The Intelligent Foreigner
Talk about the average merchant seamen filling up gaps in the ranks of men like these is almost too much for one’s patience on the part of those whose business it is to know; it is criminal stupidity. Now in France every merchant seaman must perforce spend a large proportion of his time in the Navy, so that their reserve is always available. And that is one reason why France strives so eagerly to foster her Mercantile Marine even at such crushing cost to her long-suffering taxpayers. In the event of war with us, however, she would be in a far different position, because she could exist without a merchant ship at sea, and all their crews would be ready for service in the Navy. What should we do? Even supposing that all our merchant seamen were capable of taking their places on board of men-of-war if called upon, who would man the fleets of food-carriers? Accepting as rigidly correct the proportions shown by the official document already quoted, the percentage of foreign seamen in all foreign-going vessels was two years ago 35.5, and admittedly increasing rapidly. Would it be wise to withdraw from the merchant ships the stiffening of British subjects they now carry and replace them by aliens? I firmly believe that the danger limit has long been passed in the exclusively cargo-carrying trades, which, after all, are our very backbone. What this great army of aliens will do in the event of our going to war with one or two European Powers is a problem of undeniable gravity. But given a fine ship with a valuable cargo, with officers and crew nearly all German, what might they reasonably be expected to do? Failing an answer, I submit that the temptation to transfer the ship to their own flag would be very great. And it is a needless risk. Let it be granted that the alien officer or skipper is a good man, better educated most likely, a good seaman, and that he is cheap. All these qualities except the educational one (which is, after all, not so important to our officers as it is to the foreigner) our officers possess in just as great measure, while as for the price—well, I have seen half-a-dozen chief mates tumbling over one another for the chance of shipping in a 1200-ton Baltic tramp steamer at £5 : 10s. a month. They could not be much cheaper than that, unless they got the same wages as the crew. And I know of English skippers of sea-going steamers out of London who are getting £10 a month. Poor men, they are cheap enough!
To sum up as briefly as possible all the foregoing remarks: It seems clear to me, as it has done to all intelligent seamen that I have ever met, that very little legislation is needed to make the British Mercantile Marine popular again among our own countrymen. Legislation has hitherto done little for the sailor, while it has exasperated the shipowner, already handicapped as none of his foreign rivals have ever been. The Mercantile Marine should more nearly approximate to the Navy in many of its details, which need not entail extra expense or annoyance to the shipowner. It should be made possible for a shipmaster to ensure better discipline, but he should be able to give his men better food and better housing. The Board of Trade scale of provisions is a hateful abomination; it ought to be blotted out and a sensible dietary substituted, which need not exceed it in cost, while it would act like a charm upon seamen, for whom it has an importance undreamed of by those ashore, who even on the slenderest incomes can fare every day in a manner luxurious by comparison with our sailors. More attention should be paid to the men’s quarters. Here, again, expenses need not be raised; a little attention to detail in drawing up specifications would make a vast difference. And none but a naturalised British subject should be permitted to sign articles in a British ship. This plan is pursued with advantage in American vessels, which, like our own, carry an enormous percentage of foreigners of all nations. Of undermanning I need say nothing more, because the question is being dealt with, and will, I earnestly hope, be settled with as much satisfaction to everybody concerned as the splendid “Midge” scheme, the only piece of marine legislation that I can remember that has been completely successful. Unfortunately, under present conditions it is responsible for the still further depletion of our Mercantile Marine of British seamen, since numbers of them by its beneficent operations reach their homes with their hard-earned pay intact. This enables them to look about for a job ashore where they are known, whereas under the bad old conditions they would have been in a few days again “outward bound with a stocking round their necks,” as Jack tersely sums up the situation of a man who has squandered all his money, been robbed of, or has sold, all his clothes, and is off to sea again in the first craft that he can get, going he neither knows nor cares whither.
XXIV
CANCER CAY
There is a tiny islet on the outskirts of the Solomon Archipelago that to all such casual wanderers as stray so far presents not a single feature of interest. Like scores of others in those latitudes, it has not yet attained to the dignity of a single coco-nut tree, although many derelict nuts have found a lodgment upon it, and begun to grow, only to be wiped out of existence at the next spring-tide. Viewed from a balloon it would look like a silly-season mushroom, but with a fringe of snowy foam around it marking the protecting barrier to which it owes its existence, to say nothing of its growth. Yet of all places in the world which I have been privileged to visit, this barren little mound of sand clings most tenaciously to my memory, for reasons which will presently appear.
One of those devastating cyclones that at long intervals sweep across the Pacific, leaving a long swath of destruction in their wake, had overtaken the pearling schooner of which I was mate. For twenty-four hours we fled before it, we knew not whither, not daring to heave-to. The only compass we possessed had been destroyed by the first sea that broke on board. Whether it was night or day we had no notion, except by watch, and even then we were doubtful, so appalling was the darkness. Hope was beginning to revive that, as the Papalangi had proved herself so staunch, she might yet “run it out,” unless she hit something. But the tiny rag rigged forrard to keep her before it suddenly flew into threads; the curl of the sea caught her under the counter and spun her up into the wind like a teetotum. The next vast comber took her broadside-on, rolled her over, and swallowed her up. We went “down quick into the pit.”
Although always reckoned a powerful swimmer, even among such amphibia as the Kanakas, I don’t remember making a stroke. But after a horrible, choking struggle in the black uproar I got my breath again, finding myself clinging, as a drowning man will, to something big and seaworthy. It was an ordinary ship’s hencoop that the skipper had bought cheap from a passenger vessel in Auckland. As good a raft as one could wish, it bore me on over the mad sea, half dead as I was, until I felt it rise high as if climbing a cataract and descend amidst a furious boiling of surf into calm, smooth water. A few minutes later I touched a sandy beach. Utterly done up, I slept where I lay, at the water’s edge, though the shrieking hurricane raged overhead as if it would tear the land up by the roots.
When I awoke it was fine weather, though to leeward the infernal reek of the departing meteor still disfigured a huge segment of the sky. I looked around, and my jaw dropped. Often I had wondered what a poor devil would do who happened to be cast away on such a spot as this. Apparently I was about to learn. A painful pinch at my bare foot startled me, and I saw an ugly beast of a crab going for me. He was nearly a foot across, his blue back covered with long spikes, and his wicked little eyes seemed to have an expression of diabolical malignity. I snatched at a handful of his legs and swung him round my head, dashing him against the side of my coop with such vigour that his armour flew to flinders around me. I never have liked crab, even when dressed, but I found the raw flesh of that one tasty enough—it quite smartened me up. Having eaten heartily, I took a saunter up the smooth knoll of sand, aimlessly, I suppose, for it was as bare as a plate, without a stone or a shell. From its highest point, about ten feet above high-water mark, I looked around, but my horizon was completely bounded by the ring of breakers aforesaid. I felt like the scorpion within the fiery circle, and almost as disposed to sting myself to death had I possessed the proper weapon. As I stood gazing vacantly at the foaming barrier and solemn enclosing dome of fleckless blue, I was again surprised by a vicious nip at my foot. There was another huge crab boldly attacking me—me, a vigorous man, and not a sodden corpse, as yet. I felt a grue of horror run all down my back, but I grabbed at the vile thing and hurled it from me half across the island. Then I became aware of others arriving, converging upon me from all around, and I was panic-stricken. For one mad moment I thought of plunging into the sea again; but reason reasserted itself in time, reminding me that, while I had certain advantages on my side where I was, in the water I should fall a helpless victim at once, if, as might naturally be expected, these ghouls were swarming there. Not a weapon of any kind could I see, neither stick nor stone. My feelings of disgust deepened into despair. But I got little time for thought. Such a multitude of the eerie things were about me that I was kept most actively employed seizing them and flinging them from me. They got bolder, feinting and dodging around me, but happily without any definite plan of campaign among them. Once I staggered forward, having trodden unaware upon a spiky back as I sprung aside, wounding my foot badly. I fell into a group of at least twenty, crushing some of them, but after a painful struggle among those needle-like spines regained my feet with several clinging to my body. A kind of frenzy seized me, and, regardless of pain, I clutched at them right and left, dashing them to fragments one against the other, until quite a pile of writhing, dismembered enemies lay around me, while my hands and arms were streaming from numberless wounds. Very soon I became exhausted by my violent exertions and the intense heat, but, to my unfathomable thankfulness, the heap of broken crabs afforded me a long respite, the sound ones finding congenial occupation in devouring them. While I watched the busy cannibals swarming over the yet writhing heap, I became violently ill, for imagination vividly depicted them rioting in my viscera. Vertigo seized me, I reeled and fell prone, oblivious to all things for a time.
