Captain Mayne Reid (continued 5)

Alas! alas! they would soon learn—too soon. Soon would they experience the agony of thirst; soon would they feel its horrid cravings.

Even at that moment was it drawing upon them; even then were they crying for water—for, in consequence of the discovery that had been made, their morning’s allowance had not yet been served to them; and water was always the thing they seemed most to covet and desire. Its scarcity was to them their greatest grief. Even at that moment, as I passed the hatchway, I could hear them calling for “water—water,” some in their native tongue, and others—in hopes of being better understood—in that language best-known along the African Coast—the Portuguese—repeating the word:—

“Agoa—agoa!”

Chapter Forty Six.

Unhappy beings! I shuddered as I reflected on what was before them. They were to endure thirst in all its gradations—from the simple, scarce painful longing for water—which most of them already felt—to the extremest agony and torture which that appetite can inflict. But a few days before, I had myself experienced thirst; but what signified that compared to what they would be compelled to endure? Simply nothing—a mere foretaste, that enabled me to judge how terribly painful thirst may become. Yes; I shuddered as I reflected on what was before them!

Little did I dream how short was to be the period of their endurance. Little thought I, as I paced along the deck and listened to their cries for water, that their sufferings from thirst would soon be at an end.

It was not their destiny to die from the want of water. Alas! a far more horrible doom was in store for them—a doom that I almost shudder to recount.

As the day advanced, their cries for water—“agoa! agoa!”—became more frequent and plaintive. There were some who shouted in anger. Wondering why they had been denied their customary allowance, there were some who fancied it arose either from neglect on the part of their white tyrants—whom they saw moving about perfectly indifferent to their entreaties—or else from some capricious cruelty to torture and punish them! It is hard to say what might have been their imaginings; but many of them exhibited symptoms of fury amounting almost to frenzy. They approached the grating with gestures of menace, and endeavoured by main strength to force the strong woodwork from off the hatch. Some gnashed their teeth and frothed at the lips; beating their breasts with clenched fists, and yelling their native war-cries, until their voices echoed far over the waters!

To all these demonstrations the crew of the Pandora paid no heed—except that two sentries instead of one were placed over the hatchway where the male portion of the slaves were confined. This precaution was taken, because it was now deemed possible that the negroes might make their way upon deck; and, should they succeed in doing so in their infuriated state, woe to the white men who had hitherto ruled them!

Both sticks and bayonets were used freely upon the frantic creatures, until the carpenter with ready tools had strengthened the grating and battened it down, beyond the possibility of its being raised up, or broken by those who were striving underneath.

What added to the sufferings of the slaves, as also to the apprehension of the Pandora’s crew, was that the wind had suddenly ceased, and it had fallen to a dead calm.

The heat of the sun, no longer fanned by the slightest breeze, had grown intolerable. The pitch melted upon the ropes and in the seams of the deck; and every article, whether of hemp, wood, or iron, was as hot as if taken out of a fire. We had arrived in that part of the Atlantic Ocean, known among Spanish seamen as the “horse latitudes,” because that there, during the early days of Spanish adventure, vessels often got becalmed, and their cargoes of horses, dying of the heat, were thrown overboard wholesale. This is one of the explanations given for the singular appellation—though others have been assigned.

Into the “horse latitudes,” then, had the Pandora found her way; and the complete calm into which the atmosphere had all at once fallen was not only a source of suffering to all on board—but to the sailors an object of new apprehension.

On first discovering the shortness of the supply of water, a calm sea was the very thing they had most dreaded. A storm they feared not to encounter. Through that—even though the wind were dead ahead—they could still make way; but in a calm they could do nothing but lie quiet upon the hot bosom of the sleeping ocean, wasting their days and hours—wasting what was now more precious than all—their scanty supply of water.

One and all were terrified at the prospect. They were all men who had made many a trip across the line, and had run the torrid zone both eastward and westward. They could read well the indications of the sky; and from its present appearance most of them foresaw, and were not slow to foretell, a long-continued calm. It might last a week, perhaps twice or three times as long. Sometimes there is a month of such windless weather in these latitudes. If it continued only for the shortest of these periods, then, indeed, would they be in danger, and no wonder they were freshly apprehensive.

As the sun went down, his disc appeared red and fiery. There was not a cloud in the sky—not a curl upon the sea.

It was the last time that sun ever shone upon the Pandora—when morning came, that bad, but beautiful barque, was a wreck upon the sea—a field of floating fragments!

Chapter Forty Seven.

You desire an explanation? You wish to know how the Pandora was destroyed?

In the closing passages of the preceding chapter, I ran ahead of my narrative. I shall now return to it.

The night came down still, but not silent; at least not silent on board the slave-ship. The cries of the ill-fated beings below still loaded the air—their voices growing hoarser and hoarser. The ruffians might cage their bodies, but they could not confine their tongues; and ever and anon rose that awful din, pealing along the decks, and echoing far out over the still bosom of the waters.

It seemed at length to grow unendurable, even to the men; and those, who had before advocated throwing the slaves overboard, once more proposed adopting this course. The unexpected obstruction from the calm now added force to their arguments. They alleged that there was no chance of the niggers holding out. They would all be dead in a couple of days—by suffocation as well as thirst—and why not settle the business at once? They had now to look out sharply for their own lives, and better they should not be bothered any longer with these squalling brutes. (This was literally the language of one of those who advocated the drowning of them.) It was enough to drive a man mad to hear them, and it would be only mercy to them (much the ruffian cared for mercy) to make short work of it, and then the poor devils would have it over at once. This was the compassionate speech of one.

Another followed in a like strain, and said, interrogatively, “After all what did it amount to? The cargo was not such a great matter so long as the ship was safe? What signified all the niggers had cost? What they might fetch was another matter; but a man could not call that a loss which he had never had; and, therefore, all the loss the skipper should sustain would be the original outlay. It wasn’t a million. He would soon repair the damage. Once they got the casks filled, they could return to Africa, and King Dingo was the man to find them a fresh cargo. Perhaps he would let them have it on credit, if they couldn’t do better (at this improbability several laughed); but the skipper need not go a begging for credit. He was not so easily broken up as that came to. If he himself was short, he had friends in Brazil—ay, and in Portsmouth, too—who would soon find him the rhino.”

The speech of this able logician turned the scale and settled the question; and, despite the protestations and entreaties of the slave-captain and one or two others, it was decided that the negroes should be thrown overboard!

A few minutes were now given to a discussion as to the mode of effecting this purpose; and it was finally agreed that the best way would be to remove a single bar from the grating—so that only one of the victims could come up at a time—and then, taking each aft out of sight of the hatchway—so that they might not be seen by the others—to seize one after another and cast them into the sea, whence there would be no fear of their returning. Doubtless many of them could not swim a stroke, and those that could would not swim long, amidst that multitude of voracious sharks that were beating around the barque!

The ruse of thus successively destroying the wretched victims, without making known to their companions below, originated in no ideas of mercy—it was a thought that sprang from simple convenience. The monsters knew that if those below were to get wind of the fate that awaited them above, they would no longer come on deck; and to have gone down amongst them to bring them up would have given trouble, and might have been attended with danger.

It was heartbreaking to listen to the details of their plan, and know that I could neither obstruct nor prevent it. Had I put in my voice, either to appeal or protect the unfortunates, it is likely enough I should have been myself the first morsel given to the sharks. I could do nought but suffer in silence.

Indeed, I am not sure, had it been in my power at that moment to prevent them from carrying out their design, whether it would have been right to interfere. Clearly it would not have served the cause of humanity. A death of some kind was certainly in store for these ill-starred beings—either a slow, lingering death by the torture of thirst, or one more rapid and far less cruel, such as that they were about to undergo. It might have been humanity to leave the ruffians to carry out their intent, and shorten the sufferings of their black victims by the easier death of drowning.

I had such a reflection at the moment, but I had no time to dwell upon it, for just then a rush of men towards the slave-hatchway told me that the monsters were actually on the way to carry out their diabolical purpose!

They were on their way, and would have proceeded in their intent. The carpenter was there with his axe to strike off one of the bars of the grating—he had already given a blow on the batten, another would have been enough—and then the horrid scene would have begun; but at that moment a cry came from the after-part of the vessel that caused the carpenter to suspend his work, and look up in dismay. Those who surrounded him were startled as well as he, and all looked aft with terror painted in their faces. One and all were terrified by that cry, and no wonder they were—it was the cry, of “fire!” The ship was on fire!

Chapter Forty Eight.

At this cry all hands rushed toward the after-part of the vessel. I ran with the rest.

On reaching the quarter-deck we found the black cook, “Snowball,” in the hands of the captain and mate, who were beating him with thick ropes, and causing him to “sing out” at the top of his voice. Both were excited and angry—swearing loudly as they struck the blows—and already the man’s back exhibited the keenness of their vengeance.

