Chapter FIFTY NINE: Aboard the Body of a Whale (3)

CHAPTER SEVENTY FOUR.

A LIGHT!

The man who had so unexpectedly interrupted the deadly duello, while giving utterance to his strange speech, kept one of his arms extended towards the ocean,--as if pointing to something he had descried above the horizon.

The eyes of all were suddenly turned in the direction thus indicated. The magic words, "We are saved!" had an immediate effect,--not only upon the spectators of the tragedy thus intruded upon, but upon its actors. Even rancour became appeased by the sweet sound; and that of the Irishman, as with most of his countrymen, being born "as the flint bears fire," subsided on the instant.

He permitted his upraised arm to be held in restraint; it became relaxed, as did also his grasp on the wrist of his antagonist; while the latter, finding himself free, was allowed to retire from the contest.

O'Gorman, among the rest, had faced round; and stood looking in the direction where somebody had seen something that promised salvation of all.

"What is it?" inquired several voices in the same breath,--"the land?"

No: it could not be that. There was not one of them such a nautical ignoramus as to believe himself within sigh of land.

"A sail?--a ship?"

That was more likely: though, at the first glance, neither tail nor ship appeared upon the horizon, "What is it?" was the interrogatory reiterated by a dozen voices.

"A light! Don't you see it?" asked the lynx-eyed individual, whose interference in the combat had caused this sudden departure from the programme. "Look!" he continued; "just where the sun's gone down yonder. It's only a speck; but I can see it plain enough. It must be the light from a ship's binnacle!"

"_Carrajo_!" exclaimed a Spaniard; "it's only a spark the sun's left behind him. It's the _ignis fatuus_ you've seen, _amigo_!"

"Bah!" added another; "supposing it is a binnacle-lamp, as you say, what would be the use, except to tantalise us. If it be in the binnacle, in course the ship as carries it must be stern towards us. What chance would there be of our overhaulin' her?"

"_Par Dieu_! there be von light!" cried a sharp-eyed little Frenchman. "Pe Gar! I him see. Ver true, vraiment! An--pe dam!--zat same est no lamp in ze binnacle!"

"I see it too!" cried another.

"And I!" added a third.

"_Io tambien_!" (I also) echoed a fourth, whose tongue proclaimed him of Spanish nativity.

"_Ich sehe_!" drawled out a native of the German Confederacy; and then followed a volley of voices,--each saying something to confirm the belief that a light was really gleaming over the ocean.

This was a fact that nobody--not even the first objectors--any longer doubted.

It is true that the light seen appeared only a mere sparkle, feebly glimmering against the sky, and might have been mistaken for a star. But it was just in that part of the heavens where a star could not at that time have been seen,--on the western horizon, still slightly reddened by the rays of the declining sun.

The men who speculated upon its appearance,--rude as they were in a moral sense,--were not so intellectually stupid as to mistake for a star that speck of yellowish hue, struggling to reveal itself against the almost kindred colour of the occidental sky.

"It isn't a star,--that's certain," confidently declared one of their number; "and if it be a light aboard ship, it's no binnacle-lamp, I say. Bah! who'd call that a binnacle glim, or a lamp of any kind? If't be a ship's light at all, it's the glare o' the galley-fire,--where the cook's makin' coffee for all hands."

The superb picture of comfort thus called forth was too much for the temper of the starving men, to whom the idea was addressed; and a wild cry of exultation responded to the speech.

A galley; a galley-fire; a cook; coffee for all hands; lobscouse; plum-duff; sea-pies; even the much-despised pea-soup and salt junk, had been long looked upon as things belonging to another world,--pleasures of the past, never more to be indulged in!

Now that the gleam of a galley-fire--as they believed the light to be-- rose up before their eyes, the spirits of all became suddenly electrified by the wildest imaginings; and the contest so lately carried on,--as well as the combatants engaged in it,--was instantaneously forgotten; while the thoughts, and eager glances, of every individual on the raft were now directed towards that all-absorbing speck,--still gleaming but obscurely against the reddish background of the sun-stained horizon.

As they continued to gaze, the tiny spark seemed to increase, not only in size, but intensity; and, before many minutes had elapsed, it proclaimed itself no longer a mere spark, but a blaze of light, with its own luminous halo around it. The gradual chastening of colour in the western sky, along with the increased darkness of the atmosphere around it, would account for this change in the appearance of the light. So reasoned the spectators,--now more than ever convinced that what they saw was the glare of a galley-fire.

CHAPTER SEVENTY FIVE.

TOWARDS THE BEACON!

As soon as they were satisfied that the bright spark upon the horizon was a burning light, every individual on the raft became inspired with the same impulse,--to make for the spot where the object appeared. Whether in the galley or not,--and whether the glow of a fire or the gleam of a lamp,--it must be on board a ship. There was no land in that part of the ocean; and a light could not be burning upon the water, without something in the shape of a ship to carry it.

That it was a ship, no one for a moment doubted. So sure were they, that several of the men, on the moment of making it out, had vociferated, at the top of their voices, "Ship ahoy!"

The voices of none of them were particularly strong just then. They were weak, in proportion to their attenuated frames; but had they been ten times as strong as they were, they could not have been heard at such a distance as that light was separated from the raft.

