The Boy Slaves. Майн Рид

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СКАЧАТЬ 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?

CHAPTER VII.

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A COMPULSORY PARTING.

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      One of the four castaways could not swim. Which one? You will expect to hear that it was one of the three midshipmen; 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 constituency, 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 ship'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 shores. Aboard a ship, 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 ashore, seeks for some sport more attractive.

      As Old Bill had been at sea ever since he was able to stand upon the deck of a ship, he had neglected this useful art; and though in every other respect an accomplished sailor—rated A.B., No. 1—he could not swim six lengths of his own body.

      It was a noble 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 shore 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!"

      "No, that we can't: we won't!" said Terence.

      "We can't, and won't," asseverated Colin, with like emphasis.

      These generous declarations were in answer to an equally generous proposal: in which the sailor had urged them to make for the shore, and leave him to his fate.

      "Ye must, my lads!" he cried out, repeating his proposition. "Don't mind about me; look to yersels! Och! shure I'm only a weather-washed, worn-out old salt, 'ardly worth savin'. Go now—off wi' ye at onest! The water'll be over ye, if ye stand 'eer tin minutes longer."

      The three youths scrutinized each other's faces, as far as the darkness would allow them. Each tried to read in the countenances of the other two some sign that might determine him. The water was already washing around their shoulders; it was with difficulty they could keep their feet.

      "Let loose, lads!" cried Old Bill; "let loose, I say! and swim richt for the shore. Don't think o' me; it bean't certain I shan't weather it yet. I'm the whole av my head taller than the tallest av ye. The tide mayn't full any higher; an' if it don't I'll get safe out after all. Let loose, lads—let loose I tell ye!"

      This command of the old sailor for his young comrades to forsake him was backed by a far more irresistible influence—one against which even their noble instincts could no longer contend.

      At that moment, a wave, of greater elevation than any that had preceded it, came rolling along; and the three midshipmen, lifted upon its swell, were borne nearly half a cable's length from the spot where they had been standing.

      In vain did they endeavor to recover their feet. They had been carried into deep water, where the tallest of them could not touch bottom.

      For some seconds they struggled on the top of the swell, their faces turned towards the spot from which they had been swept. They were close together. All three seemed desirous of making back to that dark, solitary speck, protruding above the surface, and which they knew to be the head of Old Bill. Still did they hesitate to forsake him.

      Once more his voice sounded in their ears.

      "Och, boys!" cried he, "don't thry to come back. It's no use whatever. Lave me to my fate, an' save yersels. The tide's 'ard against ye. Turn, an' follow it, as I tell ye. It'll carry ye safe to the shore; an' if I'm washed afther ye, bury me on the bache. Farewell, brave boys—farewell!"

      To the individuals thus apostrophized, it was a sorrowful adieu; and, could they have done anything to save the sailor, there was not one of the three who would not have risked his life over and over again. But all were impressed with the hopelessness of rendering any succor; and under the still further discouragement caused by another huge wave, that came swelling up under their chins, they turned simultaneously in the water; and, taking the tidal current for their guide, swam with all their strength towards the shore.

CHAPTER VIII.

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SAFE ASHORE.

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