The Strife of the Sea

by T. Jenkins Hains

The other birds had fled seaward, and were now almost out of sight, being pursued by the second eagle. One limp form floated on the sea to mark the course of the marauder. Old Top-knot had recovered from the shock, and was now making a line for Cuba. The old man was the only one left, and he was detaining the great bald eagle for his last fight, the fight of his life.

Around and around they soared. The eagle was wary and did not wish to rush matters with the determined old man, who, with beak drawn back, sailed about ready for a stroke. Then, disdaining the clumsy old fellow, the bald eagle made a sudden rush as though he would end the matter right there. The old man met him, and there was a short scrimmage in the air which resulted in both dropping to the sea. Here the old man had the advantage. The eagle could not swim, his powerful talons not being made for propelling him over the water. The old man managed to hold his own, although he received a savage cut from the other’s strong beak. This round was a draw. During this time the second eagle had seen that his companion was not following the startled game, and he returned just in time to see him disengage from a whirlwind of wings and beaks and wait a moment to decide just how he would finish off the old fellow who had the hardihood to dispute his way. Then he joined the fight, and together they swooped down upon the old man for the finish.

He met them with his head well up and wings outstretched, and gave them so much to do that they were entirely taken up with the affair and failed to notice Sandy Shackford, who was creeping up, paddling with all his strength with an oar-blade.

The encounter could not last long. The old fellow was rapidly succumbing to the attacks of his powerful antagonists, and although he still kept the mix-up in a whirl of foam with his desperate struggles, he could not hope to last against two such pirates as were now pitted against him. One of them struck him fiercely and tore his throat open, ripping his pouch from end to end. He was weakening fast and knew the struggle must end in another rush. Both eagles came at him at once, uttering hoarse cries, and drawing back his head he made one last, desperate stroke with his hooked beak. Then something seemed to crash down upon his foes from above. An oar-blade whirled in the sunshine and struck the leading eagle upon the head, knocking him lifeless upon the sea. Then the other rose quickly and started off to the northward as the form of the keeper towered above in the bow of the approaching boat.

Sandy Shackford picked the great white-headed bird from the water and dropped him into the boat and the old man looked on wondering. He had known the keeper for a long time, but had never been at close quarters.

“Poor old man,” said Sandy. “Ye look mighty badly used up.” And then he made a motion toward him.

But the old pelican wanted no sympathy. His was the soul of the leader, and he scorned help. Stretching forth his wings with a mighty effort, he arose from the sea. The reef lay but a short distance away, and he would get ashore to rest. The pain in his throat was choking him, but he would sit quiet a while and get well. He would not go far, but he would be alone. The whole sea shimmered dizzily in the sunshine, but a little rest and the old bones would be right again. He would be quiet and alone.

“Poor old man,” said Sandy, as he watched him sail away. “He’s a dead pelican, but he made a game fight.”

Then he hauled in his lines, and, squaring away before the wind, ran down to the light with the eagle and a dozen fine fish in the bottom of his dory.

The next day the old man was not fishing on the reef. The other birds came back—all except one. But the old man failed to show up during the whole day.