Some of the sailors—still apprehensive about the cry of fire which they had heard—demanded an explanation, which was immediately given. “Snowball” had gone down to the store-room under the main cabin—for the purpose of drawing brandy from a large cask of this spirit that was kept there. The only access to the store-room was through a small hatch in the floor of the cabin itself; and, as it was bulk-headed off from the rest of the hold, of course the place was quite dark. For this reason the cook had carried with him, as he always did on such occasions, a lighted candle.

It was not clearly explained how he had mismanaged—for the black as well as most of the crew of the Pandora were, ever since the discovery about the water, in a state of half-intoxication. Even at that moment it was evident that both mate and captain were nearly drunk, and gave but half-coherent replies to the eager inquiries of the men—who were still under apprehensions from the cries of fire that summoned them aft.

The accident was afterwards explained by “Snowball” himself. It appeared that the brandy-cask was without a regular tap, or stopcock, and that the cook was in the habit of drawing the liquor through the bung-hole, by means of an ordinary dipper. Somehow or other—of course through the black’s drunken negligence—the burning candle had slipped from his fingers, and dropped right into the bung-hole; and, quick as a flash, the spirit had caught fire, and smoke and flame issued in volumes through the hole.

At first the cook, dreading chastisement, resolved not to make any alarm; but, coming on deck, provided himself as quickly as he could with a bucket of water. With this he returned, and, pouring the water into the cask, endeavoured by such means to stifle the flames. It was all to no purpose—the blue blaze flickered upward as before—each instant becoming stronger, as the brandy itself grew hotter and more of the spirit caught the fire.

It appeared that the cook had made several journeys back and forward from the store-room to the deck, before confessing to what had occurred, or warning any one of the peril in which the vessel was placed.

At length, however, his frequent passing to and fro with the water-bucket attracted the attention of the mate; and then the discovery was made that the brandy was on fire; for the black was now forced to confess the truth.

Then it was that the cry of fire was raised which had called the crew away from their demon purpose.

From the behaviour of the captain and his mate, it might have been supposed that the fire had been extinguished; and, for a time, such was the belief. Surely, before setting on to belabour the culprit as they were doing, they had seen that the fire was out? Such would have been the natural conclusion, and so everyone judged. It soon came out that they judged wrongly. The two officers were half-mad with drink and rage; and, without attempting to get the fire under, they had set upon the black and were expending their anger in blows, while the latter kept howling at the top of his voice, mingling with his cries for mercy the more startling cry of “fire!” It was this that had so suddenly alarmed the crew.

Was the fire out? or was it still burning? These were the questions that passed from mouth to mouth in quick and apprehensive utterance.

As soon as it was ascertained where it had occurred, a rush was made into the cabin—the men crowding together through the entrance, and treading upon one another’s heels in their haste to be assured of the truth and relieved of the terrible suspense—for there is no calamity on board a ship so much dreaded as fire.

The suspense of the Pandora’s crew was not of long duration. It became certainty—a certainty that the fire was not yet extinguished! On entering the cabin, they saw this at a glance. Thick sulphurous smoke was rising through the open hatchway, and the cabin was already filled with it. There must be fire to produce such a smoke, and fire still alive and active—for it was not the smoke of a fire that had been lately extinguished! No; it was still alive—still burning—still spreading and increasing! That was evident to all as soon as they entered the cabin, and saw the smoke issuing up through the hatchway.

But if there remained any doubt on the mind of any one it was soon removed; for, at that moment a loud explosion was heard in the store-room below—like a blank-shot or the bursting of a steam-boiler—and, almost simultaneous with the report, a gush of thick vapour, mingled with blue flame, came rushing up the hatchway.

Chapter Forty Nine.

It needed no conjuror to explain that report. Every one knew what it meant. It was caused by the exploding of the strong iron-bound cask—burst open by the gas engendered by the fire within. Of course the spirit was now spilled over the floor of the store-room and everywhere on fire; so that every combustible article within reach—and of these there were many—would soon catch the flame. There were dry barrels of biscuits, and quantities of bacon, hams, with lard, oil, and butter. It was remembered that there was a barrel of pitch, too, close to where the brandy-cask had been kept. All these would catch freely and burn rapidly and readily—especially the barrel of pitch, the head of which was open. It was thought there was no gunpowder for, although there had been a large quantity of coarse blasting-powder aboard, it was part of the original freight, and had all been delivered to King Dingo Bingo in exchange for the slaves. So at least was it supposed at the time, and this hypothesis served a useful purpose—since it enabled the crew to act with more coolness than they would otherwise have done. There is no situation more calculated to destroy presence of mind than to be aboard a ship on fire, and to know that somewhere among the flames there is a barrel of powder.

Of course the crew of the Pandora did not stand idle or inactive. They ran in every direction in search of means to extinguish the fire. Buckets were collected from all parts of the deck, and water was procured from pumps and over the sides. This was heaved down the hatchway of the store-room—bucketful after bucketful—but apparently without any good purpose. Still the flames raged and the water did not reach them; at all events, it failed to extinguish them.

Of course no one dared venture below. The smoke and fire forbade it—any attempt to go down would have been a rash sacrifice of life, and no one thought of making it.

For nearly ten minutes the men continued to draw water, and dash it in bucketsful down the hatchway; but all to no purpose. The fire gained strength. The smoke grew thicker and hotter, from the pitch and other combustible substances that had now evidently caught the flames. It poured up in vast volumes till the cabin became filled. It was no longer possible to approach the hatchway, no longer possible even to enter the cabin. One or two who ventured in were half-stifled before they had gone six feet inside, and came reeling back like men who were drunk!

The buckets were thrown aside. They could no longer be of service—as no one could get near the hatchway to pass water down it, and it was of no use throwing it elsewhere.

But the hour of despair had not yet arrived. Sailors are men who rarely yield to despair; at all events not while the slightest chance remains to beget hope; and, bad as may have been their moral character, the crew of the Pandora were not cowards. Linked with a thousand crimes they had the one virtue of courage—though brute courage it may have been.

Not yet did they despair. Other resources were now thought of. A piece of hose was attached to the spout of the pump, and carried to the door of the cabin; and by means of this water was still poured in.

But this contrivance proved unavailing. The mouth of the hose could not be got into the hatch, as it was impossible any longer to enter the cabin, and the water was spilled on the floor. It so chanced that the stern of the vessel sat high. The casks that had been emptied were all in the after-hold, while the full ones containing the sea-water were stowed forward. Hence the barque was higher abaft than at the bows. For this reason the water thrown upon the cabin floor by means of the hose-pipe, instead of remaining there, came running back towards the gangways as fast as it was poured in.

This produced a new consternation; for the men had conceived hopes that, after deluging the cabin from the pumps, the water would run through the open hatch and then extinguish the fire below.

As soon as it was perceived that this purpose could not be accomplished, then, indeed, did symptoms of despair make their appearance upon the faces of the crew; and they began to turn their eyes upon one another with glances of interrogation and looks that proclaimed the knowledge that their plan had proved a failure. No one had the courage to say so, and the pumping went on—though it was evident, from the slowness of the motion and the want of energy exhibited, that the men who were working the handle were exerting themselves, only with a sort of mechanical effort that would soon yield to despondency and despair.

And so it yielded. Without any one saying a word, all seemed tacitly to have arrived at the same conclusion—that their efforts were idle; and all at once the pumping was suspended, the handle was dropped, the hose-pipe lay flattened along the deck, and the water ceased to flow!

By this time the whole after-part of the vessel was shrouded in smoke that had been oozing out from the door and windows of the cabin, and which, in consequence of the stillness of the night, was not carried away. Slowly it ascended into the air, and so straight upwards that the edge of the cloud had not yet approached the main-deck—although the whole of the mizen-mast was enveloped by the thick smoke and invisible to its very peak. Most of the quarter-deck covered, and the cabin was now completely hidden from view by the vapoury volume that clustered above and around it. As yet there was no flames to be seen, but the hissing, crackling sound coming up from below, at intervals fell upon the ear, and told that the fierce element was still raging there, and would soon exhibit itself in all its red and terrific splendour.

No one waited to watch its progress. No longer did any one think of attempting to extinguish, or even to check the fierce destroyer. All hopes of saving the vessel were given up; the Pandora must be abandoned; and now was heard that heart-thrilling summons to the sailor—that last despairing cry—

“To the boats! to the boats!”

Chapter Fifty.

There were three boats belonging to the barque Pandora. They were the “long-boat,” the “pinnace,” and the “captain’s gig.” These would have been enough to have carried the whole crew—indeed the long-boat herself would have contained all hands, or nearly.

