The Ocean Waifs: A Story of Adventure on Land and Sea

“Sacré!” he exclaimed, “the luck’s been against me. Eh bien!” he added, with a sangfroid that caused some surprise, “I suppose I must make a die of it. Let me see the accursed thing that’s going to condemn me!”

As he said this, he held up the bag in his left hand, – at the same time plunging his right into its dark interior. For some seconds he appeared, to grope about, as if he had some difficulty in finding the button. While fumbling in this fashion he let go the mouth of the wallet, which he had been holding in his left hand, – adroitly transferring his hold to its bottom. This was done apparently for the purpose of getting the button into a corner, – in order that he might lay hold of it with his fingers.

For some moments the bag rested upon his left forearm, while he continued his hunt after the little piece of horn. He appeared successful at length; and drew forth his right hand, with the fingers closed over the palm, as if containing something, – of course the dread symbol of death. Stirred by a kind of curiosity, his comrades pressed mechanically around, and stood watching his movements.

For an instant he kept his fist closed, holding it on high to that all might see it: and then, slowly extending his fingers, he exhibited his spread palm before their eyes. It held the button that he had drawn forth from the bag; but, to the astonishment of all, it was a black one, and not the red token that had been expected!

There were but two men who did not partake of this surprise. One was Le Gros himself, – though, to all appearance, he was the most astonished individual of the party, – the other was the man who, some minutes before, might have been observed standing by his side, and stealthily transferring something from his own fingers to those of the Frenchman.

This unexpected termination of the lottery led to a scene of terrific excitement. Several seized hold of the bag, – jerking it out of the hand of him who had hitherto been holding it. It was at once turned inside out; when the red button fell upon the planking of the raft.

Most of the men were furious, and loudly declared that they had been cheated, – some offering conjectures as to how the cheat had been accomplished. The confederate of Le Gros – backed by the ruffian himself – suggested that there might have been no deception about the matter, but only a mistake made in the number of buttons originally thrown into the bag. “Like enough, – damned like enough!” – urged Le Gros’s sharping partner; “there’s been a button too many put into the bag, – twenty-seven instead of twenty-six. That’s how it’s come about. Well, as we all helped at the counting of ’em, therefore it’s nobody’s fault in particular. We’ll have to draw again, and the next time we can be more careful.”

As no one appeared able to contradict this hypothesis, it passed off, with a number, as the correct one. Most of the men, however, felt sure that a trick had been played; and the trick itself could be easily conjectured. Some one of the drawers had procured a button similar to those inside the bag; and holding this button, had simply inserted his hand, and drawn it out again.

Out of twenty-six draws it would have been impossible to fix upon the individual who had been guilty of the cheat, though there were not a few who permitted their suspicions to fall on Le Gros himself. There had been observed something peculiar in his mode of manipulation. He had inserted his hand into the wallet with the fist closed; and had drawn it out in similar fashion. This, with one or two other circumstances, looked suspicious enough; but it was remembered that some others had done the same; and as there was not enough of evidence to bring home the infamous act to its perpetrator, no one appeared either able or willing to risk making the accusation.

Yes, there was one who had not yet declared himself; nor did he do so until some time had elapsed after the final and disappointing draw made by the master of the ceremonies. This man was Larry O’Gorman.

While the rest of the crew had been listening to the arguments of the Frenchman’s confederate, – and one by one signifying their acquiescence, – the Irishman stood apart, apparently busied in some profound mental calculation.

When at length all seemed to have consented to a second casting of lots, he roused himself from his reverie; and, stepping hastily into their midst, cried out in a determined manner, “No —

“No, yez don’t,” continued he, “no more drawin’, my jewels, till we’ve had a betther undherstandin’ ov this little matther. That there’s been chatin’ yez are all agreed; only yez can’t identify the chate. Maybe I can say somethin’ to point out the dirty spalpeen as hasn’t the courage nor the dacency to take his chance along wid the rest ov us.”

This unexpected interpolation at once drew the eyes of all parties upon the speaker; for all were alike interested in the revelation which O’Gorman was threatening to make.

