This incident of the peccaries and jaguar affords a good illustration of the familiar adage that union is strength, for individually the boldest of these fierce little pigs would fall an easy prey to their redoubtable enemy, as may be gathered from the havoc he was able to make amongst them, even when surrounded and almost smothered by their numbers. It may be said, however, that under similar circumstances a tiger could, probably, account for several of the big wild boars of India, though he may occasionally be driven off, or even wounded to the death, by one alone. The pressed mass of bodies, unable through their own numbers to retreat or guard themselves, must offer fatal facilities to the teeth and claws of a creature capable of using them with effect, almost up to the moment of death itself. It is conceivable, therefore, that even a single full-grown male peccary might, for some time, hold a jaguar at bay, if he were not taken by him unawares. This, however, the jaguar almost always contrives to do; and indeed it is essential that he should, and also have a stronghold to retreat to, since it is but seldom that a peccary is found alone.
The jaguar’s stronghold is a tree, and his modus operandi, when a herd of peccaries come trotting through the forest, as follows. Stealing cautiously through the underbrush, he marks the direction in which the herd are going, and then climbs a tree in their line of march. Crawling out upon one of the lower boughs, he waits till one passes underneath it, and then, leaping on its back, dislocates the neck by a rapid wrench round of it with his paw, and bounds into the tree again, leaving it dead on the ground. The ill-fated animal’s companions rush up, excited and irritated, and vengefully surround the tree. The jaguar, however, within the ample domain of a large forest tree—for such he will have chosen—is entirely at home, and being, moreover, hardly discernible amidst the foliage and creepers, has seldom to stand a long siege. The restless little pigs, tired of inactivity and not having their anger whetted by the sight, and near proximity, of their enemy, soon go off, leaving their dead companion where it was slain; upon which the jaguar descends, and feasts upon it at his leisure. This is the account given by the inhabitants of Brazil and Central America of the way in which the jaguar procures a dinner of pork, nor, since it is in itself probable and in accordance with the habits of the animal, is there any reason to doubt it.
It need not be supposed, however, that the peccary must always pass just under the chosen bough, so that the jaguar can leap directly down upon it. This, no doubt, would be the ideal state of things, but it is not always, or, indeed, often, that things come up to one’s ideal. Failing this, no doubt, the jaguar would drop to the ground as near the peccary as he could manage, and develop a closer intimacy afterwards. A rapid bound or two, and with a growl or murderous roar, the “yellow peril” would be upon him, nor would his own pigtail avail him aught—caught unawares, all would soon be over. Still, even under these less favourable conditions, a wary member of the herd might, sometimes, save itself by making a dash to its nearest companions, or even, perhaps, in the case of a stout old boar, by resisting till these had run up. In wild nature there is continual competition between the attacking species and the one attacked by it, both attaining, by this means, to the perfection of aptitude in opposed directions.
CHAPTER XX
THE GREAT CACHALOT OR SPERM-WHALE—HOW THE BULLS FIGHT—A BATTLE OF MONSTERS—GIANTS THAT EAT GIANTS—ENORMOUS CUTTLEFISH—THE KRAKEN A REALITY—DISAPPOINTED PROFESSORS.
A slight digression arising out of the subject took me away from the seals, or rather from the cetaceans, or whale tribe, which come next to them in that orderly sequence by which land animals pass, gradually, into water ones. Now, therefore, I will resume the thread. One of the very largest, and, in the sense of our title-page, most romantic of these great creatures is the sperm-whale or cachalot. He may grow to seventy-six feet long, with a girth round the hugest part of him of quite thirty-eight feet. Or say, rather, that he has been known to grow to that size. What he may sometimes grow to who can say? Just as there are, or have been, elephants standing twelve feet from the ground, though, as a rule, this largest of the pachyderms does not attain to much over ten feet, so amongst the giants of the deep, there are, no doubt, giants too, though, owing to their rarity, the chances are against the look-out man, in the crow’s-nest of a whaling-ship, ever setting eyes on one. Why should not one imagine so, since with much greater facilities for observation, and much more variety, probably, in the subject of it, one might walk about the streets of London all one’s life, without ever seeing a man seven feet high? Yet there are men seven feet high—yes, and eight feet or nine feet, or at least there have been—and so, perhaps, in the vast ocean solitudes that they inhabit, there may, here and there, be a great bull cachalot of eighty or ninety feet long—perhaps even a hundred feet.
