Such was the position of the Kantoon of the Happy Shark, and his daughter Fidette. Such were the facts that confronted me.
The first mate was the executive officer of the ship. He was expected to see that the vessel was kept thoroughly moistened, in order that dry rot should not set in. The Sargassons had a horror of dryness. They were the most cleanly people living—taking frequent baths every day, and while on duty keeping their clothing constantly damp. During each watch, one of the crew was stationed at the rail and drew from the sea a pail of water from time to time, which he dashed over each of his comrades, including the officer of the deck. The Kantoon, I imagine, stood in a barrel of water because of the show of authority that it gave to the mind of the Sargassons.
Dry rot was a constantly menacing terror! It was insidious in its methods of attack; outwardly invisible, it could only be detected by frequent borings of the ship’s hull.
To the prevention of dry rot and to checking the accumulation of barnacles upon the outside of the ship, the executive officer gave the strictest attention.
So far as I ever saw, the crews were thoroughly tractable. Not a member of any of them, during my stay, attempted to escape. True, they were rarely given an opportunity. The small wicker boats, in which they made their journeys from ship to ship, would not have been safe, under the best circumstances, outside the vast blanket of seaweed that prevented breakers from forming, and the water-logged hulks from rolling over.
Each derelict was a social organism in itself; but owing to the fact that life, at the very best, was uncertain among these communities, each floating village had a law of its own.
The vessels were liable to destruction during every storm—by collision with crafts of stronger build, by the ravages of time, or by an over-weighted accumulation of barnacles, that, growing rapidly in tropical waters, often literally drew the hulks to the bottom.
A case of this kind came under my notice. Not far from the Happy Shark I saw a small bark, the crew on which were obviously enjoying their last days of life. Their vessel was weighted with barnacles up to her bowsprit. Tons of the calcareous accretions were visible, as the hulk rose and fell in the water. This painful spectacle disclosed one of the apparently cruel phases of Sargasson life, for the Kantoon of our ship sternly prohibited sending relief to that sinking craft or the saving of the community on board her. I repeatedly suggested that it was inhuman to allow our neighbors to live in such imminent peril of their lives, only to be ultimately swallowed up; but the Kantoon sternly shook his head, and declared that such was the law of the Sargassons—and his polyglot language was almost as great an infliction as death; that the people on board the bark had enjoyed their full span of life; that drowning would bring the relief they coveted; that the end had little terrors for them, because it brought to them the blessing of eternal repose.
Repose is the conception of Sargasson excitement!
Death is repose; therefore, it is welcome.