It was not less than twenty miles from them. In the excited state of their senses,--arising from thirst, starvation, and all the wild emotions which the discovery itself had roused within them,--they had formed a delusive idea of the distance; many of them fancying that the light was quite near!

There were some among them who reasoned more rationally. These, instead of wasting their strength in idle shouting, employed their time in impressing upon the others the necessity of making some exertion to approach the light.

Some thought that much exertion would not be required; as the light appeared to be approaching them. And, in truth, it did appear so; but the wiser ones knew that this might be only an optical illusion,--caused by the sea and sky each moment assuming a more sombre hue.

These last--both with voice and by their example--urged their companions to use every effort towards coming up with what they were sure must be a ship.

"Let us meet her," they said, "if she's standing this way; if not, we must do all we can to overtake her."

It needed no persuasion to put the most slothful of the crew upon their mettle. A new hope of life,--an unexpected prospect of being rescued from what most of them had been contemplating as almost certain death,-- inspired all to the utmost effort; and with an alacrity they had never before exhibited in their raft navigation,--and a unanimity of late unknown to them,--they went to work to propel their clumsy craft across the ocean.

Some sprang to the oars, while others assisted at the sail. For days the latter had received no attention; but had been permitted to hang loosely from the mast,--flopping about in whatever way the breeze chanced to blow it. They had entertained no idea of what course they ought to steer in; or if they did think of a direction, they had not sufficient decision to follow it. For days they had been drifting about over the surface of the sea, at the discretion of the currents.

Now the sail was reset, with all the trimness that circumstances would admit of. The sheets were drawn home and made fast; and the mast was stayed _taut_, so as to hinder it from slanting.

As the object upon which they were directing their course was not exactly to leeward, it was necessary to manage the sail with the wind slightly abeam; and for this purpose two men were appointed to the rudder,--which consisted of a broad plank, poised on its edge and hitched to the stern timbers of the raft. By means of this rude rudder, they were enabled to keep the raft "head on" towards the light.

The rowers were seated along both sides. Nearly every individual of the crew, who was not occupied at the sail or steering-board, was employed in propelling. A few only were provided with oars; others wielded handspikes, capstan-bars, or pieces of split plank,--in short, anything that would assist in the "pulling," if only to the value of a pound.

It was,--or, at all events, they thought it was,--a life and death struggle. They were sure that a ship was near them. By reaching her they would be saved; by failing to do so they would be doomed. Another day without food would bring death, at least to one of them; another day without water would bring worse than death to almost every man of them.

Their unanimous action, assisted by the broad sail, caused the craft, cumbersome as it was, to make considerable way through the water,-- though by far too slow to satisfy their wishes. At times they kept silent; at times their voices could be heard mingled with the plunging of the oars; and too often only in profane speech.

They cursed the craft upon which they were carried,--its clumsiness,-- the slowness with which they were making way towards the ship,--the ship itself, for not making way towards them: for, as they continued on, those who formerly believed that the light was approaching them, no longer held to that faith. On the contrary, after rowing nearly an hour, all were too ready to agree in the belief that the ship was wearing away.

Not an instant passed, without the eyes of some one being directed towards the light. The rowers, whose backs were turned upon it, kept occasionally twisting their necks around, and looking over their shoulders,--only to resume their proper attitudes with countenances that expressed disappointment.

There were not wanting voices to speak discouragement. Some declared that the light was growing less; that the ship was in full sail, going away from them; and that there would not be the slightest chance of their coming up with her.

These were men who began to feel fatigued at the oar.

There were even some who professed to doubt the existence of a ship, or a ship's light. What they saw was only a bright spot upon the ocean,-- some luminous object--perhaps the carcass of some phosphorous fish, or "squid," floating upon the surface. They had many of them seen such things; and the conjecture was not offered to incredulous ears.

These surmises produced discontent,--which in time would have exhibited itself in the gradual dropping of the oars, but for a circumstance which brought this climax about, in a more sudden and simultaneous manner,-- the _extinction of the light_.

It went out while the eyes of several were fixed upon it; not by any gradual disappearance,--as a waning star might have passed out of sight,--but with a quick "fluff;"--so one of the spectators described it,--likening its extinction to "a tub of salt-water thrown over the galley-fire."

On the instant of its disappearance, the oars were abandoned,--as also the rudder. It would have been idle to attempt steering any longer. There was neither moon nor stars in the sky. The light was the only thing that had been guiding them; and that gone, they had not the slightest clue as to their course. The breeze was buffeting about in every direction; but, even had it been blowing steadily, every one of them knew how uncertain it would be to trust to its guidance,-- especially with such a sail, and such a steering apparatus.

Already half convinced that they had been following an _ignis fatuus_,-- and half resolved to give over the pursuit,--it needed only what had occurred to cause a complete abandonment of their nocturnal navigation.

Once more giving way to despair,--expressed in wild wicked words,--they left the sail to itself, and the winds to waft them to whatever spot of the ocean fate had designed for the closing scene of their wretched existence.

CHAPTER SEVENTY SIX.

A DOUBLE DARKNESS.

The night was a dark one; by a Spanish figure of speech, comparable to a "pot of pitch." It was scarce further obscured by a thick fog that shortly after came silently over the surface of the ocean, enveloping the great raft along with its ruffian crew.

Through such an atmosphere nothing could be seen,--not even the light, had it continued to burn.

