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[Illustration: A BURMESE TEMPLE.
Photo by F. Oertel. From Major Temple’s collection.]
LIFE AND TRAVEL IN LOWER BURMAH
A Retrospect
by
DEPUTY-SURGEON-GENERAL C. T. PASKE
Late of the Bengal Army
Edited by F. G. Aflalo
(Authors of “The Sea and the Rod,” &c.)
London
W. H. Allen & Co., Limited,
13, Waterloo Place, Pall Mall, S.W.
EDITOR’S PREFACE.
When my friend asked me to read through these reminiscences in their
original form, with a view to editing them, I had to tell him at the
outset that the remoteness of the retrospect might probably prove a
serious obstacle.
But, being neither a history nor geography, and dealing lightly with a
number of topics that should be of interest to many Englishmen, it soon
occurred to me that they might perhaps find readers in spite of not
being up to date.
It is the fashion nowadays—and it seems to me a somewhat injudicious
practice—to publish the record of one’s travels and experiences within
a few weeks after returning home, whereas many opinions that the writer
would naturally hold while still under the unsettling influence of
travel, might be at least very considerably modified, were the final
proof corrected ten years later, without losing in value.
The present form of these retrospective glances, which skim lightly
over half-a-dozen years in some kind of chronological order, has been
prepared from a manuscript that has during the past two years received
many amendments; so that the reader has at least an unbiassed account
of a few years’ official residence in one of the most promising of our
Eastern possessions.
The appalling multiplication of English books is probably destined to
continue until Macaulay’s New-Zealander contemplates the ruins of St.
Paul’s, and it would almost appear that the classes and masses are
alike following Dr. Johnson’s advice: “Read anything for five hours a
day and you will soon be learned.”
In spite, however, of the modern facilities for publishing, had
there been no further object in view than the narration of a few
personal experiences, the author would never have launched another
venture on the troubled sea. Our legislators have for some time past
been contemplating a distant and hazy vista of Utopia, though faulty
navigation has carried the vessel far wide of the destination, and
will, not improbably, land her some day on the rocks.
Of particular and terrible interest is their future Indian policy; and
those who are good enough to read the following pages will find not a
few startling instances of how far such policy has hitherto been based
on sound practical lines.
In some cases, the author has maybe expressed his convictions with
candour rather than discretion; but as he has ever stood by his guns,
I think it would have been exceeding what was expected of me, had I
modified one or two expressions of opinion that are almost certain to
meet with stormy weather in certain latitudes.
So tiny and insignificant a craft, however, may surely hope to ride the
angry waves and arrive safely in port.
London, October, 1892.
F. G. A.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
EDITOR’S PREFACE v
CHAPTER I.
THE VOYAGE 1
CHAPTER II.
STILL UNDER CANVAS 22
CHAPTER III.
THE CITY OF PALACES 36
CHAPTER IV.
ON THE MOVE ONCE MORE 46
CHAPTER V.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS 57
CHAPTER VI.
THE TEACHINGS OF BUDDHA 69
CHAPTER VII.
RIVER-LIFE UNDER DIFFICULTIES 85
CHAPTER VIII.
UNDER ORDERS 110
CHAPTER IX.
PROME 123
CHAPTER X.
A SECRET EXPEDITION 137
CHAPTER XI.
FURTHER DETAILS 149
CHAPTER XII.
“EL DORADO” 161
CHAPTER XIII.
CLOUDY WEATHER 175
CHAPTER XIV.
“LEAVE OF ABSENCE” 188
CHAPTER XV.
MOULMEIN 201
CHAPTER XVI.
AMHERST 214
CHAPTER XVII.
TAVOY 224
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MERGUI ARCHIPELAGO 233
CHAPTER XIX.
MERGUI 241
CHAPTER XX.
AND LAST 252
INDEX 263
MYAMMA:
A RETROSPECT OF LIFE AND TRAVEL IN LOWER BURMAH.
CHAPTER I.
THE VOYAGE.
“So long
As he could make me with this eye or ear
Distinguish him from others, he did keep
The deck with glove, or hat, or handkerchief,
Still waving, as the fits and stirs of his mind
Could best express how slow his soul sail’d on,
How swift his ship.”
