Of course, on board merchant ships the range of variety among pets is somewhat restricted. Cats, dogs, monkeys, pigs, sheep, goats, musk-deer, and birds (of sorts) almost exhaust the list; except among the whale-ships, where the lack of ordinary subjects for taming lead men to try their hand upon such queer pets as walruses, white bears, and even seal-pups, with the usual success. Few pets on board ship ever presented a more ungainly appearance than the walrus. Accustomed to disport its massive bulk in the helpful wave, and only for very brief intervals hooking itself up on to a passing ice-floe as if to convince itself that it really is one of the amphibia, the change in its environment to the smooth deck-planks of a ship is truly radical. And yet it has often been known not only to survive such a change, but to appear contented and happy therein. Its uncouth gambols with the sailors are not to be described; but they are so funny that no one could witness them without laughter, especially when the sage, hoary appearance of even the most youthful walrus is remembered—and, of course, only very young specimens could possibly be obtained alive. But, after all, the morse has its limitations as a pet. Tamed as it often has been, and affectionate as it undoubtedly becomes, it never survives for a great while its privation of sea-bathing, and to the grief of its friends generally abandons the attempt to become permanently domesticated before the end of the season. The white bear, on the other hand, when caught sufficiently young is a great success as a pet, and develops a fund of quaint humour as well as intelligence that one would certainly never suspect from the appearance of the animal’s head. Bears are notably the humorists of the animal kingdom, as any one may verify for himself who chooses to watch them for a few days at the Zoological Gardens, but among them all for pure fun commend us to Ursa Polaris. Perhaps to appreciate the play of a pet white bear it is necessary to be a rough and tough whaleman, since with the very best intentions his bearship is apt to be a little heavy-pawed. And as when his claws grow a very slight mistake on his part is apt to result in the permanent disfigurement of his playmate, his days of pethood are always cut suddenly short as he approaches full growth. Seal-pups have no such drawbacks. They are pretty, affectionate, and domestic, while an occasional douche of salt water from the wash-deck tub will suffice to keep them in good health and spirits for a long time. Such favourites do they become that it is hard to understand how the same men, who will spend much of their scanty leisure playing with the gentle, amiable creatures, can at a moment’s notice resume the crude barbarity of seal-slaughtering with all its attendant horrors of detail. Apart from his cumbrous movements on deck, the seal seems specially adapted for a ship’s pet. He is so intelligent, so fully in touch with his human playmates, that after a short acquaintance one ceases to be surprised at his teachability; it is taken as a matter of course.
Ordinary merchant ships are, as before noted, confined to a limited range of pets. Chief among them is the harmless necessary cat, about which the present writer has written at considerable length in a recent number of the Spectator. But the cat’s quiet domesticity never seems to take such a firm hold upon seamen’s affections as does the livelier friendship of the dog. A dog on board ship is truly a favoured animal. So much so that dogs will give themselves almost as many airs and graces as the one unmarried young lady usually does in the midst of a number of male passengers, and with much the same results. Once, indeed, the presence of two dogs on board of a large ship on an East Indian voyage nearly led to a mutiny. They were both retrievers, the property of the master. But almost from the commencement of the voyage one of them, a fine black dog, “Sailor,” deliberately cast in his lot with the men “forrard,” where he was petted and spoiled, if a dog can be spoiled by petting. The other dog, a brown, dignified animal called “Neptune,” kept to the officers’ quarters. And presently the two pets by some sort of tacit understanding divided the deck between them, the main hatch constituting a sort of neutral ground beyond which neither might pass without a fight. Now, there were also some pets on board of a totally different kind, to wit, three fine pigs, who, contrary to the usual custom, were allowed to roam unpenned about the decks. A fellow-feeling, perhaps, led “Sailor,” the forecastle dog, to fraternise with the genial swine, and the antics of these queerly assorted playmates gave many an hour’s uproarious amusement. But the pigs loved to