Thirty was reckoned her full complement, though, in a case of distress, forty persons might have found room in her, and she would have floated with that number, though not in a rough sea. She had been a good boat in her time, but was now old and worn, and there was a rotten plank or two among her timbers. She was not the boat originally made for the Pandora. This had been lost in a gale; and the one now aboard was an old weather and water-worn veteran, hurriedly obtained for the voyage. The pinnace would have carried some fifteen men, had she been fit to go into the water, which she was not. She had met with an accident while in the river, and had not yet been repaired. She was not slung at that moment, but lying in the scuppers along the main-deck, where the carpenter had for days past been repairing her. The repairs, however, were not completed, and the boat could not go to sea. The long-boat and gig then must take the whole crew; and it was agreed that twenty eight should get into the former, while the remaining twelve could be stowed in the gig.

Of course this agreement was made by a kind of rambling general consent—for there was no deliberation about anything, the whole crew being now half-mad with haste and excitement.

A large number of the men had rushed at once towards the long-boat, and there I followed them. They soon swarmed up to the bulwarks, and set to work to poise the davits outward, and get the rigging in order for lowering the boats. I did not see Brace among them; and, fancying he might have gone with a party towards the gig, I started aft to find him—as it was my intention to go in whatever boat carried him. The gig was suspended at the stern, just under the taffrail; and to reach this point I had to pass through the smoke that enveloped the cabin. But although the atmosphere seemed perfectly stagnant, the cloud of smoke leant a little towards the larboard side, and on the opposite, or starboard side, the way was partially clear. I had observed one or more persons glide through towards the stern, and I followed them.

On arriving upon the poop, I saw that there were five or six persons there, engaged in launching the gig. They were working with all their might, and apparently hurried by some extreme apprehension of terror. Three of them I recognised as the captain, mate, and carpenter, and the others were men noted as their allies and firm friends. They had already lowered the boat nearly to the water; and just as I looked over the taffrail I heard the plash, as her keel dipped into the sea. I saw that there were some articles—the compass, with charts, and a few other things like boxes or barrels—already lying in the boat; but as yet none of the men had got into her.

On glancing at those who were around, I perceived that my friend was not among them; and I was turning to go back towards the main-deck, when all at once the six men who had lowered the gig—I now saw there were but six—passed suddenly over the taffrail, and gliding down the davit-tackle, dropped into the boat.

Surely, thought I, they are not going to row off without their full complement of twelve? That was the understanding, and it was further agreed that all hands should help in lowering the long-boat before the gig should be launched; the latter, being small and light, could be got into the water in a few seconds of time, and half-a-dozen men would be enough; whereas, launching the great long-boat, getting her over the bulwarks, and then lowering her safely into the sea, was a work that required both time and the help of all hands.

That all were to assist in it had been specially arranged, in the hurried consultation which had been held after the cry had arisen, “To the boats!”

No doubt that those now engaged about the long-boat supposed that all hands were there; for in a crowd of forty men the absence of five or six is not readily noticed, and, as it was no longer daylight, the faces of none could be easily distinguished. The mate and captain would not have been missed more than any others. Their authority existed no longer, and their silly behaviour in belabouring the cook, when they should have been using the time to better advantage by endeavouring to stifle the fire, had led to the belief that both were “half-seas over,” and, therefore, no attention had been afterwards paid to any orders from either of them.

It was they and the four men with them I had observed passing abaft as I was looking for Ben, and I thought at the time that they were skulking, as if they did not wish to be seen!

As I stood upon the poop, this conjecture was confirmed. The six were evidently about to steal the gig away, without waiting for the others she was to have carried.

I was irresolute how to act. I could not myself prevent them. Remonstrance from me would have been laughed at, and I had not the strength to stay them. To call out would have been of no use. The sound of the fire roaring and crackling below, the hoarse shouting of the men themselves, the yells and vociferations of the slaves forward, produced a medley of noises amidst which my cries would not have been heard, or, at all events, their object would not have been understood.

Another thing—it was too late to create any noise about it; for before I could make up my mind to do one thing or the other—either to cry out or run back—the gig was resting on the water, the six runaways had dropped into her, and the next moment had cut the davit-tackle and set the boat free!

They appeared to act with extreme haste—as if they apprehended being hindered from getting off, or were afraid that more would come up and leap in along with them so as to overload the boat.

I could not comprehend why they were in such a desperate hurry. There could be no danger of the gig being overloaded—as it was agreed she should only take twelve—and I knew that most of the crew would far prefer to go by the long-boat; moreover, there was as yet no danger from the fire, for, although smoke was oozing out by the binnacle, it would be a good while before this part could be ablaze. There was no one by the wheel. The perfect calm that had continued since near morning rendered a steersman superfluous, and the wheel stood idle and neglected. The compass was gone. It was it I had observed in the bottom of the boat.

I could not comprehend then why the captain and his five associates were in such a way to be off, and thus desert the rest of their comrades in misfortune. There was some mystery in it.

There was a mystery, which in another moment was cleared up, and by the dastardly skipper himself, I was still standing by the taffrail, when the davit-tackle was cut, and saw the gig-oars shoved out and ready to pull away. The skipper himself grasped an oar. At that moment he looked up and noticed me. He half rose from his seat, and in drunken accents hiccuped out—

“Ahoy, there!—you boy, Bill!—tell ’em t’ look sharp—hiccup—in getting out long b’t—sharp, d’y’ hear.—L’em be quick about it—quick,—hiccup—for by—hiccup—there’s a barrel of pow—hiccup—powder aboard!”

Chapter Fifty One.

The astounding intelligence, conveyed by the final sentence of this staggering speech, deprived me for the moment of the power of motion.

“A barrel of powder aboard!” These were his very words, and I had no reason to doubt that they were true. On the contrary, his behaviour, and that of those who were with him, went far to prove their truth. On no other supposition could I account for their haste to be gone; but the hypothesis of the powder at once explained it. Beyond a doubt the speech was true. There was a barrel of powder aboard! Both he and the mate were aware of it.

The dastards had made a sort of compromise with their consciences in now declaring it. They had preserved silence about it until they were themselves safe. If they had divulged the secret sooner, the whole crew might have followed them into the gig—dreading to stay any longer on board—and, therefore, they might not have got off so snugly. Now, however, that they were themselves beyond danger, there could be no harm in letting the others know it, as it might quicken their efforts at escape. Of course they did not desire to see their old associates blown into the air—if it could be helped without any risk to themselves—but they had taken good care to remove the risk, before offering any hint about the probable catastrophe.

The skipper, as soon as he had given utterance to the appalling speech, sank back upon his seat; and, pulling along with the rest, the gig moved rapidly away.

I say that the astounding intelligence deprived me of the power of motion, and equally so of speech. It occurred to me to ask for an explanation—an additional averment as confirmation of its truth; but, before I could recover myself, it was too late—the boat was almost beyond hail. It would be no use shouting after. They would not hear, or, if they did, would not heed me; and what mattered it, for I could not doubt but what the man had said was meant as serious truth. Though not sober, he would hardly have jested then, and in such a fashion. The time and the circumstances were too solemn for jest—even for him, unfeeling fiend that he was.

No; he had spoken but the truth—the simple truth. Beyond all hope of a doubt there was a barrel of powder on board the Pandora!

Where was it? In the store-room, now filled with fire? where else was it likely to be? on the half-deck, or in the hold? No—not probable—none of us had ever seen it there. There had been no powder observed in any part of the vessel to which the common sailors had access; none since the cargo was delivered to King Dingo. It must then be in the store-room, or in the captain’s own state-room? in either case contiguous to the flames—in either case close to where I was standing!

The thought roused my senses from the state of stupefaction into which they had fallen. The idea of self-preservation gave me new energies; and I lost no time in hastening away from the spot. It was a mere instinct to place myself as far from the danger as I could. I sprang from the poop and ran forward upon the main-deck.

I was now at a loss as to how I should act. My first impulse had been to rush forward among the men and proclaim the intelligence communicated by the captain. I was on the point of doing so, when some good angel seemed to whisper “prudence.”

I was always considered a boy of “quick-parts,” and the life I had been lately leading had wonderfully sharpened my intellect. Just then it occurred to me, if I divulged the terrible secret it could do no good, but on the contrary, might beget great mischief. I saw that the sailors were exerting all their strength to get out the boat, and were making what haste they could. No power on earth could have caused them to go faster. The dread of the flames, now beginning to flow through the cabin-windows, was stimulus enough. Any additional dread would only paralyse them. I determined, therefore, to keep the fearful knowledge within my own breast. I thought of imparting it only to Ben, and for him I now went in search.

I soon discovered him. He was among a crowd up over the davits, working with all his might. I could not get near him, and of course could not communicate with him without being overheard by the others. I therefore resolved to remain sole possessor of the dread secret till a better opportunity offered itself.