Before the coming on of the fog, they had kept a look-out for the light,--one or other remaining always on the watch. They had done so, with a sort of despairing hope that it might reappear; but, as the surrounding atmosphere became impregnated with the filmy vapour, this dreary vigilance was gradually relaxed, and at length abandoned altogether.

So thick fell the fog during the mid-hours of the night, that nothing could be seen at the distance of over six feet from the eye. Even they who occupied the raft could only distinguish those who were close by their side; and each appeared to the others as if shrouded under a screen of grey gauze.

The darkness did not hinder them from conversing. As nearly all hope of succour from a supposed ship had been extinguished, along with that fanciful light, it was but natural that their thoughts should lapse into some other channel; and equally so, that they should turn back to that from which they had been so unexpectedly diverted.

Hunger,--keen, craving hunger,--easily transported them to the spectacle which the sheen of that false torch had brought to an unsatisfactory termination; and their minds now dwelt on what would have been the different condition of affairs, had they not yielded to the delusion.

Not only had their thoughts reference to this theme, but their speeches; and in the solemn hour of midnight,--in the midst of that gloomy vapour, darkly overshadowing the great deep,--they might have been heard again discussing the awful question, "Who dies next?"

To arrive at a decision was not so difficult as before. The majority of the men had made up their minds as to the course that should be pursued. It was no longer a question of casting lots. That had been done already; and the two who had not yet drawn clear--and between whom the thing still remained undecided--were undoubtedly the individuals to determine the matter.

Indeed, there was no debate. All were unanimous that either Le Gros or O'Gorman should furnish food for their famishing companions,--in other words, that the combat, so unexpectedly postponed, should be again resumed.

There was nothing unfair in this,--except to the Irish man. He had certainly secured his triumph, when interrupted. If another half-second had been allowed him, his antagonist would have lain lifeless at his feet.

Under the judgment of just umpires this circumstance would have weighed in his favour; and, perhaps, exempted him from any further risk; but, tried by the shipwrecked crew of a slaver,--more than a moiety of whom leaned towards his antagonist,--the sentence was different; and the majority of the judges proclaimed that the combat between him and Le Gros should be renewed, and continued to the death.

The renewal of it was not to take place on the moment. Night and darkness both forbade this; but the morning's earliest light was to witness the resumption of that terrible strife.

Thus resolved, the ex-crew of the _Pandora_ laid themselves down to sleep,--not quite so calmly as they might have done in the forecastle of the slaver; for thirst, hunger, and fears for a hopeless future,-- without saying anything of a hard couch,--were not the companions with which to approach the shrine of Somnus. As a counterpoise, they felt lassitude both of mind and body, approaching to prostration.

Some of them slept. Some of them could have slept within the portals of Pluto, with the dog Cerberus yelping in their ears!

A few there were who seemed either unable to take rest or indifferent to it. All night long some one or other--sometimes two at a time--might be seen staggering about the raft, or crawling over its planks, as if unconscious of what they were doing. It seemed a wonder that some of them--semi-somnambulists in a double sense--did not fall overboard into the water. But they did not. Notwithstanding the eccentricity of their movements, they all succeeded in maintaining their position on the raft. To tumble over the edge would have been tantamount to toppling into the jaws of an expectant shark, and getting "scrunched" between no less than six rows of sharp teeth. Perhaps it was an instinct--or some presentiment of this peril--that enabled these wakeful wanderers to preserve their equilibrium.

CHAPTER SEVENTY SEVEN.

A WHISPERED CONSPIRACY.

Although most of the men had surrendered themselves to such slumber as they might obtain, the silence was neither profound nor continuous. At times no sounds were heard save the whisperings of the breeze, as it brushed against the spread canvas, or a slight "swashing" in the water as it was broken by the rough timbers of the craft.

These sounds were intermingled with the loud breathing of some of the sleepers,--an occasional snore,--and now and then a muttered speech the involuntary utterance of someone dreaming a dreadful dream.

At intervals other noises would arise, when one or more of the waking castaways chanced to come together, to hold a short conversation; or when one of them, scarce conscious of what he did, stumbled over the limbs of a prostrate comrade,--perhaps awaking him from a pleasant repose to the consciousness of the painful circumstances under which he had been enjoying it.

Such occurrences usually led to angry altercations,--in which threats and ribald language would for some minutes freely find vent from the lips both of the disturbed and the disturber; and then both would growlingly subside into silence.

At that hour, when the night was at its darkest, and the fog at its thickest, two men might have been seen,--though only by an eye very close to where they were,--in a sitting posture at the bottom of the mast. They were crouching rather than seated; for they were upon their knees, with their bodies bent forward, and one or both of their hands resting upon the planks.

The attitude was plainly not one of repose; and anyone near enough to have observed the two men, or to have heard the whispered conversation that was being carried on between them, would have come to the conclusion that sleep was far from their thoughts.

In that deep darkness, however, no one noticed them; and although several of their companions were lying but a few feet from the bottom of the mast, these were either asleep or too distant to hear the whisperings that passed between the two men kneeling in juxtaposition.

They continued to talk in very low whispers,--each in turn putting his lips close to the ear of the other; and while doing so the subject of their conversation might have been guessed at by their glances, or at least the individual about whom they conversed.

This was a man who was lying stretched along the timbers, not far from the bottom of the mast, and apparently asleep. In fact he must have been asleep, as was testified by the stentorian snores that occasionally escaped from his wide-spread nostrils.

