It was a slight circumstance that saved the sea-cook from being eaten up,—not only raw, but alive. Simply the circumstance of his having held on to the harpoon. Had he dropped that weapon on falling, it would never have been grasped by him again. Fortunately, he had the presence of mind to hold on to it; or perhaps the tenacity was merely mechanical. Whatever may have been the reason, he did hold on. Fortunately, also, he was gliding down on the side opposite to that on which floated the “drogue.”
These two circumstances saved him.
When about half-way to the water,—and still sliding rapidly downwards,—his progress was suddenly arrested, or rather impeded,—for he was not altogether brought to a stop,—by a circumstance as unexpected as it was fortunate. That was the tightening of the line attached to the handle of the harpoon. He had slidden to the end of his tether,—the other end of which was fast to the drogue drifting about in the sea, as already said, on the opposite side of the carcass.
Heavy as was the piece of wood,—and offering, as it did, a considerable amount of resistance in being dragged through the water,—it would not have been sufficient to sustain the huge body of the Coromantee. It only checked the rapidity of his descent; and in the end he would have gone down into the sea,—and shortly after into the stomachs of, perhaps, half a score of sharks,—but for the opportune interference of the ex-man-o’-war’s-man; who, just in the nick of time,—at the very moment when Snowball’s toes were within six inches of the water’s edge, caught hold of the cord and arrested his farther descent.
But although the sailor had been able to accomplish this much, and was also able to keep Snowball from slipping farther down, he soon discovered that he was unable to pull him up again. It was just as much as his strength was equal to,—even when supplemented by the weight of the drogue,—to keep the sea-cook in the place where he had succeeded in checking him. There hung Snowball in suspense,—holding on to the slippery skin of the cachalot, literally “with tooth and toe-nail.”
Snowball saw that his position was perilous,—more than that: it was frightful. He could hear noises beneath him,—the rushing of the sharks through the water. He glanced apprehensively below. He could see their black triangular fins, and note the lurid gleaming of their eyeballs, as they rolled in their sunken sockets. It was a sight to terrify the stoutest heart; and that of Snowball did not escape being terrified.
“Hole on, Massa Brace!” he instinctively shouted. “Hole on, for de lub o’ God! Doan’t leab me slip an inch, or dese dam brute sure cotch hold ob me! Fo’ de lub o’ de great Gorramity, hole on!”
Ben needed not the stimulus of this pathetic appeal. He was holding on to the utmost of his strength. He could not have added another pound to the pull. He dared not even renew either his attitude, or the grip he had upon the rope. The slightest movement he might make would endanger the life of his black-skinned comrade.
A slackening of the cord, even to the extent of twelve inches, would have been fatal to the feet of Snowball—already within six of the surface of the water and the snouts of the sharks!
Perhaps never in all his checkered career had the life of the negro been suspended in such dangerous balance. The slightest circumstance would have disturbed the equilibrium,—an ounce would have turned the scale,—and delivered him into the jaws of death.