JANUARY 1904.
The weather continues dull and dark, but comparatively quiet—a matter of much importance to us at relief times. We have no aversion to a rousing gale between reliefs; then one can afford to appreciate the grandeur of the warring elements; but as the appointed time draws near, and no sign of abatement is evident, all hands become a trifle uneasy, especially the man whose turn it is for shore duty. It is rather tantalising to see the relief steamer cruising doubtfully round the Rock, then finally take her departure, unable to effect a landing, all on account of “that nasty swell,” which possibly a week ago we were eulogising as “sublime!” It is a matter of remark here how quickly the boisterous nor’-east seas are subdued by the westerly wind. At times the morning presents a scene anything but peaceful, the whole reef enveloped by shouting, tumbling seas, which bang our domicile till the crockery rattles, and blind by their spray our kitchen windows, seventy feet from the Rock—yet, let the wind but freshen from the westward and the conflict immediately becomes visible. The seas, now driving in the teeth of the wind, have their curling crests whipped cleanly off and carried leeward like clouds of steam. Perceptibly their force diminishes as they “lift and ’scend” in the struggle for supremacy, till by evening tide a comparatively easy relief may be effected. Home news and the doings of the outer world are then at our disposal, as well as a welcome consignment of fresh provisions. Considering his almost seven weeks’ confinement on the Rock, the shore-going keeper may be pardoned a feeling of relief and elation as he steps on board the relieving steamer—a feeling, by the way, not at all to be confounded with that of the return journey. As an instance how dissimilar the same object may appear from different view-points, our lonely habitation never seems to assume such a pleasing aspect as when seen vanishing astern. Verily, it is we who appreciate the truth of the Irishman’s illogical remark that “the best thing about going away from home is getting back again.”
A round of the different fishing pools was made this month at low water, resulting in the capture of a most unhealthy-looking specimen of a poddley in the “Hospital” (Neill’s Pool). Long, lank, and lean, a post-mortem revealed the liver attenuated to a mere thread. It is most remarkable why these sickly fish should favour this pool alone. About twenty feet in diameter and twelve feet deep, with the bottom thickly strewn with rounded boulders, there is always a shallow wash into it at the lowest state of the tide. Possibly its greater depth offers a safer refuge for these convalescents than the other pools. Whatever the reason, the fact remains that in this pool alone these specimens are found; not only poddlies, but lythe and cod as well. With the flying fish of the tropics we are more or less familiar, and of tree-climbing fish and overland travellers we have the testimony of travellers that such perverse specimens do exist. The ceratodus of Queensland, for instance, which, with its peculiar respiratory arrangement and ambulatory fins is enabled to transport itself over swampy ground in migrating from pool to pool, a feat suggestive of the Yankee’s shallow-draught steamer, to which an ordinary meadow was easily navigable, providing there had been a heavy dewfall. The cause of these reflections was the discovery of a small fish, some four inches in length, on the cleaning path encircling our lantern, over a hundred feet from its usual habitat. Of the “cobbler” variety, the expanded pectoral fins might, with a little imagination, be imbued with the powers of flight, but more than likely our visitor owed its exalted position to some predatory gull, which, unable to bolt its victim or escape from covetous neighbours, had dropped it where found.
A solitary lapwing was our only feathered visitor for the mouth. Apropos of these days of “retaliation,” there is an old Scottish Act of Parliament of the time of Edward the First relating to this bird, in which all its eggs are ordered to be broken when found, “in order that Peesweeps may not go south, and become a delicious repast to our unnatural enemies the English!”
A quiet night on the 31st seemed to augur favourably for our relief, which was due the following evening; by that time, however, the prospect was completely changed by a strong sou’-east wind, and consequently heavy sea, which rendered landing extremely doubtful. The following morning the Pharos made her appearance, and attempted a landing at daybreak. The two boats despatched from the steamer for this purpose, on approaching the Rock, found the passage unsafe to attempt, and returned to the steamer. Weighing anchor, the Pharos proceeded to the relief of the North Carr Lightship, where, owing to the tempestuous state of the weather, she broke the hawser by which she moors to the lightship three times during the operation. Landing the relief men from the lightship and Bass Rock—which had been relieved the previous day—at North Berwick, and sheltering overnight at the Isle of May, she returned to us on Wednesday morning and succeeded in effecting the relief.
