their fellows,—had proved victorious; or there might not have been any contest at all. The foul crime could have been committed in the night, when their unsuspicious comrades were asleep; or even by the light of day, when the latter were under the spell of intoxication,—produced by the brandy that had furnished part of the stores of the gig.

All these were horrid imaginings; but neither Snowball nor the sailor could help giving way to them. Otherwise they could not account for the dreadful drama of which that bloodstained boat must have been the scene.

Supposing their conjectures to have been correct, no wonder that the sole survivor of such scenes should have been found a raving lunatic,— no wonder the man had gone mad!



CHAPTER NINETY THREE.

THE CATAMARAN ABANDONED.

For some time the crew of the Catamaran stood contemplating the gig and its lifeless occupant, with looks that betokened repugnance.

By reason of the many dread scenes they had already passed through, this feeling was the less intense, and gradually wore away. It was neither the time nor the place for any show of sentimentalism. Their own perilous situation was too strongly impressed on their minds to admit of unprofitable speculations; and instead of indulging in idle conjectures about the past, they directed their thoughts to the future.

The first consideration was, what was to be done with the gig?

They would take possession of her, of course. There could be no question about this.

It is true the Catamaran had done them good service. She had served to keep them afloat, and thus far saved their lives.

In calm weather they could have made themselves very comfortable on their improvised embarkation; and might have remained safe upon it, so long as their water and provisions lasted. But with such a slow-sailing craft the voyage might last longer than either; and then it could only result in certain death. They might not again have such good fortune in obtaining fish; and their stock of water once exhausted, it was too improbable to suppose they should ever be able to replenish it. There might not be another shower of rain for weeks; and even should it fall, it might be in such rough weather that they could not collect a single quart of it. Her slow-sailing was not the only objection to the Catamaran. Their experience in the gale of the preceding night had taught them, how little they could depend upon her in the event of a real storm. In very rough weather she would certainly be destroyed. Her timbers under the strain would come apart; or, even if they should stick together, and by the buoyancy of the empty casks continue to keep afloat, the sea would wash over them all the same and either drown or otherwise destroy them.

In such a long time as it must take before reaching land, they could not expect to have a continuance of fair weather.

With the gig,—a first-rate craft of its kind,—the case would be different.

Ben Brace well knew the boat, for he had often been one of its crew of rowers.

It was a fast boat,—even under oars,—and with a sail set to it, and a fair wind, they might calculate upon making eight or ten knots an hour. This would in no great time enable them to run down the "trades," and bring them to some port of the South American coast,—perhaps to Guiana, or Brazil.

These speculations occupied them only a few seconds of time. In fact they had passed through their minds long before they arrived alongside the gig; for they were but the natural considerations suggested by the presence of the boat.

They were now in possession of a seaworthy craft. It seemed as if Providence had thrown it in their way; and they had no idea of abandoning it. On the contrary, it was the raft which was to be deserted.

If they hesitated about transferring themselves and their chattels from the Catamaran to the gig, it was but for a moment; and that brief space of time was only spent in considering how they might best accomplish the transfer.

The boat had first to be got into a fit state for their reception; and as soon as they had recovered from the shock caused by that hideous spectacle, the sailor and Snowball set to work to remove the body out of sight, as well as every trace of the sanguinary strife that must have taken place.

The mutilated corpse was cast into the sea, and sank at once under the surface,—though perhaps never to reach the bottom, for those two ravenous monsters were still hovering around the spot, in greedy expectation of more food for their insatiable stomachs.

The red bilge-water was next baled out of the boat,—the inside timbers cleared of their ensanguined stains, and swilled with clean water from the sea; which was in its turn thrown out, until no trace remained of the frightful objects so lately seen.

A few things that had been found in the boat were permitted to remain: as they might prove of service to the crew coming into possession. Among these there was not a morsel of food, nor a drop of drinking water; but there was the ship's compass, still in good condition; and the sailor knew that this treasure was too precious to be parted with: as it would enable them to keep to their course under the most clouded skies.

As soon as the gig was ready to receive them, the "stores" of the Catamaran were transferred to it. The cask of water was carefully hoisted aboard the boat,—as also the smaller cask containing the precious "Canary." The dried fish packed inside the chest, the oars, and other implements were next carried over the "gangway" between the two crafts,—each article being stowed in a proper place within the gig.

There was plenty of room for everything: as the boat was a large one, capable of containing a dozen men; and of course ample for the accommodation of the Catamaran's crew, with all their impedimenta.

The last transfer made was the mast and sail, which were "unshipped" from the Catamaran to be set up on the gig, and which were just of the right size to suit the latter craft.

There was nothing left upon the raft that could be of any use to them on their boat-voyage; and after the mast and sail had been removed, the Catamaran appeared completely dismantled.

As they undid the lashings,—which during the transfer had confined her to the gig,—a feeling of sadness pervaded the minds of her former crew. They had grown to feel for that embarkation,—frail and grotesque as it was,—a sort of attachment; such as one may have for a loved home. To them it had been a home in the midst of the wilderness of waters; and they could not part from it without a strong feeling of regret.

