The Ocean Waifs Part 45

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 cla.s.s,--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 s...o...b..ll 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 circ.u.mstances would allow. He and s...o...b..ll 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 "pa.s.senger."

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 s...o...b..ll 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, Ma.s.sa 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 la.s.s s'riek ob Ma.s.sa 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?"