Are they all dead?
He shook his head, in sign of ignorance.
Where are we, Antonio?
“This is El Roncador!”
And so it proved. We were on one of the numerous coral keys or cays which stud the sea of the Antilles, and which are the terror of the mariners who navigate it. They are usually mere banks of sand, elevated a few feet above the water, occasionally supporting a few bushes, or a scrubby, tempest-twisted palm or two, and only frequented by the sea-birds for rest and incubation, and by turtles for laying their eggs. Around them there is always a reef of coral, built up from the bottom of the sea by those wonderful architects, the coral insects. This reef surrounds the cay, at a greater or less distance, like a ring, leaving between it and the island proper a belt of water, of variable depth, and of the loveliest blue. The reef, which is sometimes scarcely visible above the sea, effectually breaks the force of the waves; and if, as it sometimes happens, it be interrupted so as to leave an opening for the admission of vessels, the inner belt of water forms a safe harbor. Except a few of the larger ones, none of these cays are inhabited, nor are they ever frequented, except by the turtle fishers.
It was to the peculiar conformation of these islands that our safety was owing. Our little vessel had been driven, or lifted by the waves, completely over the outer reef. The shock had torn us from our hold on the ropes, and we had drifted upon the comparatively protected sands. The vessel too, had been carried upon them, and the waves there not being sufficiently strong to break her in pieces, she was left high and dry when they subsided. There was, nevertheless, a broad break in her keel, caused probably by striking on the reef.
Two of the five human beings who had been on board of her, the captain and his mate, were drowned. We found their bodies;—but I am anticipating my story. When we had recovered ourselves sufficiently to walk, Antonio and myself took a survey of our condition. “El Roncador,” the Snorer, is a small cay, three quarters of a mile long, and at its widest part not more than four hundred yards broad,—a mere bank of white sand. At the eastern end is an acre or more of scrubby bushes, and near them three or four low and distorted palm-trees. Fortunately for us, as will be seen in the sequel, “El Roncador” is famous for the number of its turtles, and is frequented, at the turtle season, by turtle-fishers from Old Providence, and sometimes from the main land. Among the palm-trees, to which I have referred, these fishermen had erected a rude hut of poles, boards, and palm-branches, which was literally withed and anchored to the trees, to keep it from being blown away by the high winds. It was with a heart full of joy that I saw even this rude evidence of human intelligence, and, accompanied by Antonio, hastened to it as rapidly as my bruised limbs would enable me. We discovered no trace of recent occupation as we approached, except a kind of furrow in the sand, like that which some sea-monster, dragging itself along, might occasion. It led directly to the hut, and I followed it, with a feeling half of wonder, half of apprehension. As we came near, however, I saw, through the open front, a black human figure crouching within, motionless as a piece of bronze. Before it, stretched at length, was the dead body of Captain Ponto. The man was Frank, of whom I have spoken, as constituting the crew of the Prince Albert. It was a fearful sight! The body of the captain was swollen, the limbs were stiff and spread apart, the mouth and eyes open, and conveying an expression of terror and utter despair, which makes me shudder, even now, when I think of it. Upon his breast, fastened by a strong cord, drawn close at the throat, was the mysterious gre-gre horn, and the gash in his arm, from which the poor wretch had drawn the blood for his unavailing sacrifice, had opened wide its white edges, as if in mute appeal against his fate.
The negro sailor had drawn the body of the captain to the hut, and the trail in the sand was that which it had made. I spoke to him, but he neither replied nor looked up. His eyes were fixed, as if by some fascination, on the corpse. Antonio exhibited no emotion, but advancing close to the body lifted the gre-gre horn, eyed it curiously for a moment, then tossed it contemptuously aside, exclaiming:—
“It could not save him: it is not good!”