SHAKESPEARE, _Cymbeline_.
The conditions under which we now plough the ocean or fly through
continents present so remarkable a contrast to the state of affairs
half a century back, that we who are in the autumn of life, with the
signal of the “sere and yellow leaf” fluttering feebly at the masthead,
can scarce realize the old coaching days, with their thirteen hours’
travel to every hundred miles, as more than an old dream.
Time in those days was, to all appearances, of less commercial value
than it is now, when it represents the Golden Calf, and commerce is
conducted by means of electricity and steam. The merchant had to wait
patiently for months before learning the fate of his argosies; Clive
was eleven months reaching India; experience and nautical skill reduced
the time to six, and improved routes to four months; while one month
now suffices, through the agency of steam, from Southampton to Bombay.
The arrival is then flashed home through that “girdle” which Puck
offered to put “round about the earth in forty minutes.”
When the Victorian era takes its place in the pages of England’s
history, the revolution effected by electricity and steam in its
commerce, its battles, and its treaties, will occupy a large and
important part of the interesting and glorious chapter.
Long voyages under canvas are nowadays therefore, except as a means
of recuperating one’s health, the exception; and it is not surprising
that the employment of steam power should be so universal, whether from
considerations of time and business, or of sea-sickness and pleasure;
a steamer moves through fifteen or twenty miles an hour day and night,
independent of wind and weather, whereas a sailing vessel is heavily
handicapped, having to quadruple the distance in constant “dogs’ legs,”
besides being becalmed in certain latitudes for days together.
The rising generation greet any allusion to the voyages so common
in the palmy days of the now defunct East India Company with
_fin-de-siècle_ contempt; living, as they do, in an atmosphere
of perpetual excitement and unrest, they are almost incapable of
comprehending the frame of mind in which their forefathers plodded
through their allotted span of life.
But as “many things by season season’d are to their right praise and
true perfection,” so the human mind seems able to adapt and accommodate
itself to the varying circumstances of this transient sphere. A century
or so hence the people of this country will probably look on our modern
naval and mercantile craft with as critical an eye as that with which
we contemplate the _Victory_, or the first steamers of the P. and O.
We pride ourselves on the combination of size, speed, and comfort, and
the graceful lines of our floating palaces, on their electric lighting
and luxurious saloons; we feel confident that not much more can be
accomplished: yet could we but “revisit the glimpses of the moon” in
1992, we should find ourselves in the midst of a new creation.
On the 1st September, 185—, a majestic old frigate-built East Indiaman
lay moored off Spithead, all ready to weigh anchor and awaiting
only the arrival of the pilot and one or two passengers, detained by
accident or otherwise. She was surrounded by numerous small craft, some
laden with various articles for sale, others waiting to convey ashore
those who had come aboard to see the last of sons and daughters about
to seek their fortunes in the glorious East, where money was reputed to
be easily made, and men hungered for wives of the European pattern.
Very mixed were the feelings of the passengers at the moment of
parting: regret on the one hand at being separated from loving parents,
severed from the tried companions and indelible associations of early
youth; on the other, a certain feeling of independence and freedom, and
the natural ambition to get on in the world.
Many shook hands for the last time on this side of the grave; and as
the tiny craft pulled away and were lost in the distance, the solitude
of the cabin was sought, and a blessing implored on the dear ones left
behind.
There may be a reluctance on the part of many to utter a prayer under
normal conditions, but in an unusual state of things there are, I
believe, few who will not deviate from the beaten track and intuitively
ask aid from a higher power.
Sorrow, however, takes but a passing hold of the elastic nature of
youth; and when the shrill whistle of the boatswain and the stamping
of many feet on deck proclaimed that the anchor was being weighed and
the canvas loosened, curiosity soon gained the ascendancy, and, in
spite of eyes still red with weeping, passengers as yet unknown to each
other might be seen occupying every coign of vantage, and watching the
sailors as they sped round the capstan to some familiar air played on
the fiddle; and anon looking up as sail after sail was loosened, then
drawn home and bellied by the freshening breeze. That she was moving
soon became evident from the noise made by the water and the gradual
diminution of familiar objects ashore. Glasses were brought into
requisition, and closed with a sigh when, even with their aid, all was
blurred, hazy, indistinct.
