Chapter 93 - A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea by Mayne Reid
The Catamaran abandoned
For some time the crew of the Catamaran stood contemplating the gig and its lifeless occupant, with looks that betokened repugnance.
By reason of the many dread scenes they had already passed through, this feeling was the less intense, and gradually wore away. It was neither the time nor the place for any show of sentimentalism. Their own perilous situation was too strongly impressed on their minds to admit of unprofitable speculations; and instead of indulging in idle conjectures about the past, they directed their thoughts to the future.
The first consideration was, what was to be done with the gig?
They would take possession of her, of course. There could be no question about this.
It is true the Catamaran had done them good service. She had served to keep them afloat, and thus far saved their lives.
In calm weather they could have made themselves very comfortable on their improvised embarkation; and might have remained safe upon it, so long as their water and provisions lasted. But with such a slow-sailing craft the voyage might last longer than either; and then it could only result in certain death. They might not again have such good fortune in obtaining fish; and their stock of water once exhausted, it was too improbable to suppose they should ever be able to replenish it. There might not be another shower of rain for weeks; and even should it fall, it might be in such rough weather that they could not collect a single quart of it. Her slow-sailing was not the only objection to the Catamaran. Their experience in the gale of the preceding night had taught them, how little they could depend upon her in the event of a real storm. In very rough weather she would certainly be destroyed. Her timbers under the strain would come apart; or, even if they should stick together, and by the buoyancy of the empty casks continue to keep afloat, the sea would wash over them all the same and either drown or otherwise destroy them.
In such a long time as it must take before reaching land, they could not expect to have a continuance of fair weather.
With the gig,—a first-rate craft of its kind,—the case would be different.
Ben Brace well knew the boat, for he had often been one of its crew of rowers.
It was a fast boat,—even under oars,—and with a sail set to it, and a fair wind, they might calculate upon making eight or ten knots an hour. This would in no great time enable them to run down the “trades,” and bring them to some port of the South American coast,—perhaps to Guiana, or Brazil.
These speculations occupied them only a few seconds of time. In fact they had passed through their minds long before they arrived alongside the gig; for they were but the natural considerations suggested by the presence of the boat.
They were now in possession of a seaworthy craft. It seemed as if Providence had thrown it in their way; and they had no idea of abandoning it. On the contrary, it was the raft which was to be deserted.
If they hesitated about transferring themselves and their chattels from the Catamaran to the gig, it was but for a moment; and that brief space of time was only spent in considering how they might best accomplish the transfer.
The boat had first to be got into a fit state for their reception; and as soon as they had recovered from the shock caused by that hideous spectacle, the sailor and Snowball set to work to remove the body out of sight, as well as every trace of the sanguinary strife that must have taken place.
The mutilated corpse was cast into the sea, and sank at once under the surface,—though perhaps never to reach the bottom, for those two ravenous monsters were still hovering around the spot, in greedy expectation of more food for their insatiable stomachs.
The red bilge-water was next baled out of the boat,—the inside timbers cleared of their ensanguined stains, and swilled with clean water from the sea; which was in its turn thrown out, until no trace remained of the frightful objects so lately seen.
A few things that had been found in the boat were permitted to remain: as they might prove of service to the crew coming into possession. Among these there was not a morsel of food, nor a drop of drinking water; but there was the ship’s compass, still in good condition; and the sailor knew that this treasure was too precious to be parted with: as it would enable them to keep to their course under the most clouded skies.
As soon as the gig was ready to receive them, the “stores” of the Catamaran were transferred to it. The cask of water was carefully hoisted aboard the boat,—as also the smaller cask containing the precious “Canary.” The dried fish packed inside the chest, the oars, and other implements were next carried over the “gangway” between the two crafts,—each article being stowed in a proper place within the gig.
There was plenty of room for everything: as the boat was a large one, capable of containing a dozen men; and of course ample for the accommodation of the Catamaran’s crew, with all their impedimenta.
The last transfer made was the mast and sail, which were “unshipped” from the Catamaran to be set up on the gig, and which were just of the right size to suit the latter craft.
There was nothing left upon the raft that could be of any use to them on their boat-voyage; and after the mast and sail had been removed, the Catamaran appeared completely dismantled.
As they undid the lashings,—which during the transfer had confined her to the gig,—a feeling of sadness pervaded the minds of her former crew. They had grown to feel for that embarkation,—frail and grotesque as it was,—a sort of attachment; such as one may have for a loved home. To them it had been a home in the midst of the wilderness of waters; and they could not part from it without a strong feeling of regret.
Perhaps it was partly for this reason they did not at once dip their oars into the water and row away from the raft; though they had another reason for lingering in its proximity.
The mast had to be “stepped” in the gig and the sail bent on to it; and, as it seemed better that these things should be done at once, they at once set about doing them.
During the time they were thus engaged, the boat drifted on with the breeze, making two or three knots to the hour. But this caused no separation between the two crafts; for the same breeze carried the dismantled raft—now lying light upon the water—at the like rate of speed; and when at length the mast stood amidships in the gig, and the sailyard was ready to be hauled up to it, there was scarce a cable’s length between them.
The Catamaran was astern, but coming on at a fair rate of speed,—as if determined not to be left behind in that lone wilderness of waters!