Chapter 57 - Ran Away to Sea by Mayne Reid
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!”