So faded that “white-faced shore, whose foot spurns back the ocean’s
roaring tide”; and before the end of the year we were to look upon
another of a very different complexion, low, swampy, and muddy; fringed
with cocoanut trees, at the foot of which jackals shrieked, making
night hideous, and around which mosquitoes buzzed and bit, as with the
avowed mission of scaring away nature’s sweet restorer.
To the officers and crew all the bustle of getting under weigh was of
course familiar; but to some fifty passengers, starting for the most
part on their first voyage, it all seemed chaos: anon a stentorian
voice gave an order, resulting in a tramping of feet and the thud of
ropes falling on the deck, to the accompaniment of “Cheery, boys, oh!”
or some other ditty that was prime favourite in those days.
Having made a fair offing, the good old ship bore steadily down
channel, the pilot entering his boat somewhere off Start Point, and his
“God speed!” seemed to sever the last link that bound us to the mother
country.
Even in a comparatively calm sea the movement of an East Indiaman
was sufficient to test one’s sea-going qualities, so that, when the
bells had been struck for meals, the cuddy table presented numerous
gaps, while certain ominous sounds proceeding from the direction of
the private accommodation announced to the happy few the advent of
that terrible ordeal _mal-de-mer_. Happily for the majority of mortals
it soon wears itself out; and the stomach, conforming to the law
that “use is second nature,” soon becomes tolerant of the new order
of things, and ceases to resent the innovation of digesting under
conditions of perpetual motion. I only came across one case in which
sea-sickness became a source of positive danger. The sufferer, a hale
and healthy man on coming aboard, was reduced in the course of a couple
of months to a mere bag of bones. What medical aid failed to do was
accomplished by nature; his sickness ceased, and in lieu thereof he
acquired an insatiable appetite which distressed him. He apologized
for the amount that he ate at meals, and for filling his pockets with
biscuits afterwards; but he was powerless to restrain himself, so that
by the time we arrived at our destination he was the counterpart of
his original self. I never saw him again, but I imagine that, if he
did ever return to Europe, his path lay through unexplored regions, as
I believe he would have attempted to traverse them on foot rather than
again enter a cabin.
Personally, I never experienced sea-sickness; the only influence that
the motion of the ship had over me was that I fell asleep on the least
provocation, which was very many times a day, as reading and writing
were equally out of the question.
By the time the dreaded Bay of Biscay had been crossed, and the ship
had entered warmer latitudes, the deck presented a more animated
appearance, and the cuddy table became devoid of gaps. All sorts and
conditions of both sexes had now acquired their sea-legs, and their
sea-stomachs too; for the most part they ate, I am convinced, more
than was good for them. Sea-air enjoys the reputation of stimulating
the appetite, and it undoubtedly had that effect in this particular
instance, assisted, maybe, by the seductive variety presented at each
meal. It was surprising, indeed, how such a number could be so catered
for day after day, extending to the third part of a year: mutton, pork,
fowls, ducks, and geese were always forthcoming, to say nothing of
the ubiquitous ham; nor was there any falling off in fresh bread and
pastry, while the cows in the long boat kept up the supply of milk.
After each meal the water astern became dotted with empty bottles—for
passengers, who could have as much ale, &c., as they pleased, _did_
please—which, as they sank to great depths, were probably shivered
into fragments ere they reached the bottom by the increasing pressure.
Supposing, indeed, the waters had dried up, the Cape route to India
could, I doubt not, have been easily traced by these innumerable
fragments of glass. The captious critic, commenting on what we had done
for that vast continent extending from the Himalayas to Cape Cormorin,
was wont to remark that, had the Mutiny been successful, empty bottles
alone would have remained as monuments of a century’s dominion. Thus
we should have had the same memorial from Spithead to the Hooghly,
and might have figured as a nation in whose administration glass
figured as an important ingredient, the captious one ignoring in all
probability such insignificant achievements as the Grand Trunk Road,
and suppression of Infanticide, Thuggee, and Suttee.