When sense returned it was night. The broad moon was commencing her triumphal march among the stars, which glowed in the blue-black concave like globules of incandescent steel. My body was drenched with dew, a blessed relief, for my tongue was leathery and my lips were split with drouth. I tore off my shirt and sucked it eagerly, the moisture it held, though brackish, mitigating my tortures of thirst. Suddenly I bethought me of my foes, and looked fearfully around. There was not one to be seen, nothing near but the heap of clean-picked shells of those devoured. As the moon rose higher, I saw a cluster of white objects at a little distance, soon recognisable as boobies. They permitted me to snatch a couple of them easily, and wringing off their heads I got such a draught as put new life into me. Hope returned, even quelling the cruel thought of daylight bringing again those ravening hordes of crawling crustacea. Yet my position was almost as hopeless as one could imagine. Unless, as I much doubted, this was a known spot for bêche de mer or pearl-shell fishers, there was but the remotest chance of my rescue, while, without anything floatable but my poor little hencoop, passing that barrier of breakers was impossible. Fortunately I have always tried to avoid meeting trouble half-way, and with a thankful feeling of present wants supplied, I actually went to sleep again, though stiff and sore from head to heel.
At daybreak I awoke again to a repetition of the agonies of the previous day, which, although I was better fortified to meet them, were greater than before. The numbers of my hideous assailants were more than doubled as far I could judge. The whole patch of sand seemed alive with the voracious vermin. So much so that when I saw the approach of those horrible hosts my heart sank, my flesh shrank on my bones, and I clutched at my throat. But I could not strangle myself, though had I possessed a knife I should certainly have chosen a swift exit from the unutterable horror of my position, fiercely as I clung to life. To be devoured piecemeal, retaining every faculty till the last—I could not bear the thought. There was no time for reflection, however; the struggle began at once and continued with a pertinacity on the part of the crabs that promised a speedy end to it for me. How long it lasted I have no idea—to my tortured mind it was an eternity. At last, overborne, exhausted, surrounded by mounds of those I had destroyed, over which fresh legions poured in ever-increasing numbers, earth and sky whirled around me, and I fell backward. As I went, with many of the vile things already clinging to me, I heard a yell—a human voice that revived my dulling senses like a galvanic shock. With one last flash of vigour I sprang to my feet, seeing as I did so a canoe with four Kanakas in it, not fifty yards away, in the smooth water between the beach and the barrier. Bounding like a buck, heedless of the pain as my wounded feet clashed among the innumerable spiky carapaces of my enemies, I reached the water, and hurled myself headlong towards that ark of safety. How I reached it I do not know, nor anything further until I returned to life again on board the Warrigal of Sydney, as weak as a babe and feeling a century older.
XXV
A NINETEENTH-CENTURY JONAH
We were gathered together in a compact group under the weather bulwarks of the old Rainbow, South Sea-man, presently cruising on the Line grounds; officers and harpooners of three ships engaged in the pleasant occupation of “gamming,” as ship-visiting is termed among Southern-going whalemen. Song and dance were finished, and with pipes aglow, stretched at our ease, the time-honoured “cuffer” or yarn was going its soothing round.
The fourth officer of the Rainbow, a taciturn Englishman, whose speech and manner excited wonder as to how he came in that galley, was called upon in his turn to contribute. Without hesitation, as if professional story-telling was his métier, he began:
“‘’Ere she white water-r-rs! Ah blo-o-ow!’ came ringing down from the main crow’s nest of the Megantic, South Sea whaler of Martha’s Vineyard, as she heeled solemnly to the steady trade on the ‘off-shore’ ground one lovely morning.
“‘Where away? Haow fer off?’ roared the skipper, while, slinging his glasses, he prepared to elevate his sixteen stone painfully to the giddy height above him.
“‘Two p’ints on the starb’rd baouw, sir, ’baout five mile off. Looks like sparm whale, sir,’ was the prompt reply.
“‘All right, keep her az she goes, Mr. Slocum, ’n’ clar away boats,’ said the ‘old man,’ as with many a grunt he began his pilgrimage of pain.
“There was no need to call all hands. The first cry had startled them into sudden activity. Before its echoes died away, they were on deck, with no trace of drowsiness among them. Being in a high state of discipline, each man went straight to his boat, standing ready, at the word, to lower and be off after the gambolling leviathan ahead. Silence reigned profound, except for the soothing murmur of the displaced sea as the lumbering old barky forged slowly ahead, or the soft flap of a hardly-drawing staysail as she rolled to windward. Seated upon the upper topsail yard, the ‘old man’ soliloquised grumblingly, ‘What in the ’tarnal blazes ’s he doin’ of? Gaul bust my gol-dern skin ef ever I see sech a ninseck ’n my life. I be everlastin’ly frazzled ef ’taint mos’ ’s bad ez snakes in yer boots. Mr. Slocum, jes’ shin up hyar a minit, won’t ye?’
“As if unable to trust his own senses any longer, he thus called upon the mate to help him out. More agile than the skipper in his movements, it was but a few seconds before Mr. Slocum was by his chief’s side, peering with growing bewilderment through the binoculars at the strange object ahead. What had at first sight seemed an ordinary full-sized bull cachalot leisurely playing upon the surface of the sea, had now resolved itself into an indescribable, ever-shifting mass of matter, from the dark centre of which writhing arms continually protruded and retreated. The golden glare lavished along the glittering sea by the ascending sun added to the mystery surrounding the moving monster or monsters, for it or they lay right in the centre of that dazzling path.
“‘Wall—whatjer mek ov it, Mr. Slocum?’ queried the skipper sarcastically.
“Slowly, as if spelling his words, the mate replied, ‘Thutty-nine year hev I ben a-fishin’, but ef ever I see ennythin’ like that befo’, may I never pump sparm whale ag’in. Kaint fine no sorter name fer it, sir.’
“‘Lemme see them glasses agen,’ said the ‘old man’ wearily. ‘’Pears like ’s if she’s a-risin’ it, whatever ’tes, consider’ble sudden;’ and, readjusting the focus, he glued his eyes to the tubes again for another long searching look at the uncanny sight. His scrutiny was evidently more satisfying than at first, for without removing the glasses from his eyes, he yapped, ‘’Way down frum aloft! Heave to, ’n low’r away, Mr. Slocum. Guess yew’ll fine a “fish” thar, er tharabout.’
“‘Ay, ay, sir,’ promptly returned the mate, departing with great alacrity, issuing orders the while, so that by the time he reached the deck there was a whirring rattle of patent sheaves, and a succession of subdued splashes, as boat after boat took the water. In almost as short a time as it takes to say it, the boats’ masts were stepped, the big sails bellied out, and away sped the handsome craft, in striking contrast to the unlovely old hulk that had borne them.
“We were no ‘greenies’; long practice had so familiarised us with the wiles and ferocity of the cachalot, that we had none of the tremors at approaching one that so sorely afflict beginners. Nevertheless there was an air of mystery about the present proceedings which affected all of us more or less, though no one knew precisely why. Absolute silence is the invariable rule, as you know, in boats going on a ‘fish,’ because of that exquisite sense of sound possessed by the sperm whale, which is something more than hearing; so we were slightly startled to hear our harpooner say in a clear undertone, ‘Dern funny-lookin’ fish that, Mr. Slocum, don’t ye think?’ But for all answer our chief growled, ‘Stand up, José!’
“Instantly the big fellow sprang to his feet in attitude to strike, balancing his weapon, a heroic figure sharply outlined against the clear blue.
“Good Lord! what was that? A horrible medley of blue-black and livid white, an inextricable tangle of writhing, clutching, tearing, serpent-like arms, that lashed the sea into a curious dusky foam, evil-smelling and greasy. Out of its midst rose an immense globular mass, bearing two eyes larger than barrel-heads, dead black, yet with a Satanic expression that confused one’s heart-beats.