I set to work with the rest, heaving and hauling; but, amidst all I had but one thought. I scarce knew what was going on, or what I was myself doing. I was every moment in expectation of that loud report—that horrible explosion that would fling us all into eternity! I worked mechanically and often wrong; once or twice I caught myself hauling the wrong way. Some of them noticed this and rudely kicked me aside. Oh! the keen apprehension!

The boat was at length cleared of the bulwarks and swung over the sea; and then the lowering commenced. This operation was not so difficult, and in a few minutes more she rested upon the water. The men gave a cheer at their success.

Many at once glided into the boat; while others remained above and on the sides, passing down some necessary articles—some bread and water—such things as could be most readily got at.

At this moment two men lifted between them a heavy barrel; and rolling it over the bulwarks, commenced lowering it downward. The size and shape of the barrel proclaimed its contents. It was a cask of rum, and its weight proved that it had never been broached, but was quite full of the potent spirit. No one objected to its being taken into the boat. There were no protesters in that crew, but several now offered to assist in lowering it down. A bight of rope was thrown around the cask, and the letting down commenced.

It had scarcely balanced over the copper sheathing of the bulwark, when the bight of rope—hurriedly cast around it—slipped off, and the heavy barrel fell with all its weight into the bottom of the boat. Not exactly into the bottom but upon one side—a little below the water-line, as the boat lay.

A heavy crash was heard—not the firm concussion of the barrel striking on the elastic timbers of the boat; but more as if something had broken underneath where it fell. The barrel had fallen angularly and endways; and the sharp projecting end of the oaken staves had struck between two of the ribs of the boat, and fair upon the face of her outside planking. As if the hand of a demon had guided it, the rum cast in its descent had fallen upon one of the decayed planks; and the crash that had been heard was the sound of the plank springing out of its bed and breaking crossways at the same time!

A wild cry rose from out the boat, as those who were below saw the catastrophe that had happened. It was visible even from the deck above; for looking over I perceived a thick gush of water pouring through the side of the boat.

Some of the men leaped out of her and came climbing up again; while others remained endeavouring to staunch the hole, and with buckets that were now thrown to them, commenced baling out.

They did not continue long at this. It was clearly a hopeless task; the huge breach could not be mended, and the boat filled ten times faster than they could bale her out. They soon abandoned the attempt; and, dropping the buckets, followed their companions up the side.

In less than ten minutes after, the long-boat had gone to the bottom of the sea.

“A raft! a raft!”

Chapter Fifty Two.

“A raft! a raft!”

This was the cry that now echoed along the decks, while men were seen hurriedly seizing hold of spars, ropes, and axes.

But there was another cry and an angrier one. It arose from the few who had rushed towards the stern in hope of themselves appropriating the gig and whose disappointment at finding she was gone, found vent in oaths and shouts of vengeance.

They had no need to go aft of the burning cabin to make the discovery. Over the quarter the gig was seen—distinctly seen under the clear moonlight, several cable-lengths from the barque, and fast rowing away. Six forms were in the boat—six only—and the men at once knew that they were the captain, mate, and four of their favourites. No explanation was required. The behaviour of those in the gig told the tale of itself. They had deserted their companions in distress—had basely stolen away.

“Gig ahoy! gig ahoy!” was screeched after the departing boat, but to no purpose. Those in the gig paid no heed to the hail, but only appeared to row faster away. They seemed to dread being followed by the long-boat and overtaken; and well might they have a dread of it, for if the betrayed crew could have laid hands upon their ci-devant officers at that moment, they would have shown them but scant mercy.

As for the latter, they were apparently rowing with all their might—as if they wanted not only to get beyond earshot of their old associates, but out of sight altogether. Belike the ears of both captain and mate were keenly bent, and their eyes too—unfeeling as the hearts of both were, they must have been stirred in the anticipation of that awful catastrophe, which both surely expected. They might have wished for a time to be deprived both of sight and hearing.

As I have said, there was a cry of vengeance along the deck. Some, who but the moment before were skulking aft with a similar purpose, were now loud in their denunciations of the dastardly conduct of the officers; and, goaded by the two passions of disappointment and rage, shouted after them the most opprobrious epithets and bitterest threats.

But the little boat was by this far off upon the water; and the necessity for immediate action soon called the men from these idle demonstrations.

All hands set to work at the formation of the raft.

The ability and despatch with which sailors can construct a raft, would be almost incredible to a landsman who had never seen the thing done. It is not from mere concert or organisation among themselves—though there is something in that. Not much, however, for well-drilled soldiers are as clumsy at such a work as farm-labourers.

Though the principal material of a raft be timber, the sailor with his rope will far sooner bind it together than the carpenter with his hammer and nails; and bind it far safer and surer. The rope is the sailor’s proper weapon, and its use he understands better than all others. He knows at a glance, or by a touch, whether it be the thing for the purpose intended—whether it be too long or too short, too weak or too stout—whether it will stretch or snap, or if it will hold securely. He knows, as if by instinct, what sort of knot should be used for this, and what sort for the other—whether a “reef-knot” or a “bowline,” a “diamond” or an “overend”—whether a “clove-hitch,” a “clinch,” or a “cat’s paw”—all these modes of splicing and trying, with five times as many more, are secrets only known to the sailor.

And only he can rapidly cut down a mast, or detach a spar from its rigging, and get them overboard without delay. The aid of a landsman would be of little service in operations like these.

Like bees the men went to work—every one of the thirty and four. Some handled the saws and axes—some carried spare-yards and spars, some with their knives attacked the running gear and provided the ropes. All were equally busy—all equally interested in the result.

In a few minutes the main-mast came down with a crash, falling over the side, and grinding the bulwarks beneath it as if they had been hurdles of reeds; and in a few minutes more its rigging was all cut loose—both running and standing—its shrouds and stays—sheets, braces, and lifts.

The great mast, with its yards still attached, soon rested upon the water alongside the wreck—for the Pandora might now be called a wreck—and upon these, as a foundation, the raft was speedily laid. The spare spars and yards, the gaffs and booms, were thrown upon top, and soon lashed firm by those who had descended to the water, and who now found footing upon the huge floating mass of timber. Empty casks were bunged and flung overboard, and these added essentially to the safety of the structure and its capability of carrying a greater weight. Sails, too, were thrown loosely over all, and then, last of all, the biscuit and water—such quantities of each as could be found amid the confusion.

At length the raft was deemed complete. It could not have exceeded fifteen minutes from the sinking of the long-boat, until the cheering fact was announced, that the raft was ready!

Chapter Fifty Three.

But short as was the time it appeared an age to me. With that dread secret shut up in my breast, every minute seemed an hour; and I knew not the moment that was to be our last. When the long-boat went down, I had resigned all hope—not dreaming that a raft could be got ready before the explosion would take place.

It is metaphorical to say that every minute seemed an hour; but so tardy did the time appear that I began to wonder why the awful event was so long delayed. Perhaps, thought I, the powder may be far down, covered over with other things—such as boxes and bales—and the fire has not yet been able to get at it? I knew that a barrel of powder, even when thrown into the midst of a red-hot fire, takes a considerable time to explode. An intense heat must be generated in the wood before the powder inside will ignite; and, for this reason, the barrel must be a good while exposed to the fire. Perhaps the flames had not yet reached it? Was this the reason why the catastrophe was delayed?

Or was it that the powder was not in the store-room, or the cabin either, or in the after-part of the vessel at all? About its whereabouts the skipper had said nothing, and it was upon this point I had desired explanation as the gig rowed off. A knowledge of this might have been of the greatest importance; but the captain had not even thrown out a hint. What after all if there was no gun-power on board? What if the man had meant it as a jest—ill-timed and unfeeling though it was?

What if he had intended it not as a piece of pleasantry, but an act of refined cruelty?

There were circumstances that favoured this last supposition. For the preceding twenty hours he had been at loggerheads with the crew. Ever since morning, since the commencement of the water trouble, the men had been sulky and mutinous, and both mate and captain had been slightly treated—their orders in most cases altogether disregarded. In fact, both had been bearded and threatened, and several angry altercations had occurred between them and the crew. It was natural they should feel spiteful and desirous of having revenge—natural for such men as they were—and might it not be to gratify this feeling, that the skipper had shouted back that gratuitous piece of intelligence, that there was gunpowder on board?

Fiendish as such conduct may appear, there was probability in the supposition. It would only be in keeping with the character of the man.

I really began to hope that such might be the case; and it again occurred to me to seek Ben and communicate the secret to him. He would be more likely to know whether the skipper had spoken truly or in cruel jest; and, if the former, perhaps he might be able to guess where the dangerous material was concealed, and might yet be in time to move it beyond the reach of the fire.

These reflections occupied me but a few seconds of time; and as soon as I had made them I hurried over the decks in search of my friend, with the design of making the disclosure of my secret.