This noisy slumberer was the Irishman, O'Gorman,--one of the parties to that suspended fight, to be resumed by day break in the morning. Whatever evil deeds this man may have done during his life,--and he had performed not a few, for we have styled him only the least guilty of that guilty crew,--he was certainly no coward. Thus to sleep, with such a prospect on awaking, at least proved him recklessly indifferent to death.

The two men by the mast,--whose eyes were evidently upon him,--had no very clear view of him where he lay. Through the white mist they could see only something like the shape of a human being recumbent along the planks; and of that only the legs and lower half of the body. Even had it been daylight they could not, from their position, have seen his head and shoulders; for both would have been concealed by the empty rum-cask, already mentioned, which stood upon its end exactly by the spot where O'Gorman had rested his head.

The Irishman, above all others, had taken a delight in the contents of that cask,--so long as a drop was left; and now that it was all gone, perhaps the smell of the alcohol had influenced him in choosing his place of repose.

Whether or not, he was now sleeping on a spot which was to prove the last resting-place of his life. Cruel destiny had decreed that from that slumber he was never more to awaken!

This destiny was now being shaped out for him; and by the two individuals who were regarding him from the bottom of the mast.

"He's sound asleep," whispered one of them to the other. "You hear that snore? _Parbleu_! only a hog could counterfeit that."

"Sound as a top!" asserted the other.

"_C'est bon_!" whispered the first speaker, with a significant shrug of the shoulders. "If we manage matters smartly, he need never wake again. What say you, comrade?"

"I agree to anything you may propose," assented the other. "What is it?"

"There need be no noise about it. A single blow will be sufficient,--if given in the right place. With the blade of a knife through his heart, he'll not make three kicks. He'll never know it till he's in the next world. _Peste_! I could almost envy him such an easy way of getting out of this!"

"You think it might be done without making a noise?"

"Easy as falling overboard. One could hold something over his mouth, to keep his tongue quiet; while the other--You know what I mean?"

The horrid act to be performed by the other was left unspoken,--even in those confidential whisperings.

"But," replied the confederate, objectingly, "suppose the thing done,-- how about matters in the morning? They'd know who did it. Leastwise, their suspicions would fall upon us,--upon you to a certainty, after what's happened. You haven't thought of that?"

"Haven't I? But I have, _mon ami_!"

"Well; and what?"

"First place. They're not in the mind to be particular,--none of them,--so long as they get something to eat. Secondly; if they should kick up a row, our party is the strongest; and I don't care what comes of it. We may as well all die at once, as die by bits."

"That's true enough."

"But there's no fear of any trouble from the others. I've got an idea that'll prevent that. To save appearances, he can commit suicide."

"What do you mean?"

"Bah! _camarade_! how dull you are. The fog has got into your skull. Don't you know the _Irlandais_ has got a knife, and a sharp one. _Peste_! I know it. Well,--perhaps it can be stolen from him. If so, it can also be found sticking in the wound that will deprive him of life. Now do you comprehend me?"

"I do,--I do!"

"First, to steal the knife. Go you: I daren't: it would look suspicious for me to be seen near him,--that is, if he should wake up. You may stray over that way, as if you were after nothing particular. It'll do no harm to try."

"I'll see if I can hook it then," responded the other. "What if I try now?"

"The sooner the better. With the knife in our possession, we'll know better how to act. Get it, if you can."

The last speaker remained in his place. The other, rising into an erect attitude, stepped apart from his fellow-conspirator, and moved away from the mast,--going apparently without any design. This, however, led him towards the empty rum-cask,--alongside of which the Irishman lay asleep, utterly unconscious of his approach.

CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT.

A FOUL DEED DONE IN A FOG.

It is scarce necessary to tell who were the two men who had been thus plotting in whispers. The first speaker was, of course, the Frenchman, Le Gros,--the other being the confederate who had assisted him in the performance of his unfair trick in the lot-casting.

Their demoniac design is already known from their conversation,--nothing more nor less than to murder O'Gorman in his sleep!

The former had two motives prompting him to this horrid crime,--either sufficiently strong to sway such a nature as his to its execution. He had all along felt hostility to the Irishman,--which the events of that day had rendered both deep and deadly. He was wicked enough to have killed his antagonist for that alone. But there was the other motive, more powerful and far more rational to influence him to the act. As above stated, it had been finally arranged that the suspended fight was to be finished by the earliest light of the morning. Le Gros knew that the next scene in that drama of death was to be the last; and, judging from his experience of the one already played, he felt keenly apprehensive as to the result. He had been fully aware, before the curtain fell upon the first act, that his life could then have been taken; and, conscious of a certain inferiority to his antagonist, he now felt cowed, and dreaded the final encounter.

To avoid it, he was willing to do anything, however mean or wicked,-- ready to commit even the crime of murder!

He knew that if he should succeed in destroying his adversary,--so long as the act was not witnessed by their associates,--so long as there should be only circumstantial evidence against him,--he would not have much to fear from such judges as they. It was simply a question as to whether the deed could be done silently and in the darkness; and that question was soon to receive an answer.

The trick of killing the unfortunate man with his own knife,--and making it appear that he had committed self-destruction,--would have been too shallow to have been successful under any other circumstances; but Le Gros felt confident that there would be no very strict investigation; and that the inquest likely to be held on the murdered man would be a very informal affair.

