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

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 débris, 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 débris 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?”