I found him among the rest, busy about the raft. He was wielding an axe, and cutting away some of the sheeting of the bulwarks, to help in its construction. I caught him by the sleeve, and with a gesture drew him a little to one side; and then in a whisper I made known to him the parting speech of the captain.

I saw that the announcement startled him. Brave man though he was, it was enough to bring the paleness to his cheeks, and cause him to stand for some moments speechless and irresolute.

“You’re sure he said that—sure o’ it, Willim?”

“Quite sure—they were his very words.”

“A barrel o’ powder aboard!”

“He said it just as they rowed off. I’ve been thinking he might have done it out of spite—to frighten us?”

“No, no, lad, it’s true—shiver my timbers! if it an’t. The powder—’twas believed we’d turned it all over to King Dingo. Now I remember something. I thought I seed the skipper hide a barrel o’ it after it was counted out; he stole it from the nigger, for sartin. I thought so at the time, but warn’t sure. Now I be sure. There be a barrel aboard, sure as we’re livin’! Heaven o’ mercy—we’re lost, lad!—we’re lost!”

The momentary relief, which I had experienced from my late conjecture, was at an end; and my apprehensions were now as acute as ever. It was no jest then—the skipper had been in earnest. The gunpowder was on board—the stolen barrel—and for this theft we were now to be sacrificed while the thief himself had escaped!

Brace stood for some seconds, as if paralysed with the intelligence I had given him. He seemed to watch and listen for the crisis, and so did I.

After a short while, however, my companion recovered his presence of mind and appeared busy thinking out some plan of deliverance.

But a few seconds only was he silent, and then, making a sign for me to go after him, he glided towards the bows of the vessel.

No one saw or followed us, and there was nobody forward beyond the windlass. At the moment all were busy amidships, in getting the great mast overboard, and cutting away the strong ropes of the rigging.

Brace continued on over the bow-bulwarks, until he had got between the bumpkin and bowsprit-shrouds, and close to the figure-head of the vessel. Here he stopped and beckoned me towards him. I crawled over, and stood by his side.

“Not a word, lad!—not a word of what you’ve heard! It can do no good, but only harm. If they get to know’t, they’ll knock off work—every one o’ ’em—and then we must all either roast or drown. Let ’em go on with the raft—maybe there’ll be time enough yet. Almighty grant that there may be, Willim! For all that, ’tan’t no harm to try and save ourselves if we can. The powder’s sure to be about the cabin, and we’ll stand a better chance here forrard. But we ’ant a-goin’ to stop here longer than we can help. Look sharp, now, and give me a hand! These two planks ’ll float us. You cut some rope, then, while I knock ’em off—there, cut clear the jib-sheets and downhauls—that’ll do—quick, lad! quick!”

Thus directing me, Brace, who had brought the axe along with him commenced knocking off the great broad boards that stretched on both sides from the bulwarks to the figure-head, and upon which the name of the vessel was painted. With a few strokes of the axe the strong man was able to detach them; and, as soon as this was done, he slung them in the ropes I had already obtained, and lowered them down to the water.

Climbing out upon the bowsprit, he next detached the dolphin-striker, and it also was lowered down, while I made myself useful by cutting through the martingales, also the fore-topgallant and royal-stays, that fastened this spar in its place. Several other pieces of timber yielded to the axe; and all, having been thrown downward, floated together upon the motionless surface of water.

Brace, now perceiving that there was enough to make a raft to carry the two of us, flung the axe into the shrouds; and, gliding down a rope upon the floating timbers, called upon me to follow him. It was at this moment I heard the cry from the main-deck that the great raft was ready; and, looking back, I perceived that the men were hurrying over the side and descending upon it. If I remained but a moment longer I should be the last upon the burning wreck.

No!—not the last—far from it. There were nearly five hundred more—five hundred human beings on board the Pandora! and though they were men with black skins, they had lives to lose—lives as precious to them as ours were to us.

A terrible spectacle was comprehended in that backward glance—a sight, the remembrance of which never fails to send a chill through my veins, and a shuddering through my frame.

Chapter Fifty Four.

During all this time what was the behaviour of the unfortunate blacks? Where were they? what were they doing? What was being done for them? Were any steps being taken for their safety?

The two last of these questions may be answered by saying, that up to that moment, with the exception of myself, perhaps, not one on board had given a thought either to them or their fate! With regard to their whereabouts, they were still between decks, and under grated hatches; and as to what they were doing, it would have been hard to tell that—hard even to guess it. One thing they were doing; they were crying frantically, and screaming as if they had all gone mad—but this was no new thing, it had been their behaviour throughout that whole day.

In their hurrying to and fro, while launching the long-boat, and afterwards while gathering materials for the raft, the men passed frequently near them; and then the cries of the blacks would, for the moment, be uttered in a louder voice, and in more earnest tones,—sometimes of entreaty, but oftener of rage and menace.

As no notice was taken of them, and those to whom they appealed passed carelessly on, their voices would sink again into the deep continuous murmur of despair.

It is probable that up to this period—the moment when the raft was ready—the only agony which they had experienced was thirst; for I noticed, on last passing them, that their cries had not changed. It was still agoa! agoa!—water! water! This, with the want of air and room, the desire to get upon deck, were the impulses that had been urging them to such furious and frantic demonstrations.

It is most probable, then, that up to the period I have mentioned they had no particular dread—at least, no dread of the awful doom that now threatened them so nearly.

The smoke of the burning cabin rather inclined aft than forward, and had not reached them, and the flames were not yet sufficiently bright to illumine the whole vessel with any unnatural light. Of course, from their position under the hatches, neither cabin nor deck was visible to them; and until either smoke or flame, or a brilliant light shining through the grating, should reveal the awful truth, they could not possibly be aware of their peril. No one had volunteered to announce it to them, because no one thought it worth while!

They may have observed that all was not right—they may have had suspicions that there was something amiss. The unusual movements of the crew—the noises heard upon deck—the hurried trampling of feet, and the gestures of the sailors, as these passed within sight, with the terrified expression of their countenances—which could scarce have been unnoticed—for it was still clear enough for that—all these matters must have excited the suspicions of the close kept crowd, that there was something amiss on board the barque. The crashing sound of axes, and then the shock and heavy lurching of the vessel, as the mast came down, may have excited other apprehensions besides that of perishing by thirst; and, though they continued their cries for water, I observed that they conversed among themselves in hurried mutterings that bespoke alarm from some other cause.

But as none of them knew anything about a ship or her ways—the Pandora was the first they had ever looked upon—of course they could not arrive at any conclusion as to why the unusual movements were going forward. Guided only by what they heard, they could hardly guess what was being done. They could not imagine there was a danger of being wrecked—since there was neither wind nor storm—and after all it might be some manoeuvre in navigation which they did not comprehend. This probably would have been their belief had they not observed the odd look and gestures of such of the sailors as at intervals came near the grating. These were so wild as to convince them that something was wrong—that there was danger aboard.

The commotion had produced fears among them, but not proportioned to the peril. They knew not the nature of their danger, and their alarm had not yet reached its crisis: but they were not destined to remain much longer in doubt.

Just at this moment a jet of red flame shot upward through the smoke—it was followed by another, redder and more voluminous—then another, and another, until the blaze rose continuous, and stood several feet in the air.

The moon became eclipsed by the brighter light—the whole vessel was yellowed over, as if the sun had returned above the ocean.

The crackling of the burning timber now sounded in their ears—the fire, having escaped from the embrace of its own smoke, seethed fiercer, and rose higher into the air, until the top of the ascending flames could be seen through the grating of the hatches.

But it needed not that the flames should be seen—their light, and the hissing, crackling noise that proceeded from them, proclaimed the dread nature of the catastrophe.

Then arose a cry—a wild, agonising cry—out of the bosom of that dark hold—out of the hearts of that ill-fated crowd—a cry that for some moments drowned the fierce seething of the flames, and the crashing, crackling sounds of the fire. I shall never forget that cry—none who heard it could fail to remember it till their last hour.

It was just at this crisis that I had turned to look back. Awful was the sight that met my eyes—awful the sounds that fell upon my ears. Under the bright gleam of the blazing ship, I saw the black faces and round woolly heads pressing against the bars of the grating. I saw glaring eyes, foaming lips, and teeth set in terror, glittering white under the corruscation of the flames. I saw smoke oozing up the grated hatch—the fire was fast creeping forward—its foul harbinger was already among them—oh! what an awful sight!

I could not bear it—I could not have borne it in a dream—it was too much for human eyes—too much for the heart of man. My first impulse was to turn away, and glide down beside my companion—who was waiting patiently upon the raft below.

This was my first impulse, which suddenly gave way to another. My eye had fallen upon the axe—still lying across the bowsprit-shrouds, where Brace had thrown it.