In any case, the risk to him would be less than that he might expect on the consummation of the combat,--the _finale_ of which would in all probability, be the losing of his life.

He was no longer undecided about doing the foul deed. He had quite determined upon it; and the attempt now being made by his confederate to steal the knife was the first stop towards its perpetration.

The theft was too successfully accomplished. The wretch on getting up to the rum-cask, was seen to sit down silently by its side; and, after a few moments passed in this position he again rose erect, and moved back towards the mast. Dark as was the night, Le Gros could perceive something glittering in the hand of his accomplice, which he knew must be the coveted weapon.

It was so. The sleeper had been surreptitiously disarmed.

For a moment the two men might have been seen standing in juxtaposition; and while thus together the knife was furtively transferred from the hand of the accomplice into that of the true assassin.

Then both, assuming a careless attitude, for a while remained near the mast, apparently engaged in some ordinary conversation. An occasional shifting of their position, however, took place,--though so slight that, even under a good light, it would scarce have been observed. A series of these movements, made at short intervals, ended in bringing the conspirators close up to the empty hogshead; and then one of them sat down by it. The other, going round it, after a short lapse of time, imitated the example of his companion by seating himself on the opposite side.

Thus far there was nothing in the behaviour of the two men to have attracted the attention of their associates on the raft,--even had the latter been awake. Even so, the obscurity that surrounded their movements would have hindered them from being very clearly comprehended.

There was no eye watching the assassins, as they sat down by the side of their sleeping victim; none fixed upon them as both simultaneously leant over him with outstretched arms,--one holding what appeared a piece of blanket over his face, as if to stifle his breath,--the other striking down upon his breast with a glittering blade, as if stabbing him to the heart.

The double action occupied scarce a second of time. In the darkness, no one appeared to perceive it, except they were its perpetrators. No one seemed to hear that choking, gurgling cry that accompanied it; or if they did, it was only to shape a half conjecture, that some one of their companions was indulging in a troubled dream!

The assassins, horror-stricken at what they had done, skulked tremblingly back to their former position by the mast.

Their victim, stretched on his back, remained motionless upon the spot where they had visited him; and anyone standing over him, as he lay, might have supposed that he was still slumbering!

Alas! it was the slumber of death!

CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE.

DOUSING THE GLIM.

We left the crew of the _Catamaran_ in full occupation,--"smoking" shark-flesh on the back of a _cachalot_ whale.

To make sure of a sufficient stock,--enough to last them with light rations for a voyage, if need be, to the other side of the Atlantic,-- they had continued at the work all day long, and several hours into the night. They had kept the fire ablaze by pouring fresh spermaceti into the furnace of flesh which they had constructed, or rather excavated, in the back of the leviathan; and so far as that kind of fuel was concerned, they might have gone on roasting shark-steaks for a twelvemonth. But they had proved that the spermaceti would not burn to any purpose without a wick; and as their spare ropes were too precious to be all picked into oakum, they saw the necessity of economising their stock of the latter article. But for this deficiency, they might have permitted the furnace-lamp to burn on during the whole night, or until it should go out by the exhaustion of the wick.

As they were not yet quite satisfied with the supply of broiled shark-meat, they had resolved to take a fresh spell at roasting on the morrow; and in order that the wick should not be idly wasted, they had "doused the glim" before retiring to rest.

They had extinguished the flame in a somewhat original fashion,--by pouring upon it a portion of the liquid spermaceti taken out of the case. The light, after giving a final flash, had gone out, leaving them in utter darkness.

But they had no difficulty in finding their way back to the deck, of their craft, where they designed passing the remainder of the night. During the preceding days they had so often made the passage from _Catamaran_ to _cachalot_, and _vice versa_, that they could have gone either up or down blindfolded; and indeed they might as well have been blindfolded on this their last transit for the night, so dense was the darkness that had descended over the dead whale.

After groping their way over the slippery shoulders of the leviathan, and letting themselves down by the rope they had attached to his huge pectoral fin, they made their supper upon a portion of the hot roast they had brought along with them; and, washing it down with a little diluted "canary," they consigned themselves to rest.

Better satisfied with their prospects than they had been for some time past, they soon fell asleep; and silence reigned around the dark floating mass that included the forms of _cachalot_ and _Catamaran_.

At that same moment a less tranquil scene was occurring scarce ten miles from the spot; for it is scarce necessary to say that the light seen by the ruffians on the great raft--and which they had fancifully mistaken for a ship's galley-fire,--was the furnace fed by spermaceti on the back of the whale.

The extinction of the flame had led to a scene which was reaching its maximum of noisy excitement at about the time that the crew of the _Catamaran_ were munching their roast shark-meat and sipping their canary. This scene had continued long after every individual of the latter had sunk into a sweet oblivion of the dangers that surrounded them.

All four slept soundly throughout the remainder of the night. Strange to say, they felt a sort of security, moored alongside that monstrous mass, which they would not have experienced had their frail tiny craft been by itself alone upon the ocean. It was but a fancied security, it is true: still it had the effect of giving satisfaction to the spirit, and through this, producing an artificial incentive to sleep.

