“I ain’t sartin as to that,” doubtingly answered the ex-man-o’-war’s-man. “I’ve heerd so: but it do seem sort o’ unnat’ral.”
“Whoo!” rejoined Snowball, with a slightly derisive inclination of the head; “why for no seem nat’ral? De frigate hersef she sleep on de water widout sails set,—not eben a stitch ob her canvas. Well, den: why no dem frigate-birds in de air? What de water am to de ship de air am to de birds. What hinder ’em to take dar nap up yonner, ’ceptin’ when dar’s a gale ob wind? Ob coos dat u’d interrup’ dar repose.”
“Well, nigger,” rejoined the sailor, in a tone that betokened no very zealous partisanship for either side of the theory, “you may be right, or you may be wrong. I ar’n’t goin’ to gi’e you the lie, one way or t’ other. All I know is, that I’ve seed frigates a-standing in the air, as them be now, making way neyther to windart or leuart; f’r all that I didn’t believe they was asleep. I kud see thar forked tails openin’ and closin’ jist like the blades o’ a pair o’ shears; and that inclined me to think they war wide awake all the time. If they was asleep, how kud they a-kep waggin’ thar tails? Though a bird’s tail be but feathers, still it must ha’ some feelin’ in it.”
“Law, Massa Ben!” retorted the negro, in a still more patronising tone, as if pitying the poverty of the sailor’s syllogism, “you no tink it possible that one move in dar sleep? You nebber move you big toe, or you foot, or some time de whole ob you leg? Beside,” continued the logician, passing to a fresh point of his argument, “how you s’pose de frigate-bird do ’idout sleep? You know berry well he not got de power to swim,—him feet only half web. He no more sit on de water dan a guinea-fowl, or a ole hen ob de dunghill. As for him go ’sleep on de sea, it no more possyble dan for you or me, Massa Ben.”
“Well, Snowy,” slowly responded the sailor, rather pushed for a reply, “I’m willin’ to acknowledge all that. It look like the truth, an’ it don’t,—both at the same time. I can’t understan’ how a bird can go to sleep up in the air, no more’n I could hang my old tarpaulin’ hat on the corner o’ a cloud. Same time I acknowledge that I’m puzzled to make out how them thar frigates can take thar rest. The only explanation I can think o’ is, that every night they fly back to the shore, an’ turns in thar.”
“Whoogh! Massa Brace, you knows better dan dat. I’se heerd say dat de frigate-bird nebber am seed more’n a hunder league from de shore. Dam! Dis nigga hab seed dat same ole cock five time dat distance from land,—in de middle ob de wide Atlantic, whar we sees ’um now. Wish it was true he nebber ’tray more dan hunder knots from de land; we might hab some chance reach it den. Hunder league! Golly! more’n twice dat length we am from land; and dere ’s dem long-wing birds hov’rin’ ’bove our heads, an sleepin’ as tranquil as ebber dis nigga did in de caboose ob de ole Pandora.”
Ben made no reply. Whether the reasoning of the Coromantee was correct or only sophistical, the facts were the same. Two forms were in the sky, outlined against the back ground of cerulean blue. Though distant, and apparently motionless, they were easily distinguishable as living things,—as birds,—and of a kind so peculiar, that the eye of the rude African, and even that of the almost equally rude Saxon, could distinguish the species.