The only article on which any restriction was placed was the fresh
water allotted for the purpose of ablution, more than a given quantity
being obtainable only under peculiar conditions. But temptation, like
slander, “rides on the posting winds, and doth belie all corners of
the earth,” and even old East-Indiaman stewards were hardly above its
subtle influence.
Unrestricted access, then, to everything save fresh water, was the old
order of things; and the P. and O., besides having kept abreast of the
requirements of the present day in the matter of shipbuilding, speed,
and comfort, deserve more credit than they actually got for being the
pioneers of so admirable an innovation as lowering the passage-money,
and charging extra for wine, beer, and aërated waters.
Many of my contemporary travellers will remember how from start to
finish of a voyage the table was crowded at breakfast, lunch, and
dinner with bottles containing various wines; in addition to which
there were frequent descents to the cuddy to slake an imaginary thirst
with a B. and S. This inordinate and imaginary thirst died a natural
death under the new system of paying for what is ordered. A bottle
of claret on the breakfast table became the exception rather than
the rule: few made it “eight bells” to any extent, and the pop of
soda-water bottles became very rare.
From the suspicious way in which we English approach each other,
whether in a private room or in a public conveyance, it would seem
as if there lurked in our composition some of that cautious mistrust
so characteristic of the wild beast. But after having been a week or
so in each other’s company, the passengers positively began to thaw
towards one another; a welcome change that was, however, succeeded by a
still harder frost. For a time, indeed, we constituted a happy family,
dancing, singing, and acting together; but this temporary and unstable
fusion of minds was doomed to resolve itself into two antagonistic
elements, an untoward state of affairs that culminated only as the good
ship drew near her destination. There were two ways of accounting for
this division in the camp; my own view of the matter was that we saw
too much of each other from “rosy morn till dewy eve,” which, besides
breeding contempt, gave birth to that “green-eyed monster,” jealousy.
But the sailors ascribed all that went wrong to the presence of so many
clergymen, whom they looked upon as the _fons et origo_ of storms and
everything undesirable. It is, however, a melancholy yet undeniable
fact that a number of human beings herded together for any considerable
length of time will be sure to fall out, behaving in all probability
rather less charitably than so many tigers and jackals.
But on the whole, much as there was to lament in the matter of ruffled
tempers and petty ways, the outward-bound vessel represented a perfect
paradise during the four months’ voyage, compared with the ordeal of a
similar period aboard a homeward-bound Indiaman. To give even a faint
idea of the angry conflagration of passions by which the passengers
in the latter were wont to distinguish themselves, one would have to
borrow from the “Inferno” of Dante, and conjecture what must be going
on in Pandemonium, where the evil spirits meet in council!
The living freight was of the most volatile and combustible nature,
while the perpetual friction of its conflicting elements—swarms of
noisy children, and touchy old men with disordered livers—kept the
ship in perpetual danger of destruction. But a merciful Providence
has tempered the wind to the Anglo-Indian by pointing out an overland
route, and consigning the homeward-bound Indiaman, in so far as
passengers are concerned, to the pages of history; so that the danger
of spontaneous combustion is now confined to the cargo.
To resume our outward voyage. By the time we had finished taking
stock of each other, conjecturing why So-and-so was going out to the
East, the beautiful island of Madeira hove in sight; but to our united
earnest entreaties to be allowed to land for a few hours at Funchal the
captain turned a deaf ear, expecting the wind to change at any moment
to a more favourable quarter. For some time, however, it continued dead
against us, and the repeated tacking enabled us to obtain different
views of the peaceful isle, so near and yet so far, with the land
sloping up from the sea to some 6000 feet, and patches of cultivation
appearing here and there amid the thick woods.
With all the selfishness of youth, I fervently hoped to remain
weather-bound in such a paradise for an indefinite period; but my hopes
were literally blown away by the wind itself, which “chopped” round,
and Madeira faded from view.
The beautiful is said to be a joy only as long as it lasts; but my
recollections of this island on which nature has been so lavish have
outlived so evanescent a period, and I have often dreamt of it in later
days. Had it only fallen in with the eternal fitness of things to have
made it a part of the outlying British Empire, English capital and
enterprise would have developed its resources, seconding the efforts of
Nature’s prodigality, instead of counteracting them. We may possibly
have already acquired more than our share in all _five_ quarters
of the globe without casting longing eyes on Naboth’s vineyard; our
possessions may reasonably excite the jealousy of other powers, but
no one can deny that we are specially adapted, both physically and
mentally, for colonization far above any other nation; and that Madeira
would have shone with especial brilliancy in the British Crown is a
foregone conclusion.
