The cries ahead ceased, and the boat bumped on something that duddered away under it and sank.
“He’s gone, whoever he is,” cried Bompard. “No use hunting for him. Listen, there’s more.” Voices shrill and voices bubbling came through the blackness from here and from there. The men tried to locate them and rowed now in this direction, now in that—always wrong. Once a voice sudden and shrill and close to the boat cried “A moi,” and at the same instant Bompard’s oar struck something, but they found nothing, the voice had ceased.
They could see, now, the waves like spectres evolving themselves from the night, a vision touching the very limit of dimness, and now as they entered a mist patch—nothing. The voices to port and starboard were ceasing, one by one—being blotted out. Then silence fell, broken only by the sound of the oars. La Touche shouted and shouted again, but there came no response. Then came Bompard’s voice. “Is that hooker gone, too?”
“Curse her, yes. I was the lookout. Sailing without lights.”
“This woman seems dead.”
“It’s the girl. I heard her squeal out as they hove her in. Let her lie. Well, this is a start.”
“A black job, but we’re out of it, so far.”
“Ay, as far as we’ve got—as far as we’ve got. Well, there’s no use rowing, there’s no sea to hurt her, let her toss.”
The oars came in and the fellows slithered from their seats on to the bottom boards. Ballasted so the boat rode easy. They lay like shivering dogs, grumbling and cursing and then, as they lay, the talk went on.
“Mon Dieu! What a thing—but we’ve grub and water all right.”