Perhaps it was partly for this reason they did not at once dip their oars into the water and row away from the raft; though they had another reason for lingering in its proximity.

The mast had to be "stepped" in the gig and the sail bent on to it; and, as it seemed better that these things should be done at once, they at once set about doing them.

During the time they were thus engaged, the boat drifted on with the breeze, making two or three knots to the hour. But this caused no separation between the two crafts; for the same breeze carried the dismantled raft—now lying light upon the water—at the like rate of speed; and when at length the mast stood amidships in the gig, and the sailyard was ready to be hauled up to it, there was scarce a cable's length between them.

The Catamaran was astern, but coming on at a fair rate of speed,—as if determined not to be left behind in that lone wilderness of waters!



CHAPTER NINETY FOUR.

A "SCHOOL" OF SPERM-WHALES.

To all appearance the hour had arrived when they were to look their last on the embarkation that had safely carried them through so many dangers. In a few minutes their sail would be spread before a breeze, that would impel their boat at a rapid rate through the water; and in a short time they would see no more of the Catamaran, crawling slowly after them. A few miles astern, and she would be out of sight,—once and forever.

Such was their belief, as they proceeded to set the sail.

Little were they thinking of the destiny that was before them. Fate had not designed such a sudden separation; and well was it for them that the Catamaran had clung so closely upon their track, as still to offer them an asylum,—a harbour of refuge to which they might retreat,—for it was not long before they found themselves in need of it.

As stated, they were proceeding to set the sail. They had got their rigging all right,—the canvas bent upon the yard, the halliards rove, and everything except hauling up and sheeting home.

These last operations would have been but the work of six seconds, and yet they were never performed.

As the sailor and Snowball stood, halliards in hand, ready to hoist up, an exclamation came from little William, that caused both of them to suspend proceedings.

The boy stood gazing out upon the ocean,—his eyes fixed upon some object that had caused him to cry out. Lalee was by his side also, regarding the same object.

"What is it, Will'm?" eagerly inquired the sailor, hoping the lad might have made out a sail.

William had himself entertained this hope. A whitish disk over the horizon had come under his eye; which for a while looked like spread canvas, but soon disappeared,—as if it had suddenly dissolved into air.

William was ashamed of having uttered the exclamation,—as being guilty of causing a "false alarm." He was about to explain himself, when the white object once more rose up against the sky,—now observed by all.

"That's what I saw," said the alarmist, confessing himself mistaken.

"If ye took it for a sail, lad," rejoined the sailor, "you war mistaken. It be only the spoutin' o' a sparmacety."

"There's more than one," rejoined William, desirous of escaping from his dilemma. "See, yonder's half a dozen of them!"

"Theer ye be right, lad,—though not in sayin' there's half a dozen. More like there be half a hundred o' 'em. There's sure to be that number, whar you see six a-blowin' at the same time. There be a 'school' o' them, I be bound,—maybe a 'body.'"

"Golly!" cried Snowball, after regarding the whales for a moment, "dey am a-comin' dis way!"

"They be," muttered the old whalesman, in a tone that did not show much satisfaction at the discovery. "They're coming right down upon us. I don't like it a bit. They're on a 'passage,'—that I can see; an' it be dangerous to get in their way when they're goin' so,—especially aboard a craft sich as this un'."

Of course the setting of the sail was adjourned at this announcement; as it would have been, whether there had been danger or not. A school of whales, either upon their "passage" or when "gambolling," is a spectacle so rare, at the same time so exciting, as not to be looked upon without interest; and the voyager must be engrossed in some very serious occupation who can permit it to pass without giving it his attention.

Nothing can be more magnificent than the movements of these vast leviathans, as they cleave their track through the blue liquid element,—now sending aloft their plume-like spouts of white vapour,— now flinging their broad and fan-shaped flukes into the air; at times bounding with their whole bodies several feet above the surface, and dropping back into the water with a tremendous concussion, that causes the sea to swell into huge foam-crested columns, as if a storm was passing over it.

It was the thought of this that came into the mind of the ex-whalesman; and rendered him apprehensive,—as he saw the school of cachalots coming on towards the spot occupied by the frail embarkation. He knew that the swell caused by the "breaching" of a whale is sufficient to swamp even a large-sized boat; and if one of the "body" now bowling down towards them should chance to spring out of the water while passing near, it would be just as much as they could do to keep the gig from going upon her beam-ends.

There was not much time to speculate upon chances, or probabilities. When first seen, the whales could not have been more than a mile distant: and going on as they were, at the rate of ten knots an hour, only ten minutes elapsed before the foremost was close up to the spot occupied by the boat and the abandoned raft.

They were not proceeding in a regular formation; though here and there four or five might have been seen moving in a line, abreast with one another. The whole "herd" occupied a breadth extending about a mile across the sea; and in the very centre of this, as ill-luck would have it, lay the cockle-shell of a boat and the abandoned raft.

