and the wind roared with terrific force, blinding him so that the great
eye above was scarcely visible. He remained quiet now, and waited
patiently for the daylight, which would mean his end. His sufferings
were terrible, but he could not help it, and soon a sullen stupor came
upon him.
In the dim gray of the early morning forms were seen walking about the
lighthouse. They were men, and among them was the keeper. The others
wore clothes that reminded the pariah of former days, and one stranger
seemed to be familiar to him. This was a man, short, broad, and
bearded, with bow legs set wide apart, and long arms with huge hands
and crooked fingers. He was ugly, and reminded him of the crabs he had
seen and captured in the streams during the summer. There was something
of the crab about the queer little fellow, and his very ugliness
attracted the dog’s attention. It brought back some memory of past
days, a memory that was not all unpleasant, yet indistinct and unreal.
As the day dawned and the snow grew deeper the outcast waited no
longer. He held up his nose and let forth a howl that was heard above
the snore of the gale, and which brought the light-keeper to attention.
He came running with a club, and behind him followed the stranger with
the crablike body.
“Sink me if I aint got ye at last, ye varmint!” yelled the keeper as he
drew near. Then he halted. “A dog--what--jest a common everyday dog?
But I’ll make a good dog out o’ ye in a minute. All dead dogs is good
dogs, an’ you’ll do.”
He advanced with raised club, and the pariah crouched for a spring. He
would try for one last good bite. All the savageness of his mixed blood
surged through his fierce mind. He gave a low growl and showed his
teeth, and his eyes were like bits of yellow flame.
“Hold on thar, stranger; don’t kill that ’ar dog. Wait a bit,” said the
ugly man, waddling up behind. “What, caught ’im in a trap?”
“Sure I got him in a trap. D’ye want me to loose him?” asked the keeper
testily.
“That’s erbout the size o’ my games,” said the ugly man. “Yew may think
it a go, but that ’ar dog looks uncommon like the one I lost aboard the
_Seagull_ when she went ashore hereabouts last year. He ware a good
dog, part wolf, part hound, and the rest a mixture I don’t exactly
remember. Lemme try ’im?”
“Gwan, man; that critter is been stealin’ chickens since last summer,”
said the keeper, but at the same time he allowed the ugly fellow to
have his way.
“Hey, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!” said the ugly sailor. “Don’t yew know me,
Sammy?” And he bent forward toward him.
The pariah gazed at him. What did he mean? What was that voice? It
sounded like that of the man who had brought him aboard the vessel he
had gone ashore in. The only human who had never struck him or offered
him harm. He hardly remembered the ugly fellow, for he had only been in
the ship a short time before she was lost.
“Strange, that looks like the critter sure enough. I went ashore here
in the _Seagull_ a year ago, an’ here I goes ashore agin in this
howlin’ wind an’ sees the dog I lost. Strange, keeper, it’s strange,
hey?”
“He do appear to know ye, an’ that’s a fact,” said the keeper. “Would
ye like me to loose him off? Better do it afore the assistant comes
down, fer he’s got it in fer this dog.”
“Wait a bit,” said the ugly fellow, and he advanced closer to the
outcast. He put out his hand, and the dog wavered. Should he seize
it? He could crush it and tear it badly in his teeth before he
could withdraw it, and they would probably kill him anyway in the
end. But there was something in the ugly man’s eye that restrained
him--something that spoke of former times when all was not strife. No,
he would not bite him.
“Turn the critter loose; he’s my dog fer sure,” said the ugly man. “All
he wants is some grub. I reckon yew’d be savage, too, if yew had been
out in the snow all night. I knows I ware when I come in half drowned
this mornin’.”
The keeper pried the trap open and the cur went free.
“Come, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!” said the ugly fellow, and he led the way
to the house.
The pariah hesitated. His foot was useless, but he could go on three
legs. There was the timber a short distance away. He looked at it for
an instant. Then he saw the ugly man beckoning with his great crooked
finger. He lowered his head and gave a short whine. Then he limped
slowly after him to the house.
