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<h3>Chapter Eighty One.</h3> <h4>Unpleasant Conjectures.</h4> “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. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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