It was daylight before any of them awoke,--or it should have been daylight, by the hour: but there was a thick fog around them,--so thick and dark that the carcass of the _cachalot_ was not visible from the deck of the _Catamaran_, although only a few feet of water lay between them.

Ben Brace was the first to bestir himself. Snowball had never been an early riser; and if permitted by his duties, or the neglect of them either, he would have kept his couch till midday. Ben, however, knew that there was work to be done, and no time to be wasted in idleness. The captain of the _Catamaran_ had given up all hopes of the return of the whaler; and therefore the sooner they could complete their arrangements for cutting adrift from the carcass, and continuing their interrupted course towards the west, the better would be their chance of ultimately reaching land.

Snowball, _sans ceremonie_, was shaken out of his slumbers; and the process of restoring him to wakefulness also awoke little William and Lilly Lalee,--so that the whole crew were now up and ready for action.

A hasty _dejeuner a la matelot_ served for the morning repast; after which Snowball and the sailor, accompanied by the boy, climbed once more upon the back of the _cachalot_ to resume the operations which had been suspended for the night; while the girl, as usual, remained in charge of the _Catamaran_.

CHAPTER EIGHTY.

SUSPICIOUS SOUNDS.

The ex-cook, in the lead of those who ascended to the summit of the carcass, had some difficulty in finding his kitchen; but, after groping some time over the glutinous epidermis of the animal, he at length laid his claws upon the edge of the cavity.

The others joined him just as he had succeeded in inserting a bit of fresh wick; and soon after a strong flame was established, and a fresh spitful of shark-steaks hung frizzling over it.

Nothing more could be done than wait until the meat should be _done_. There was no "basting" required,--only an occasional turning of the steaks and a slight transposition of them on the harpoon spit,--so that each should have due exposure to the flame.

These little culinary operations needed only occasional attention on the part of the cook. Snowball, who preferred the sedentary _pose_, as soon as he saw his "range" in full operation, squatted down beside it. His companions remained standing.

Scarcely five minutes had passed, when the negro was seen to make a start as if some one had given him a kick in the shin. Simultaneously with that start the exclamation "Golly!" escaped from his lips.

"What be the matter, Snowy?" interrogated Brace.

"Hush! Hab ye no hear nuffin'?"

"No," answered the sailor,--little William chiming in with the negative.

"I hab den,--I hab hear someting."

"What?"

"Dat I doan know."

"It's the frizzlin' o' those shark-steaks; or, maybe, some sea-bird squeaking up in the air."

"No, neyder one nor todder. Hush! Massa Brace, I hab hear some soun' 'tirely diffrent,--somethin' like de voice ob human man. You obsarb silence. Maybe we hear im agen."

Snowball's companions, though inclined to incredulity, obeyed his injunction. They might have treated it with less regard, had they not known the Coromantee to be gifted with a sense of hearing that was wonderfully acute. His largely-developed ears would have proved this capacity; but they knew that he possessed it, from having witnessed many exhibitions of it previous to that time. For this reason they yielded to his double solicitation,--to remain silent and listen.

At this moment, to the surprise of Ben Brace and William, and not a little to the astonishment of the negro, a tiny voice reached them from below,--which they all easily recognised as that of Lilly Lalee.

"O Snowball," called out the girl, addressing herself to her especial protector, "I hear people speaking. It's out upon the water. Do you not hear them?"

"Hush! Lilly Lally," answered the negro, speaking down to his _protege_ in a sort of hoarse whisper; "hush, Lilly, pet; doan you 'peak above him Lilly Breff. Keep 'till, dat a good gal."

The child, restrained by this string of cautionary appeals, offered no further remark; and Snowball, making a sign for his companions to continue silent, once more resumed his listening attitude.

Ben Brace and the boy, convinced by this additional testimony that the Coromantee must have heard something more than the frizzling of the shark-flesh, without saying a word, imitated his example, and eagerly bent their ears to listen.

They had not long to wait before becoming convinced that Snowball _had_ heard something besides the spirting of the shark-steaks. They heard something more themselves. They heard sounds that could not be mistaken for those of the sea. _They were the voices of Men_!

They were still at some distance,--though, perhaps, not so distant as they seemed. The thick fog, which, as every one knows, has the effect of deadening sound, was to be taken into account; and, making allowance for this, the voices heard might not be such a great way off.

Whatever was the distance, it was constantly becoming less. The listeners could tell this, ere they had stood many minutes listening. Whoever gave utterance to those sounds--words they were--must be moving onward,--coming towards the carcass of the _cachalot_.

How were they coming? They could not be walking upon the water: they must be aboard a ship?

This interrogatory occurred to those who stood upon the whale. Could they have answered it in the affirmative, their own voices would soon have been uplifted in a joyous huzza; while the hail "Ship ahoy!" would have been sent through the sombre shadows of the mist, in the hope of its receiving an answer.

Why was the hail not heard? Why did the crew of the _Catamaran_ stand listening to those voices without making challenge, and with looks that betokened apprehension rather than relief?

Six words that escaped from the lips of Ben Brace will explain the silence of himself and his companions, as well at the dissatisfied air that had impressed itself upon their faces. The six words were:--

"_Dangnation! it be the big raft_!"

CHAPTER EIGHTY ONE.

UNPLEASANT CONJECTURES.

"Dangnation! it be the big raft."

