How good was that first breath! I was back again in the world of air for another struggle. It seemed useless, and I swam slowly, wondering why I did so, yet my whole nature revolted against going under. It would only be a matter of minutes, and why not take the rest of a somewhat hard existence easy? My reason began to assert itself, and the uselessness of effort began to be manifest. Turning over on my back, I floated easily, only striking out now and then with a spasmodic kick.
Suddenly I heard voices. There were men near, and I quickly turned over again to try to gaze about me through the darkness.
Something made a rushing sound through the water, and, following the swish of the spray, I made out the regular stroke of oars. For an instant I thought of the slaves who had taken our boats, and I had no desire to call for aid. Then it struck me that the oar-stroke was very regular and could only come from trained men.
I called loudly, and soon had the satisfaction of getting an answer. The craft headed toward me, and in a moment I could make her out coming head on.
I grasped the gunwale as she came up, and was hauled inboard by a couple of men.
“Here’s another rascal who’d rather hang than drown,” said one to the other. Then loudly to the man aft: “We’ve got him, sir.”
I was bundled aft, and made to sit in the bottom of the craft, which I now saw, by the aid of the lantern the helmsman had between his feet, to be a boat from a ship-of-war. The men were in uniform, and the man at the helm was an officer of the United States navy.
“How many of you got away in the boats?” he asked, sternly. “And how did you happen to be left behind?”
“I reckon I’m the only one left,” I said, sadly. “None of us escaped except me.”
“A likely yarn,” snapped the officer. “Who are you, anyway?”