“‘Giv’t to him! giv’t to him!’ roared the mate, and instantly the iron flew into the midst of the wallowing entanglement, followed immediately by another from José’s eager, nervous arms. Willing hands clutched the flapping sail to roll it up, but a shriek of agony paralysed them all. A long livid thing rose on the off side of the boat, and twining itself around the wretched harpooner’s tall figure, tore him from our midst, his heartbroken death-yell curdling our blood. Quick as thought, another of those awful arms came gliding over us, this time encircling the boat amidships. Though tapering to the slenderest of points, it was of the circumference of a man’s body at its thickest, and armed with saucer-like mouths all along its inferior surface. One of these clung to my bare breast as the slimy horror tightened round us, a ring of great curved claws which protruded from it tearing at my flesh as if to strip it from the bones. But we had hardly realised what was happening, when she was going over, parbuckled as you might turn a hand-bowl. In a moment all was darkness and struggle for breath amidst a very maelström of slime and stench, in the depths of which I felt myself freed from that frightful grip. It seemed like hours before, with a bound, I reached the surface again, clutching at something hard and floating as I rose. In spite of the excruciating agony of my wounds, and the rushing of the air into my collapsed lungs, there was a sense of relief beyond expression, as of resurrection from the dead.
“Although counted a good swimmer even among such amphibia as our crew, I lay there supine, stretched at length upon the sea—a still, white figure grasping numbly at the fragment of bottom-board. Suddenly I became aware of a whirling in the water again, but I was in a sort of stupor of the physical faculties, though mentally alert enough.
“Then up reared above my head an object I recognised with a long wail of terror; the tremendous lower jaw of the sperm whale, bristling with its double row of gleaming teeth. Before I could gasp a prayer, or even think what was happening, I was gliding down the vast grey cavern of his throat, with but one thought left—‘the descent into Hell is easy.’ Down, down I went into utter darkness, among a squirming, fetid heap of snaky coils, that enveloped me, and seemed to gnaw and tear at my shuddering body as if devouring me at second hand. Then came an explosion—a dull, rending report that sent an earthquake shock through me and my unutterable surroundings. Immediately following this there was a convulsive upheaval, in which all the contents of that awful place took a rising motion, growing faster and faster, until, with a roaring rush, came the dear daylight again.
“What ensued then for some time I do not know. A sensation of heavenly peace and calm possessed me, when, as if released from some unimaginable nightmare, I found myself floating placidly as a Medusa upon a calm sea. There I felt content to lie, without effort, conscious only of life—life so sweet that I wondered dreamily whether I was still in the body, or had passed into that blissful state imagined by speculative psychologists as awaiting man after death. Gradually my mind became clearer, my limbs felt willing to obey the impulse of my brain. I began to swim, feebly at first, almost automatically, but with increasing vigour as the significance of my position became clearer to me.
“I had swum but a short distance when the blessed sound of my shipmates’ voices greeted my ears, but from my lowly position I was unable to see them, until one of them gripped me by the arms, dragging me into the boat among them.
“Then I learned without surprise that I was the only survivor of my boat’s crew. Every one of my fellows had disappeared before the horror-stricken gaze of the men in the other boats, who, being but a short distance astern of us, had witnessed the whole tragedy. It appeared that we had attacked a cachalot in the act of devouring one of the gigantic cuttle-fish, or ‘squid,’ upon which these cetaceans feed, and of which it is most probable no mortal eye has yet beheld a full-sized specimen. For they inhabit the middle depths of oceans, never coming to the surface voluntarily.
“This monster’s arms, or tentacles, enlaced the whole colossal body of the whale, so that they must have been fully 60 feet or 70 feet in length. At their junction with the head they were about 5 feet in girth, as a huge fragment lying at the bottom of the boat conclusively proved. At the time we so rashly attacked the whale the mighty mollusc must have been in his death-throes, for immediately after our boat’s disappearance the whale ‘sounded.’ When, a minute or two later, he rose again to the surface, the other boats’ crews saw him busily turning over and over, as if collecting the scattered fragments of his late victim. At that time they had not noticed me among the various flotsam, but it must have been then that I vanished down the capacious gullet of the voracious cetacean. Fortunately for me they were furiously bent upon attacking the whale, and so in some degree avenging their slain shipmates.
“The second mate had loaded his bomb-gun with an extra heavy charge, and at the same moment that the harpooner darted his weapon the bomb was discharged also. It penetrated the cachalot’s lungs, inflicting a mortal wound by its explosion therein, the noise of which was the shock that I felt while in that horrible tomb. As is usual, in his dying agony the whale ejected the whole contents of his stomach, by means of which cataclysm I was expelled therefrom and restored to the upper world once more. But had it not been for long and severe practice in diving, taken while pearl-fishing in Polynesia, enabling me to compete successfully with Kanakas, who almost live in the water, and even to outdo them at times, I must have been suffocated. The only time I was ever before so distressed for breath was in Levuka, when mate of a schooner. Our anchor fouled a rock in eight fathoms of water, and we could by no means persuade any of our natives to attempt its release. Rather than lose the fair chance of sailing that day I tried the dangerous task, succeeding after a desperate struggle, but regaining the surface with blood streaming from mouth, nose, and ears.
“I lay back in the stern-sheets of the boat feeling cruelly exhausted, the pain of my ghastly wound becoming continually more severe. But, even pre-occupied as I was, I could hardly fail to notice a want of cordiality towards me among my shipmates. An uncomfortable silence prevailed, depressing and unusual. It was not due to the natural solemnity following upon the sudden loss of five of our number, cut off in the prime of their health and strength, for, until I had told the wonderful story of my going down into Sheol, their demeanour had been very different. I looked appealingly and wonderingly from one to the other, but could not meet any eye. They were all furtively averted with intent to avoid my gaze.
“To my relief we reached the ship speedily. I was assisted on board gently enough, and led aft to where the skipper was roaming restlessly athwart the quarter-deck, like a caged animal. I was allowed to sit down while he examined me keenly as to the occurrences of the day. The gloom deepened on his face as I recounted all that I could remember of the fate of my unfortunate shipmates, until, my tale being told, he began, in curt, half-angry fashion, to question me about my antecedents. Not liking his manner, besides feeling faint and ill, I gave him but little information on that head.
“Then he burst out into petulant disconnected sentences, in bitter regrets for the lost men, blame of everybody generally, and at last, as if his predominant thought could no longer be restrained, shouted, ‘I wish ter God A’mighty I’d never seen y’r face aboard my ship. Man an’ boy I b’en spoutin’ fer over forty year, an’ never see, no, ner hearn tell ov, sech a hell-fire turn out. Yew’r a Jonah, thet’s wut yew air, an’ the sooner we get shet ov ye the better it’ll be fer all han’s, an’ the more likely we sh’l be to hev some luck.’
“This was such a crusher that I did not attempt to reply, nor, owing to my condition, did I quite realise the full brutality and injustice of the man as I might otherwise have done. I crept forward to my bunk, to find myself shunned by all my shipmates as if I was a leper, which treatment, as I had hitherto been a prime favourite, was very hard to bear. But in the face of ignorant superstition like this I was powerless. So I held my peace and sat solitary, my recovery being much hindered by the miserable state of my mind. The rest of the passage to Valparaiso was a time of such misery as I never experienced before or since, and I wonder that they did not land a hopeless lunatic.
“However, I fought against that successfully, determined to live if I was allowed to, and at last, to my intense relief, I shook off the dust of my feet against that detestable ship and her barbarous crew, thankful that their cruelty had stopped short of heaving me overboard as a sacrifice to the manes of my lost shipmates.”
There was a silence of some minutes’ duration after he had finished his yarn, then from one and the other came scraps of personalia confirming the general outlines of his experiences as to the existence of those nightmares of the sea of incredible size, as attested by the ejecta of every dying cachalot. All gave it as their firm belief that it must have been a sperm whale that swallowed Jonah in the long ago, but it was the general opinion that as a rule a man was perfectly safe in the water from a sperm whale except under such circumstances as had been detailed, and that our friend had been the victim of a mistake on the part of the hungry leviathan.