Such was the singular speech that fell from the lips of the sailor, and with an accent that proclaimed it ominous. And why ominous? Why should the presence of that embarkation--known to them as the "big raft"--cause apprehension to the crew of the _Catamaran_?

So far as Ben Brace and little William were concerned, the question has been already answered. It may be remembered with what feelings of alarm they first listened to the voices of Snowball and Lilly Lalee,--heard in a similar manner during the darkness of the night,--and with what suspicious caution they had made their approach to the Coromantee in the middle of his casks. It may be remembered for what reason they were thus suspicious, for it was then given,--a dread on the part of William--and a great one, too--of being devoured by that cannibal crew; and on the part of his generous protector a fear of becoming a victim to their revenge.

The same motive for their fears still existed; and their apprehension of being approached by the raft was as unabated as ever.

Snowball's dread of the _Pandora's_ people might not have been so acute, but for a certain circumstance that came before his mind. He had been made aware,--by sundry ill-usage he had received from the slaver's captain and mate, just previous to the climax of the catastrophe,--that he was himself regarded as the author of it. He knew he had been; and he supposed that the thing must have become known to the rest of the crew. He had not encountered them afterwards; and well had it been for him,--for certainly they would have wreaked their vengeance upon him without stint Snowball had sense enough to be aware of this; and therefore his aversion to any further intercourse with the castaways of the lost ship was quite as strong as that of either Ben Brace or the boy.

As for Lilly Lalee, her fears were due to a less definite cause, and only arose from observing the apprehension of her companions.

"De big raff," said Snowball, mechanically repeating the sailor's last words. "You b'lieve 'im be dat, Massa Brace?"

"Shiver my timbers if I know what to think, Snowy! If it be that--"

"Ef 'im be dat, wha' den?" inquired the Coromantee, seeing that Brace had stopped short in what he was going to say.

"Why, only that we're in an ugly mess. There's no reason to think they have picked up a stock o' provisions, since we parted wi' them. I don't know how they've stuck it out,--that is, supposin' it be them. They may have got shark-meat like ourselves; or they have lived upon--"

The sailor suddenly suspended his speech, glancing towards William, as if what he was about to say had better not reach the ears of the lad.

Snowball, however, understood him,--as was testified by a significant shake of the head.

"As for water," continued the sailor, "they had some left; but not enough to have lasted them to this time. They had rum,--oceans o' that,--but it 'ud only make things worse. True, they mout a caught some o' the rain in their shirts and tarpaulins, as we did; but they weren't the sort to be careful o' it wi' a rum-cask standin' by; an' I dar say, by this time, though they may have some'at to eat,--as you knows, Snowy,--they'll be dyin' for a drop o' drink. In that case--"

"In dat case, dey rob us ob de whole stock we hab save. Den we perish fo' sartin."

"Sure o' that, at least," continued the sailor. "But they wouldn't stop by robbin' us o' our precious water. They'd take everything; an' most likely our lives into the bargain. Let us hope it ain't them we've heard."

"Wha' you say, Master Brace? 'Pose 'um be de capten an' dem odders in de gig? Wha' you tink?"

"It mout," answered the sailor. "I warn't thinkin' o' them. It mout be; an' if so, we han't so much to fear as from t' other 'uns. They arn't so hard up, I should say; or even if they be, there arn't so many o' 'em to bully us. There were only five or six o' them. I should be good for any three o' that lot myself; an' I reckon you an' Will'm here could stan' a tussle wi' the others. Ah! I wish it war them. But it arn't likely: they had a good boat an' a compass in it; and if they've made any use o' their oars, they ought to be far from here long afore this. You've got the best ears, nigger: keep them well set, an' listen. You know the voices o' the ole _Pan's_ crew. See if you can make 'em out."

During the above dialogue, which had been carried on in an undertone,--a whisper, in fact,--the mysterious voices had not been again distinguished. When first heard, they appeared to proceed from two or more men engaged in conversation; and, as we have said, were only very indistinct,--either from the speakers being at a distance or talking in a low tone of voice.

The Catamarans now listened, expecting to hear some words pronounced in a louder tone; and yet not wishing to hear them. Rather would they that those voices should never again sound in their ears.

For a time it seemed us if they were going to have this wish gratified. Full ten minutes elapsed, and no sound reached their ears, either of human or other voice.

This silence was at first satisfactory; but all at once a reflection came across the mind of Ben Brace, which gave a new turn to his thoughts and wishes.

What if the voices heard had come from a different sort of men? Why should they be those of the slaver's castaway crew,--either the ruffians on the raft or the captain's party in the gig? What, after all, if they had proceeded from the decks of the whaler?

The old whalesman had not thought of this before; and, now that he did think of it, it caused such a commotion in his mind, that he could hardly restrain himself from crying out "Ship ahoy!"

He was hindered, however, by a quick reflection that counselled him to caution. In case of its not being the whaler's men that had been heard it must be those of the slaver; and the hail would but too certainly be the precursor to his own destruction, as well as that of his companions.

In a whisper he communicated his thoughts to Snowball, who became equally affected by them,--equally inclined to cry "Ship ahoy!" and alike conscious of the danger of doing so.

A strife of thought was now carried on in the bosoms of both. It was lamentable to reflect, that they might be close to a ship,--within hailing distance of her,--which could at once have rescued them from all the perils that surrounded them; and that this ship might be silently gliding past, shrouded from their sight under that thick fog,--in another hour to be far off upon the ocean, never to come within hailing distance again!