A little later the ugly man fed him and bound up the wounded paw, while
the assistant mumbled something about rubber boots and breeches worth
about seven dollars a pair.
“Messmates,” said the ugly sailor, shifting his crablike body and
sticking out his great bushy face with its red beard, “that ’ar dog
ware a good dog, part wolf, part hound, an’ the rest I don’t exactly
recollect, but he ware a good dog. Treat a dog good an’ he’ll be a good
dog. Treat ’im bad an’ he’ll be a bad dog. When ye go erbout more among
men, as I does, yew’ll see that what I says is so. An’ men is mostly
like dogs.”
The assistant kept quiet, for there was something peculiarly aggressive
in that misshapen man. The animal was led away with a string, and went
in the boat to Wilmington with the wrecked crew.
Two years later another ship was added to the list of those whose
bones rest in the sands of the Frying Pan Shoals. She ran on the outer
breaker during the night, and in the morning the keeper saw a floating
object on the shore. He went to it and found the body of a man whose
peculiar figure he recognized. A life-buoy was strapped about his
waist, and in his great crooked fingers was a line. The keeper hauled
it in, and on the end of it he found the dead body of the yellow beast
that had stolen his fowls. They had gone to their end together.
[Illustration: The Cape Horners]
To the southward of where the backbone of the western hemisphere
dips beneath the sea rises a group of ragged, storm-swept crags and
peaks,--the wild rocks of the Diego Ramirez. Past them flows the
current of the great Antarctic Drift, sweeping from the father of all
oceans--the vast South Pacific,--away to the eastward, past the bleak
pinnacles of Cape Horn, to disperse itself through the Lemaire Strait
and Falkland Channel northward into the Atlantic Ocean.
With the wild snore of the great west wind sounding over them, and the
chaotic thunder of the Pacific Ocean falling upon their sides, they
are lonely and inhospitable, and are seldom, if ever, visited by man.
Only now and then he sees them, when the wind-jammer fighting to go
past the last corner gets driven close in to the land of fire. Then,
on some bleak and dreary morning, when the west wind is roaring through
downhaul and clewline and under the storm topsails, the heavy drift
may break away for a few minutes and show the wary navigator a glimpse
of the death-trap under his lee that will add a few gray hairs to his
head, and bring the watch below tumbling on deck to man the braces.
Bare of vegetation and desolate as they are, the rocks are inhabited.
To the leeward of the great Cape Horn sea that crashes upon them, the
ledges and shelves are full of life. In the shelter, the strange forms
sit and gaze seaward, peering this way and that, squawking and scolding
in hoarse voices that might be heard above the surf-thunder. They
appear like great geese sitting on their tails, for they sit upright,
their feet being placed well down on their long bodies, giving them a
grotesque look that is sometimes absurdly human.
They have no wings,--only little rudiments covered with fine hairlike
feathers that serve as side fins when swimming. They never flap them,
as do their cousins, the Cape pigeons and albatrosses. In fact, their
bodies are covered with short, close, hairlike feathers, very minute,
seldom wider than a pencil’s point, and lying tight to the skin, like
scales on a fish. These figures have birdlike heads, not unlike those
of diver-ducks, and they have beautiful black eyes, with red rings
around them. They are the creatures that hold sway over the barren
crags, waddling and walking about in their absurd way until a great
man-seal shows his bristling whiskers close to the ledge. Then they
gave forth the loud, long-drawn, wild cry that is so well known to the
Cape Horner, waddle to the brink, plunge headlong into the sea, and
disappear.
They are the penguins of the southern zone, half bird, half fish, and,
one might say, half human, to judge by their upright waddle on their
webbed feet.
The one whose story is now to be told was hatched on the Ramirez, high
above the lift of the Cape sea, and beyond the reach of straying seals.
He belonged to a brood of three, and first saw the light a little after
New Year’s Day, or midsummer there. There was no sheltering nest to
guard him against the bleak wind, which is nearly as cold in summer
as in winter. He came into the world on a bare rock and announced
himself by a strange, chirping sound that caused his mother to waddle
off a few feet and gaze at him in astonishment. He was followed by his
two brothers, and, within a very short time, showed an inclination to
follow his parent down the ledge and into the dark water where the kelp
weed floated in sheltered spots between the rocks. He was but a fluffy
ball, of the size of a baby’s fist, but he stood with dignity upon his
short legs and labored over the rough places, sometimes falling and
rolling over a step in the rock until, with a splash, he landed in the
sea.