The weapon suggested a purpose; and, eagerly seizing it, I faced once more towards the burning vessel. My purpose was to return on deck—strike off the batten—and set the grating free. I knew the risk—I had forgotten the presence of the powder—but if it were to be my death I could not restrain myself from acting as I did. I could not live to behold such a terrible holocaust—such a wholesale burning of human beings!

“At least,” thought I, “they shall not perish thus. Though their fate be sealed, they shall have a choice of death—they shall choose between burning and drowning—the latter will at least be easier to endure.”

It was this last reflection that had prompted me to my purpose.

Bending downward, I hurriedly communicated my design to my companion. I was gratified with his reply.

“All right, Willim! good work—do it!—do it—set ’em free, poor creetirs. I was thinking o’t myself—tho’ ’twas too late—haste ’ee, lad—look sharp!”

I waited not for the end of his speech; but springing back to the deck, rushed towards the hatch. I thought not of looking below—indeed, the smoke was now coming up so thickly that I could scarce see the terrified faces. The glimpse I had of them was sufficient to satisfy me, that, in a few minutes more, those glaring eyes would have been blind, and those hoarse voices hushed in death.

I remembered where one batten had been removed, and where the other had been attacked by the axe. I renewed the attack—striking with all the strength and dexterity I could demand.

My efforts proved successful; and, after half-a-dozen blows, the spikes yielded, and the cleet of timber flew off.

I did not stay to raise the grating; I knew that would be done by the pressure from below; and, gliding back, I once more climbed over the bows.

One glance back, as I passed over the head, told me that my purpose had been fully accomplished. Instantly as I parted from it the grating was flung off, and I saw the stream of black forms pouring upwards and spreading itself over the deck!

I stayed to observe no more; but, sliding down a rope, was received in the arms of my companion.

Chapter Fifty Five.

During my short absence, Brace had not been idle.

He had got his little raft compacted—its timbers tied together—and it now carried us both without even dipping under water. The two spars, the dolphin-striker, and half of the spritsail-yard were laid parallel to each other, and transversely to these were the broad pieces, that exhibited in large letters the name of the ill-fated barque. There were several other pieces of timber, a handspike or two, and an oar—which Brace had picked up as he glided towards the head—and over all was a piece of sail-cloth, or tarpaulin. The whole formed a raft just about large enough for two, and safe enough in calm weather, but under a gale, or even a strong wind, such a structure would have been overwhelmed at once.

But my companion had no intention of going to sea with such a craft. His idea had been that he might get it ready before the great raft could be finished, and the sooner escape from the dangerous proximity of the powder. Even if it had taken him quite as long to prepare it, there was still a greater chance of safety by our being so far forward upon the vessel. If the powder had exploded there would have been a chance of our not being blown to atoms. The after-part of the vessel might be shivered in pieces, and, of course, the rest would soon sink; but still, by keeping out by the head, there were many chances in our favour. It was from these considerations that the sailor had hurried away from amidships, and set to making his raft at the bows. It was only intended as a temporary retreat—to enable us at the earliest moment to get beyond the circle of danger; and, should the men succeed in completing the larger structure, ours could afterward be brought alongside and joined on to it.

The large raft was completed as soon as our little one, and all hands had gone down upon it. As I returned on deck to strike up the hatch, I saw not a soul of the Pandora’s crew. They had all gone out of the vessel, and betaken themselves to the raft. From the deck I could not see either them or the raft—as the latter was still close in under the beam-ends of the barque.

As soon as I had got fairly down, my companion pushed off, and the next moment the great raft came under our view. Both it, and those who were on it, were seen as distinctly as though it had been daylight—for the burning vessel was no longer a combination of flame and smoke. Her whole quarter-deck, from the taffrail to the main-hatch, was enveloped in a bright flame that illumined the surface of the sea to the distance of miles. Under this light, we perceived the raft and the men standing or crouching upon it.

They had pushed off some ten or twelve yards from the side of the vessel, in order to be clear of the flames. There was another reason that induced them to get some distance away, and that was the fear that there might be powder aboard. Although no positive alarm had been given to that effect, there existed a doubt about the thing, and they were not without apprehensions. There were other men besides Brace who knew something, or had heard something, about the stolen keg, but who, not being certain about the matter, did not like to make known their suspicions. There might be powder yet; and it was, therefore, with a feeling of relief that all hands had sprung upon the raft, and got it out of the way of such dangerous contingency. No doubt it was this suspicion about the gunpowder that had influenced them all to exert themselves so strenuously in the work. So far as there was any danger from the flames, they might have continued on board a while longer—for it would still be many minutes, before the conflagration could extend forward and embrace the whole of the vessel.

The men had not stayed aboard a moment longer than was required for them to complete the necessary work; and, once on the water, they were seen to be working as anxiously as ever to push off the raft—as though they dreaded contact with the barque from some other cause than the danger of the fire.

This was in reality the case; for, now that the raft was fairly afloat, those who suspected the presence of gunpowder were heard freely declaring their suspicions; and all stood looking upon the conflagration with eyes of expectancy—expecting every moment to hear an explosion!

It was just at that moment that Brace and I, passing round the larboard-bow, came in sight of the crew; and, without a moment’s hesitation, my companion using the oar, and I doing what I could with a handspike, set our little raft in motion, directing it as well as we could towards the other—with which we supposed in a few seconds we should be able to come up.

In this, however, we were disappointed. Just then we observed a strange movement among the men on the raft, who, after standing for some seconds in attitudes that betokened surprise, and with voices and gestures that confirmed it, were seen hastily renewing their efforts to put themselves at a still greater distance from the wreck; and not only hastily, but in a manner that bespoke some degree of terror!

What could this mean? Surely the flames could not reach them now? Surely they were beyond all danger from an explosion of gunpowder—even had there been a hundred barrels instead of one? The blowing up of a whole magazine could not have harmed them at that distance off? Surely it was not this that was exciting them?

I first looked to Brace for explanation, but his actions, at the moment, were as mysterious as any. He was on the forward part of our little craft, kneeling upon the planks and using his oar in the manner of a paddle. I saw that he was endeavouring to direct our course towards the raft; so as I with the handspike; but my companion, instead of working leisurely and deliberately—as he had hitherto been doing—was now rowing with all the haste and strength he could put into his arms—as if he was in dread that the raft would get away from us, and was doing his utmost to overtake her!

He had said nothing as yet; but I could see his features distinctly under the brilliant light, and the expression upon them, as well as the earnest endeavours he was making to increase our speed, convinced me that he, too was under some feeling of terror.

Was it the fear of being left behind by those on the raft? No; it could not be that; for, though neither was going faster than a cat could swim we were evidently making better speed than they; and it was plain we were getting nearer them at every stroke of the paddle. The great raft, indeed, lay like what it was—a raft of logs; and, although the men had oars, it was only with great difficulty it could be pushed along, and moved slowly and heavily through the water. Why should Brace be at all uneasy about our overtaking it?

But it was not that that was urging him to such haste. The conjecture only held possession of my thoughts for an instant. In the next instant I perceived the cause of terror. I saw what alarmed both my companion and the crew upon the raft.

Chapter Fifty Six.

Up to that instant I had not looked back towards the burning barque. I would rather not have done so. I dreaded to look back; moreover, I was so eagerly employed in helping to propel our floating plank that I had scarce time for looking around.

Now, however, I was constrained to raise my head and glance back upon that terrific spectacle. It explained at once why the crew of the Pandora were so eager to be gone from the spot.

The fire had burned forward to the stump of the main-mast, and, fed by the large quantities of black pitchy ropes—the shrouds, stays, and ratlines—was sending up strong bursts of smoky flame. Red tongues were shooting out forward, as if to grasp the rigging of the fore-mast that still stood untouched. But the most singular, or rather the most awful, part of the scene was that presented on the foredeck and the whole forward part of the ship. Upon the windlass, the bulwarks, the fore-mast shrouds, around the head, and out to the bowsprit-end, was a continuous swarm of human forms, so thickly clustered that scarce any part of the vessel could be seen, except the fore-mast, with its spars and rigging towering high above. Five hundred there were—perhaps not so many—as some of them, happily for themselves, had gone out of the world before that dread hour. But nearly five hundred there were, and of course they covered every part of the forward deck, and even the sides and bulwarks, from the selvage of the approaching flames to the bowsprit-end. Some had gone out even farther, and could be seen swarming like bees and balancing their bodies on the jib-boom. In fact, but for its awful character, the scene suggested the hiving of bees that had crowded every leaf and twig upon the branch of a tree.

Both males and females were there—for both had succeeded in making their way on deck—but amid that thick swarm their sex could not be distinguished. Strange to say, they were no longer black! Not one of them looked black—on the contrary, they appeared red! Their faces, the skin of their naked bodies, even the woolly coverture of their crowns, showed blood-red under the glaring light of the blazing pitch; and this singular transformation added not a little to rendering the scene more terrific—for there was something supernatural in this altered complexion.