On my first return voyage, years after, we landed at St. Helena, which,
interesting as it is from its historical associations, cannot in my
opinion compare with Madeira in natural beauty.
Among the least pleasant experiences of the whole voyage was the ordeal
of being becalmed near the line, where an oily sea sent back the glare
of perpendicular rays: several days of this sort of thing proved too
much for the tempers of the passengers, without evoking very choice
selections from the copious vocabulary of the crew.
The cuddy table was patronized in stately silence, and at any time,
indeed, conversation became as spasmodic and laconic as the merest
courtesy would allow. We of the civilized persuasion have somehow
drifted into the notion that it is imperative on us to talk at all
times and seasons, so that few tongues ever rest from morning to night,
when the timely interference of Providence paralyzes for a time our
power of speech.
Being becalmed in such a spot has its ludicrous as well as its painful
side; and few could help feeling amused at the sight of the ship’s bows
pointing at different times to every direction of the compass, as the
under-currents made us drift where we would not, intensifying our utter
helplessness.
Then, too, the captain would come on deck, look around and aloft,
whistle, and betake himself once more to the sacred precincts of
his cabin. The officer on watch would imitate his chief with pious
precision, especially the whistle, in which he had the faith peculiar
to sailors in need of a favourable wind. But the son of Astræas
remained in obdurate seclusion in his Thracian cave, and passengers and
crew rose to the verge of desperation.
One early hour out of the twenty-four contained, indeed, some
element of enjoyment, and that was when the decks were undergoing the
beneficial process of “holy-stoning,” which consisted in rubbing them
from stem to stern with a species of pumice and a plentiful supply of
sea water. Then it was that the early bird could get a most enjoyable
bath, not in the sea, indeed, which was infested with sharks, but on
deck under the full play of a hose.
The bath was customarily followed by a cup of tea, extracted by bribery
and corruption from the cook; and then we generally paced the deck
barefoot and with just a suspicion of clothing, until the _levée_ of
El Señor Sol, whom, from his nasty habit of insinuating himself under
the brim of one’s hat, I have always found most trying at daybreak.
The bath, the cup of tea, and an anteprandial pipe were not the only
advantages of early rising, as one also escaped thereby the extremely
trying noise of “holy-stoning” directly over one’s cabin.
No Hindoo, Mohammedan, or Buddhist ever went through his religious
ceremonies with such unerring regularity and unshaken faith as inspired
the sailors in their “holy-stoning,” in which process they seemed to
take especial delight, so that it almost amounted to fetichism; and the
face of the chief mate, who usually presided at this daily celebration,
would assume an angelic expression that apparently stimulated the men
to further efforts.
Unquestionably great as are the benefits conferred by the modern
appliances and improvements in the art of shipbuilding, in one respect
at least the old Indiaman had the whip-hand of its successor, and that
was a roomy cabin, a bed- and sitting-room combined, amply, if not
elegantly, furnished. Contrasted with the berth—or “pigging”—system of
modern ships, this was a prodigious advantage, compensating to a great
extent for the length of the voyage. Being caged up with several utter
strangers, passing, for example, through the Red Sea, and in a state
of insufferable heat, is an ordeal that one is not likely to forget;
having to climb at nights into an upper shelf, and, if one is fortunate
enough to sleep through the night without being pitched out, putting
one’s bare foot on the bald head of the gentleman below, who also
wanted to get up at the same moment—these are instances of the luxury
of modern travel of which one hears so much. And we bear it all with a
patient shrug worthy of Shylock!
Another digression! But how can one help philosophizing on board ship?
Whether from whistling or more natural causes, the wind at last
sprang up, and there was a visible accession of spirits to the cuddy
table—animal-spirits, I mean; for the health of the breeze was drunk by
one and all in sparkling champagne.
“Holy-stoning,” too, proceeded on the following morning with unexampled
vigour, and the chief mate’s face positively beamed.