February 1904
FEBRUARY 1904.
Cormorants have been more in evidence here this month than usual. At present a flock of thirteen is to be seen diving in the deep water surrounding the reef. Scorning the crustaceans, molluscs, and other ground game of the eiders and longtails, these birds subsist entirely upon fish, in pursuit of which they are extremely dexterous. The long sharp-pointed bill is excellently adapted for securing their prey, the extremity of the upper mandible curving over the lower in a sharp hook, the efficiency of which I once saw forcibly demonstrated. One of these birds, while flying high overhead, was winged by a gunshot, and on striking the ground disgorged a recently swallowed poddley, some ten inches long. A boy of the party, having the temerity to thrust his foot towards the bird, had the upper leather of his boot pierced and the foot slightly wounded by the sharp hook-like process of the upper mandible. During an exceedingly rigorous winter in Orkney—in ’94, if I remember aright—hundreds of these birds perished from hunger. In a roofless hut, a few yards from high-water mark, I counted fourteen dying and dead. Rats were busy devouring the dead, while the living stumbled weakly over the half-eaten bodies of their comrades. In the most unlikely places they were to be met with, coming right up to our doors as if begging for shelter. One of them surprised me by waddling into the workshop, passing over my boots as if unconscious of my presence, and settling underneath the bench to die. Any food we could offer them was always rejected. One evening my attention was drawn to our poultry, which, instead of being on their roost, stood huddled about the entrance. Thinking the entrance had been accidentally blocked from within, I entered by the doorway to investigate. Judge my astonishment at finding “Mister Phalacrocorax Carbo”—such is the cormorant’s scientific title—standing Horatius-like holding the diminutive passage against all comers. Wisps of feathers, with shreds of skin adhering to them, lay strewn in front of him, while his effective “hook” gleamed gory from the carnage. Needless to state, his ejectment was summarily effected. When in pursuit of prey their method of diving is conspicuously different from other birds of the diving fraternity, and they may be identified at a long distance by this peculiarity alone. Bracing themselves together, they spring forward as if surmounting some imaginary obstacle on the surface, the entire body assuming the form of an arc, reminding one of a fractious pony in the act of “bucking.” The ducks, on the other hand, with wings half open, merely topple over and under, turning on their own axis, so to speak. Having secured a fish, it is brought to the surface, where, after some preliminary adjustments to facilitate transit, it disappears head first, the long neck denoting its course by “swelling wisibly.” This is the bird which the Chinese train to fish for them. A ring is placed on the bird’s neck, which prevents it appropriating its earnings for its own use. Whenever a swollen neck appears the owner is hauled on board the “sampan,” and the “swelling” reduced by a rough and ready form of massage. Occasionally the constricting ring is removed, and the bird permitted to enjoy its catch as a stimulant to further exertions. History records the use of this bird for similar purposes in our own country in the olden times, a leather strap being used instead of the ring. Last year, fishermen in the south of England petitioned for power to destroy these birds at all seasons on the plea of the destruction caused by them amongst fish in the estuaries. The cormorant measures three feet in length, and belongs to the pelican family, of which we have but two other British representatives—the shag, a smaller edition of the cormorant by eight inches, and the gannet or solan goose.
On several occasions during the month a seal was observed sporting amongst the breakers. The other evening he was seen within a few yards of the tower, busy devouring a huge cod. Mastication was entirely dispensed with; tilting his snout in the air, each ragged mouthful disappeared at a single gulp. The fish was allowed to sink after every mouthful; and two or three minutes would be spent under water before bringing it to the surface for another attack. In a remarkably short time the head and backbone alone were left.
Our feathered visitors for the month were represented by a couple of skylarks, three song thrushes, a pair of carrion crows, and a solitary starling. Eiders and longtails still continue in attendance, and gannets are now plentiful. The latter arrived at their breeding haunt on the Bass Rock from their southern sojourn on the 9th of last month.