At last! That was the place he was meant for. How fine it was to scull
one’s self furiously along the surface and then suddenly dive and go
shooting through the depths, coming up again to see if his parent were
at hand; for, in spite of the delightful novelty of life, there was
within him a strange feeling of fear, something that made him seek his
mother’s side continually. The heavy snore of the great Cape Horn sea,
breaking to windward of the rocks, sounded a deep note of menace, a
warning of the fierce, wild world in which only the hardiest could hope
to survive, and yet it seemed to tell of a power that ruled his destiny.
His brothers swam near, and he was joined by countless myriads of other
birds. With penguins, strength ashore exists solely in numbers, and the
bare cliffs must be covered with sturdy birds ready to snap and strike
fiercely with their strong, sharp beaks at each and every intruder,
if they would have security. Woe to the albatross or mollemoke that
attempts a landing on the sacred shore! He will be met by an army of
powerful birds walking erect as soldiers and stabbing and biting with
incredible power.
Soon this young one’s downy feathers hardened. They did not grow
like those of an ordinary bird. They were hardened almost to bone,
and pressed so stiff against his skin that it would be difficult to
distinguish them from the scales of a rockfish or a cod. His wings were
no more than flippers, exactly like those of a turtle, and were without
a bending joint at the pinion. They were devoid of feathers also, but,
as he would never use them in the air, this made it all the better.
They could scull him along faster under the sea. Already he could go
fast enough to catch any fish in the vicinity, and, as for the great
seals, they simply amused him with their clumsy attempts to catch him.
On land he could hop about on his short legs, but he preferred the
water for safety, and seldom took to the rocks.
During this period of his life he kept well with the crowd of
companions about him. Even the albatrosses, the huge destroyers, kept
their distance, for, as they would swoop down in great circles near
the young birds, they would meet an almost solid phalanx of screaming
and snapping beaks, and would sweep about in giant curves until, seeing
no chance to rush in, they would stand out to sea again and disappear.
Gradually, as the months passed, the older penguins began to scatter.
Some went farther and farther off shore, until, at length, when the
cold July sun swept but a small arc of a circle above the horizon, they
left the rocks and faced the wild ocean that sweeps past the Horn. Our
young one now felt a desire to roam with the rest, and, one day, when
the snore of the gale droned over the barren lumps, bringing thick
squalls of sleet and snow, he put out into the open sea and headed away
for the Strait of Magellan.
Away through the dark water he went, his feeling of loneliness
increasing as the land disappeared. The very majesty of that great
waste of rolling sea impressed him, and an instinctive longing to
realize what it meant came over him. He raised his head into the air
and gave forth a long, deep, sonorous cry; but the dark ocean made no
answer, the only sound being the distant noise of some combing crest
that broke and rolled away to the southward. There was not a living
thing in sight.
Through the gloom he made his way with the feeling of adventure
growing. He kept a lookout for small fish, and repeatedly dived to a
great depth, but, even down there, where the light failed entirely,
there was nothing. Only once during the day did he see anything alive,
and this was after hours of swimming. A dark object showed upon the
slope of a swell. It looked like a triangular knife-blade, and cut the
water easily, while the dark shadow beneath the surface appeared almost
as inert as a log or a piece of wreckage. The penguin drew nearer to
it to investigate, for one of his strongest feelings was a desire to
find out about things. Then the object drew toward him and appeared to
be drifting to meet him. Suddenly there was a rush through the water.
The protruding fin ripped the surface of the rolling swell, and, as
it came on the forward slope, the penguin saw a pair of enormous jaws
opening in front of him, while a row of teeth showed white in the dark
water. He made a sudden swerve aside and missed the opening by a hair’s
breadth. Before the shark could turn to pursue him, he dived and set
off at a great rate of speed below the surface, and was soon out of the
way. He had learned to look for danger wherever he might meet another
such peculiar-shaped object, and the lesson would be of use, for there
is no sea where sharks are not found.