And now we crossed the line. The elaborate and rather cruel ceremonies
with which a previous generation used to celebrate the “crossing” were
by this time considerably modified; though even now it was made an
opportunity for levying blackmail and inflicting personal discomfiture
on such as were in little favour with the rest. We do not know for
certain whether nectar was intoxicating—though we should shrewdly
suspect such to be the case, considering the unaccountable behaviour
of some of the gods in Olympus—but it is certain that Neptune, who
shortly arrived on board, was not superior to a mundane predilection
for Jamaica rum, an extra allowance of which was meted out to all; so
that he probably fell asleep in his chariot, leaving his horses to find
the way home by themselves.
Homeward-bound vessels were rarely visited by the sea-god, from whose
unwelcome attentions one was exempted by having once crossed the line.
The next diversion on board was created by the capture of a large shark
that had been hovering in our wake for several days, and suspected
of having purloined more than one joint of sailors’ pork, suspended
from the bowsprit to wash out superfluous salt. At last he was caught
in the act and duly reported; a deputation waited on the chief mate,
and, averse as captains are as a rule to the mess that such a capture
makes on the “holy-stoned” deck, the dire decree went forth for his
punishment. This involved the sacrifice of yet another leg of pork, and
in a few moments he was on deck, his spine being at once severed at its
caudal extremity with a blow from an axe.
The shark, though in reality but little out of harmony with the law
of Nature, which is “one with rapine,” has acquired with all nations,
civilized and barbarian, a reputation even worse than that enjoyed by
its terrestrial prototype—the tiger. It would be superfluous on my part
to describe the arrangement of his fins, or the size and number of his
serrated, lancet-shaped teeth; for do they not nowadays teach Natural
History even in Board schools!
Still more remarkable than anything about the shark itself is the
presence of the two pilot-fish that almost invariably flank its head
on either side. These interesting creatures instantly swim towards
anything that is thrown on the water, swim round it, and then return
to their patron; if it be a bottle, or any other inedible object, all
three then remain aloof, but if fit to eat, the shark immediately makes
for it.
When he is captured, indeed, they will swim for days on either side
of the rudder, with the fidelity of dogs; and on one occasion I
managed, after several hours’ hard work, to entrap them both in a
bucket. Belonging, as they do, to the Scomberidæ, they bear in shape
a pronounced resemblance to the mackerel; the average length is one
foot, and the body, which is of a silvery gray, is marked with five
transverse dark bands; while the dorsal fin, when erect, reminds one
forcibly of the perch, but the family to which they belong, and which
includes the albacore, bonito, and mackerel, has no representative in
fresh water.
Fried steaks cut from the tail-end of the defunct shark were served
that day at the Junior Officers’ Mess, of which I was elected an
honorary member; and I must say that the dish was palatable in spite of
the associations that clung to the monster. The sailors of those days
had a firm conviction that the appearance of a shark forecasted a death
on board. A lady occupying a cabin next to mine was rapidly nearing
her end from the ravages of consumption, and I never looked out upon
the warm, still sea without perceiving a huge shark swimming leisurely
round the ship as it crept slowly on. It was, of course, the merest
coincidence, and a word of encouragement from the captain would have
again placed shark-steaks on the _ménu_; I was so impressed, however,
with the hideous idea, that only the presence of several invalids
on board and the consequent necessity for avoiding all unnecessary
disturbance, prevented me from putting a rifle-bullet into him as he
neared the surface.
At last the unfortunate lady succumbed, and the shark immediately dived
after the coffin, which was, however, extra-heavily weighted at one end
and pierced with numerous holes; whether he accomplished his nefarious
purpose after the coffin rested amongst seaweeds, strange crustaceans,
and nautili, who shall say? Anyhow, we saw no more of him.
Traversing the ocean in a modern steamer would give one the idea that
it is but scantily inhabited; the churning of the screw is heard
some way ahead, and all the fish are scared away to the depths, so
that an occasional school of porpoises, too eager in the pursuit of
flying-fish, is about the only sight worth recording, and then it only
lasts a few moments, while the affrighted creatures tumble headlong
over one another in their frantic endeavours to escape. Of a sailing
vessel, however, they take but little notice, gambolling around in the
most leisurely manner. They are gregarious, not unlike the dolphin, but
with a less elongated snout, well armed with teeth adapted for seizing
the small fish that form their staple article of food.
