Chapter 6 - The Boy Slaves by Mayne Reid
WADE OR SWIM?
For 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 sand-spit. 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 assured 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 the land the peninsula became all the more depressed. This, however, was but a fancy. They had already passed the neck of the sand-spit 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 ashore!
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 shore. 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 favor.
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 shore 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 shivering 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. Noble emotions should not be concealed; and the one which at that moment throbbed within the bosoms of the castaways, was truly noble.
There were but three of them who felt it. The fourth could not: he could not swim!
Surely the reader needs no further explanation?