Between Terra del Fuego and Staten Land lies the narrow water of
Lemaire Strait. Through this channel the current rushes with incredible
speed, swirling around the reefs and foaming over the sunken ledges
that line the shore. The tussock-covered hills of barren shingle form
a background so bleak and uninhabited that many of the large sea fowl
find it safe to trust themselves upon the cliffs where nothing may
approach from shoreward to take them unawares. The rocks are covered
with weed, and plenty of whale-food drifts upon them, so that there
is always a supply for winter. There the penguin landed after days of
cruising, and waddled on shore for the first time since leaving the
place of his birth.
To the westward, across the strait, the fires from the hills where the
savages dwelt shone in the gloom of the twilight. They were attractive,
and often he would sit and watch them in the growing gloom of the
long winter evenings after he had come ashore from a day’s fishing,
wondering at the creatures who made them. The light was part of his
mental enjoyment, and sometimes, after looking for an hour or more, he
would raise his head, which had a long, sharp beak, and, with lungs
full of air, let forth a wild, lonely cry. For days and days he would
come and go, seeing no companions save the raucous whale-birds who
would come in on the rock and who had no sympathy with his fishing.
They were mere parasites, and depended upon the great animals to show
them their food.
As the months passed and the sun began to stay longer above the
horizon, he became more and more lonesome. A longing for companionship
came upon him, and he would sit and gaze at the fires across the strait
until he gave vent to his feelings with his voice.
One day, when the sun shone brightly, he came upon the ledge and
rested. He was not very tired, but the sun was warm and the bright rays
were trying to his eyes after the long gloom of the winter. The ragged
mountains stood up clearly from across the strait, but the fires would
not shine in the sunlight. He stood looking for a time, and then broke
forth into a long-drawn call. To his astonishment an answering note
came sounding over the water. He repeated his cry and listened. From
far away in the sunshine a weird cry was wafted across the sea. It
thrilled him. He was not afraid, for the cry was one of yearning, and
he wanted companionship. He sat and waited until he saw a small object
on the rise of a swell. It came nearer, and then he saw it was one of
his own race, and dived into the sea and went to meet the stranger.
How smooth was the newcomer’s coat and how white the breast! He looked
the female over critically, and a strange feeling of companionship
pervaded his being. Then he went toward her and greeted her, sidling up
and rubbing his head against her soft neck and swimming around her in
circles. The sun shone brightly and the air was warm. The very joy of
life was in him, and he stretched forth his head and called and called
to the ledges and reefs, sea and sky, to bear witness that he would no
longer live alone, but would thenceforth take the beautiful stranger
with him and protect her. He climbed upon the ledge, she following,
and, proud as a peacock, strutted back and forth in his enjoyment of
her good will and comradeship.
They strayed about the rocks and swam in the sheltered places among
the reefs for a few days, but a desire to go into the great world to
the southward and make a snug home for the coming summer began to make
him restless. The warm sunshine made life a joy in spite of the thick
coating of fat and feathers, and the high cliffs of Tierra del Fuego
seemed to offer a tempting abode for the warmer months. His pretty
companion shared his joy, and also his desire to go out into the great
sea to the southward and find a suitable place on some rock or ledge
where they could make a home.
They started off shore one morning and swam side by side for many
leagues, skirting the sheer and dangerous Horn and meeting many more
couples who, like themselves, were looking for a suitable place
for a summer sojourn while the bright sun should last. They met a
vast crowd of their kind making an inner ledge of the Ramirez their
stopping-place, and there they halted. It was pleasant to be sociable
when united to a proud companion, and they went among the throng until
they found a place on the rocks where they could climb ashore easily.
Our friend led the way up the slope and found a level spot among the
stones where his mate could sit and be near the tide. She would lay her
eggs there, and he would take care that she fared well.
