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

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

Relieved from the anxiety with which he had regarded the conflict, little William at once became aware of this new danger, – hence his cry of consternation. Ben Brace either perceived it at the same instant, or else the shout of his protégé had drawn his attention to it; for, quick succeeding the latter, the voice of the sailor went rolling across the water in words of direction intended for the ears of little William.

“Will’m! Will’m!” shouted he, raising his lips above the surface so as to enunciate more distinctly. “For marcy’s sake, lad, lay hold on the steerin’ oar. Try to tack round, or we’re lost one an’ all o’ us!”

At the same instant Snowball sputtered out some very similar orders; but being sadly out of breath from his exertions in the long-continued struggle with the zygaena, what proceeded from his mouth less resembled words than the snorting of a porpoise; and was, in truth, altogether unintelligible.

Little William needed no instructions, – neither to hear nor understand them. He had perceived the danger, and, with intuitive promptness, had commenced taking measures to avoid it. Partly guided by his own thoughts and partly by the directions of Ben Brace, he sprang suddenly towards the steering-oar; and, grasping it in both hands, he worked with all his might to bring the Catamaran about. After a time he succeeded in getting her head as close to the wind as such a craft was capable of sailing, but it soon became evident to him that the manoeuvre would be of little or no avail. Although the raft did not make leeway quite as much as before, still with its great sail, rudely bent as it was, she made sufficient to preserve the distance from the swimmers; and, as William anxiously observed, still slightly increasing. Even Snowball, who, after giving the coup de grâce to the zygaena, had struck direct towards the Catamaran, – even he, unencumbered by aught save his wet shirt and trousers, although easily passing the others in his course, did not appear to gain an inch upon the runaway raft.

It was an anxious time for all parties; and the anxiety reached its height when they perceived, as one and all soon did, that the unmanageable craft was keeping its distance, if not gaining a greater.

That state of things could not continue long. Both the swimmers had already begun to show signs of flagging. Snowball, sea-duck that he was, might have held out a good while; but the sailor, weighted with Lalee, must soon “go under.” Even Snowball could not swim forever; and, unless some incident should arise to change the character of this aquatic chase, and arrest the Catamaran in her leeward course, sooner or later must the Coromantee become also the prey of the all-swallowing ocean.

For several minutes – they seemed hours to all – did the struggle continue between man and Catamaran, without any very great advantage in favour of either. It is true some change had taken place in the relative positions of the parties. The Coromantee, at starting in pursuit of the raft, had been some fathoms in the wake of Ben Brace and his protégé. They were now in his wake, falling, alas! still farther behind him. Unfortunately for all, Snowball, while increasing his distance from them, was not lessening it from the Catamaran; and therefore the advantage he was gaining over the sailor could be of no use, so long as the raft proved swifter as a sailer than he was as a swimmer.

Snowball’s original idea in striking out in pursuit of the Catamaran was to get aboard; and, by making a better use of the steering-oar than he had hitherto done, to bring the craft back within saving distance of the exhausted swimmer. Confident in his natatory powers, he had at first believed this feat to be not only possible, but probable and easy. It was only after several minutes spent in the pursuit, and the distance between him and the Catamaran seemed to grow greater instead of less, that the negro really began to feel anxiety about the result.

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Thirty Four.

The Sail out of Sight

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

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

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

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

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

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

Snowball was the first to break the terrible silence.

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

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

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

“Eh bien! all right!” muttered Ben, indiscriminately mingling his French and English phrases. “Pauvre enfant! She shan’t know nothin’ from me o’ what be afore her. Lord a marcy on all o’ us! I don’t see the raft any more! Whar be it? Can you see it, Snowball?”

“Gorramity, no!” replied the black, raising himself up in the water to get a better view. “Gone out o’ de sight altogedder! We nebba see dat Catamaran any more, – no, nebba!”

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Thirty Five.

Waiting for Death

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

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

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

How could they doubt it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Thirty Six.

A Chest at Sea

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

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