Chapter Forty Eight.
A Wet Race for Life.
These were harsh and cruel words to use respecting the man who had shown so much true manliness of disposition; but there are times when we all show what a great deal of the imperfect there is in our natures, and this was one of those times with Oliver, who, judging by the mate’s acts, formed the conclusion that, seeing their case was desperate, and a way out to save his own life, he had, in sudden panic, fled.
“Seems like it,” said Drew, sadly. “But quick, lie down. No, let’s get behind here.”
The need of concealment was pressing, for they were standing out upon the open sands, and, with a feeling of despair and misery attacking him, Oliver followed his companion to where some huge fragments of madrepore coral lay a few yards from the water’s edge, affording them a place where they could hide, and, at the same time, observe what was going on out in the lagoon, where matters were growing exciting.
“Better have come back and fought it out with us,” said Drew, bitterly, as they saw that the blacks were straining every effort to cut off the lugger before it reached the gap in the barrier reef; while, evidently seeing the situation of affairs, those who were in the canoe outside were, like the occupants of the lugger, though from a different side, rapidly approaching the opening.
“They’ll cut him off before he reaches it,” said Oliver, excitedly. “Can we do anything to help him?”
“No, nothing, we are too far-off,” said Drew, sadly. “How could he be so foolish?”
“And why don’t he give up the helm to one of the men? Either of them could steer; and he could throw the blacks into confusion by firing a few shots.”