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

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.

There were no other sounds to interrupt the silence of that solemn moment, – at least none worthy of being mentioned. The slightest ripple of the water, stirred by a zephyr breeze, as it played against the bodies of the languid swimmers, might have been heard, but was not heeded. No more did the scream of the sea-mew arrest the attention of any of them, or if it did, it was only to add to the awe which reigned above and around them.

In this moment of deep silence and deepest misery, a voice fell upon the ears of the two swimmers that startled both of them, as if it had been a summons from the other world. It sounded sweet as if from the world of eternal joy. There was no mystery in the voice; it was that of the Lilly Lalee.

The child, sustained upon the shoulder of the buoyant black, was in such a position that her eyes were elevated over the surface of the water several inches above those either of him who supported her, or the sailor who swam by her side. In this situation she had a better view than either; and, as a consequence of this advantage, she saw what was visible to neither, – a dark object floating upon the surface of the sea at no great distance from the spot where the exhausted swimmers were feebly struggling to sustain themselves.

It was the announcement of this fact that had fallen with such startling effect upon the ears of the two men, simultaneously rousing both from that torpor of despair which for some time had held possession of them.

“Who you see, Lilly Lally? Who you see?” exclaimed Snowball, who was the first to interrogate the girl. “Look at ’im ’gain, – look, good lilly gal!” continued he, at the same time making an effort to elevate the shoulder which gave support to his protégé.

“Wha be it? I ain’t de raff, – de Catamaran? Eh?”

“No, no,” replied the child. “It isn’t that. It’s a small thing of a square shape. It looks like a box.”

“A box? how come dat? A box! what de debbel!”

“Shiver my timbers if ’tain’t my old sea-kit,” interrupted the sailor, rearing himself aloft in the water like a spaniel in search of wounded waterfowl.

“Sure as my name’s Ben Brace it be that, an’ nothing else!”

“Your sea-chess?” interrogated Snowball, elevating his woolly cranium above the water, so as also to command a view. “Golly! I b’lieve it am. How he come dar? You leff ’im on de raff?”

“I did,” replied the sailor. “The very last thing I had my hands upon, afore I jumped overboard. Sure I bean’t mistaken, – ne’er a bit o’ it. It be the old kit to a sartainty.”

This conversation was carried on in a quick, hurried tone, and long before it ended, – in fact at the moment of its beginning, – the swimmers had once more put themselves in motion, and were striking out in the direction of the object thus unexpectedly presented to their view.

Chapter Thirty Seven.
An improvised Life-Preserver

Whether it should turn out to be the sea-chest of Ben Brace or no, it appeared to be a chest of some sort; and, being of wood, buoyantly floating on the water, it promised to help in supporting the swimmers, – now so utterly exhausted as to be on the point of giving up, and going to the bottom.

If the sailor had entertained any doubts as to the character of the object upon which they were advancing, they were soon brought to an end. It was a sea-chest, – his own, – to him easy of identification. Well knew he that close-fitting canvas cover, which he had himself made for it, rendered waterproof by a coat of blue paint, – well knew he those hanging handles of strong sennit, he had himself plaited and attached to it; and, as if to provide against any possible dispute about the ownership of the chest, were the letters “B.B.,” – the unmistakable initials of Ben Brace, – painted conspicuously upon its side, just under the keyhole, with a “fouled anchor” beneath, with stars and other fantastic emblems scattered around, – all testifying to the artistic skill of the owner of the kit.

The first thought of the sailor, on recognising his chest, was that some misfortune had happened to the raft, and that it had gone to pieces.

“Poor little Will’m!” said he. “If that be so, then it be all over wi’ him.”

This belief was but of short duration, and was followed by a reflection of a more pleasant kind.

“No!” he exclaimed, contradicting his first hypothesis, “It can’t be that. What could ’a broke up the raft? There ’s been no wind, nor rough weather, as could ’a done it. Ha! I have it, Snowy. It’s Will’m ’s did this. He’s throwed over the chest in the behopes it might help float us. That’s how it’s got here. Huzza for that brave boy! Let’s cling on to the kit. There may be hope for us yet.”