XXVI
THE TRAGICAL TALE OF THE BOOMERANG PIG
He was born under a baleful star. I know, because I was there at the time. But at the outset of this veracious history, to prevent probable misunderstanding, allow me to assert that what follows in all its details is literally and absolutely true. Naturally deficient in imagination, I would not attempt to embellish so curious a narrative as this, which, were I gifted beyond all literary romancists, I should only mar by adding fiction thereunto.
Well then, for the locus in quo, a lumbering old Yankee-built ship of some 2000 tons burden, bound from Liverpool to Bombay with coal, and at the inauspicious opening of my subject’s erratic career wallowing in the storm-torn sea off the Cape of Good Hope. His mother was a middle-aged lady pig, with a bitter grievance against mankind in general, and her present owners in particular. Brought on board during the vessel’s stay in Madras the previous year, she had never forgotten or ceased to lament her native jungle, nor had the long course of gentle treatment and good food modified by a single vengeful gasp her virulent hatred of all and sundry. Insult was added to injury when, in Liverpool, she was mated with an alien spouse, the chubby pink-flushed whiteness of whose skin made no greater contrast to her inky hue than did the calm placidity of his temper to her furious, unappeasable, and continual rage. Many tokens of her regard were scored deeply along his fat sides; indeed, but for the manifest impossibility of getting a fair bite at him, it is only reasonable to suppose that she would have devoured him alive.
Now it befell upon a certain evening, when a bitter north-east gale was brewing under the lowering leaden sky, and the weird whistling of the coming tempest made melancholy music through the complaining shrouds, that an interesting event in her history drew near its fulfilment. In anticipation of this occurrence, our carpenter had rigged up a rude sort of fold under the top-gallant forecastle, and within its narrow limits she was ranging tiger-like, champing her foam-flecked jaws, and occasionally tobogganing from side to side in various unhappy attitudes as the ship tumbled every way in the bewildered sea. When the watch to which I (a small urchin of fourteen) belonged came on deck at midnight I was immediately told off by my inveterate foe, the second mate, to attend to the requirements of the “lady in the straw.” Inverted commas are necessary, because the “straw” did not exist, nor any substitute for it; nothing but the bare deck polished to a glossy slipperiness by the incessant friction of the sliding sow. There was a fresh hand at the bellows before we had been on deck many minutes, and all the watch were soon perched aloft, struggling short-handedly with the acreage of thundering canvas, while the ship plunged so violently that I could only remain under the forecastle by clinging, bat-like, to the side of the pen that confined the miserable mother-elect. During that vigil of terror and darkness (for I had only one of those ancient teapot-shaped lamps, that yield more smoking stench than light) eleven wretched parti-coloured morsels of pork came into being, the advent of each one exacerbating the feelings of the already frantic parent to such a degree that she became a veritable fury, and to my terrified eyes seemed to dilate with potentialities of destruction. Out of the whole family I succeeded, at the imminent risk of my own life, in saving two from the jaws of their maniacal mother, and one of those sagaciously succumbed before eight bells. I received small thanks for my pains, and narrowly escaped a colting at my tyrant’s hands, who saw his visions of abundant sucking-pig rudely dispelled by what he was pleased to call my “dam’ pig-headed foolishness.”
It boots not now to tell of the wealth of ingenuity I lavished upon that ill-starred piglet, to whom I stood perforce in loco parentis—how I must needs lasso the snorting, shrieking mother, and, having entangled her legs fore and aft, drag her to the side of the pen and lash her securely down, while I held my protégé to one streaming teat after another. Enough that the care of that solitary remnant of a family embittered my days and rendered my nights sleepless interregnums of weariness. Unto all things their appointed end, saith the sage, and so at last I was freed from this porcine incubus by my charge having grown able and wily enough to dodge his unnatural parent, and snatch his sustenance from her in a variety of ingenious ways. But still he might not trust himself to sleep near her, and so he discovered a nest beneath the heel of the bowsprit, whereby her insatiable desire for his destruction was completely frustrated, since she could by no possible artifice get at him. After a while it was noticed that Sûsti (as for some hidden reason he had come to be called) invariably wore at the end of his tail a crimson ornament, which, upon closer examination, was found to be where something amused itself, or themselves, by nibbling during the night. The carpenter, who is always called upon to repair everything on board ship except ropes and sails, turned to and bound up the lessening terminal with a piece of tarred canvas, and plentifully besmeared the outside of the bandage with tar also. And this he did many days, because tar, and dressing, and a little more of Sûsti had always disappeared in the morning. So the outrage continued, and the tail became more and more abbreviated until it was entirely non est, and the midnight marauders had actually excavated a socket in the corpus delicti nearly half an inch deep.
By this time we had reached Bombay, and were busy, with the aid of a swarming host of coolies, in getting rid of our grimy cargo. But some one found time to suggest that a place of safety for Sûsti should be found during the night, fearing that, unless something was done soon, we should seek him one morning and find only a disembodied squeal. Consequently Sûsti was captured every evening, and, protesting discordantly, was confined in a coal-basket, which was carefully enclosed in the after hatch house. The plan succeeded admirably, so far that the diminution in our stock of pork ceased. But one morning, when the after hold was empty, the hatch house was lifted off as usual and placed by the side of the gaping hatchway, its door open, and Sûsti lying, forgotten, in his basket. All hands went to breakfast, while the coolies below, as was their wont, stopped work, and, squatting in the after-hold, held a conversazione. In the middle of our meal there was a hideous uproar, and an eruption of the heathen from all the hatchways, greenish-grey with fright, and swarming madly in every possible direction—overboard, aloft, anywhere. When at last we were able to elicit from the demented crowd the reason for their panic, we learned that as they were all toiling strenuously to prepare the coal for a renewal of our operations, down into their midst came flying a demon of Jehannum in the guise of a gigantic pig, with vast bat-like wings, and eyes of the bigness of a man’s fists glaring like red-hot coals. What wonder that they had fled, Hindoo and Mussulman alike, at the sight of their abomination in such an avatar of dread hurtling down upon their shaven crowns. The story sent us all seeking below, little dreaming that the luckless Sûsti was to blame. Presently we found him lying by the side of the keelson, badly hurt, but cheerful as ever. And with that indomitable pluck that had endeared him to us all, he not only survived, but made a complete recovery within a week.
Now, however, his rotund body had taken a curve, by reason of which he always appeared to be in the act of reaching around to look for the tail that had been. This peculiar bent of his figure had the strangest results whenever he took exercise. Wherever his goal might be, and in spite of his most energetic efforts to reach it, he only succeeded in describing what I am obliged to call a lateral parabola, along which he would eventually arrive at some unforeseen spot near his starting-point. Nor were the co-efficients of his curves at all regular. Sometimes, owing to the energetic efforts he made to counteract this inevitable curvilinear bias, a series of maxima and minima were produced which, when traced upon the deck, afforded some very interesting problems in the parallelograms of forces.
But I regret to record that the principal result of his errata was a decided increase in the local consumption of Scotch whisky. For our jovial skipper became so inordinately vain of his boomerang pig that he issued invitations to his fellow-captains in the harbour, in quite a reckless fashion, to come and see what an unprecedented curio he had gotten. They came multitudinously, came to scoff, but remained to grow purple with laughter and lose all their loose change in bets upon the probable points of arrival made by Sûsti in his gyratory gallops after sweet biscuits. And they returned to their several ships in a charming variety of unconventional attitudes, vocal but not harmonious, at irregular intervals during the night. Meanwhile Sûsti, pampered beyond even swinish dreams of avarice, waxed fat and almost uncontrollable. Joie de vivre filled him from end to end—from snout to socket. It seized him suddenly at all sorts of times, causing him to squeal hysterically, waggle his incipient hams momentarily, and then launch himself into space along the line of some marvellously complicated curve terminating in the most unexpected places.