It was one of the biggest "schools" that Ben Brace had ever seen, consisting of nearly a hundred individuals,—full-grown females, followed by their "calves,"—and only one old bull, the patron and protector of the herd. There was no mistaking it for a "pod" of whales,—which would have been made up of young males just escaped from maternal protection, and attended by several older individuals of their own sex,—acting as trainers and instructors.

Just as the ci-devant whalesman had finished making this observation, the cachalots came past, causing the sea to undulate for miles around the spot,—as if a tempest had swept over, and was succeeded by its swell. One after another passed with a graceful gliding, that might have won the admiration of an observer viewing it from a position of safety. But to those who beheld it from the gig, there was an idea of danger in their majestic movement,—heightened by the surf-like sound of their respirations.

They had nearly all passed, and the crew of the gig were beginning to breathe freely; when they perceived the largest of the lot—the old bull—astern of the rest and coming right towards them. His head, with several fathoms of his back, protruded above the surface, which at intervals he "fluked" with his tail,—as if giving a signal to those preceding him, either to direct their onward course, or warn them of some threatened danger.

He had a vicious look about him,—notwithstanding his patriarchal appearance,—and the ex-whalesman uttered an exclamation of warning as he approached.

The utterance was merely mechanical, since nothing could be done to ward off the threatened encounter.

Nothing was done. There was no time to act, nor even to think. Almost on the same instant in which the warning cry was heard the whale was upon them. He who had uttered it, along with his companions, felt themselves suddenly projected into the air, as if they had been tossed from a catapult, and their next sensation was that of taking "a tremendous header" into the depths of the fathomless ocean!

All four soon came to the surface again; and the two who had best retained their senses,—the sailor and Snowball,—looked around for the gig. There was no gig in sight, nor boat of any kind! Only some floating fragments; among which could be distinguished a cask or two, with a scattering of loose boards, oars, handspikes, and articles of apparel. Among these were struggling two youthful forms,—recognisable as little William and Lilly Lalee.

A quick transformation took place in the tableau.

A cry arose, "Back to the Catamaran!" and in a score of seconds the boy-sailor was swimming alongside the A.B. for the raft; while the Coromantee, with Lilly Lalee hoisted upon his left shoulder, was cleaving the water in the same direction.

Another minute and all four were aboard the embarkation they had so lately abandoned,—once more saved from the perils of the deep!



CHAPTER NINETY FIVE.

WORSE OFF THAN EVER.

There was no mystery about the incident that had occurred. It had scarce created surprise; for the moment that the old whalesman felt the shock, he knew what had caused it, as well as if he had been a simple spectator.

The others, warned by him that danger might be expected in the passage of the whales—though then unapprised of its exact nature—were fully aware of it now. It had come and passed,—at least, after mounting once more upon the raft, they perceived that their lives were no longer in peril.

The occurrence needed no explanation. The detached timbers of the gig floating about on the water, and the shock they had experienced, told the tale with sufficient significance. They had been "fluked" by the bull-whale, whose fan-shaped tail-fins, striking the boat in an upward direction, had shattered it as easily as an eggshell, tossing the fragments, along with the contents, both animate and inanimate, several feet into the air.

Whether it were done out of spite or wanton playfulness, or for the gratification of a whalish whim, the act had cost the huge leviathan no greater effort than might have been used in brushing off a fly; and after its accomplishment the old bull went bowling on after its frolicsome school, gliding through the water apparently with as much unconcern as if nothing particular had transpired!

It might have been nothing to him,—neither the capsize nor its consequences; but it was everything to those he had so unceremoniously upset.

It was not until they had fairly established themselves on the raft, and their tranquillity had become a little restored, that they could reflect upon the peril through which they had passed, or realise the fulness of their misfortune.

They saw their stores scattered about over the waves,—their oars and implements drifting about; and, what was still worse, the great sea-chest of the sailor, which, in the hurry of the late transfer, had been packed full of shark-flesh, they could not see. Weighted as it was, it must have gone to the bottom, carrying its precious contents along with it.

The water-cask and the smaller one containing the Canary were still afloat, for both had been carefully bunged; but what mattered drink if there was no meat?—and not a morsel appeared to be left them.

For some minutes they remained idly gazing upon the wreck,—a spectacle of complete ruin. One might have supposed that their inaction proceeded from despair, which was holding them as if spellbound.

It was not this, however. They were not the sort to give way to despair. They only waited for an opportunity to act, which they could not do until the tremendous swell, caused by the passage of the whales, should to some extent subside.

Just then the sea was rolling "mountains high," and the raft on which they stood—or rather, crouched—was pitching about in such a manner, that it was as much as they could do to hold footing upon it.

Gradually the ocean around them resumed its wonted tranquillity; and, as they had spent the interval in reflection, they now proceeded to action.

