The Boy Slaves Part 2

You may fancy it could have been easily answered. The direction of the wind and waves was landward. It was the sea-breeze, which at night, as every navigator is aware, blows habitually towards the land--at least in the region of the tropics, and more especially towards the hot Saara.

The tide itself might have told them the direction to take. It was the in-coming tide, and therefore swelling towards the beach.

You may fancy they had nothing to do but follow the waves, keeping the breeze upon their back.

So they fancied, at first starting for the sh.o.r.e; but they were not long in discovering that this guide, apparently so trustworthy, was not to be relied upon; and it was only then they became apprised of the real danger of their situation. Both wind and waves were certainly proceeding landward, and in a direct line; but it was just this direct line the castaways dared not, in fact could not, follow; for they had not gone a hundred fathoms from the point of the submerged peninsula when they found the water rapidly deepening before them; and a few fathoms farther on they stood up to their armpits!

It was evident that, in the direction in which they were proceeding, it continued to grow deeper; and they turned to try another.

After floundering about for a while they found shoal water again, reaching up only to their knees; but, wherever they attempted to follow the course of the waves, they perceived that the shoal trended gradually downward.

This at first caused them surprise, as well as alarm. The former affected them only for an instant. The explanation was sought for, and suggested to the satisfaction of all. The sandspit did not project perpendicularly from the line of the coast, but in a diagonal direction.

It was, in fact, a sort of natural breakwater, forming one side of a large cone, or embayment, lying between it and the true beach. This feature had been observed on their first setting foot upon it, though at the time they were so much engrossed with the joyous thought of having escaped from the sea, that it had made no impression upon their memory.

They now remembered the circ.u.mstance, though not to their satisfaction, for they saw at once that the guide in which they had been trusting could no longer avail them.

The waves were rolling on over that bay, whose depth they had tried, only to find it unfordable.

This was a new dilemma. To escape from it there appeared but one way.

They must keep their course along the combing of the peninsula, if they could. But their ability to do so had now become a question, each instant growing more difficult to answer.

They were no longer certain that they were on the spit; but, whether or not, they could find no shallower water by trying on either side. Each way they went it seemed to deepen; and even if they stood still but for a few moments, as they were compelled to do while hesitating as to their course, the water rose perceptibly upon their limbs.

They were now well aware that they had two enemies to contend with, time and direction. The loss of either one or the other might end in their destruction. A wrong direction would lead them into deep water; a waste of time would bring deep water around them. The old adage about time and tide, which none of them could help having heard, might have been ringing in their ears at that moment. It was appropriate to the occasion.

They thought of it; and the thought filled them with apprehension. From the observations they had made before sunset, they knew that the sh.o.r.e could not be near, not nearer than three miles, perhaps four.

Even with free footing, the true direction, and a clear view of the path, it might have been a question about time. They all knew enough of the sea to be aware how rapidly the tide sets in, especially on some foreign sh.o.r.es, and there was nothing to a.s.sure them that the seaboard of the Saara was not beset by the most treacherous of tides. On the contrary, it was just this, a tidal current, that had forced their vessel among the breakers, causing them to become what they now were, castaways!

They had reason to dread the tides of the Saara's sh.o.r.e; and dread them they did, their fears at each moment becoming stronger as they felt the dark waters rising higher and higher around them!

CHAPTER SIX.

WADE OR SWIM?

Foe a time they floundered on, the old sailor in the lead, the three boys strung out in a line after him. Sometimes they departed from this formation, one or another trying towards the flank for shallower water.

Already it clasped them by the thighs; and just in proportion as it rose upon their bodies, did their spirits become depressed. They knew that they were following the crest of the sandspit. They knew it by the deepening of the sea on each side of them: but they had by this time discovered another index to their direction. Old Bill had kept his "weather-eye" upon the waves; until he had discovered the angle at which they broke over the "bar", and could follow the "combing" of the spit, as he called it, without much danger of departure from the true path.

It was not the direction that troubled their thoughts any longer; but the time and the tide.

Up to their waists in water, their progress could not be otherwise than slow. The time would not have signified could they have been sure of the tide, that is, sure of its not rising higher.

Alas! they could not be in doubt about this. On the contrary, they were too well a.s.sured that it was rising higher; and with a rapidity that threatened soon to submerge them under its merciless swells. These came slowly sweeping along, in the diagonal direction, one succeeding the other, and each new one striking higher up upon the bodies of the now exhausted waders.

On they floundered, despite their exhaustion; on along the subaqueous ridge, which at every step appeared to sink deeper into the water, as if the nearer to land the peninsula became all the more depressed. This, however, was but a fancy. They had already pa.s.sed the neck of the sandspit where it was lowest. It was not that, but the fast flowing tide that was deepening the water around them.