The whole scene might have been compared to the final of some grand theatrical spectacle—it had all the grandeur, the red light, and the scenic embellishment—but in two circumstances it widely differed from the fictitious imitation. There was not that variety of forms and colours in the tableaux, and, moreover, the characters were not as upon the stage—in poses and attitudes that betokened rest. On the contrary, all were in motion. Their arms were tossing wildly above their heads, while they themselves were leaping upward or dancing to and fro wherever they could find footing. They were shouting in tones of despair, screaming in agonised accents; while some, who had evidently gone mad, were gibbering and laughing in voices that bore a striking resemblance to that of the hyena!

The strong light enabled me to trace everything minutely—alas, too minutely! I could see the white gleaming teeth, the frothing lips, the eyes glaring in madness or terror. We were still scarce a cable’s length from them. I could note every movement as if I had been in their midst, or within ten feet of them. They all stood fronting in the direction of the raft; and for this reason I could note their gestures, and even distinguish the expression upon their features.

Among other things I saw women—I knew they were women only from their being smaller than those around—I saw women lift up little dark forms as high as they could raise them, and hold them out in the direction of the raft. They were their children, their infant piccaninnies, and this was intended as a supplication to the white runaways to come back and save them. Others stretched forth their arms and stood in attitudes of entreaty; while men—the stronger and fiercer ones—shook their clenched fists in the air and hurled after us loud cries of menace.

Awe-inspiring as was the spectacle, it was neither the threats of the men nor the supplications of the women that was causing all commotion among the crew on the raft.

Part of the blaspheming and loud talk that could be heard there arose from anger that the blacks had been let out; and we could hear several voices inquiring, in harsh angry tones. “Who has done it? Who has done it?”

These questions were not asked simply thus, but with the embellishments of horrid oaths and exclamations that cannot be repeated.

It was just as my companion and I were parting from the bows, that we heard these questions asked, and so earnest was the tone of the inquirers, that I at once saw that I had placed myself in a position of danger.

It appeared that I had committed an imprudence. My humanity had hurried me to an act that could be of no service in saving the lives of those I intended to benefit, but was likely to bring destruction upon all—myself among the rest.

I can scarce say that I repented of what I had done. I should have done the same deed again. I could have not restrained myself. I had followed the promptings of mercy. How could I have acted otherwise?

I had such reflections at the moment, or something like them. I cannot exactly describe my thoughts, for a tumult of strange emotions was passing through my mind.

I now perceived the danger which threatened the two rafts: I perceived it on looking back toward burning the vessel: the blacks were threatening to swim after, and seek refuge upon the rafts. Large numbers of them showed that they had formed this intention. It was apparent from their movements and attitudes. They were swarming over the bulwarks and down the sides. They had gathered along the beam-ends and seemed every moment on the eve of launching their bodies into the water!

Chapter Fifty Seven.

No wonder the sailors were alarmed. Should the blacks carry out their intention, enough of them might reach the raft to sink her—enough of them, perhaps, to fling the white men into the sea and themselves take possession of that frail chance for life. Whatever might be the event, it was clear that if they came on, certain destruction must result to one or other, or most likely to all. As for my companion and myself, we appeared in a position of greater peril, even than those upon the raft, for we were between them and the threatened danger. But we had no fears from this source; we were certain that if no accident arose to our craft we could propel it faster than a man could swim—though so little faster that it would have been a tight race had we been pursued. However, having so many yards of start we had little to fear.

We kept on, intending to overtake the raft and fasten our floating planks alongside it; and this purpose, after a few minutes, we succeeded in effecting.

Brace had cautioned me as we came up to say nothing, of what I had done.

“For your life say nothing, for certainly,” said he, “they will throw you into the sea and me along with you. Say not a word,” whispered he, as a final caution—“not a word, even if they question you. I’ll answer them if they do.”

He was called upon to do so, and dexterously did he execute his design.

“Hilloa!” hailed several as we approached—“who are ye? Ho! Brace and that precious boy Bill. Was it you that let the niggers above board? Was it either of you?”

These questions were put with the usual vulgar embellishments.

“No!” responded Brace, in an indignant tone and of course telling the truth as far as he was concerned—“How could we? We were down by the bows, and couldn’t see ’em. I wonder how they did get loose? They must a broke through when ye knocked off the batten. I seed nothin’ of ’em till we were out in the water. I was under the head makin’ this bit o’ raft. I was affeerd there wouldn’t be room for all—lend a hand here one o’ ye, and hitch this thing on—it’ll help to keep a couple o’ us afloat anyhow.”

By this appeal for help my companion dexterously turned the conversation, so that no further questions were asked about who set free the blacks. Indeed, there was no opportunity to talk any more upon the matter, for at this crisis the attention of every one upon the raft had become earnestly fixed upon that dark, red cloud that clustered along the side of the vessel.

Strange to say the negroes had been for some minutes in this position—with every appearance of a purpose to leap outward into the water and swim towards the raft—and yet, not one of them had sprung forth! They seemed like men determined to do a thing, but who waited for a signal from some leader. Either that, or some one to take the lead himself and set the example—just like a mob of soldiers crowded together on the field of battle—as soldiers always are at such times—prepared to charge forward and rush even upon death itself, if some bold spirit will only give the word and go forward in advance of them. So stood the crowd of blacks, threatening to plunge into the sea and yet hesitating to do so.

We wondered at their hesitation. What could they mean by holding back? The raft appeared the only chance for their lives—though a poor respite it would be. Nevertheless, men who are about to be burned or drowned will cling to a less hope than that. Why, then, did they not jump overboard and swim after, as all expected them to have done before this? Could they swim? or could they not? These were the questions that now passed rapidly from mouth to mouth on board the raft, and were answered with equal rapidity, though the answers were but guesses, and did not correspond. They were both negative and affirmative. Some alleged that they could not. If this were true, then the position of affairs could be explained at once: the hesitation of the blacks to take to the water would, upon this hypothesis, be easily understood. However, there were but few who held this opinion. It was quite improbable that it could be the true one—quite improbable that in all that crowd there was not any one who could swim—for even one would have taken to the sea in hopes of finding refuge upon the raft—forlorn as the hope may have been. No, the negative supposition was not to be entertained for a moment. It is well-known that most of the natives of Africa not only swim but are most excellent swimmers. Their mode of life renders the art a necessity among them. Living on the banks of great rivers, by the shores of those immense lakes in which Central Africa abounds, often requiring to cross streams that are deep and rapid, and where no bridges exist, these people are compelled by their very wants to become experts swimmers. Besides, their hot climate renders the exercise a pleasant one, and many tribes of them spend half their time in the water.

It was highly improbable that they could not swim—all, or nearly all, of them. No, this was not the cause of their hesitancy.

And what was?

This question was answered by one of the sailors—though all of us at the same moment perceived the cause.

“Look yonder!” cried the man, pointing along the water; “look yonder; yon’s what cows ’em—the sharks!”

Chapter Fifty Eight.

The stretch of water that lay between the raft and the burning vessel glittered under the yellow light like a sea of molten gold. On its calm surface the blazing barque was mirrored, as though another was on fire below; but the perfect image was broken by occasional rippling, as if some living creatures were stirring through the water. The very intensity of the light, dazzling our eyes, prevented us from scanning the surface with any degree of minuteness. It was like looking against the sun as the bright orb rises or sets over the sea. The strong light glancing along the water produced a sheen and a sparkle that half-blinded us; and, although we had observed an occasional eddy or rippling motion upon the surface, we had not thought of the cause until that moment.

Now, however, that our attention was called to this moving of the waters we had no difficulty in making out the cause. It was the sharks that were darting about—now rushing impatiently from point to point; now lying in wait, silent and watchful, like cats, ready to spring upon their prey. Here and there we could see their huge dorsal fins standing like gaff-topsails above the surface, now cleaving the water like huge blades of steel, anon dipping below to appear again at some point nearer to their expected prey.

From the number of these fins that we observed above water, we came to the conclusion that there must be hundreds of these voracious creatures around the blazing barque. In fact there was a perfect “school” of them, like porpoises or minnows—for the longer we gazed the greater number of fins and rippling eddies were detected, until at times it appeared as if the whole surface was thickly covered with these preying fish!

Their numbers, too, seemed to be continually increasing. On looking out to sea others might be noticed swimming up, as if they had come from a distance. No doubt that red conflagration was a signal that summoned them from afar. Like enough the sight was not new to them—it was not the first time they had witnessed the burning of a ship and had been present at the spectacle; before now they had assisted at the dénouement, and were ever after ready to welcome such a catastrophe, and hasten towards it from afar.