They had formed no definite plans, further than to collect the scattered materials,—such of them as were still above water,—and, if possible, re-rig the craft which now carried them.

Fortunately the mast, which had been forced out of its "stepping" in the timbers of the gig and entirely detached from the broken boat, was seen drifting at no great distance off, with the yard and sail still adhering to it. As these were the most important articles of which the Catamaran had been stripped, there would be no great difficulty in restoring her to her original entirety.

Their first effort was to recover some of the oars. This was not accomplished without a considerable waste of time and a good deal of exertion. On the dismantled embarkation there was not a stick that could be used for rowing; and it was necessary to propel it with their outspread palms.

During the interval of necessary inaction, the floating fragments of the wreck had drifted to a considerable distance,—or rather had the raft, buoyed up by its empty casks, glided past them, and was now several cable-lengths to leeward.

They were compelled, therefore, to work up the wind and their progress was consequently slow,—so slow as to become vexatious.

Snowball would have leaped overboard, and recovered the oars by swimming: but the sailor would not listen to this proposal, pointing out to his sable companion the danger to be apprehended from the presence of the sharks. The negro made light of this, but his more prudent comrade restrained him; and they continued patiently to paddle the raft with their hands. At length a pair of oars were got hold of; and from that moment the work went briskly on.

The mast and sail were fished out of the sea and dragged aboard; the casks of water and wine were once more secured; and the stray implements were picked up one after another,—all except those of iron, including the axe, which had gone to the bottom of the Atlantic.

Their greatest loss had been the chest and its contents. This was irreparable; and in all probability the precursor of a still more serious misfortune,—the loss of their lives.



CHAPTER NINETY SIX.

THE DARKEST HOUR.

Death in all its dark reality once more stared them in the face. They were entirely without food. Of all their stores, collected and cured with so much care and ingenuity, not a morsel remained. Besides what the chest contained there had been some loose flitches of the dried fish lying about upon the raft. These had been carried into the boat, and must have been capsized into the sea. While collecting the other debris, they had looked for them in hopes that some stray pieces might still be picked up; not one had been found. If they floated at all, they must have been grabbed by the sharks themselves, or some other ravenous creatures of the deep.

Had any such waifs come in their way, the castaways just at that crisis might not have cared to eat them with the bitterness they must have derived from their briny immersion; still they knew that in due time they would get over any daintiness of this kind; and, indeed, before many hours had elapsed, all four of them began to feel keenly the cravings of a hunger not likely to refuse the coarsest or most unpalatable food. Since that hurried retreat from their moorings by the carcass of the cachalot they had not eaten anything like a regular meal.

The series of terrible incidents, so rapidly succeeding one another, along with the almost continuous exertions they had been compelled to make, had kept their minds from dwelling upon the condition of their appetites. They had only snatched a morsel of food at intervals, and swallowed a mouthful of water.

Just at the time the last catastrophe occurred they had been intending to treat themselves to a more ceremonious meal, and were only waiting until the sail should be set, and the boat gliding along her course, to enter upon the eating of it.

This pleasant design had been frustrated by the flukes of the whale; which, though destroying many other things, had, unfortunately, not injured their appetites. These were keen enough when they first reoccupied their old places on the Catamaran; but as the day advanced, and they continued to exert themselves in collecting the fragments of the wreck, their hunger kept constantly increasing, until all four experienced that appetite as keenly as they had ever done since the commencement of their prolonged and perilous "cruise."

In this half-famished condition it was not likely they should have any great relish for work; and as soon as they had secured the various waifs, against the danger of being carried away, they set themselves to consider what chance they had to provide themselves with a fresh stock of food.

Of course their thoughts were directed towards the deep, or rather its finny denizens. There was nothing else above, beneath, or around them that could have been coupled with the idea of food.

Their former success in fishing might have given them confidence,—and would have done so but for an unfortunate change that had taken place in their circumstances.

Their hooks were among the articles now missing. The harpoons which they had handled with such deadly effect upon the carcass of the cachalot had been there left,—sticking up out of the back of the dead leviathan composing that improvised spit erected for roasting the shark-steaks. In short, every article of iron,—even to their own knives, which had been thrown loosely into the boat,—was now at the bottom of the sea.

There was not a moiety of metal left out of which they could manufacture a fish-hook; and if there had been it would not have mattered much, since they could not discover a scrap of meat sufficient to have baited it.

There seemed no chance whatever of fishing or obtaining fish in any fashion; and after turning the subject ever and over in their minds, they at length relinquished it in despair.

At this crisis their thoughts reverted to the cachalot,—not the live, leaping leviathan, whose hostile behaviour had so suddenly blighted their bright prospects; but the dead one, upon whose huge carcass they had so lately stood. There they might still find food,—more shark-meat. If not, there was the whale-beef, or blubber: coarse viands, it is true, but such as may sustain life. Of that there was enough to have replenished the larder of a whole ship's crew,—of a squadron!

It was just possible they could find their way back to it, for the wind, down which they had been running, was still in the same quarter; and the whole distance they had made during the night might in time be recovered.