Weeks passed and two white shells shone in marked contrast to the
surrounding stones and gravel. His mate had laid two beautiful eggs,
and her care for them kept him busy fishing for two. Yet he was very
happy. He would make short trips to the outlying reef and seize a fish.
Then he would hurry home with it, and together they would eat it while
his mate sat calmly upon the eggs, keeping them warm and waiting for
the first “peep” to show the entrance into this world of her firstborn.
All about, the other couples had their nests, consisting only of the
bare stones, for there was no drift or weed out there to use, and they
sat in great numbers close enough to call to each other in case a
marauding albatross or mollemoke should come in from the sea and try
to steal eggs.
Day after day he fished and brought his mate the spoils, often sitting
on the eggs himself while she took a plunge into the cold water for
exercise and change. He was satisfied and the world was bright with the
joy of life.
One day his mate waddled quickly from the nest. Where before there had
been two shining white eggs, two little yellow puff-balls lay on the
stones, and they made a noise that showed him his offspring were strong
and healthy young ones. He strutted up and down the ledge, proud and
straight, while his mate gave forth cries of satisfaction and nestled
down again to give the delicate little ones shelter. He almost forgot
to go fishing, and only a call from his patient mate recalled him to
the fact that she must be fed. He stepped down the rocks, and, as he
dived into the sea, cried aloud for joy.
Out near the Ramirez the fish were playing in the sunshine. He made
his way thither, his breast high with the happiness of his existence.
Other fowl were there fishing. He joined them, but gave no heed to a
long object that came slowly over the water from the land of fire. It
headed toward the cliffs where the sea fowl dwelt, and two half-naked
savages propelled it with paddles. They were hunting for eggs, and the
rocks offered a tempting place to land, for the great crowd of birds
told plainly of the summer breeding-place. They ran the canoe into a
sheltered spot among the rocks where the heave of the sea was slight,
and then sprang ashore. Up they climbed and stood upon the level where
the penguin females sat and called wildly for their mates.
A savage stooped and began gathering eggs, pushing away the birds or
knocking them on the head with a stick, when, with their sharp beaks,
they protested against the robbery. He was a horribly filthy fellow,
and his ugly body was partly covered with skins of birds and sealskin.
He noticed a female sitting close, calling to our penguin for help,
and the bird seemed to be very fine and large, with a good skin. He
made a pass with his club and smote her on the head. She struggled
desperately to get away, but could not. The blow partly stunned her.
The little ones scurried off as she rose, and the savage saw there were
no eggs to be had from her. But he would have her skin anyway, so, with
a furious stroke of his weapon, he knocked her lifeless at his feet.
Then he picked her up and went on.
Later in the afternoon the male came back from fishing. He climbed the
cliffs and looked about him. His mate and young were missing, and he
sent forth his deep, sonorous cry. But it was not answered. Other birds
took it up, but there was no answering call from the mate, and the
little dark speck that rose and fell upon the heave of the swell away
in toward the shore of Tierra del Fuego gave no token of her fate.
All night he wandered over the rocks, his wild note of calling sounding
far out to sea. In the morning he stood once more upon the spot where,
a few days before, the mate of his bosom sat proudly upon the white
eggs. The empty shells were all that were left. He stood gazing out to
sea, and then his instinct told him he would see his family no more. He
gave one long-drawn cry, plunged into the sea, and was gone. The great
west wind came roaring over the sea before the sun set, and before it
he held his way. He would go far away from the scene of his summer’s
life. The vast ocean would be his home, and the memories of the ledge
be a thing of the past.
For many days the penguin roamed over the huge rolling hills of water.
The vastness of the ocean and its grandeur soothed him, though he
still called out at intervals when the sadness of his life was strong
upon him. Then came a day when sea and sky seemed to blend in one wild
whirl, and a hurricane from the high, ragged hills of Patagonia swept
the Antarctic Drift. Away he went before it, and the wildness of it was
joy, the deepening roar of the wind and crash of Cape combers making
music for his spirit. He headed for the middle of the current between
the land where the Pacific flows through and meets the western ocean,
the stretch of sea that reaches away past the South Shetlands to the
south pole.