The birds of Jamaica

by Philip Henry Gosse

The high-road from Bluefields to Savanna le Mar winds round the broad bend of the coast, called Bluefields Bay; for nearly half the distance, running close to the shore, which in some parts is a low sandy beach, in others, rocky and precipitous. About a mile from Bluefields the road recedes about a hundred yards from the sea, the intervening space being occupied by tall and dense wood, consisting chiefly of manchioneel, crablight, sweet-wood, and tropic-birch, much tangled by an underwood of briers and supple-jacks. As we approach the brow of the cliff, we perceive that the descent, just here, is not a perpendicular rock, but is a very steep slope, covered with a loose and shifting rubble, very unpleasant and even dangerous to the feet. Two enormous birches and a fig, at some distance from each other, springing out of the brow, spread their immense boughs even over the sea that boils among the rocks beneath; and the observer needs no informant to tell him that these trees are occupied as resting places by many large birds. The earth, and bushes, and rocks beneath, are splashed widely with white ordure, the fishy fetor of which is diffused all through the woods, and is but too perceptible even at the highroad. Scattered upon the ground lie the long bones, bleached in the wind, and the sable feathers, of several Frigate-birds, who met their death where they had been accustomed to live; the victims perhaps of disease, or perhaps of mutual encounters. High up on the loftiest and outmost limbs sit many Pelicans, some preening their plumage, others, with the long beak resting on the breast, enjoying a sluggish repose. Frigates and Boobies are associated with them, but of these we shall speak presently.

From many visits to this place, which commonly goes by the name of the Pelican hole, I have observed that the Pelicans which resort hither, leave the roost at early dawn, and fish for two or three hours; they return about eight o’clock and rest on the roosting trees until about eleven; then they go abroad again and fish along the shore or sit lazily on the rocking sea, till dusk, when in long strings they fly wearily homeward, and spend the night upon their favourite trees.

It is a pleasant sight to see a flock of Pelicans fishing. A dozen or more are flying on heavy, flagging wing over the sea, the long neck doubled on the back, so that the beak seems to protrude from the breast. Suddenly, a little ruffling of the water arrests their attention; and, with wings half-closed, down each plunges with a resounding plash, and in an instant emerges to the surface with a fish. The beak is held aloft, a snap or two is made, the huge pouch is seen for a moment distended, then collapses as before; and heavily the bird rises to wing, and again beats over the surface with its fellows. It is worthy of observation that the Pelican invariably performs a somerset under the surface; for descending, as he always does, diagonally, not perpendicularly, the head emerges looking in the opposite direction to that in which it was looking before. When the morning appetite is sated, they sit calmly on the heaving surface, looking much like a miniature fleet.

In the evening, as I have stated, we see them pursuing their laborious course to repose. Standing at the door of Bluefields, which from a slight elevation, commands a wide prospect of the beautiful Bay, I have often watched, in the evening,—while the sun, sinking among his gilded piles and peaks of cloud on the horizon-sea, leaves the air refreshingly cool and balmy, while the dying sea-breeze scarcely avails to break the glassy reflection of the surface,—the straggling flocks of Pelicans, from a dozen to forty or fifty, passing slowly along over the shore. On such occasions, they manifest a decided tendency to form long continuous strings, like ducks. When the flocks are beating for fish, or sailing round and round on the watch, there is no such arrangement, but all circle in a confusion equal to that of the planets of the Ptolemaic system. Yet at any time of the day, in taking a lengthened flight, whether shifting their locality, or slowly sweeping over the sea, they usually take a lineal order.

In flying thus in lines, I have been struck with the unity which they manifest in their motions: the flight is performed by alternate intervals of heavy flappings, and sailing on outstretched motionless wing; and the resumption or suspension of the one or the other state, is regulated by the leading bird of the line. For example; the first begins to flap; in an instant the second begins, then the third, then the fourth, and so on, with perfect regularity of succession; and neither ceases till the first does, and then only each in his own turn. That this does not depend on the period of each motion being constant, is shown by the fact, that the duration of either state is very varying and arbitrary. If a bird be following the same course, near at hand, but not within the line, he does not regard the succession at all, but governs his own motion.

The Pelican on alighting on the water to swim, brings his feet, which before had been stretched out behind, into a standing position, and, as it were, slides along the surface, for several yards before he swims.

Voracious and formidable as is the Pelican to the smaller of the finny races, he is not without his enemies among them. I once observed a large Shark gliding along at the surface of the water near a flock of swimming Pelicans, wilily endeavouring to approach some unwary one within seizing distance, his triangular dorsal cutting the water and revealing his progress, and his intentions. The Pelicans were alert, however, and did not choose a near acquaintance with their insidious admirer, each one rising into safety upon the wing as he approached. I fear he went without his supper on that occasion.

The following interesting note, I quote from a valuable paper by Mr. Hill, “On the aerating powers of birds,” read at a meeting of the Jamaica Society, June 1st, 1840. “The facility with which the Pelican resigns itself to fasting, or rouses itself to feasting, was very interestingly exhibited to me in a bird, I saw the other day at Passage Fort. It was a domesticated Pelican, of mature age: it winged backward and forward, visiting the wild flocks, and feeding with them in the harbour during the day, and withdrew from them to roost in its master’s yard during the night. In that period of restraint, when it was necessary to observe the caution of drawing its quill feathers, to keep it within very diminished capabilities of flight, until it became familiar and domesticated, it was wholly dependent on the fish provided for it by the fishermen of the beach. Sunday was no fishing day with these men; and this was regularly a day on which there were no supplies for the Pelican. It became in time so conscious of the recurrence of this fast-day, that although at all other times it went daily down to the sea-side to wait the coming in of the canoes, on the seventh day it never stirred from the recumbent trunk of a tree on which it roosted within the yard. It had been found necessary to pluck its wing within the last two or three months to restrain it within bounds, in consequence of its absence latterly with the wild birds for several days in succession; and in this state it was reduced as formerly to depend on the fishermen for food. The old habit of abstinence and drowsy repose on the Sundays again recurred, and when I saw it, it was once more a tranquil observer of the rest, and with it the fast, of the Sabbath day.”

Robinson describes one in captivity, as “a bold fierce bird, which would snap his beak not only at dogs and other small animals, but even at men and horses, that came inadvertently within his reach.” (MSS.)

The Pelican is sometimes taken much in the same manner as Gannets in England. A fish is fastened to a board, which is swiftly drawn through the sea by a canoe under sail; the Pelican plunges down upon it, and breaks his neck with the violence of the contact. Although the beak is not pointed, but hooked at the extremity, Sam has assured me that it has been known to be driven through the soft wood of the cotton tree, when that has been used for the board. The flesh is eaten by some of the negroes, notwithstanding its insupportable fishy odour; to overcome which in some degree, they bury it for some hours in the sand of the beach, after which they subject it to three or four boilings before it is eaten.