At the best, it would have been a difficult undertaking and doubtful of success, even if there had been no other obstacle than the elements standing in their way.

But there was,—one more dreaded than either the opposition of the wind or the danger of straying from their course.

In all likelihood their pursuers had returned to the spot which they had forsaken; and might at that very moment be mooring their craft to the huge pectoral fin that had carried the cable of the Catamaran.

In view of this probability, the idea of returning to the dead whale was scarce entertained, or only to be abandoned on the instant.

Cheerless were the thoughts of the Catamarans as they sat pondering upon that important question,—how they were to find food,—cheerless as the clouds of night that were now rapidly descending over the surface of the sea, and shrouding them in sombre gloom.

Never before had they felt so dispirited, and yet never had they been so near being relieved from their misery. It was the darkest hour of their despondency, and the nearest to their deliverance; as the darkest hour of the night is that which precedes the day.



CHAPTER NINETY SEVEN.

A CHEERING CUP.

They made no attempt to move from the spot upon which the sun saw them at setting.

As yet they had not restored the mast with its sail; and they had no motive for toiling at the oar. All the little way they might make by rowing was not worth the exertion of making it; and indeed it had now become a question whether there was any use in attempting to continue their westward course. There was not the slightest chance of reaching land before starvation could overtake them; and they might as well starve where they were. Death in that shape would not be more endurable in one place than another; and it would make no difference under what meridian they should depend the last few minutes of their lives.

Into such a state of mind had these circumstances now reduced them,—a stupor of despair rather than the calmness of resignation.

After some time had been passed in this melancholy mood,—passed under darkness and in sombre silence,—a slight circumstance partially aroused them. It was the voice of the sailor, proposing "supper!" One hearing him might have supposed that he too had taken leave of his senses. Not so, nor did his companions so judge him. They knew what he meant by the word, and that the assumed tone of cheerfulness in which he pronounced it had been intended to cheer them. Ben's proposal was not without some significance; though to call it "supper" of which it was designed they should partake was making a somewhat figurative use of the phrase.

No matter; it meant something,—something to supply the place of a supper,—if not so substantial as they would have wished, at least something that would not only prolong their lives, but for a while lighten their oppressed spirits. It meant a cup of Canary.

They had not forgotten their possession of this. Had they done so, they might have yielded to even a deeper despair. A small quantity of the precious grape-juice was still within the cask, safe stowed in its old locker. They had hitherto abstained from touching it, with the view of keeping it to the last moment that it could be conveniently hoarded. That moment seemed to Ben Brace to have arrived, when he proposed a cup of Canary for their supper.

Of course no objection was made to a proposition equally agreeable to all; and the stopper was taken from the cask.

The little measure of horn, which had been found floating among the debris of the wrecked gig, was carefully inserted upon its string, drawn out filled with the sweet wine, and then passed from lip to lip,— the pretty lips of the Lilly Lalee being the first to come in contact with it.

The "dipping" was several times repeated; and then the stopper was restored to its place, and without any further ceremony, the "supper" came to an end.

Whether from the invigorating effects of the wine, or whether from that natural reaction of spirits ever consequent on a "spell" of despondency, both the sailor and Snowball, after closing the cask, began to talk over plans for the future. Hope, however slight, had once more made entry into their souls.

The subject of their discourse was whether they should not forthwith re-step the mast and set the sail. The night was as dark as pitch, but that signified little. They could manipulate the "sticks," ropes, and canvas without light; and as to the lashings that would be required, there could be no difficulty in making them good, if the night had been ten times darker than it was. This was a trope used by Snowball on the occasion, regardless of its physical absurdity.

One argument which the sailor urged in favour of action was, that by moving onward they could do no harm. They might as well be in motion as at rest, since, with the sail as their motive power, it would require no exertion on their part. Of course this reasoning was purely negative, and might not have gone far towards convincing the Coromantee,—whose fatalist tendencies at times strongly inclined him to inaction. But his comrade backed it by another argument, of a more positive kind, to which Snowball more readily assented.

"By keepin' on'ard," said Ben, "we'll be more like to come in sight o' somethin',—if there be anythin' abroad. Besides, if we lay here like a log, we'll still be in danger o' them ruffians driftin' down on us. Ye know they be a win'ard, an' ha' got theer sail set,—that is, if they bean't gone back to the sparmacety, which I dar say they've done. In that case there moutn't be much fear o' 'em; but whether or no, it be best for us to make sure. I say let's set the sail."

"Berra well, Massa Brace," rejoined the Coromantee, whose opposition had been only slight. "Dar am troof in wha you hab 'ledged. Ef you say set de sail, I say de same. Dar am a lubbly breeze bowlum. 'Pose we 'tick up de mass dis berry instam ob time?"

"All right!" rejoined the sailor. "Bear a hand, my hearties, and let's go at it! The sooner we spread the canvas the better."