stray aft, far beyond their assigned limits. Whenever they did so, but a short time would elapse before “Neptune” would bound off the poop, and seizing the nearest offender by the ear, gallop him “forrard” in the midst of a perfect tornado of squeals and clatter of sliding hoofs. This summary ejectment of his friends was deeply resented by “Sailor,” who, with rigid back and gleaming eyes, looked on as if ready to interfere if “Neptune” should overstep the boundaries of his domain. One day the foreseen happened. In the fury of his gallop “forrard” Neptune reached the galley door before he released the pig he had been dragging, then suddenly recollecting himself, was trotting back with deprecatory demeanour, when he met “Sailor” coming round the after end of the house. The two heroes eyed one another for a moment, but only a moment. “Sailor” felt doubtless that this sort of thing had gone far enough, and with a snarl full of fury they joined battle. The skipper was “forrard” promptly, armed with a belaying-pin, and seizing “Sailor” by the neck, began to belabour him heavily. It was too much for the men, who by this time had all gathered around. They rushed to the rescue of their favourite, forgetting discipline, rights of ownership, everything but the unfairness of the proceeding. The belaying-pin was wrested from the captain’s grasp, the dogs torn apart, and with scowling faces the men stood confronting the raging skipper, who for some moments was hardly able to speak. When he was, he said many things, amongst others that he would shoot “Sailor” on sight; but it is perfectly certain that had he carried out his threat he would have had a complete mutiny on his hands. The matter blew over, but it was a long time before things had quite resumed their normal calm. A keen watch was kept over “Sailor” by the men for the rest of the voyage, lest evil should befall him.
Monkeys are, as might be expected, popular as pets. Unfortunately, they disturb the harmony of a ship more than any other animal that could be obtained. For their weird powers of mischief come to perfection where there are so many past masters in the art of animal training, and nothing affords greater amusement to everybody but the sufferer when “Jacko” takes it into his impish head to get loose and ravage the contents of some fellow’s bunk or chest. So much is this the case that many captains will not allow a monkey on board their ship at all, feeling sure that, however peaceable a lot of men he may have found his crew to be before, one monkey passenger is almost sure to be the fountain and origin of many fights after his advent. The things that monkeys will do on board ship are almost beyond belief. One instance may be noted where a monkey in a ship named the Dartmouth gave signal proof of his reasoning powers. He was a little black fellow from Sumatra, and from the time of his coming on board had seemed homesick, playing but few tricks, and only submitting passively to the petting he received. Passing through Sunda Straits he sat upon the forecastle head looking wistfully at the distant land with quite a dejected pose of body. As we drew near the town of Anjer (it was before the awful convulsion of Krakatoa) he suddenly seemed to make up his mind, and springing up he covered his face with his hands and leapt shoreward. We were only going about two knots an hour, happily for him. He struck out vigorously for the shore, but suddenly realised the magnitude of his task apparently, for he turned sharply round and swam back. One of the officers threw him the end of the main-topsail brace, which he grasped and nimbly climbed on board, a wiser monkey. Thenceforward his behaviour was quite cheerful and tricky, until his lamented demise from a chill caught off the Cape. Goats, again, are great favourites on board ship, when they have been taught to let the running gear alone. But their inveterate habit of gnawing everything largely discounts their amiability. The pretty little mongoose, too, until he begins to fraternise with his natural enemies, the rats, is a most pleasant companion, full of play, and cleanly of habit. So is the musk-deer, but it is so delicate that few indeed of them reach home that are bought by sailors among the islands of the East Indian Archipelago. The same fate overtakes most of the birds, except canaries, that sailors buy abroad, and teach on the passage home no end of tricks. Yet deeply as these exotic pets are loved by forecastle Jack, and great as is the pleasure he undoubtedly derives from them, the majority of them fall into the hands of Jamrach and Cross, or other keen dealers in foreign birds and beasts, when the ship reaches home. For it is seldom poor Jack has a home whereto he may bring his pets.