As long as Europeans were about him he was safe, except for an occasional belabouring when he chanced to upset some luckless passer-by. But we were ordered round the coast to Cocanada in ballast, and, to expedite our loading there, took a number of coolies with us. On the day of our arrival, and shortly after anchoring, all hands were seated peacefully at dinner on the forecastle head. Below, on the shady side of the forward house, the “bundaree” had prepared the coolies’ meal, an immense flat dish of rice piled into a cone, with a number of tiny wells of curry round the rim, and a larger reservoir of the same fiery compound at the apex in a sort of crater. Around this the placid Hindoos crouched on their hams in orthodox fashion, and each right hand had just begun to manipulate a bolus of curry-moistened rice for conveyance to the expectant mouths, when with a meteoric rush Sûsti came round the corner of the house in a grand ellipse, and landed in the centre of the rice-pan. This was too much for even those mild coolies. With yells and imprecations they sprang for handspikes, belaying-pins, etc., and rushed upon the unclean beast, perfectly mad with rage. Our big retriever, who hated all black men impartially, and was therefore rigidly limited to the poop as a rule, saw the melée, and, judging doubtless that it was high time for his interference, came flying from his eminence, all shining teeth and savage snarl, into the centre of the struggling mass. For a brief moment nothing could be clearly distinguished; then suddenly there was a break up and a stampede. Every coolie sprang overboard like the demon-possessed swine of Gadara, leaving Neptune sadly sniffing at the lifeless body of Sûsti, which lay embedded in a heap of the befouled and scattered rice.
XXVII
A DAY ON THE SOLANDER WHALING-GROUND
A bright sunny morning; the gentle north-easterly breeze just keeping the sails full as the lumbering whaling-barque Splendid dips jerkily to the old southerly swell. Astern, the blue hills around Preservation Inlet lie shimmering in the soft spring sunlight, and on the port beam the mighty pillar of the Solander Rock, lying off the south-western extremity of New Zealand, is sharply outlined against the steel-blue sky. Far beyond that stern sentinel, the converging shores of Foveaux Strait are just discernible in dim outline through a low haze. Ahead, the jagged and formidable rocks of Stewart Island, bathed in a mellow golden glow, give no hint of their terrible appearance what time the Storm-fiend of the south-west cries havoc and urges on his chariot of war.
The keen-eyed Kanaka in the fore crow’s nest shades his eyes with his hand, peering earnestly out on the weather bow at something which has attracted his attention. A tiny plume of vapour rises from the blue hollows about ten miles away, but so faint and indefinable that it may be only a breaking wavelet’s crest caught by the cross wind. Again that little bushy jet breaks the monotony of the sea; but this time there is no mistaking it. Emerging diagonally from the water, not high and thin, but low and spreading, it is an infallible indication to those piercing eyes of the presence of a sperm-whale. The watcher utters a long, low musical cry, “Blo-o-o-o-w,” which penetrates the gloomy recesses of fo’ksle and cuddy, where the slumberers immediately engage in fierce conflict with whales of a size never seen by waking eyes. The officer and white seamen at the main now take up the cry, and in a few seconds all hands are swiftly yet silently preparing to leave the ship. She is put about, making a course which shortly brings her a mile or two to windward of the slowly-moving cachalot. Now it is evident that no solitary whale is in sight, but a great school, gambolling in the bright spray. One occasionally, in pure exuberance of its tremendous vitality, springs twenty feet into the clear air, and falls, a hundred tons of massive flesh, with earthquake-like commotion, back into the sea.
Having got the weather-gage, the boats are lowered; sail is immediately set, and, like swift huge-winged birds, they swoop down upon the prey. Driving right upon the back of the nearest monster, two harpoons are plunged into his body up to the “hitches.” The sheet is at once hauled aft, and the boat flies up into the wind; while the terrified cetacean vainly tries, by tremendous writhing and plunging, to rid himself of the barbed weapon. The mast is unshipped, and snugly stowed away; oars are handled, and preparation made to deliver the coup de grâce. But finding his efforts futile, the whale has sounded, and his reappearance must be awaited. Two boats’ lines are taken out before the slackening comes, and he slowly rises again. Faster and faster the line comes in; the blue depths turn a creamy white, and it is “Stern all,” for dear life. Up he comes, with jaws gaping twenty feet wide, gleaming teeth and livid, cavernous throat glittering in the brilliant light. But the boat’s crew are seasoned hands, to whom this dread sight is familiar, and orders are quietly obeyed, the boat backing, circling and darting ahead like a sentient thing under their united efforts. So the infuriated mammal is baffled and dodged, while thrust after thrust of the long lances are got home, and streamlets of blood trickling over the edges of his spout-hole give warning that the end is near. A few wild circlings at tremendous speed, jaws clashing and blood foaming in torrents from the spiracle, one mighty leap into the air, and the ocean monarch is dead. He lies just awash, gently undulated by the long, low swell, one pectoral fin slowly waving like some great stray leaf of Fucus gigantea. A hole is cut through the fluke and the line secured to it. The ship, which has been working to windward during the conflict, runs down and receives the line; and in a short time the great inert mass is hauled alongside and secured by the fluke chain.
The other two boats have succeeded in killing a large fish also, but are at least four miles off. They may as well try to move the Solander itself as tow their unwieldy prize to the ship. The shapeless bulk of the cachalot makes it a difficult tow at all times, but, with a rising wind and sea, utterly impossible to whale-boats. The barometer is falling; great masses of purple-edged cumuli are piling high on the southern horizon, and no weather prophet is needed to foretell the imminent approach of a heavy gale. The captain looks wistfully to windward at Preservation Inlet, only twenty-five miles off, and thinks, with fierce discontent, of the prize, worth eight or nine hundred pounds, which lies but four or five miles away, and must be abandoned solely for want of steam-power. And that is not all. Around, far as the eye can reach, the bushy spouts are rising. Hundreds of gigantic cetaceans are disporting, apparently not at all “gallied” by the conflict which has been going on. Some are near enough to the fast boat to be touched by hand. “Potentialities of wealth beyond the dreams of avarice” are here; but acquisition is impossible for want of steam. The vessel, bound to that immense body, can only crawl tortoise-like before the wind—lucky, indeed, to have a harbour ahead where the whale may be cut in, even though it be forty miles away. Without that refuge available, she could not hope to keep the sea and hold her prize through the wild weather, now so near. So, with a heavy heart, the captain orders the fast boat to abandon her whale and return with all possible speed. The breeze is freshening fast, and all sail is made for Port William. So slow is the progress, that it is past midnight before that snug shelter is reached, although for the last four hours the old ship is terribly tried and strained by the press of sail carried to such a gale.
In four days the work of getting the oil is finished, and three or four Maoris ashore have made a tun and a half of good clear oil from the abandoned carcass. This, added to the ship’s quantity, makes twelve and a half tuns of oil and spermaceti mingled from the one fish. None smaller has been noticed out of the hundreds seen on the same day. It is eighteen days from the time of anchoring before the harbour can again be quitted, owing to adverse winds and gales. Who can estimate the number of opportunities lost in that time? On the second day after reaching the grounds, another school is seen with the same result—one fish, and another fortnight’s enforced idleness.
This is no imaginary sketch, but a faithful record of actual facts, which, with slight variations, has been repeated many times within the writer’s experience. On one occasion there were four of us on the ground in company—three Americans, and one colonial. Each secured a whale before dusk. We kept away at once for Port William, fearing the shifting of the wind, which would bring us on a ragged, lee shore. The Americans, being strangers to the coast, hauled off to the westward. Five days afterwards, as we were cleaning ship after trying out, those three ships came creeping in to the harbour through the eastern end of Foveaux Strait, all sadly damaged, and of course whaleless. They had been battered by the furious gale all that time, and barely escaped destruction on the Snares. Two of them left the grounds a few days after, having had their fill of the Solander. Thus, it is obvious that nothing but steam is needed to make this most prolific of whaling-grounds a veritable treasure-field. Cutting in and trying out at sea could be entirely dispensed with. The magnificent land-locked harbour of Preservation Inlet, to say nothing of others easily available, affords complete facilities for a shore station. The water is in many cases forty or fifty fathoms deep alongside the rocks, while sheltered nooks abound, “where never wind blows loudly.”
Working by the share, no finer or more skilful whalemen exist than the half-breed Maoris who people Stewart Island, and they would joyfully welcome such a grand opportunity of making their pile.
Long before the Antarctic Expedition from Dundee left our shores, the merits of this grand field for whaling operations were discussed at length by the writer in the columns of a Dundee paper, and strongly advocated; but those responsible for the management of that venture were evidently so wedded to Greenland methods that the advice was unheeded. Perhaps the unprofitable issue of the enterprise as far as whales were concerned may dispose the adventurers to take advice, and try sperm-whaling in the temperate zone, in place of right-whaling in the far south. Should they do so, there is every reason to hope and believe that the palmy days of the sperm-whale fishery may be renewed. Dundee firms of to-day may then, like Messrs. Enderby of London in 1820–30, gladly welcome home ship after ship, full to the hatches with the valuable spoil of the Southern Seas.