This suggestion was superfluous: for the idea of clinging to the kit was intuitive, and had entered the minds of both swimmers on their first perceiving it. It was with that view they had simultaneously set themselves in motion, and commenced swimming towards it.

The chest certainly offered an attractive object to men circumstanced as they were at that moment, – something more than a straw to be clutched at. It was floating bottom downwards, and lid upwards, – just as it might have been placed opposite Ben’s own bunk in the forecastle of a frigate, – and it appeared to be kept steadily balanced in this position by the weight of some iron cleeting along the bottom, which acted as ballast. Otherwise the chest sat so high upon the water, as to show that it must either be quite empty or nearly so; for the sennit handles at each end, which were several inches below the level of the lid, hung quite clear above the surface.

These handles offered the most salient points to seize upon; so tempting, too, that it was not necessary for the sailor to suggest that Snowball should lay hold of one, while he himself sought the support of the other.

This arrangement appeared to offer itself tacitly to the Instinct of each; and, on arriving near the chest, they swam to opposite ends, – and each laid hold of a handle, as soon as he came within the proper distance to grasp it.

This kept the chest properly balanced; and although the weight they added to it caused it to sink several inches in the water, to their great joy its top still stood well above the surface. Even when the light form of Lilly Lalee lay resting along the lid, there were still several inches between the water line and its upper edge, – the only place where sea-water could possibly find admission into the kit of the English sailor.

Chapter Thirty Eight.
Conjectures about the Catamaran

In less than three minutes after coming in contact with the kit, the three castaways formed a group, curious and peculiar. On the right of the chest was the sailor, his body stretched transversely along its end, with his left arm buried to the elbow in the sennit loop forming its handle. Half of his weight being thus supported by the buoyant box, it was only necessary for him to keep his right arm in regular motion to sustain himself above the surface. This, even wearied as he was, he was enabled to accomplish without difficulty: for the new position was one rather of rest than of labour.

At the opposite end of the chest, in a pose precisely similar, the sea-cook had placed himself, – the only difference being in the uses respectively made of their arms. Snowball’s right arm was the one thrust through the handle, his left being left free for swimming.

As already hinted, Lilly Lalee had been transferred from Snowball’s shoulder to a more elevated position, – upon the top of the chest where, lying upon her breast, and grasping the projecting edge of the lid, she was enabled to keep her place without any exertion.

It is not necessary to say that this change in the situation and circumstances of the party had also produced a change in their prospects. It is true that death might have appeared as inevitable as ever. They were still at its door, – though not quite so near entering as they had been but a few minutes before. With the help of the capacious chest – forming, as it did, a famous life-preserver – they might now sustain themselves for many hours above the surface, – in fact, as long as hunger and thirst would allow them. Their holding out would be simply a question of strength; and had they been only assured of a supply of food and drink, they might have looked forward to a long voyage performed in this singular fashion: that is, provided the sea around them should keep clear of storms and sharks.

Alas! the approach of one or the other of these perils was a contingency to be looked for at any moment, and to be dreaded accordingly.

Just at that moment they were not thinking of either, nor even of the probability of perishing by hunger or its kindred appetite, – thirst. The singular coincidence that the chest should come floating that way, just when they were on the point of perishing, had produced a remarkable effect on the minds both of the sailor and the sea-cook, begetting not positive conviction, but a pleasant presentiment that there might be other and more permanent succour in store for them; and that, after all, they were not destined to die by drowning, – at least not just then Hope, – sweet, soothing hope! – had again sprung up in the bosom of both; and, along with it the determination to make a further effort for the saving of their lives. They could now exchange both speech and counsel with perfect freedom; and they proceeded to discuss the situation.

The presence of the chest required explanation. The theory, which at first sight of it had suggested itself to its owner (that the raft had gone to pieces and that the kit was one of the scattered fragments) was not tenable, nor was it entertained for a moment. There had been no convulsion, either of winds or waves, to destroy the Catamaran; and this curiously-fashioned fabric, in all its fantastic outlines, must still be intact and afloat somewhere upon the surface of the sea.