THE SURVIVORS
Evening was just closing in, heralded by that indescribable feeling of refreshment in the torrid air always experienced at sea near the Equator when the sun is about to disappear. The men in the “crow’s nests” were anxiously watching the declining orb, whose disappearance would be the signal for their release from their tedious watch. But to the chagrin of every foremast hand, before the sun had quite reached the horizon, the officer up at the mainmast head, taking a final comprehensive sweep with his glasses all around, raised the thrilling cry of “Blo—o—o—o—w.” And despite the lateness of the hour, in less than ten minutes four boats were being strenuously driven in the direction of the just-sighted whale. Forgetting for awhile their discontent at the prospect before them, the crews toiled vigorously to reach their objective, although not a man of them but would have rejoiced to lose sight of him. It was not so to be. At another time he would probably have been startled by the clang of the oars as they turned in the rowlocks, but now he seemed to have lost his powers of apprehension, allowing us to come up with him and harpoon him with comparative ease. The moment that he felt the prick of the keen iron, all his slothfulness seemed to vanish, and without giving one of the other boats a chance to get fast also, he milled round to windward, and exerting all his vast strength, rushed off into the night that came up to meet us like the opening of some dim portal into the unknown. Some little time was consumed in our preparations for the next stage of our proceedings, during which the darkness came down upon us and shut us in with our prey, blotting out our ship and the other boats from the stinted horizon left to us, as if they had never been. By some oversight no compass was in our boat, and, a rare occurrence in those latitudes, the sky was overcast so that we could not see the stars. Also there was but little wind, our swift transit at the will of the whale alone being responsible for the breeze we felt. On, on we went in silence except for the roar of the parted waters on either hand, and unable to see anything but the spectral gleam ahead whenever the great mammal broke water to spout. Presently the headlong rush through the gloom began to tell upon everybody’s nerves, and we hoped, almost prayed for a slackening of the relentless speed kept up by the monster we had fastened ourselves to. The only man who appeared unmoved was the second mate, who was in charge. He stood in the bows as if carved in stone, one hand grasping his long lance and the other resting on his hip, a stern figure whose only sign of life was his unconscious balancing to the lively motion of the boat. Always a mystery to us of the crew, he seemed much more so now, his inscrutable figure dimly blotched against the gloom ahead, and all our lives in his hand. For a year we had been in daily intercourse with him, yet we felt that we knew no more of the man himself than on the first day of our meeting. A strong, silent man, who never cursed us as the others did, because his lightest word carried more weight than their torrents of blasphemy, and withal a man who came as near the seaman’s ideal of courage, resourcefulness, and tenacity as we could conceive possible. Again and again, as we sped onwards through the dark, each of us after his own fashion analysed that man’s character in a weary purposeless round of confused thought, through the haze of which shot with dread persistence the lurid phrase, “a lost boat.” How long we had thus been driving blindly on none of us could tell—no doubt the time appeared enormously prolonged—but when at last the ease-up came we were all stiff with our long constraint of position. All, that is, but Mr. Neville our chief, who, as if in broad day within a mile of the ship, gave all the necessary orders for the attack. Again we were baffled, for in spite of his unprecedented run the whale began to sound. Down, down he went in hasteless determined fashion, never pausing for an instant, though we kept all the strain on the line that was possible, until the last flake of our 300 fathoms left the tub, slithered through the harpooner’s fingers round the loggerhead, and disappeared. Up flew the boat’s head with a shock that sent us all flying in different directions, then all was silent. Only for a minute. The calm grave tones of Mr. Neville broke the spell by saying, “Make yourselves as comfortable as you can, lads, we can do nothing till daylight but watch for the ship.” We made an almost whispered response, and began our watch. But it was like trying to peer through the walls of an unlit cellar, so closely did the darkness hem us in. Presently down came the rain, followed by much wind, until, notwithstanding the latitude, our teeth chattered with cold. Of course we were in no danger from the sea, for except in the rare hurricanes there is seldom any wind in those regions rising to the force of a gale. But the night was very long. Nor did our miserable anticipations tend to make our hard lot any easier.