Note.—Since the above was written it has been the writer’s melancholy duty to chronicle the final disappearance of the British Whale Fishery.
XXVIII
SEA-ELEPHANTS AT HOME
Judging by the popularity of the seals at the Zoological Gardens, these wonderful amphibia have a firm hold upon the affections of ordinary people. It probably occurs to but few as they gaze delightedly upon the unapproachable grace of the seals in their favourite element, how brutal and debasing is the pursuit of them for commercial purposes. This is a theme that has exercised the powers of many able writers, but has probably never been set forth in such awful realism as Mr. Burn-Murdoch has presented us with in his book, From Edinburgh to the Antarctic. For the seal is such a gentle, kindly creature, so perfectly harmless, except perhaps during the courting season, when the males fight fiercely, but never à l’outrance. The seal’s one mistake in life is that he has not exerted the intelligence that he undoubtedly possesses in the direction of clothing himself with some substitute, worthless to man, for the inimitable covering which is so ardently craved by shivering man and womankind.
There are, however, some seals that, from their bulk and ferocious appearance, actually invite attack from those ardent sportsmen who only long for sight of game worthy of hunting. The sea-elephant (Macrorhinus proboscideus), upon first acquaintance, seems, as our transatlantic friends concisely express it, “to fill the bill,” in these respects. In size he is little inferior to the huge quadruped after which he has been named, although, owing to the absence of legs, he will not look so bulky as the elephant. The possession of a rudimentary trunk of a foot or so in length has probably had little to do with the trivial appellation given to this great Phoca, his enormous size as compared with the ordinary seal being warrant enough for the name. Since the sea-elephant’s hide is almost hairless, only the massive coating of blubber he carries can excite the cupidity of the hunter, and then only in the absence of anything that may be easier obtained.
During the course of a whaling voyage “down South” it was the writer’s misfortune to visit the Auckland Islands in search of sea-elephants, owing to the unaccountable absence of whales from the vicinity for an extraordinarily long time. No one of the ship’s company had ever seen one of the creatures before, although most were well acquainted with ordinary seal-hunting. When, therefore, it was decided to visit the lonely, storm-tormented isles usually frequented by them there was an utter absence of enthusiasm. Indeed, many openly expressed a strong desire to be well out of the business. But when once a course has been decided upon at sea it needs stronger measures and greater unanimity among the crew than is often possessed to alter it, and consequently, after a truly miserable time of contention with the inhospitality of the Southern Ocean, we found ourselves anchored in a fairly well-sheltered bay at the Aucklands. The time of our visit was the antipodean spring, a season which, in those latitudes, is rigorous beyond belief. Gales of wind, accompanied by hard snowflakes and hail, raged almost incessantly, enwrapping the entire land surface in a bleak haze of spray from the sea, mingled with the congealed moisture from above. Notwithstanding these drawbacks, the object of the expedition had to be pursued without delay, parties were landed, armed with clubs of iron-wood, short but massive, and long, keen knives. General instructions were given as to procedure, based upon insufficient data, as the recipients well knew, and therefore not at all reliable. Everybody understood in a hazy sort of way that a seal’s vulnerable point was his nose: a tap on that was as paralysing as a bullet through the heart. Of course. And the subsequent proceedings were merely a matter of practice and stamina. Very good—oh, very good indeed! Thus equipped the explorers went blundering over boulders, wading through morasses, over fallen tree-trunks and glassy ice-slopes, until suddenly through the mist loomed up a massy shape. Possibly it was exaggerated by the haze, but it looked truly terrific when it was seen to be alive. It was surprising how little any one coveted the honour of being first to attack the big seal in front of them. But for very shame’s sake there could be no halting on the sealers’ part.
An appalling roar, quite in keeping with his appearance, burst from the monster, at which a most sympathetic thrill ran through the attacking party, accompanied by an earnest desire to be somewhere else. Again that indefinite desire to stand well in each other’s opinion came to their rescue, impelling the foremost man to fling his fears to the winds and rush in upon the formidable beast crouching before him. A badly-aimed blow at the animal’s snout made no more impression than a snow-flake, but the unwieldy creature, thoroughly alarmed, dropped from his semi-rampant altitude, almost burying his daring assailant beneath him as he did so. Then, like some legless hippopotamus, he waddled seawards, rolling from side to side in a manner so utterly ludicrous that fear was totally quenched in an uproarious burst of laughter. Recovering from that revulsionary paroxysm, all hands rushed upon the retreating mass, each eager to be the first to attack what we now saw to be a thoroughly demoralised foe.
Out of the many harmless blows aimed at the great seal’s head one struck the root of his proboscis, and like some vast bladder suddenly deflated he sank to the ground. Into the subsequent details it is not edifying to enter, their crude brutality being only excusable on the ground of nervous ignorance. But as foolhardiness succeeded timorousness, so did tragedy wait upon comedy. Out of the mist-enwrapped morass to shoreward of us came in elephantine haste a perfect host of the huge creatures we were seeking. And, as if they could not see us or were so terror-stricken that nothing could hinder them in their extraordinary career seawards, they came floundering, bellowing right amongst our little party. For one short minute it seemed as if we should be overwhelmed, crushed under this mountainous charge of massive flesh. Then there was “sauve qui peut.” In various directions we fled from the path of the advancing hosts, but hung upon their flanks, getting a straggler now and then. The chase grew frantic, “thorough bog, thorough briar,” over rocks and through streams; panting with fierce desire to slay, and forgetful of all else. What a crowd of savages we were!
At the last moment, on the very edge of the beach, one of our number, anxious to get just another victim, missed his blow, and stumbled right upon the huge beast. Putting out his arms to save himself, he thrust one of them right into the mouth of the gaping behemoth. An ear-splitting yell of agony followed, bringing every man to his assistance on the gallop. At first it was difficult to see what had happened, the great bulk of the seal as it swayed from side to side effectually hiding the puny form of the suffering enemy by its side. He, poor wretch, was in evil case; for the sea-elephant has the alarming habit of crushing solid pebbles of basalt or granite as large as oranges between his jaws in much the same fashion as a healthy youngster does lollypops. Probably this strange exercise of the gigantic jaw power he possesses is rendered necessary for digestive purposes, since no seal masticates its food.
Poor Sandy, who in such headlong fashion had thrust his arm into that awful mill, now found to his bitter cost what use might be made of the generally harmless stonebreakers. After the first blood-curdling scream we had heard there was an utter silence as far as our shipmate was concerned, only the soft floundering of the immense mass of sliding flesh and the snorting breath being audible. The mate was the first to realise what had happened, and with a howl of anger he leaped forward, bringing down his club with all his might just as the creature stooped low for another launching movement seaward. The blow fell just at the junction of the proboscis with the skull, and with a shudder which convulsed the whole mass of his body the huge animal collapsed, burying our unhappy shipmate beneath him. With one impulse we all sprang upon the heap of flesh, tearing with desperate energy to roll it from off the body, but it really seemed at first impossible to move it. Slipping, sliding, gasping for breath, we all pushed and strove—wasting, I doubt not, more than half our strength for want of preconcerted action. Oh, joy; we moved him at last, and there lay Sandy to all appearance a corpse.
Without any further delay we placed him in the boat, hoping that he was still alive, but by no means sure, and with all possible speed he was taken on board. This sudden calamity seemed to paralyse the rest of us for the time, and we all stood about watching the departing boat, as if we could not make up our minds to resume operations. But suddenly a dull, thunderous roar startled us from our lethargy, and looking landwards through the driving sleet we saw the shapeless forms of another immense herd of the ungainly monsters floundering toward us. Manifestly we were in an unhealthy predicament, and without waiting for orders we fled in all directions but towards the advancing herd. Through swampy patches of green, over frozen rocks, torn by thorny shrubs, and incessantly dodging the blind onset of groups of the wallowing monsters, we scrambled unreasoningly until—panting, breathless, and demoralized—we halted from sheer inability to go farther. When we had recovered it was some time before we got together again, and when we did we were a sorry crowd, as unfit as could well be imagined for the tremendous labour that awaited us of skinning the huge carcasses that lay dotted about the foreshore. However, we commenced the task, and by nightfall had completed the flenching. A gun from the ship recalled us on board almost too weary to launch the boats, and plastered thickly with mud, blood, and grease. When we arrived on board we were too exhausted to eat, hardly able to feel any interest in the news that Sandy was alive and doing as well as could be expected. But one conviction was burnt deep into the perceptions of all—that the hardest whaling ever done was a pleasant pastime compared with sea-elephant hunting at the Aucklands.