It is true they could see nothing of it anywhere; neither could Lilly Lalee, who, from her more elevated position, was instructed to survey the circle of the horizon, – a duty which the child performed with the greatest care.

If the craft had been anywhere within the distance of a league or two, the large lateen sail should have been sufficiently conspicuous to have caught the eye of the girl. But she saw it not. She saw nothing, – so ran her report, – but the sea and sky.

From this it might have been inferred (even supposing the Catamaran to be still afloat) that it must have drifted to such a distance as to have destroyed all chance of their ever overtaking it. But the sage seaman did not give way to this form of reasoning. His conjectures were of a more consolatory character, – founded upon certain data which had presented themselves to his mind. On reflection, he came to the conclusion that the presence of the sea-chest upon the bosom of the blue water was no accidental circumstance, but a design, – the design of little William.

“I be sure o’t, Snowy,” said he; “the lad ha’ chucked the kit overboard, knowin’ as how we mout overhaul it, when we could not come up wi’ the Catamaran. The chest war amidships, when I parted from it. It couldn’t a’ got into the water o’ itself no-howsomever; besides, it war full o’ heavy things, and now I’m sartin it be empty, – else how do it float so? Sure he must a’ whammelled it upside down, and spilled out the things afore he pitched it overboard. It was thoughtful o’ him; but he be just the one for that. I’ve seed him do some’at similar afore. Only think o’ the dear boy!”

And Ben, after this burst of enthusiasm, for a moment indulged his admiration in silence.

“Dat’s all berry likely, – berry likely,” was the rejoinder of the Coromantee.

“I know what he did next,” said Ben, continuing the thread of his conjectures.

“Wha’ you tink, Massa Brace?”

“He tuk in sail. I don’t know why he didn’t do it sooner; for I called to him to do that, an’ he must ha’ heerd me. I’ve jest got a idea that the fault was not his’n. When I hauled up that bit o’ canvas, I’ve a sort o’ recollection o’ puttin’ a ugly knot on the haulyards. Maybe he warn’t able, wi’ his little bits o’ digits, to get the snarl clear, as fast as mout a’ been wished; an’ that’ll explain the whole thing. Sartin he got down the sail at last, – eyther by loosin’ the belay, or cuttin’ the piece o’ rope, and that’s why there be no canvas in sight. For all that, the Catamaran can’t be so fur off. She hadn’t had time to a’ drifted to such a great distance, – ’specially if the sail were got down the time as we missed it.”

“Dat am true. I miss de sail all ob a sudden, – jess as if it had come down, yard an’ all, straight slap bang.”

“Well, then, Snowy,” continued the sailor, in a tone of increased cheerfulness, “if’t be as we conjecture, the craft ain’t far ahead o’ us yet. Maybe only a knot or two; for one can’t see far over the water who happens to be neck-deep under it as we be. In any case she be sure to be lying to leuart o’ us; and, without the sail, she won’t drift faster than we can swim, nor yet so fast. Let us do the best we can to make a mile or two’s leeway; an’ then we’ll know whether the old Cat’s still crawling about, or whether she’s gin us the slip altogether. That’s the best thing we can do, – ain’t it?”

“De berry bess, Massa Brace. We can’t do nuffin’ better dan swim down de wind.”

Without further parley, the two set themselves to the task thus proposed; and one striking with his right hand, the other with his left, – both buffeting the waves with equal vigour and resolution, – they were soon sweeping onward with a velocity that caused the sea to surge along the sides of the chest, until the froth rose to the fingers of Lilly Lalee as she lay grasping its lid!

Chapter Thirty Nine.
Down the Wind

They had not proceeded very far, when a cry from the girl caused them to suspend their exertions. While the others were occupied in propelling the chest, Lalee, kneeling upon the lid, had been keeping a lookout ahead. Something she saw had elicited that cry, which was uttered in a tone that betokened, if not joy, at least some sort of gratification.