No further words passed, except some muttered phrases of direction or command proceeding from the captain of the Catamaran while engaged with his crew in stepping the mast. This done, the yard was hauled "apeak," the "sheets" drawn "taut" and "belayed," and the wet canvas, spread out once more, became filled with the breeze, and carried the craft with a singing sound through the water.



CHAPTER NINETY EIGHT.

A PHANTOM SHIP OR A SHIP ON FIRE?

With the Catamaran once more under sail, and going on her due course, her crew might have seemed restored to the situation held by them previous to their encountering the dead cachalot Unfortunately for them, this was far from being the case.

A change for the worse had occurred in their circumstances. Then they were "victualled"—if not to full rations, at least with stores calculated to last them for some time. They were provided, moreover, with certain weapons and implements that might be the means of replenishing their stores in the event of their falling short.

Now it was altogether different. The Catamaran was as true and seaworthy as ever, her "rig" as of yore, and her sailing qualities not in the least impaired. But her "fitting out" was far inferior, especially in the "victualling department"; and this weighed heavily upon the minds of her crew.

Notwithstanding the depression of their spirits, which soon returned again, they could not resist an inclination for sleep. It is to be remembered that they had been deprived of this on the preceding night through the violence of the gale, and that they had got but very little on the night before that from being engaged in scorching their shark-meat.

Exhausted nature called loudly for repose; and so universally, that the complete crew yielded to the call, not even one of them remaining in charge of the helm.

It had been agreed upon that the craft should be left to choose its own track; or rather, that which the wind might select for it.

Guided by the breath of heaven, and by that alone, did the Catamaran continue her course.

How much way she made thus left alone to herself is not written down in her "log." The time alone is recorded; and we are told that it was the hour of midnight before any individual of her crew awoke from that slumber, to which "all hands" had surrendered after setting her sail.

The first of them who awoke was little William. The sailor-lad was not a heavy sleeper at any time, and on this night in particular his slumbers had been especially unsound. There was trouble on his mind before going to sleep, an uneasiness of no ordinary kind. It was not any fear for his own fate. He was a true English tar in miniature, and could not have been greatly distressed with any apprehensions of a purely selfish nature. Those that harassed him were caused by his consideration for another,—for Lilly Lalee.

For days he had been observing a change in the appearance of the child. He had noticed the gradual paling of her cheek, and rapid attenuation of her form,—the natural consequence of such a terrible exposure to one accustomed all her days to a delicate and luxurious mode of existence.

On that day in particular, after the fearful shock they had all sustained, the young Portuguese girl had appeared,—at least, in the eyes of little William,—more enfeebled than ever; and the boy-sailor had gone to sleep under a sad foreboding that she would be the first to succumb,—and that soon,—to the hardships they were called upon to encounter.

Little William loved Lilly Lalee with such love as a lad may feel for one of his own age,—a love perhaps the sweetest in life, if not the most lasting.

Inspired by this juvenile passion, and by the apprehensions he had for its object, the boy-sailor did not sleep very soundly.

Fortunate that it was so; else that brilliant flame that near the mid-hours of night glared athwart the deck of the Catamaran might not have awakened him; and had it not done so, neither he nor his three companions might ever again have looked upon human face except their own, and that only to see one another expire in the agonies of death.

There was a flame far lighting up the sombre surface of the ocean that shone upon the sleepy Catamarans. Gleaming in the half-closed eye of the sailor-lad, it awoke him.

Starting up, he beheld an apparition, which caused him surprise, not unmingled with alarm. It was a ship beyond doubt,—or the semblance of one,—but such as the sailor-lad had never before seen.

She appeared to be on fire. Vast clouds of smoke were rising up from her decks, and rolling away over her stern, illuminated by columns of bright flame that jetted up forward of her foremast, almost to the height of her lower shrouds. No man unaccustomed to such a sight could have looked upon that ship without supposing that she was on fire.

Little William should have been able to judge of what he saw. Unfortunately for himself, the spectacle of a ship on fire was not new to him. He had witnessed the burning of the bark which had borne him into the middle of the Atlantic, and left him where he now was, in a position of extremest peril.

But the memory of that conflagration did not assist him in determining the character of the spectacle now before his eyes. On the decks of the Pandora he had seen men endeavouring to escape from the flames, in every attitude of wild terror. On the ship now in sight he beheld the very reverse. He saw human beings standing in front of the column of fire, not only unconcerned at its proximity, but apparently feeding the flames!

It was a spectacle to startle the most experienced mariner, and call forth the keenest alarm,—a sight to suggest the double interrogatory,—"Is it a phantom ship, or a ship on fire?"



CHAPTER NINETY NINE.

A WHALER "TRYING-OUT."

In making the observations above detailed, the boy-sailor had been occupied scarce ten seconds of time,—only while his eye took in the singular spectacle thus abruptly brought before it. He did not stay to seek out of his own thoughts an answer to the question that suggested itself; but giving way to the terrified surprise which the apparition had caused him, he raised a shout which instantly awoke his companions.