Whoever had played foul, – if it could only be proved against him, – would be regarded as the man who ought to have drawn the red button; and would be treated as if he had done so. This was tacitly understood; even before the suggestion of such a course had passed the lips of anyone. Those who were innocent were of course desirous of discovering the “black sheep,” – in order to escape the danger of a second drawing, – and, as these comprehended almost the entire crew, it was natural that an attentive ear should be given to the statement which the Irishman proposed to lay before them.

All stood gazing upon him with expectant eyes. In those of Le Gros and his confederate there was a different expression. The look of the Frenchman was more especially remarkable. His jaws had fallen; his lips were white and bloodless; his eyes glared fiend-like out of their sunken sockets; while the whole cast of his features was that of a man threatened with some fearful and infamous fate, which he feels himself unable to avert.

Chapter Seventy One.

Le Gros upon Trial

As O’Gorman gave utterance to the last words of his preparatory speech, he fixed his eyes steadfastly upon the Frenchman. His look confirmed every one in the belief that the allusion had been to the latter.

Le Gros at first quailed before the Irishman’s glance; but, perceiving the necessity of putting a bold front on the matter, he made an endeavour to reciprocate it.

“Sacré bleu!” he exclaimed. “Monsieur Irlandais why do you look at me? you don’t mean to insinuate that I’ve acted unfairly?”

“The divil a bit,” replied the Irishman. “If it’s insinivation yez be talkin’ about, the divil a bit ov that do I mane. Larry O’Gorman isn’t agoin’ to bate about the bush wan way or the tother, Misther Laygrow. He tells ye to yer teeth that it was yer beautiful self putt the exthra button into the bag, – yez did it, Misther Laygrow, and nobody else.”

“Liar!” vociferated the Frenchman, with a menacing gesture. “Liar!”

“Kape cool, Frenchy. It isn’t Larry the Galwayman that’s goin’ to be scared at yer blusther. I repate, – it was you yourself that putt that button into the bag.”

“How do you know that, O’Gorman?” “Can you prove it?”

“What proof have you?” were questions that were asked simultaneously by several voices, – among which that of the Frenchman’s confederate was conspicuous.

“Phwy, phwat more proof do yez want, than phwat’s alriddy before yez? When I had me hand in the wallet, there wasn’t only the two buttons, – the divil a more. I feeled thim both while I was gropin’ about to make choice betwixt them; an if there had been a third, I wud a feeled that too. I can swear by the holy cross of Saint Pathrick there wasn’t wan more than the two.”

“That’s no proof there wasn’t three,” urged the friend of Le Gros. “The third might have been in a wrinkle of the bag, without your feeling it!”

“The divil a wrinkle it was in, except the wrinkles in the palm of that spalpeen’s fist! That’s where it was; and I can tell yez all who putt it there. It was this very chap who is so pit-a-pat at explainin’ it. Yez needn’t deny it, Bill Bowler. I saw somethin’ passin’ betwixt yerself and Frenchy, – jest before it come his turn to dhraw. I saw yer flippers touchin’ van another, an’ somethin’ slippin’ in betwane them. I couldn’t tell phwat it was, but, by Jaysus! I thought it quare for all that. I know now phwhat it was, – it was the button.”

The Irishman’s arguments merited attention; and received it. The circumstances looked at the least suspicious against Le Gros. To the majority they were conclusive of his guilt.

The accusation was supported by other evidence. The man who had preceded O’Gorman in the drawing positively avowed that he could feel only three buttons in the bag; while the one before him, with equal confidence, asserted that when he drew, there were but four. Both declared that they could not be mistaken as to the numbers. They had separately “fingered” each button in the hope of being able to detect that which was bloodstained, and so avoid bringing it forth.

“Ach!” ejaculated the Irishman, becoming impatient for the conviction of his guilty antagonist; “phwat’s the use ov talkin’. Frenchy’s the wan that did it. That gropin’ an fumblin’ about the bottom of the wallet was all pretince. He had the button in his shut fist all the time, an’ by Jaysus! he’s entitled to the prize, the same as if he had dhrawn it. It’s him that’s got to die!”