XXIX
AN INTERVIEW
Difficulties, which, could I have foreseen then, would have appeared insurmountable, attended the interview hereinafter recorded. First of all, His Majesty King Cachalot the MMCC was not in the best of humours—which was hardly to be wondered at, since, with all the ability we could muster, five boats’ crews of us from the spouter Finback had been harassing him since daylight, eager to add his fourteen-ton overcoat to our greasy cargo. It was a blazing day on the Line, Pacific side, with hardly a ripple on the water, so that what advantage there was weighed on our side. Yet so wary and skilful had his Majesty proved, that one by one the boats had retired hurt from the field, while the object of their attentions was as fresh as paint, and, as he afterwards expressed it, “going very strong.” Nevertheless the scrum had been warm in a double sense, and his Majesty bore many palpable evidences of our efforts all over his huge black body.
Being in command of the only surviving boat, sole representative of our available force, and with a reputation yet to win, I must confess to a little lack of care, a nervous desire to distinguish myself; but I still think it was hard to have my boat knocked into a litter of barrel staves by the unanticipated somersault of my expected prize just as I reckoned upon delivering a coup de lance in final settlement of our little account.
After the surprise of our meeting had somewhat subsided, I found myself reclining in a richly carved and upholstered chair in my genial host’s splendidly furnished reception room, puffing with appreciative enjoyment at one of his unapproachable Rothschilds—’beg pardon I’m sure—I mean that I found myself clinging with no uncertain clutch to a capsized line-tub, into which I succeeded in getting after a series of involuntary evolutions, after having managed to swallow the majority of a barrel of salt water. While settling myself in my ark like a faded Moses, our late antagonist drew near and watched me closely. As soon as I appeared to be compos mentis, he thus addressed me:
“What you settin’ there fur a-gappin’ at me ’sif y’didn’t know who I wuz.”
“I humbly beg your Majesty’s pardon; I meant no offence, I assure you. But I perceive you are an American citizen.”
“Perseev’ nothin’, y’abbrevyated galoot,” growled he. “Hain’t enny persepshun ’baout ye, ’r y’ewd see I’m waitin’ ter be interviewed, same’s all th’ other sellebritiz.”
Now, although I do believe that the journalist is nascitur, non fit, my nascent journalism if existent was decidedly latent, and at present I was indubitably unfit for anything but a rescue or two. But here was a unique chance of becoming famous, and though modest and retiring to the last degree, I rose to the occasion. A few fragmentary recollections marshalled themselves, and I asked insinuatingly:
“How old is your Majesty?”
“One thousan’ four hunderd seasons,” he replied promptly.
As soon as I recovered my breath, I answered politely, “Indeed! Your Majesty wears well. I should hardly have thought it. Are your Majesty’s parents living?”
“How’d I know,” he grumbled, peeping fiercely at me out of the corner of his starboard eye. “Don’t go much on parients ermong our peepul. Next please!”
“Where did your venerability do us the honour to be born, if the question be allowable?” I queried timidly.
“Here,” he roared, with a resounding crash of his enormous tail on the surface; “where’d ye think I’d be born but at sea?”
Deficient in locality evidently, I thought, being a bit of a phrenologist myself, though it would have required a theodolite to survey the bumps upon his capacious cranium. But as he showed signs of irritability, I added quickly, “Are you married, your Majesty, or how?”
“Well; I should cackle,” he said—“married, hay! Why one of your (an awful reverberation suggested a powerful adjective) slush-tubs hez jest broke up one uv the purtiest little harems I ever collected, twelve ravishin’ beauties sech ez any monark’d be proud of. Well thar, hurry up; I’m jest reminded ov an ole schoolmate uv mine ’s got mose ’s good erwun. He’s usin’ roun’ the Bonins ’baout now, ’n’ I mus’ git over thar ’n’ b’reave him. Royal rights, y’know,” and his Majesty shed a ponderous wink.
“What does your Majesty do for a living?” I ventured to inquire.
“Eat!” he roared. “Harpoons en bomb-guns, what dz ennybody du fr a livin’? I never heerd sech a barnacle-headed grampus ’n all my fishin’.” With that he lifted up his tremendous caput out of water and exposed his Blackwall tunnel of a mouth, as who should remark, “Not much room for other occupation in a whale’s life when a gulf like this needs attention.”
I suppose I looked a bit preoccupied, for he hastily added, “But I never eat sech insecks ez you be.”
“What, never?” I ventured to murmur.
“No, never,” he replied; “at least, that is,”—but seeing his hesitation, I said I fancied I’d heard a story about a passenger by the name of Jonah down on the Syrian coast a while back. “Oh, well y’know,” he muttered apologetically, “’f course accidents will happen, ’s the shark said to his brother when he took him in, but I don’t reckon thar wuz anythin’ to mek a noise erbout. ’Tany-rate the can’date left considerable sudden. Yew needn’t be ’fraid ennyhow.”
But I was unprepared with any more questions at the moment, the outlook, or inlook rather, being so disconcerting. So I said, “Would your Majesty object to outlining a few of your wonderful experiences for the benefit of landsmen generally. Any information you may choose to give will be regarded as strictly confidential, of course.”
“Oh, sartinly,” he replied with an alarming area of smile. “Mos’ ov ’em hev ben with your dod-gasted tribe. Why yew’re tarnally prowlin’ erbout tryin’ ter get ter wind’ard ov peac’ble fokes I kaint surmise. Still, up till now I’ve ben equal ter holdin’ me own,—keepin’ me eend up, ez yew may say. To-day f’rinstance, hey?” I winced under the sarcasm. “But I mind onst daown on the Noo Seelan’ coas’ towin’ five boat-load ov Mowries frum the Solander ’way down eenamost ter the Cambells. They wuz a plucky crowd, f’r they helt on ter me through a blizzard ov hail an’ snow lasting twyst az long as I kin stay soundin’. When it gin over they wuz all fruz stiffer’n a lance-pole. My, but gettin’ cleer ov em wuz a pull. I hed to soun’ at top-gait ’sif I wuz boun’ f’r two thousan’ fathoms, ’n’ suthin’ hed ter give. I wuz pretty fat in those days, so their all-fired irons drew. They galled me like sixty, but I was free.
“Then a left-handed-on-both-feet crowd eout ov a French right-whaler tackled me offn the Cape. Mighty big mistake they struck—thought I wuz pore ole say-nothin’-ter-nobody Mr. Cetus, they did. ’N’, when I milled roun’ ’n’ cum f’r ’em eend on ’ith er twenty foot smile on me hed! airthqueeks ’n’ volcanose! y’ sh’d jest er seen ’em flew. Didn’ wait to say howdy, jest cut line ’n’ vamoosed like ’sif ole Jemmy Smallback wuz after ’em. I wuz thet mad, I’d liketer hev busted up their ole hooker ’n’ all, but thet thar Essex affair gin me sech er swell’d hed I ’lowed it warn’t bad reck’nin’ ter let her go et that.
“Say, djever see er big squid, big’s me?” he queried sharply.
“Yes, your Majesty, I did once. Only once. B-b-b-ay of B-b-bengal,” for I was almost moribund.
“Ah, you hev seen suthin’ then. F’r yew insecks wut live on top don’t offen git a chance ter see them critters ’less we bring ’em up f’r the sun ter see haow gaul-darned ugly they air. Wall, one like yew say yew seen tangled erp my fav’rit’ wife off Futuna one afternoon. Me an’ my harem wuz feedin’ at ’bout a thousan’ fathom, an’ Polly jest sidled up ter ole Jellybelly ’n’ got hole ov a mouthful ov him. He, bein’ kinder s’prised, gripped her all over ter onst; ’n’, stranger,” he added impressively, “I’ll be weather-bound ef he didn’t frap her hole head up so’s she couldn’t bite er breathe. We’d ben down ’bout long ernough too, but I sailed right in ’n’ bit his great carkiss in half az well az I c’d see f’r his ink-cloud. Hows’ever I wuz too late, f’r he’d locked his tangle ov arms roun’ an’ roun’ her hed, ’n’ though his body wuz all chawed erp they couldn’ come adrift. So she drowned, ’n we all hed ter make tracks upstairs quicker ’n winkin’ er we sh’d a ben drowned tu. As ’twuz we wuz fair beat out when we arrove up top.