Each of the three, on the instant of their awaking, gave utterance to a quick cry, but their shouts, although heard simultaneously, were significant of very different emotions. The cry of the girl was simply a scream, expressive of the wildest terror. That of Snowball was a confused mingling of surprise and alarm; while to the astonishment of William, and the other as well, the utterance of the sailor was a shout of unrestrained joy, accompanied by the action of suddenly springing to his feet,—so suddenly that the Catamaran was in danger of being capsized by the abrupt violence of the movement.

He did not give them time to ask for an explanation, but on the moment of getting himself into an erect attitude he commenced a series of shouts and exclamations, all uttered in the very highest key of which his voice was capable.

And among these utterances, and conspicuously intoned, was the well-known hail, "Ship ahoy!" followed by other nautical phrases, denoting the recognition of a ship.

"Golly! it am a ship," interposed Snowball, "a ship on de fire!"

"No! no!" impatiently answered the ex-whalesman, "nothing o' the sort. It's a whaler 'tryin'-out' her oil. Don't you see the men yonder, standin' by the try-works, are throwin' in the 'scraps'? Lord o' mercy! if they should pass us without hearing our hail! Ship ahoy! whaler ahoy!" And the sailor once more put forth his cries with all the power that lay in his lungs.

To this was added the stentorian voice of the Coromantee, who, quickly catching the explanation given by the ex-whalesman, saw the necessity of making himself heard.

For some moments the deck of the Catamaran rang with the shouts, "Ship ahoy!"

"Whaler ahoy!" that might have been heard far over the ocean,—much farther than the distance at which the strange vessel appeared to be; but, to the consternation of those who gave utterance to those cries, no answer was returned.

They could now distinctly see the ship, and almost everything aboard of her; for the two columns of flame rising high in forward of her foremast, out of the huge double furnace of the "try-works," illuminated not only the decks of the vessel, but the surface of the sea for miles around her.

They could see rolling sternward immense volumes of thick smoke, gleaming yellow under the light of the blazing fires; and the figures of men looming like giants in the glare of the garish flames,—some standing in front of the furnace, others moving about, and actively engaged in some species of industry, that to the eye of any other than a whalesman might have appeared supernatural.

Notwithstanding the distinctness with which they saw all these things, and the evident proximity of the ship, those on the raft could not make themselves heard, shout as loudly as they would.

This might have appeared strange to the Catamarans, and led them to believe that it was, in reality, a phantom ship they were hailing, and the gigantic figures they saw were those of spectres instead of men.

But the experience of the ex-whalesman forbade any such belief. He knew the ship to be a whaler, the moving forms to be men,—her crew,—and he knew, moreover, the reason why these had not answered his hail. They had not heard it. The roaring of the great furnace fires either drowned or deadened every other sound; even the voices of the whalesmen themselves, as they stood close to each other.

Ben Brace remembered all this; and the thought that the ship might pass them, unheard and unheeded, filled his mind with dread apprehension.

But for a circumstance in their favour this might have been the lamentable result. Fortunately, however, there was a circumstance that led to a more happy termination of that chance encounter of the two strange crafts,—the Catamaran and the whale-ship.

The latter, engaged, as appearances indicated, in the process of "trying-out" the blubber of some whale lately harpooned, was "laying-to" against the wind; and, of course not making much way, nor caring to make it, through the water.

As she was coming up slowly, her head set almost "into the wind's eye," the Catamarans, well to windward, would have no difficulty in getting their craft close up to her.

The sailor was not slow in perceiving their advantageous position; and as soon as he became satisfied that the distance was too great for their hail to be heard, he sprang to the steering-oar, turned the helm "hard a port," and set his craft's head on towards the whaler, as if determined to run her down.

In a few seconds the raft was surging along within a cable's length of the whaler's bows, when the cry of "Ship ahoy!" was once more raised by both Snowball and the sailor. Though the hail was heard, the reply was not instantaneous; for the crew of the whale-ship, guided by the shouts of those on the raft, had looked forth upon the illumined water, and, seeing such a strange embarkation right under their bows, were for some moments silent through sheer surprise.

The ex-whalesman, however, soon made himself intelligible, and in ten minutes after the crew of the Catamaran, instead of shivering in wet clothes, with hungry stomachs to make them still more miserable, might have been seen standing in front of an immense fire, with an ample supply of wholesome food set before them, and surrounded by a score of rude but honest men, each trying to excel the other in contributing to their comfort.



CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED.

THE END OF THE "YARN."

Ocean Waifs no longer, the crew of the Catamaran became embodied with that of the ship, and her little passenger found kindness and protection in the cabin of the whaler.

The Catamaran herself was not "cut loose" in the nautical sense of the term, and abandoned, but she was cut loose in a literal sense, and in pieces hoisted aboard the ship to be employed for various purposes,—her ropes, spars, and sail to be used at some time as they had been originally intended—her other timbers to go to the stock of the carpenter, and her casks to the cooper, to be eventually filled with the precious sperm-oil which the ship's crew were engaged in trying out.