I really could not help thinking that these monsters of the deep possessed some such intelligence, as they swam around the fated barque—casting towards it their ogreish expecting looks.

They came around the raft as well—indeed, they appeared to be thicker there than elsewhere—as though we who stood upon it were to be the prey that would first fall into their ravenous jaws. So thick were they, that two or three could be seen side by side, swimming together as though they were yoked; and at each moment they grew bolder and came nearer to the timbers. Some already swam so close to the raft, that they were within reach of a blow from the handspikes, but not any one attempted to touch them. On the contrary, the word was passed round for no one to strike or assail them in any way. Just then they were doing good work; they were to be let alone!

Little as the sailors would have liked to see such shoals of these dreaded creatures at any other time—for between sailor and shark there is a constant antipathy—just then the sight was welcome to them. They knew that they themselves were out of reach of the hideous monsters; and at a glance they had comprehended the advantage they were deriving from their presence. They saw that they were the guardians of the raft—and that, but for them, the blacks would long since have taken to the water and followed it. The fear of the sharks alone restrained them; and no wonder it did, for the whole surface of the sea between the blazing vessel and the raft now seemed alive with these horrid creatures!

It was no longer wondered at that the negroes had not precipitated themselves into the water and swam after us. It would have been a bold leap for any of them to have taken—a leap, as it were, into the very jaws of death.

And, yet, death was behind them—death quick and sure, and, perhaps, of all others the most painful—death by fire. In setting the poor wretches free, I had been under the humane impression that I had given them the easier alternative of being drowned. I now saw that I was mistaken. No such alternative was in their power. There was no longer a choice between burning and drowning. It now lay between burning and being devoured by the sharks!

Chapter Fifty Nine.

An awful alternative it was, and for a long while the ill-starred victims seemed to linger in their choice. Hard choice between two horrid forms of death! Little did it matter which, and the knowledge of this rendered them indifferent whether to spring forth or stand still. Death was before them as well as behind—turn which way they might, death stared them in the face—soon and certain—and on every side they saw its threatening arm—before, behind, above, and around them. The utter hopelessness of escape had numbed their energies—they were paralysed by despair.

But even in the hour of the most hopeless despair there arrives a crisis when men will still struggle for life—it is the last struggle—the final conflict as it were, with death itself. No one yields up life without this effort, though it be ever so idle. The drowning man does not voluntarily permit himself to sink below the surface. He still strives to keep afloat, though he may not have the slightest hope of being rescued. The effort is partly involuntary—it is the body that still continues to battle for life, after the mind has resigned all hope—the last stand that existence makes against annihilation. It may be a purely mechanical effort—perhaps it is so—but who ever saw a strong man compelled to part suddenly with life, that did not make such a struggle? Even the condemned criminal upon the gallows continues to strive till the breath has parted from his body. Something like this last despairing effort aroused the energies of that hesitating crowd that clustered upon the burning barque. The crisis at length came.

The flames were fast rushing forward, and spreading over all the deck. Their red jets, spurting out beyond the selvage of smoke, began to touch the bodies of their victims, and pain them with the fierce sting of fire. It produced no augmentation in their cries of agony. These had long since reached the climax, and the voices of those who uttered them had been already raised to their highest pitch. But the close proximity of the flames, and the absolute certainty of being now destroyed by them, caused a general movement throughout the living mass; and, as if actuated by an universal impulse, or guided by one common instinct, all were seen making a sudden descent upon the water.

Those who had been hitherto standing along the side were not the first to leap. It was they who were farther back, and of course nearer to the flames, who first took to the water; and these, rushing over the bulwarks—and even stepping upon the shoulders of those who were clustered there—without further hesitation flung themselves headlong into the sea. But the impulse seemed to communicate itself to the others, and almost instantaneously—as if some one had proclaimed a way to safety and was leading them on to it—the whole crowd followed the foremost and went plunging into the water. In a few seconds not an individual could be seen—of all that dark swarm that had so lately crowded the fore-part of the vessel, not one was now visible on board. Simultaneously had they deserted the burning wreck!

A wild scene was now presented in the water. The whole surface was thick with human forms, plunging and struggling together. Some were evidently unable to swim, and, with their bodies half erect, were tossing their arms about in vain efforts to keep above the surface. Here and there several clung together, until two or three—or in some instances larger groups—dragged one another below, and sank to the bottom together. Strong swimmers were observed separating from the rest, and forging out into the open water. Of these the heads only could be seen, and rapidly closing upon them the dark vertical fin that told the presence of the pursuing shark.

Then could be heard the wild, despairing cry—then could be seen the quick rush of the monster upon his prey—the water lashed by his tail—the foam thrown up, already tinged with the blood of the victim—and, after that, the surface returning to its level—the eddies and red frothing bubbles alone marking for a few moments the scene of each tragical crisis.

Oh! it was an awful spectacle to look upon—this wholesale ravening of sharks—and even those who were upon the raft, with all their inhumanity and heartless cruelty of disposition could not behold it without emotion.

It was scarce an emotion of pity, however. Perhaps of all, Brace and I were the only ones who felt pity. Some were indifferent, but the majority of them—although a little awed by the tragical scene—were actually glad at beholding it! It may be wrong of me to say they were glad—what I mean is, that they felt a secret satisfaction at what was going on—springing not from pure wanton cruelty of heart, but rather from an instinct of self-preservation. Hitherto, these men had been in great dread of the blacks overtaking the raft—they were not yet free from the fear—and, of course, with this in their minds, they regarded with satisfaction the wholesale ravage that the sharks were committing. By this their own danger was every moment diminished—hence it is that they were gratified at the hideous spectacle.

But numerous as were the sharks, there were not enough of them to make total destruction of that vast crowd of human beings. After the first general attack the ravenous brutes appeared to become scarcer and scarcer, until but one here and one there, could be seen rushing upon their prey. The greater number, having already secured a victim, were satisfied and perhaps had gone down to their haunts in the darker deep—while hundreds of human heads were still observable above the surface of the water.

The flames, still flaring brilliantly, illumined the sea as if the day was shining upon it; and it could be observed that the faces of the survivors were all turned in the direction of the raft, towards which they were swimming with all their strength.

Once more the sailors became inspired with apprehension—once more they dreaded that their last hour was come, and that they themselves might soon be struggling among the sharks.

Chapter Sixty.

There was much shouting among the white men and many wild exclamations, but no time was lost in idle talk—for every one was doing his best to propel the raft. The shouts were only an accompaniment to their actions. Nearly every one wielded some implement, which had been grappled in the hurry of the moment. Some were provided with oars, others had only handspikes, and still others assisted in paddling with pieces of board that had been obtained from old coops, or the bulwarks broken by the falling mast. Those who could find nothing better stretched themselves along the edge of the raft and beat the water with their hands, in order to aid in producing a forward motion.

But the great masses of timber—not yet firmly lashed together—lay loose and loggish upon the water, and moved very slowly and irregularly under such ill-assorted propulsion: and, notwithstanding that the raft had obtained a hundred yards the start of the swimmers, its occupants began seriously to dread being overtaken.

They had reason to fear it. There could be no doubt that the pursuers were gaining upon us, and this soon became evident to all upon the raft. Nay, more, they were gaining rapidly; and, at the rate at which they were swimming, five minutes could not pass before they would overtake us.

Those upon the raft were now quite conscious that such would be the event. Paddle and beat the water as they might they could not propel the heavy timbers beyond a certain rate of speed—not so fast as a man could swim. Notwithstanding their exertions, and the advantage of their long start, they saw they were going to be overtaken.

It could not be otherwise—there was nothing now to obstruct the pursuit—nothing to stay the pursuers. The sharks, having sated their appetites, had let most of the swimmers escape. Occasionally one was seen to go down with a shriek, but this was the exception—the rest swam freely on.

What was their motive in following us? was it vengeance, or a despairing hope of being saved? Perhaps both,—but no matter which, there were enough of them to overpower the white men by sheer strength; and, once they succeeded in reaching us, it was not likely they would fail to avenge themselves for the wrongs that had been put upon them.

Should they succeed in overtaking the raft they would easily climb upon it; a few might be kept back, but it would be impossible for thirty men to repulse hundreds; and the crowd would soon crawl over the edge, and, with their additional weight, sink the frail structure to the bottom of the sea.

Should they succeed in reaching the raft—there was no need of any supposition—they would be certain to overtake it—even at that moment there were some of them scarce ten yards off, and coming nearer at every fresh stroke of their arms. These, however, were the strongest swimmers, who were far ahead of the rest. The main body were still twenty yards further off; but it was plain that the slowest of them swam faster than the raft was moving.

Most of the sailors began to give way to despair. The wicked deeds of an ill-spent life were rising before them. To all appearance their last hour had come.