“Did I ever have enny fights with me own people? Well I—but there, how’d yew know, poor thing. Millyuns ov ’em. Look at me,” and he swept proudly past exhibiting his grooved and ribbed flanks bearing indelible traces of many a furious battle, some of the foot-wide scars being twenty feet long.
“Enny more informashun I c’n supply yew with at short notice? bekuz this session’ll hev ter adjurn siny die in about tew minnits. I’m gittin’ mos’ amazin’ peckish.”
Happy thought, “What do you live on mostly, your Majesty?”
“Squid. Fust ’n las’ ’n’ between meals gen’ly. They aint nothin’ better tew eat in the hull worl’ ’z far’s I know. We dew ’casionally git a bellyful ov fish ov sorts by layin’ quiet when the shoals air swarmin’. They run down a feller’s gullet in hunderds ’n never know whar they’re goin. But they’re cussid indigestible——”
I was alone. There was nothing in sight, but my interviewee was gone. So stiff and sore was I that I could hardly turn my head to see if help was coming. There was no help in sight that I could discover, but presently a boat came along from the ship and picked me up—none too soon. Gloomily we returned on board to moralise mournfully over our ill-luck and the perfidy of sperm whales generally.
XXX
UP A WATERSPOUT
Of course no one is under any obligation to believe this most reliable relation. At the same time I may be allowed to remind the sceptical that in the present case their credibility is subjected to no such strain as half the respectable advertisements of the day place upon it. However, I won’t press the point; here is the story, fay ce que vouldras.
Doubtless you have all heard of waterspouts, many of you have seen them in full spin, and not a few, amateurs of meteorology, have got their pet theories as to the genesis, evolution, and dissolution of these mysterious meteors. With just a touch of perhaps pardonable vanity I may say that, for an important section of society, my theory holds the field—is, in fact, unassailable. But I refrain from exposing it publicly at present, principally because such exposition involves a large use of the higher mathematics, in which I am, to be candid, somewhat shaky; and secondly, because the editor would see me farther before he would let me do it. But an ounce of experience is worth a ton of theory, even such gilt-edged theory as mine—at least most of us work on the lines of this well-worn proverb. So my experience, which is herein set forth, must necessarily be considered as the most valuable contribution to our knowledge of waterspoutery or trombe-oonery that has ever yet appeared. I might claim more for it than this, but modesty was ever a failing of mine.
On 23rd August last, then, I was leaning over the taffrail of an ancient barque, of which I was “only” mate, homeward bound from Iquique to Falmouth for orders. We had reached the horse latitudes, those detestable regions embracing the debatable area between the limits of the north-east and south-east trade winds. Here you may have such an exhibition of what the skies are capable of in the matter of rain as nowhere else in the world. For days together the weather will consist of squalls—not much wind in them as a rule—from all points of the compass, but rain—well, one might almost as well be living beneath an ocean of which the bottom is given to falling out occasionally. And as all this tremendous rainfall comes from the sea, the replenishment of the supply upstairs keeps the pumping machinery going constantly. It is no uncommon sight to see forty or fifty waterspouts in various stages of their career at one time. On this particular afternoon there was quite a forest of them about, but as yet none of them had come within less than two or three miles of the ship. It was my watch below, and the air being stifling down in the murky little cabin, I was enjoying a pipe and a little cool breeze that had been blowing for about twenty minutes in the right direction. The old hooker was wriggling along about two or three knots—sufficiently fast to induce me to try whether some members of a sociable school of dolphins that were playing about us could be gulled into biting at a bit of white rag I was trailing, which concealed a formidable hook. The “old man” was below, seated at the cabin table, wrestling with his day’s reckoning not over-successfully, for his grumbling expletives were now and then audible through the wide-open skylight, the man at the wheel gazing skyward with a comical expression of innocence whenever he met my eye after an extra heavy blast from below. The antics of the fish beneath me so fully occupied my attention that the near approach of a waterspout along the starboard beam did not attract my notice. In any case, the weather was no affair of mine, the bo’sun being in charge, though, as usual in these undermanned vessels, up to his elbows in tar, away forward somewhere. But suddenly the gloom became so heavy and the chill in the air so evident, that I looked up wondering whence the squall had arrived at such short notice. At that moment a big dolphin who had been tantalising me for a long time seized my hook. I had only two or three fathoms of line out, and being balanced upon the taffrail, the jerk was sufficiently forceful to make me turn a back somersault overboard. The last thing I saw was the helmsman’s face blank with utter amazement at my sudden exit. I struck the water end-on, going pretty deep, but on returning to the surface was horrified to find myself the centre of a whirling, seething commotion, as if some unseen giant was stirring the sea with a mighty spoon. The gyrations I was compelled to perform made me quite giddy and sick, although my head kept so well above water that I was in no danger of drowning. Faster and faster yet I was whirled around, while a dense fog seemed to rise all round, shutting out everything from view behind an impenetrable white curtain.
I have often noticed that if you tuck a chicken’s head under its wing and give it a gentle circular motion it will “stay put,” in any position you like for an indefinite length of time, although the brightness of its eyes and its regular respiration shows that it is “all there.” Thus it was with me. I was certainly all there, but the spinning business had reduced me to a hypnotised or mesmerised condition, in which I was incapable of independent volition, while keenly conscious of all that was going on. I became aware of an upward movement, a sort of spiral ascension, as if I was attached to one of the threads of a gigantic vertical screw that was being withdrawn by a steady left-handed revolution. Also, it was very wet, though not with a solid wetness as of the sea—more like one of the usual tremendous showers we had lately been having, and in no sense was I conscious of floating. I began to get somewhat used to the spiral movement, the sensation being almost pleasant, since the nausea that troubled me was gone, but I wondered vaguely whither I was bound. It was getting very cold, and a muffled persistent roar, as of some infuriated bull uttering his grievances through a vast speaking-trumpet, worried me greatly, for I could imagine no reason for such a sound. However, in my passive condition I could only endure whatever came along, this being no time for protest or struggle.
Suddenly I felt myself emerge as if from a pipe up into an immense reservoir of the heaviest mist I ever felt. At that instant a terrible sensation of instability took possession of me, very like that one experiences in wandering over deep new-fallen snow, concealing Heaven knows what crevasses beneath, only more so. My heart worked like a pulsometer, and every nerve in my quivering corpus said as plain as print, “You’ll come an awful cropper directly.” And it was even so. All my lost power of independent movement came back to me at once, and frantically clutching at the fog wreaths around me I began to fall. Most of us know that ugly old dream where the bed plays see-saw over some unfathomable abyss, higher at every swing, till suddenly we wake snatching at the bed-clothes and bathed in sweat. In my case, unfortunately, the fall came too. It seemed to occupy hours. While I came hurtling from the heavens I remembered with satisfaction that the wife would get her half-pay right up to the end of the voyage, and I fervently hoped she had kept my insurance premiums paid up. Then the great solemn sea sprang up to meet me. There was a Number One splash, a rush of salt water in my ears, and the blessed daylight once more. Right close to me was the ship, all hands gaping over the side at me as if I was a spook and never a one offering to heave me a line. The manner of my reappearance seemed to have knocked them all silly. All except the old man, that is. He stooped deliberately, picked up the coil of the main topsail brace, and hove it at me. It fell all about me in a tangle, but I managed to get hold of the standing part, which I froze to tight, while the skipper hauled me alongside. Feeling numb and stupid, I yet managed to haul myself on board, and with all the chaps gaping at me with protruding eyes, staggered up on to the poop. The skipper met me with a scowl, saying grimly, “Looky here, Mr. Brown, the next time you quit this ship, with my leave or without, you’ll stay there.” I felt hurt, but disinclined to talk back, so I went below to change my dunnage and enter up my log-book.
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