Deeper and deeper, deeper and deeper, till the salt sea clasped them around the armpits, and the tidal waves began to break over their heads!

There seemed but one way open to their salvation, but one course by which they could escape from the engulfment that threatened. This was, to forego any further attempt at wading, to fling themselves boldly upon the waves, and swim ash.o.r.e.

Now that they were submerged to their necks, you may wonder at their not at once adopting this plan. It is true they were ignorant of the distance they would have to swim before reaching the sh.o.r.e. Still they knew it could not be more than a couple of miles, for they had already traversed quite that distance on the diagonal spit. But two miles need scarce have made them despair, with both wind and tide in their favour.

Why, then, did they hesitate to trust themselves to the quick bold stroke of the swimmer, instead of the slow, timid, tortoise-like tread of the wader?

There are two answers to this question; for there were two reasons for them not having recourse to the former alternative. The first was selfish; or rather, should we call it self-preservative. There was a doubt in the minds of all, as to their ability to reach the sh.o.r.e by swimming. It was a broad bay that had been seen before sundown; and once launched upon its bosom, it was a question whether any of them would have strength to cross it. Once launched upon its bosom there would be no getting back to the shoal water through which they were wading: the tidal current would prevent return.

This consideration was backed by another, a lingering belief or hope that the tide might already have reached its highest, and would soon be on the "turn". This hope, though faint, exerted an influence on the waders, as yet sufficient to restrain them from becoming swimmers. But even after this could no longer have prevailed, even when the waves began to surge over, threatening at each fresh "sea" to scatter the s.h.i.+vering castaways and swallow them one by one, there was another thought that kept them together.

It was a thought neither of self nor self-preservation, but a generous instinct, that even in that perilous crisis was stirring within their hearts.

Instinct! No. It was a thought, an impulse if you will; but something higher than an instinct.

Shall I declare it? Undoubtedly, I shall. n.o.ble emotions should not be concealed; and the one which at that moment throbbed within the bosoms of the castaways, was truly n.o.ble.

There were but three of them who felt it. The fourth could not: he could not swim!

Surely the reader needs no further explanation?

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A COMPULSORY PARTING.

One of the four castaways could not swim. Which one? You will expect to hear that it was one of the three mids.h.i.+pmen; and will be conjecturing whether it was Harry Blount, Terence O'Connor, or Colin Macpherson.

My English boy-readers would scarce believe me, were I to say that it was Harry who was wanting in this useful accomplishment. Equally incredulous would be my Irish and Scotch const.i.tuency, were I to deny the possession of it to the representatives of their respective countries, Terence and Colin.

Far be it from me to offend the natural _amour propre_ of my young readers; and in the present case I have no fact to record that would imply any national superiority or disadvantage. The castaway who could not swim was that peculiar hybrid, or _tribrid_, already described; who, for any characteristic he carried about him, might have been born either upon the banks of the Clyde, the Thames, or the Shannon!

It was "Old Bill" who was deficient in natatory prowess--Old Bill, the sailor.

It may be wondered that one who has spent nearly the whole of his life on the sea should be wanting in an accomplishment, apparently, and really, so essential to such a calling. Cases of the kind, however, are by no means uncommon; and in a s.h.i.+p's crew there will often be found a large number of men, sometimes the very best sailors, who cannot swim a stroke.

Those who have neglected to cultivate this useful art, when boys, rarely acquire it after they grow up to be men; or, if they do, it is only in an indifferent manner. On the sea, though it may appear a paradox, there are far fewer opportunities for practising the art of swimming than upon its sh.o.r.es. Aboard a s.h.i.+p, on her course, the chances of "bathing" are but few and far between; and, while in port, the sailor has usually something else to do than spend his idle hours in disporting himself upon the waves. The sailor, when ash.o.r.e, seeks some sport more attractive.

As Old Bill had been at sea ever since he was able to stand upon the deck of a s.h.i.+p, he had neglected this useful art; and though in every other respect an accomplished sailor, rated A.B., Number 1, he could not swim six lengths of his own body.

It was a n.o.ble instinct which prompted his three youthful companions to remain by him in that critical moment, when, by flinging themselves upon the waves, they might have gained the sh.o.r.e without difficulty.

Although the bay might be nearly two miles in width, there could not be more than half that distance beyond their depth, judging by the shoal appearance which the coast had exhibited as they were approaching it before sundown.

All three felt certain of being able to save themselves; but what would become of their companion the sailor?

"We cannot leave you, Bill!" cried Harry; "we will not!"