The old whalesman was not long aboard before getting confirmed in his conjecture that the ship was the same whose boats had harpooned and "drogued" the cachalot, the carcass of which had been encountered by the Catamaran. It was one of a large "pod" of whales, of which the boats had been in pursuit, and these, along with the ship, having followed its companions to a great distance, and killed several of them in the chase, had lost all bearings of the one first struck.

It had been their intention to go in search of it, as soon as they should try out the others that had been captured; and the information now given by Ben Brace to the captain of the whaler would enable the latter the more easily to discover the lost prize, which he estimated at the value of seventy or eighty barrels of oil, and therefore well worth the trouble of going back for. On the day after the castaways had been taken aboard, the whale-ship, having extinguished the fires of her try-works, started in search of the drogued whale.

The ex-crew of the Catamaran had by this time given a full account of their adventures to the whalesmen; at the same time expressing their belief that the ruffians on the big raft would be found by the carcass they were in search of. The prospect of such an encounter could not fail to interest the crew of the whaler; and as they advanced in the direction in which they expected to find the drogued cachalot, all eyes were bent searchingly upon the sea.

So far as the dead whale was concerned, they were successful in their search. Just as the sun was going down, they came in sight of it; and before the twilight had passed they "hove to" along side of it. The vast flock of sea birds perched upon the floating mass, and that rose into the air as the ship approached them, proclaimed the absence of human beings. The great raft was not there, nor were there any indications that it had revisited the carcass. On the contrary, that curious structure, the crane, which the Catamarans had erected on the summit of the floating mass, was still standing just as they had left it; only that the flakes of shark's flesh were scorched to the hue and texture of a cinder, and the fire that had burnt them was no longer blazing beneath.

The fate of the slaver's castaway crew did not long remain a mystery. Three days after, when the carcass of the cachalot had been "flensed" and tried out, and the whaler had once more proceeded upon her cruise, she chanced upon a spot where the sea was strewn with a variety of objects, among which were two or three spars of a ship, and several empty water-casks. In these objects there was no difficulty in recognising the wreck of the Pandora's raft, which was drifting at no great distance from the place where they had been cutting up the cachalot.

The conclusion was easily arrived at. The gale, which had been successfully weathered by the carefully constructed Catamaran, had proved too violent for the larger embarkation, loosely lashed together, and negligently navigated as it was. As a consequence it had gone to pieces; while the wretches who had occupied it, not having the strength to cling either to cask or spar, had indubitably gone to the bottom. As little William afterwards related—

"So perished the slaver's crew. Not one of them,—either those in the gig or on the raft, ever again saw the shore. They perished upon the face of the wide ocean—miserably perished, without hand to help or eye to weep over them!"

In truth did it seem as if their destruction had been an act of the Omnipotent Himself, to avenge the sable-skinned victims of their atrocious cruelty!

Were it our province to write the after history of the Catamarans, we could promise ourselves a pleasant task, perhaps pleasanter than recording the cruise of that illustrious craft.

We have space only to epitomise. The day after setting foot upon the deck of the whale-ship, Snowball was appointed chef de caboose, in which distinguished office he continued for several years; and only resigned it to accept of a similar situation on board a fine bark, commanded by Captain Benjamin Brace, engaged in the African trade. But not that African trade carried on by such ships as the Pandora. No; the merchandise transported in Captain Brace's bark was not black men, but white ivory, yellow gold-dust, palm-oil, and ostrich-plumes; and it was said, that, after each "trip" to the African coast, the master, as well as owner, of this richly laden bark, was accustomed to make a trip to the Bank of England, and there deposit a considerable sum of money.

After many years spent thus professionally, and with continued success, the ci-devant whalesman, man-o'-war's-man, ex-captain of the Catamaran, and master of the African trader, retired from active life; and, anchored in a snug craft in the shape of a Hampstead Heath villa, is now enjoying his pipe, his glass of grog, and his otium cum dignitate.

As for "Little William," he in turn ceased to be known by this designation. It was no longer appropriate when he became the captain of a first-class clipper-ship in the East Indian trade,—standing upon his own quarter-deck full six feet in his shoes, and finely proportioned at that,—so well as to both face and figure, that he had no difficulty in getting "spliced" to a wife that dearly loved him.

She was a very beautiful woman, with a noble round eye, jet black waving hair, and a deep brunette complexion. Many of his acquaintances were under the impression that she had Oriental blood in her veins, and that he had brought her home from India on one of his return voyages from that country. Those more intimate with him could give a different account,—one received from himself; and which told them that his wife was a native of Africa, of Portuguese extraction, and that her name was Lalee.

They had heard, moreover, that his first acquaintance with her had commenced on board a slave bark; and that their friendship as children,—afterwards ripening into love,—had been cemented while both were castaways upon a raft—Ocean Waifs in the middle of the Atlantic.

THE END.