As the steamer in which I am to return to Wellington is fixed to leave in the middle of the day, I am looking forward with a great deal of interest to the return journey, because of the opportunity of witnessing the intricate navigation between here and Picton. For a slow steamer, unless under very favourable conditions, and for sailing vessels at all times, this route through the French Pass from Tasman Bay into Pelorus Sound is impossible. The passage is between D'Urville Island and the main South Island of New Zealand, which here forms a series of fjords and bays of great depth of water and wonderful picturesqueness. There is very little cultivable land, but as on the rest of the ranges I have hitherto mentioned, there is splendid pasture for sheep, which may be seen quietly grazing all over those desolate-looking hills. Many of the settlers' houses, nay, most of them in this locality, are right down on the foreshores of sheltered little bays, and the people find easy and swift communication with each other by water owing to the amazing spread of motor-boat industry. It is no exaggeration to say that the petrol motor for boats has caused a perfect revolution in travelling by water out here, there being hundreds of these neat, swift, and handy little vessels all round the coasts. Of course the great petroleum companies are largely responsible for this, in the same manner as the gas companies at home by introducing the penny-in-the-slot meter and free fittings have enormously extended the use of gas among the poorer of the people. These companies have made the acquisition of a petrol motor, which can be fitted to any ordinary boat at a very trifling expense, most simple, easy, and cheap, trusting to the increased sale of petrol for their profits. Again and again I have been compelled to notice the spread of the use of motor-boats throughout Australasia, especially for fishing purposes, but nowhere is this so marked as in New Zealand, for which country, with its deeply indented coast-lines and rugged land surface, this form of locomotion by water is particularly suitable. It is also found most useful for schooners and other small sailing craft, which by its aid are independent of towage in and out of harbour, and also on the failure of the wind at sea can, by starting the motor, make from three to five knots through the water in a dead calm.
Viewed from a distance, the French Pass did not look particularly formidable; I judged it to be about two miles wide. But as we came nearer the captain pointed out to me that the actual passage was reduced to less than a quarter of a mile by the upheaving of rocky obstacles until at last the deep-water channel was limited, as I have said. On the two extremities of the reefs which form the "heads" of the pass there are erected beacons, on one of which there is a light of about four candle-power, I should think; at any rate, as the captain said, it looked as if you needed another light to see it by. The tide, coming in from the vast open Pacific, fretted and foamed and boiled through the narrow pass and over the adjacent rocks, the vessel being hurled forward over the ground at the rate of twenty knots an hour, her own speed being about fourteen. A fool could see how bad a place it would be for a slow ship or an ill-steering one, such having often been swept right round against the helm, perfectly unmanageable. And I shudder to think what this passage must be like with a westerly gale blowing, an enormous breaking sea on, and darkness over all. Yet it is done, and twice in twenty-four hours, too, by men who from week to week never have their clothes off except for a bath. Personally, I feel that it is utterly unfair to subject any man to such nerve-wrecking strain as that, especially when he has hundreds of lives depending upon his coolness, courage, and skill. Promotion to a long-distance clear run must seem to these sorely tried men like a change to Paradise.
We had hardly dashed through the foaming, whirling pass into the smooth waters beyond when a motor-boat, or oil launch as they always call them here, darted out from behind a headland to intercept us. The engines were stopped, the visitor swung alongside, and in five minutes had cast off again, having hove half a ton of potatoes and some fish into us for the Wellington market, due to arrive there soon after daylight in the morning. Away we went again, the forecastle now being crowded with passengers to see what, I believe, is the most interesting and extraordinary sight in the world connected with natural history—the visit of Pelorus Jack. Prior to my coming here I had heard numberless stories about this strange sea-monster's ways (he is usually spoken of as a fish), but although I could not refuse to believe altogether, I confess I made many mental reservations until I should see for myself. Fortunately the day was fine, the sea smooth, and the light good, it being about four in the afternoon. And as we passed the point off which he is expected and nearly always seen, he joined us, taking up his station on the starboard bow, right alongside of the stem. The first sight of him was sufficient to determine what he was—Grampus griseus, one of the smaller whales of the Orca species, whose colour is usually chocolate-brown, this one, however, being piebald, brown and grey in patches, which show him almost white when he is just beneath the surface of the sea. Now the ship was going fourteen and a half knots, yet that grampus maintained his position by her side with the utmost ease, only the slightest quiver of his tail being noticeable. Occasionally he changed his position from starboard to port, pausing for a few moments right ahead of the swiftly moving ship, then, dropping astern a few feet, he would cuddle up lovingly against her side, turning over as he did so, as if he enjoyed feeling her chafe against his body. When thus engaged he rolled over sideways, presenting his back to the ship's side, but never once exhibiting any energy, as does the porpoise when accompanying a ship. It was an amazing instance of power in locomotion, and I could not help feeling that if he had chosen to exert himself he could have made rings round the vessel, i.e., travelled at the rate of about thirty knots an hour.