“Canaille! liar!” shouted Le Gros; “if I have, you – ”

And as the words issued from his lips he sprang forward, knife in hand, with the evident design of taking the life of his accuser.

“Kape cool!” cried the latter, springing out of reach of his assailant; and with his own blade bared, placing himself on the defensive. “Kape cool, ye frog-atin’ son av a gun, or ye’ll make mate for us sooner than ye expected, ay, before yez have time to put up a pater for yer ugly sowl, that stans most disperately in nade ov it.

“Now,” continued the Irishman, after he had fairly placed himself in an attitude of defence; “come an whiniver yer loike. Larry O’Gorman is riddy for ye, an’ another av the same at yer dhirty back. Hoch, —faugh-a-ballah, —hiloo, —whallabaloo!”

Chapter Seventy Two.

A Duel to the Death

The strange ceremonial upon the raft, – hitherto carried on with some show of solemnity, – had reached an unexpected crisis.

A second appeal to the goddess of Fortune was no longer thought of. The deadly antagonism of the two chief castaways – Le Gros and O’Gorman – promised a result likely to supply the larder of that cannibal crew, without the necessity of their having recourse to her decrees.

One or other, – perhaps both, – of these men must soon cease to live; for the determined attitude of each told, beyond mistaking, that his bared blade would not be again sheathed, except in the flesh of his adversary.

There was no attempt at intervention. Not one of their comrades interposed to keep them apart. There was friendly feeling, – or, to use a more appropriate phrase, partisanship, – on the side of each; but it was of that character which usually exists among the brutal backers of two “champions of the ring.”

Under other circumstances, each party might have regretted the defeat of the champion they had adopted; but upon that raft, the death of one or other of the combatants was not only desirable; but, rather than it should not occur, either side would have most gladly assented to see its especial favourite the victim.

Every man of that ruffian crew had a selfish interest in the result of the threatened conflict; and this far outweighed any feeling of partisanship with which he might have been inspired. A few may have felt friendlier than others towards their respective champions; but to the majority it mattered little which of the two men should die; and there were even some who, in the secret chambers of their hearts, would have reflected gleefully to behold both become victims of their reciprocal hostility. Such a result would cause a still further postponement of that unpopular lottery, – in which they had been too often compelled to take shares.

There was no very great difference in the number of the “friends” on either side. The partisans of the Frenchman would have far outnumbered those of his Irish adversary, but ten minutes before. But the behaviour of Le Gros in the lottery had lost him many adherents. That he had played the trick imputed to him was by most believed; and as the result of his unmanly subterfuge was of personal interest to all, there were many, hitherto indifferent, now inspired with hostility towards him.

Apart from personal considerations, – even amongst that conglomeration of outcasts, – there were some in whom the instinct of “fair-play” was not altogether dead; and the foul play of the Frenchman had freshly aroused this instinct within them.

As soon as the combatants had shown a fixed determination to engage in deadly strife, the crowd upon the raft became separated, as if by mechanical action, into two groups, – one forming in the rear of Le Gros, the other taking stand behind the Irishman.

As already stated, there was no great inequality between them in point of numbers; and as each occupied an end of the raft, the balance was preserved, and the stage upon which the death drama was about to be enacted – set horizontally – offered no advantage to either.

Knives were to be their weapons. There were others on the raft. There were axes, cutlasses, and harpoons; but the use of these was prohibited to either of the intended combatants: as nothing could be fairer than the sailor’s knife, – with which each was provided, – and no weapon in close combat could be used with more certain or deadlier effect.

Each armed with his own knife, released from its lanyard fastenings in order to be freely handled, – each with his foot planted in front of him, to guard against the onset of his adversary, – each with an arm upraised, at the end of which appeared six inches of sharp, glittering steel, – each with muscles braced to their toughest tension, and eyes glaring forth the fires of a mutual hatred, – a hostility to end only in death, – such became the attitude of the antagonists.