So low did we feel that when at last the day dawned we could not fully appreciate the significance of that heavenly sight. As the darkness fled, however, hope revived, and eager eyes searched every portion of the gradually lightening ring of blue of which we were the tiny centre. Slowly, fatefully, the fact was driven home to our hearts that what we had feared was come to pass; the ship was nowhere to be seen. More than that, we all knew that in that most unfrequented stretch of ocean months might pass without signs of vessel of any kind. There were six pounds of biscuits in one keg and three gallons of water in another, sufficient perhaps at utmost need to keep the six of us alive for a week. We looked in one another’s faces and saw the fear of death plainly inscribed; we looked at Mr. Neville’s face and were strengthened. Speaking in his usual tones, but with a curiously deeper inflexion in them, he gave orders for the sail to be set, and making an approximate course by the sun, we steered to the N.W. Even the consolation of movement was soon denied us, for as the sun rose the wind sank, the sky overhead cleared and the sea glazed. A biscuit each and half-a-pint of water was served out to us and we made our first meal, not without secretly endeavouring to calculate how many more still remained to us. At Mr. Neville’s suggestion we sheltered ourselves as much as possible from the fierce glare of the sun, and to keep off thirst poured sea-water over one another at frequent intervals. Our worst trial for the present was inaction, for a feverish desire to be doing—something—no matter what, kept our nerves twitching and tingling so that it was all we could do to keep still.
After an hour or two of almost unbroken silence Mr. Neville spoke, huskily at first, but as he went on his voice rang mellow and vibrant. “My lads,” he said, “such a position as ours has been occupied many times in the history of the sea, as you all well know. Of the scenes that have taken place when men are brought by circumstances like these down from their high position in the scale of Creation to the level of unreasoning animals, we need not speak; unhappily such tragedies are too clearly present in the thoughts of every one of us. But in the course of my life I have many times considered the possibilities of some day being thus situated, and have earnestly endeavoured to prepare myself for whatever it had in store for me. We are all alike here, for the artificial differences that obtain in the ordinary affairs of life have dropped away from us, leaving us on the original plane of fellow-men. And my one hope is, that although we be of different nationalities, and still more widely different temperaments, we may all remember that so long as we wrestle manfully with the beast that is crouching in every one of us, we may go, if we must go, without shame before our God. For consider how many of those who are safe on shore this day are groaning under a burden of life too heavy to be borne, how many are seeking a refuge from themselves by the most painful byways to death. I am persuaded, and so are all of you, if you give it a thought, that death itself is no evil; the anticipation of pain accompanying death is a malady of the mind harder to bear by many degrees than physical torture. What I dread is not the fact of having to die, although I love the warm light, the glorious beauty of this world as much as a man may, but that I may forget what I am, and disgrace my manhood by letting myself slip back into the slough from which it has taken so many ages to raise me. Don’t let us lose hope, although we need not expect a miracle, but let each of us help the other to be a man. The fight will be fierce but not long, and when it is won, although we may all live many days after we shall not suffer. Another thing, perhaps some of you don’t believe in any God, others believe mistily in they know not what. For my part I believe in a Father-God from whom we came and to whom we go. And I so think of Him that I am sure He will do even for an atom like me that which is not only best for me but best for the whole race of mankind as represented in me. He will neither be cruel nor forget. Only I must endeavour to use the powers of mind and body He has given me to the best advantage now that their testing-time has come.”
With eyes that never left that calm strong face we all hung upon his words as if we were absorbing in some mysterious way from them courage to endure. Of the five of us, two were Scandinavians, a Swede and a Dane, one, the harpooner, was an American negro, one was a Scotchman, and myself, an Englishman. Mr. Neville himself was an American of old Puritan stock. When he left speaking there was utter silence, so that each could almost hear the beating of the other’s heart. But in that silence every man of us felt the armour of a high resolve encasing him, an exalting courage uplifting him, and making his face to shine.