Now there are some facts recorded about this wonderful sea mammal that are of keenest interest. No other creature of his kind has ever been seen in these waters. He is of so quaint an appearance that the many thousands who have observed and snapshotted him—including, of course, mariners from every sea—all say that they have never seen his like before. That is, of course, in colour and habits. I have seen rorquals come and chafe the barnacles off their huge bodies against a ship lying becalmed, but never come near a ship in swift motion. And there are men who have been on this coast for half a century who aver that they always have seen him; he seems to be a permanent institution. Nay, more stories are told by the Maories, as well authenticated as such stories can ever be, that he has been known as long as their verbatim history extends. I do not profess to believe that he is immortal, but as we know nothing practically of the longevity of whales, it does not do to be too sceptical. What I do know I have told, and it is, I think, sufficiently marvellous to be entirely disbelieved by the average person as savouring of a sea yarn. I can only add that he remains with the vessel for the space of twenty minutes or half an hour, during the whole of which time, by day or night, he is in plain sight of any who choose to look over the bows. At the conclusion of his visit he departs, as he came, in a straight line for the shore. It is said that he was once injured by one of the regular steamers, or by some one on board of her, and that since then he has never been near that particular ship. This may be true, and I confess it does not seem to be a more wonderful instance of animal instinct than what I have myself witnessed, but it is not necessary to believe it in order to appreciate fully the strangeness of this natural history phenomenon. There are several photographs of him on sale in the form of postcards, and on them it is stated that he is the only "fish" in the world that is protected by Act of Parliament. That, I find, is an accretion of imagination. There is a resolution of the New Zealand Parliament on record to the effect that he ought not to be molested by any one, but no special legislation exists. His dimensions are about fourteen feet long by six feet in girth at the thickest part of the body, behind the pectoral fins or forearms.
As the shades closed down upon us we skirted closely the bold and rugged headlands of that picturesque coast and entered Queen Charlotte Sound, a deep fjord or indentation at the innermost point of which lies Picton, a tiny town of about 1,000 inhabitants, connected by railway with Blenheim, another similar place. Not having been privileged to see it, on either of my visits, in daylight, I can say nothing about its appearance except that there is a fine substantial wharf, and that as far as its accessibility by water and shelter for vessels is concerned, it may safely challenge comparison with the whole world. But it has no growth, does not appear likely to have, for reasons which I did not care to go into, but which I shrewdly suspect are much like those applying to other stationary towns out here—dearth of population and consequent paucity of production and utilisation of the great natural resources of the land. In this connection I may note that I have just seen, with intense surprise, that the New Zealand Government are advertising extensively in the United States for English-speaking farmers to come here and take up land; and I wonder why this should be so, in face of the oft-repeated assertions of love for the Mother-country which has so many of her citizens unemployed and eager to make their homes in new lands under the old flag. It is on a par, I suppose, with a series of paragraphs which I saw here in one of the papers the other day upon the discovery of oil in New Zealand. There had apparently been inquiries on the part of the agents of the American octopus, Rockefeller, and some people were indignant at the idea of "Standard Oil" getting a footing in a free country like New Zealand. But the editor of the paper in question suggested that it would be a very good thing for the stock-holders, and, anyhow, whether they liked it or not, the Standard Oil Company could compel them to sell their property or prevent them from selling their oil! Unpleasant reading that for free people of the British race!
Daylight saw the Pateena steaming up Wellington Harbour again to her snug berth at one of the fine wharves, and there, opposite to her, lay the splendid steamship Manuka, twin screw, 6,000 tons gross, looking more like some grand ocean liner than any coasting vessel. I was glad to find that I had been able to catch her, and thus travel in her down to Dunedin, although it reduced my stay to a few hours only, as before. Nevertheless, I was able to get about a bit and note some of the more obvious improvements in the city. It was rather ominous, however, to note, as I did in the case of one large building in course of erection, the structural precautions necessitated by the extreme possibilities of earthquake shock. I feel that nothing could induce me to settle comfortably in any spot, however beautiful otherwise, where at any hour I might find my own abode and the adjacent buildings tumbling about like houses of cards before a strong breath. Yet in how many parts of the world is this indifference to one of the most terrible calamities that can befall humanity to be witnessed! It is a curious phase of the influence of hope upon man.
XIX NEW ZEALAND SHIPPING
Wellington has certainly, as far as my experience of it goes, been grossly maligned for its weather. To-day is again as nearly perfect as possible, and that, I remember, in midwinter out here. I have had another pottering day such as I love about the city and its environs, and among my experiences has been a visit to the suburbs viâ a sort of funicular railway, a cable-car running up the side of a steep hill starting from a tunnel, the entrance to which is in a back street only to be found by the initiated. The service is frequent and swift, and the journey to the summit and back well worth the taking, if only for the beauty and comprehensiveness of the view. It compels me to admit that beautiful as other parts of New Zealand undoubtedly are, the capital has charms peculiarly its own, especially now that the ingenuity of man has overcome the difficulties of transit.