On descending into the "caboose," I found the four negroes stretched out and snoring. They had worked hard at the steering-oar while making these eccentric traverses, which even they did not understand. Poor wretches! had they known what was in store for them, they would not have gone to sleep. Even fatigue could not have overcome them.
The dip was burning dimly, and by its light I had some difficulty in finding my cigar-case. I laid my hands upon it at length, and drawing forth a fresh weed, kindled it at the cumulus of smoking wick.
For a moment I hesitated as to whether I should return to the roof, or take my seat upon a chest that formed part of the furniture of the cabin.
The stench decided me. The odor of greasy cooking-utensils, combined with that emanating from the shirts of four sweating Africans, was too powerful to be put down by the perfume of the best Havana, and I preferred returning to the roof.
As I ascended the steps, I heard a scrambling above me, as if the two men were struggling with the steering-oar.
I could not guess what it meant, and was all the more surprised at seeing them—as soon as the darkness permitted—exactly in the same spot where I had left them. Black was still grasping the handle of the oar, Stinger standing at his elbow.
I was about passing on to the stem, and had got between them and the beam, when I heard the former exclaim: "H—l fire! we'll be on a snag!"
At the same instant I saw him rush toward me, pressing the oar in front of him.
Before I had time to get out of the way, the huge piece of timber struck me in the ribs; and but that I had caught hold of it I should have been precipitated into the water.
My hold did not avail me, nor was it the intention of that ruffian steersman that it should.