Another fish partial to the wake of a sailing-ship, on account of the
amount of animal refuse which is thrown overboard, is the bonito,
closely allied to the tunny, though smaller and more graceful. The
average length is between two and three feet, and it is, for its size,
the strongest fish I ever met with. Like the mackerel, its congener, it
is most beautiful directly after its removal from the water; its back
is steely-blue, which grows lighter at the sides and eventually shades
off into silver under the belly, along which run several horizontal
lines of darker hue. The sailors harpoon it for sport rather than for
the sake of its flesh, which is coarse and somewhat rank. When the
ship is only creeping along with but little wind, it is possible to
take bonito on a spinning bait; but very strong tackle is requisite
for bringing it on board. I have seen a successful (?) handliner, who
hooked a large bonito while fishing from a small boat, towed in every
direction for a considerably exciting time before he could come to
closer quarters with his capture.
On one occasion I enjoyed some excellent mackerel-fishing off St.
Helena, catching enough to fill two ship’s buckets in a very short
time and with no other bait than a few shreds of red rag. Suddenly
the biting ceased, and as the water was beautifully clear, one could
plainly discern the approach of a dim figure, large and powerfully
built—in fact, a bonito—which just sniffed at the hooks and passed
on majestically, after which the terrified mackerel returned—to the
buckets!
This novel sport was very enjoyable, lasting until I was called away to
conduct a party over the island and make a few purchases. The scenery
was certainly lovely, and the various spots connected with the brief
imprisonment of Napolean Buonaparte excited the interest of the entire
party; yet I must confess that I should not care about it as a place of
residence for any length of time: it is not to be compared with Madeira
in any one particular.
The albacore, another of the Scomberidæ, is also frequently caught or
harpooned; it is a much thicker and deeper fish than the last-named,
sometimes attaining to an enormous size. Its flesh, too, is in much
higher repute, and was equally appreciated by the nations of antiquity
who dwelt upon the shores of the Mediterranean, in which sea it thrives
along with its near relative the tunny. The dorsal fin, which is
situated rather far back, graduates somewhat abruptly, vanishing into
a number of small finlets up to its unusually crescentic tail with the
same arrangement of finlets underneath.
Very interesting to the voyager are the performances of those creatures
called flying-fish, which probably cause more amusement to passengers
round the Cape than any other members of the finny tribe.
The apparatus by which they are on special occasions propelled for
a short time through the air is nothing but an unusual development
of the pectoral fins; but it is at least extremely doubtful whether
they employ these exactly as a bird uses its wings. I have many a
time observed them most carefully, but have always failed to detect
any flapping motion: the fins were merely extended, and I noticed
that in the direction of the wind they could move through the air
for some distance, when they would fall back abruptly into their own
element, as if their muscular energy was suddenly expended; while any
attempt to proceed against the wind invariably resulted in failure.
I am, therefore, of opinion that as they emerge from the water with
considerable “way” on, the pectorals fully expanded, the wind drives
them as long as the latter keep moist; so that the whole proceeding is
a _vis a tergo_ rather than a flight, though it is doubtless extremely
useful in escaping from their greedy enemies, much as small fry will
often take to the air when pursued by a large jack.
For the most part, they only rise a short distance from the water,
though often sufficiently high to fall upon the deck. Illustrations
of the flying-fish generally depict it as if about to mount up in the
air and ascend to the altitude patronized by larks, where, in company
with its fellows, it flits to and fro across the disc of the sun like
a swift. I like these illustrations; they show a considerable power
of imagination and not a little impudence: unfortunately, however,
the flying-fish is not quite so amphibious. One variety—the _Exocœtus
volitans_—has now and again been found in British waters, having
presumably lost its way; or perhaps, after all, the afore-mentioned
illustrations are based on fact, and the creatures have indeed flown
overland from the Mediterranean, where they abound along with the
flying-gurnards and similar species.