“Wha is it, Lilly Lally?” interrogated the black, with an air of eagerness; “you see someting. Golly! am it de Cat’maran?”

“No, – it is not that. It’s only a barrel floating on the water.”

“Only a ba’l, – what sort o’ a ba’l you tink ’im?”

“I think it’s one of the empty water-casks we had tied to the raft. I’m sure it is: for I see ropes upon it.”

“It is,” echoed Ben, who, having poised himself aloft, had also caught sight of the cask. “Shiver my timbers! it do look like as if the Cat had come to pieces. But no! Tain’t that has set the cask adrift. I set it all now. Little Will’m be at the bottom o’ this too. He has cut away the lashin’s o’ the barrel, so as to gie us one more chance, in the case o’ our not comin’ across the chest. How thoughtful o’ the lad! Just like ’im, as I said it war!”

“We bess swim for de cask an’ take ’im in tow,” suggested the sea-cook; “no harm hab ’im ’longside too. If de wind ’pring up, de ole chess be no use much. De cask de berry ting den.”

“You’re right, Snowy! we musn’t leave the cask behind us. If the kit have served us a good turn, the other ’ud be safer in a rough sea. It be dead ahead, so we may keep straight on.”

In five minutes after, they were alongside the cask, – easily recognised by its rope lashings, as one of those they had left attached to the raft. The sailor at the first glance saw that some of the chords encircling it had been cut with a knife, or other sharp instrument, – not severed with any degree of exactitude, but “haggled,” as if the act had been hurriedly performed.

“Little Will’m again! He’s cut the ropes wi’ the old axe, an’ it were blunt enough to make a job for him! Huzza for the noble lad!”

“Tay!” cried Snowball, not heeding the enthusiastic outburst of the sailor. “You hold on to de chess, Massa Brace, while I climb up on de cask, and see what I can see. May be I may see de Catamaran herseff now.”

“All right, nigger. You had better do that. Mount the barrel, an’ I’ll keep a tight hold o’ the kit.”

Snowball, releasing his arm from the sennit loop, swam up to the floating cask; and, after some dodging about, succeeded in getting astride of it.

It required a good deal of dexterous manoeuvring to keep the cask from rolling, and pitching him back into the water. But Snowball was just the man to excel in this sort of aquatic gymnastics; and after a time he became balanced in his seat with sufficient steadiness to admit of his taking a fair survey of the ocean around him.

The sailor had watched his movements with a sage yet hopeful eye: for these repeated indications of both the presence and providence of his own protégé had almost convinced him that the latter would not be very distant from the spot. It was nothing more than he had prepared himself to expect, when the Coromantee, almost as soon as he had steadied himself astride of the water-cask, shouted, in a loud voice —

“The Cat’maran! – the Cat’maran!”

“Where?” cried the sailor. “To leuart?”

“Dead in dat same direcshun.”

“How fur, cookey? how fur?”

“Not so fur as you might hear de bos’n’s whissel; not more dan tree, four length ob a man-o’-war cable.”

“Enough, Snowy! What do you think best to be done?”

“De bess ting we can do now,” replied the negro, “am for me to obertake dat ere craff. As you said, de sail am down; an’ de ole Cat no go fasser dan a log o’ ’hogany wood in a calm o’ de tropic. If dis child swim affer, he soon come up; and den wif de oar an’ de help ob lilly Willy, he meet you more dan half-way, – dat fo’ sartin.”

“You think you can overtake her, Snowball?”

“I be sartin ob dat ere. You tay here wif Lilly Lally. Keep by de chess and de cask boaf, – for de latter am better dan de former. No fear, I soon bring de Cat’maran long dis way, once I get ’board o’ her.”

So saying, the negro gave the cask a “cant” to one side, slipped off into the water; and, with a final caution to his comrade to keep close to the spot where they were parting, he stretched out his muscular arms to their full extent, and commenced surging through the water, – snorting as he went like some huge cetacean of the tribe of the Mysticeti.