But take him at his more ordinary figure—fifty to seventy feet or so—and what a gigantic monster he is! In appearance, from the point of the nose—where he seems to have been sawn through—to the middle of the back, he is like an enormous black tree-trunk. From here the body tapers, or rather slopes steeply, to the tail, where first a shape is observable—that, namely, with which we are familiar in the tail, or caudal fin, of almost every fish. Unlike the latter, however, the tail or “flukes” of the cachalot—as well as every other whale—lies flat-ways in the water, with its two points shooting out at right angles to the two sides, instead of to the back and belly of the creature. The difference is like that between the way a plank floats on the water, and the way in which the keel of a boat cuts through it. It seems curious that there should be such a difference here between the whale and the fish tribe, seeing that in each the tail has been gradually developed to meet the requirements of a similar mode of life. This being so, one might have supposed that the plan of the tail would have been the same in each, on the principle that one way—as represented by the whole class of fishes—must be better than any other. Apparently, however, this is not the case, since cetaceans, on the whole, swim as well and as swiftly as fish. The tail in their case, and not the two hinder limbs, as with seals, has been modified into a fin, and it is curious that in the beaver, where it has also been modified to a considerable extent, in this direction the expansion has likewise been lateral and not vertical. We see the same thing in the case of many crustaceans, and throughout nature this principle of attaining the same end by a variety of means is apparent. This should teach us that it is a great mistake to think, as people often do think, that the particular way in which any animal does a certain thing is the only, or best way, in which it might conceivably be done. Even a man—if a clever one—might think of some improvement in the structure of most animals, in relation to their habits of life. Only he could not carry out these improvements. Nature alone can do that, and in her own time and way she is always ready to do so.
With this great tail of his—for it is in proportion to his own size, and sometimes eighteen feet from point to point—the cachalot, like other whales, can deliver the most tremendous blows, curving it at first, as does the crocodile, away from the object of its animosity, and then causing it to leap back with an impetus in which the natural force of the recoil is increased a hundredfold by the hearty goodwill which the creature, whose strength is enormous, puts into it. These dreadful blows are dealt with great sureness of aim, and, considering the size of the instrument inflicting them, with wonderful rapidity. Beneath their flail-like vigour and fury the sea foams and spouts, the air is rent by a succession of thundering roars, like the sound of artillery, whilst about the mighty causer of all this vast commotion, the waters heave mountainous, the white waves break, the spray leaps, hisses, and flies till, huge and rock-like as the mass is that forms the centre of the area of disturbance, it is almost lost amidst the turmoil that its own energies have raised. Such scenes may be witnessed when two bull sperm-whales contend for the favours of one or more females, for, in opposition to the general rule prevailing amongst the cetaceans, these huge creatures are polygamous, each full-grown male collecting together a harem, with which he roams the deep, and which is of greater or lesser extent, in proportion either to his prowess as a fighter, or his personal attractions.
It is not with the tail only, however, that these battles are maintained. The cachalot belongs to the toothed order of whales, and his lower jaw, which is extraordinarily thin and slight, in comparison with the upper one and huge snout above it, is furnished with some fifty thick, curved, and bluntly pointed fangs, each one of which fits into a corresponding socket of the upper jaw, which latter, contrary to what one might expect, is toothless. These teeth, in old males, attain a weight of from two to four pounds apiece, and being composed entirely of ivory, form handsome as well as curious objects, upon which sailors are fond of exercising their skill in carving. They are to be seen, sometimes, upon the cottage mantelshelves of retired old salts, or on those belonging to the parents of younger ones, having been brought home to them from one of their son’s trips. Thus furnished, the jaws of the cachalot are a formidable weapon, even when used against each other, nor does the absence of teeth from the upper one seem much to diminish their effectiveness. For some reason, however, possibly because it is easier, or more effective, to bring the teeth down than to strike them up, the sperm-whale, before he makes a bite, is accustomed to turn on his back, as does a shark, and in this position he has often been known to crush a whaling-boat with, incidentally, a man or two that was in it, between his jaws. With what effect, therefore, they can be used against the softer substance of any denizen of the deep that may have the temerity to attack their owner, may be imagined.