Occasionally, in the warmer latitudes, the ship would be surrounded
by a fleet of argonauts, or paper-nautili, which, if one excepts the
fairer portion of the passengers, are quite the prettiest creatures to
be seen during a voyage. The creature can easily quit the shell, which
resembles in shape that of the true nautilus, not being attached to it
as is the case with the majority of molluscs. Beautiful as the creature
unquestionably is, yet it reminds one of the hideous octopus, in that
both are provided with a number of tentacles, two of which, dilated
to a circular membraneous expansion and raised above the water, bear
a decided resemblance to sails, while the others, which move under
water, suggest the action of oars. Hence arose the idea, which, still
prevalent at the time of which I am writing, has only been combated
comparatively recently, that they actually sailed and rowed about.
The membranes, when unfurled, as it were, in the rays of the sun,
certainly display a variety of delicate colours, that the famous
“Judson” himself might envy but could never imitate; but they are only
seen to perfection on a calm sea; the least disturbance sends them
precipitately into the inmost recesses of their shells, when they
instantly sink to the depths, presumably by some specially devised
apparatus, that enables them to exhaust the air, since they cannot
contract the volume of their habitat. Perhaps the same arrangement
permits of their generating some kind of gas when they feel inclined to
go to the surface for a sail and a “look round.”
Sailors not infrequently confuse them with the so-called “Portuguese
man-o’-war,” which is, however, a much lower and headless organization,
living by suction, and bearing but slight resemblance to the delicate
and many-coloured argonaut. This name will doubtless recall to the
reader’s mind that fabulous band of Greek heroes who, under the
leadership of Jason—not the aforesaid Judson!—sailed forth to Colchis
for the lofty purpose of hoodwinking the sleepless dragon and stealing
the ram’s Golden Fleece.
At the time when the Exhibition of 1851 gave such an impetus to
Science and Art, the “argonaut,” “Portuguese man-o’-war,” “Paper”-, and
True-Nautilus were very much confused in the minds of men generally,
and of sailors in particular. The shell of the last named was sent
from the East, and its nacred interior excited the admiration of
all. In lieu of the discs common to the cephalopods, it is provided
with calcareous mandibles with which it crushes the numerous small
crustaceans, on which it feeds as greedily as the octopus of the
Mediterranean and Southern Seas, or the “squid” that plays such havoc
in the Channel trawl-nets.
The only other sight worth recording was the occasional blowing of a
whale, that curious marine mammal, whose incongruities have puzzled
even eminent biologists. There are many interesting questions in the
life-history of the whale of which we are in almost total ignorance;
such are, for example, its average age, which conjecture has extended
to centuries, and the period of gestation before it launches its baby
on the troubled waters—think of it, a “baby” whale of some ten or
twelve feet in length! But what has always appeared to me the most
interesting point in the whale is the extraordinary disproportion
of its tiny throat—a throat not two inches in diameter, so that an
ordinary herring would choke the largest whale. It behoves us, however,
in all justice to the most remarkable book that has ever appeared as
the universal delight of castle and cottage, to disregard the emphasis
with which its scientific detractors are wont to decry some of its more
remarkable assertions, and to exculpate it, at least in this case—I
refer, of course, to the famous history of the rebellious prophet—where
it makes no mention of the exact species to which the “great fish”
belonged; the whale having been associated with the story in later
days by romancers whose intellect is scarcely less remarkable than that
of a somewhat puerile clergyman, whom I once heard endeavour to prove
that the “great fish” was simply a common alligator, which is about as
abundant in the Mediterranean as the whale itself!
In excessively warm latitudes, where certain winds are contending for
the mastery, waterspouts are not uncommon, and are, of course, dreaded
in proportion to their proximity to the ship. They are analogous to
the whirlwind on land, the ascending column in the latter being charged
with particles of dust, instead of, as at sea, with condensing vapour.
In either case, distance lends enchantment!
* * * * *
Such, then, were a few of the sights and speculations afforded, in
the days when journeys were calculated by months, by the great world
without, as a means of beguiling the time when wind and weather
permitted one to stay on deck.
Scarcely less remarkable were the diversions of the little world
within; the shifts to which we were put in our unflagging endeavours to
relieve the monotony of “life below stairs;” but I must leave these to
another chapter, in which I hope to reach the end of my voyage.