A single word--a shout--might save them; and yet they dared not utter it; for the same shout might equally betray, and lead to their destruction.

They were strongly tempted to risk the ambiguous signal. For some seconds they stood wavering between silence and "Ship ahoy!" but caution counselled the former, and prudence at length triumphed.

This course was not adopted accidentally. A process of reasoning that passed through the mind of the old whalesman,--founded upon his former professional experiences,--conducted him to it.

If it be the whale-ship, reasoned he, she must have come back in search of the _cachalot_. Her crew must have known that they had killed it. The "drogues" and flag proved that belief on their part, and the ex-whalesman knew that it would be well worth their while to return in search of the whale. It was this very knowledge that had sustained his hopes, and delayed him so long by its carcass. A whale, which would have yielded nearly a hundred barrels of spermaceti, was a prize not to be picked up every day in the middle of the ocean; and he knew that such a treasure would not be abandoned without considerable search having first been made to recover it.

All this was in favour of the probability that the voices heard had proceeded from the whale-ship; and if so, it was farther probable that in the midst of that fog, while bent upon such an errand, the crew would not care to make way; but, on the contrary, would "lay to," and wait for the clearing of the atmosphere.

In that case the Catamarans might still expect to see the welcome ship when the fog should rise; and with this hope they came to the determination to keep silence.

The hour was still very early,--the sun scarce yet above the horizon. When that luminary should appear, his powerful rays would soon dissipate the darkness; and then, if not before, would they ascertain whether those voices had proceeded from the throats of monsters or of men.

CHAPTER EIGHTY TWO.

AN INFORMAL INQUEST.

They did not have to stay for the scattering of the fog. Long before the sun had lifted that veil from off the face of the sea, the crew of the _Catamaran_ had discovered the character of their neighbours. They were not friends, but dire enemies,--the very enemies they so much dreaded.

The discovery was not delayed. It was made soon after, and in the following manner:--

The three--Snowball, the sailor, and little William--had kept their place on the carcass of the _cachalot_, all three attentively listening,--the two last standing up, and the former in a reclining attitude, with his huge ear laid close to the skin of the whale,--as though he believed that to be a conductor of sound. There was no need for them to have been thus straining their ears: for when a sound reached them at length, it was that of a voice,--so harsh and loud, that a deaf man might almost have heard it.

"_Sacre_!" exclaimed the voice, apparently pronounced in an accent of surprise, "look here, comrades! Here's a dead man among us!"

Had it been the demon of the mist that gave utterance to these speeches, they could not have produced a more fearful effect upon those who heard them from the back of the _cachalot_. The accent, along with that profane shibboleth, might have proceeded from anyone who spoke the language of France; but the tone of the voice could not be mistaken. It had too often rung in their ears with a disagreeable emphasis. "Massa Le Grow, dat am," muttered the negro. "Anybody tell dat."

Snowball's companions made no reply. None was required. Other voices rose up out of the mist.

"A dead man!" shouted a second. "Sure enough. Who is it?"

"It's the Irishman!" proclaimed a third. "See! He's been killed! There's a knife sticking between his ribs! He's been murdered!"

"That's his own knife," suggested some one. "I know it; because it once belonged to me. If you look you'll find his name on the haft. He graved it there the very day he bought it from me."

There was an interval of silence, as if they had paused to confirm the suggestion of the last speaker.

"You're right," said one, resuming the informal inquest. "There's his name, sure enough,--_Larry O'Gorman_."

"He's killed himself!" suggested a voice not hitherto heard. "He's committed suicide!"

"I don't wonder at his doing so," said another, confirmingly. "He expected to have to die anyhow; and I suppose he thought the sooner it was off his mind the better it would be for him."

"How's that?" inquired a fresh speaker, who appeared to dissent from the opinions of those that had preceded him. "Why should he expect to die any more than the rest of us?"

"You forget, mate, that the fight was not finished between him and Monsieur Le Gros?"

"No, I don't forget it. Well?"

"Well, yourself!"

"It don't follow he was to be the next to die,--not as I can see. Look at this, comrades! There's been foul play here! The Irishman's been stabbed with his own knife. That's plain enough; but it is not so sure he did it himself, Why should he? I say again, there's been foul play?"

"And who do you accuse of foul play?"

"I don't accuse anyone. Let them bring the charge, as have seen something. Somebody must know how this came about. There's been a murder. Can anyone tell who did it?"

There was a pause of silence of more than a minute in duration. No one made answer. If anyone knew who was the murderer, they failed to proclaim it.

"Look here, mates!" put in one, whose sharp voice sounded like the cry of a hyena, "I'm hungry as a starved shark. Suppose we suspend this inquest, till we've had breakfast. After that we can settle who's done the deed,--if there's been anyone, except the man himself. What say ye all?"

The horrid proposal was not replied to by anyone. The loud shout that succeeded it sprang from a different cause; and the words that were afterwards uttered had no reference to the topic under consideration.

"A light! a light!" came the cry, vociferated by several voices.

"It's the light we saw last night. It's the galley-fire! There's a ship within a hundred yards of us!"

"Ship ahoy! ship ahoy!"

"Ship ahoy! what ship's that?"

"Why the devil don't you answer our hail?"