water, fifty feet in height, with stately and majestic rush, passed
to the eastward, their tops crowned with huge white combing crests
and their sides streaked and flecked with long stripes of white
foam. Above, the dull banks of hurtling vapor flew wildly away to
somewhere in the distance, far beyond the reach of vision. It was more
comfortable beneath the surface than above it, and our penguin drove
headlong before the sea two fathoms below the foam, only coming up
once in a while to breathe. On and on he drove for hours, until hunger
warned him to keep a lookout for fish, as he occasionally came up
for air, and to see if there were signs of the oily surface denizens
showing in the sweep of that great, lonely sea. Suddenly an object
attracted his attention. It was a mere speck on the storm-torn horizon,
but he knew it must be of considerable size. It was different from
anything he had ever before seen, for above it three long, tapering
sticks stood upward, and upon the middle one a strip of white, like
the wing of an albatross, caught the weight of the wild west wind.
He was interested, and drove along toward it until the object loomed
high above him, and the deep snore of the gale sounded like a heavy
roaring comber tearing through the many lines of the rigging and under
the strip of white canvas. The great thing would rise upon the crest
of a giant wave and fling its long, pointed end high into the gale,
the rushing sea striking it and smashing over in a white smother like
the surge on the rocks. Then down it would swing slowly until it would
reach the hollow between the moving hills, and the penguin could see
upon its body, its tall sticks rolling to windward and the roar of the
gale deepening into a thunderous, rushing sound, until the advancing
sea would lift it again and roll it toward the lee. The sight of the
huge monster wallowing about, hardly making the slightest way through
the water, interested the penguin. It seemed like a floating rock
without life, and he felt a curiosity to know if it were alive. He rose
partly from the sea and uttered a long-drawn, hoarse call that floated
down the gale and swept over the great hulk. Nothing happened, and he
repeated the call,--a far-reaching, wild, deep, resonant cry.
But the great ship swung along slowly, as before, and he dived under
her to see what was below.
In the forecastle the dim light of the summer day made a dismal and
cheerless scene. The watch below had turned in, all standing, their wet
clothes wrapped about them in their “pews,” or bunks, making a vapor in
the cold air through which the light of the swinging lamp shone dimly.
The gray light from outside filtered in at the side ports and spoke
of the cold, hard day on deck. Once in a while some shivering wretch
would turn in his poultice of soaking flannel and get a fresh piece
of icy-cold cloth against his skin that would call forth maledictions
on the Horn, the weather, and the hove-to ship. In a corner of the
forecastle a pile of soaking clothes moved, and a moan sounded above
the noise without.
“Stow it, Sammy; you’ll be all right soon, my boy,” said a voice in a
bunk above him.
“Oh, but it’s so cold, Tom,” whispered the pile of clothes. “I can’t
last much longer, and they might let me die warm, at least.”
“What’s the little man sayin’?” asked a deep voice opposite. “Wants to
die warm, does he? Say, Sammy, me son, you’ll be warm mighty soon after
you’re dead; why in thunder don’t you put up with a bit o’ cold till
then, boy?”
“You’re a blamed brute, bos’n,” said the first speaker, “an’ if I
wa’n’t mighty well used up I’d soak you a good whanging for that. Yer
know the poor boy’s sick wid scurvy, an’ aint likely to pull through.”
“I’ll ware ye out when th’ watch is called, yer preacher,” said the
bos’n confidently. “Talk away, for you’ll only get it all the worse
when I shucks my dunnage.” Then, as if the matter were settled, he
snugged up in his soaking bunk and hove down to warm a piece of his
steaming covering until it should cease to send a chill through his big
frame and he could wander into dreamland.
The shivering form of the boy in the corner moved again, and he groaned
in agony. It was useless for him to try to sleep with his limbs swollen
and his flesh almost bursting with the loathsome disease. The pile of
wet clothes upon him could not keep him warm, and each shiver sent
agony through him. He would die unless he could get relief soon, and
there the ship was off the Horn in June, the beginning of winter,
without one chance in fifty of making port in less than two months.
In his half-delirious state he lived many of his early schooldays
again, and then followed thoughts of those who were nearest to him.
He must die. His grave must be in that great, dark void beneath. Oh,
the loneliness of that great ocean! What would it be like far below in
the blackness of the vast deep, beyond the heave of the great sea, in
the very bosom of the great world of silence? The horror of it caused
him to groan. Would anyone punish the cruel ship-owners and captain
who had so foully murdered him with the cheap and filthy food? What
would anyone care after he had gone? What would he care, away down in
that everlasting blackness, where no one would ever see him again? He
lay upon his back and stared with red and swollen eyes at the bunk
above him where Tom, the quartermaster, snored loud enough to be heard
above the dull, thunderous roar overhead. In another hour the watch
must turn out, but they would let him lie by; him, a dying ship’s-boy.
But would he die outright? Would his soul live down there in that
awful blackness, where they must soon heave his body? He had heard of
sailors’ spirits haunting ships. Could his do so? Was there a hideous
devil below waiting for him? He had heard there was. Far down in the
bottomless abyss some monster might await him. He gazed with staring
eyes at the dim lamp, and longed for a little light and sunshine to
relieve the terrible gloom of the Antarctic winter day.
Then there broke upon his ears a wild, sonorous, deep-drawn cry
sounding over the storm-swept sea. It was not human. What was it? Was
it for him? The thought made him sick with terror. He groaned aloud,
and Tom turned over in his wet clothes until the sudden chill of moving
from the one steaming place made him grumble audibly.
“What was it, Tom?” he whispered.
“What?” growled the sailor surlily.
“There----” and the cry was repeated.
Tom growled a little and then rolled snug again. Suddenly he started
up. “A man might as well freeze to death on deck as in this unholy
frozen hole,” he said. Then he climbed stiffly down from his bunk,
clapped his sou’wester on his head, and, tying the flaps snug under his
chin, he slid back the forecastle door with a bang, and landed on the
main deck.
There he stood a minute watching the great fabric straining under her
lower maintopsail, hove to in that sea that the Cape Horner knows so
well and dreads so much. In the waist, the foam on deck told of a flood
of icy water that poured again and again over the topgallant rail and
crashed like a Niagara upon the deck planks, rushing to leeward through
the ports in the bulwarks and carrying everything movable along with it.
He watched his chance, and dodged around the corner of the deck house,
where the port watch huddled to keep clear of the wind and the sea.
“Merry Fourth o’ July to ye,” bawled a man of the watch, as he came
among them.
“What’s the matter? Can’t ye find enough work to do whin yer turn
comes?” asked another.
“Where’s the whale-iron?” asked Tom, of Chips, who had come out of his
room to get a look around.
The carpenter looked at him queerly. “What d’ye want wid it?” he asked.
“Listen!” said Tom.
Then the cry of the sea fowl sounded again.
“Penguin?” said Chips.
“Turkey,” said Tom, with a smile. “If we can get the steward to give us
a bit o’ salt pork fat we can git him, or I’m a soger.”
He was an old whaleman, and the carpenter hesitated no longer. He led
the way into his room in the forward house where he kept his tools, and
the iron was brought forth. A word to the mate on watch, and the sailor
was fast in the lee forerigging, standing upon the shear-pole, with the
iron ready to heave. The fat was tossed over the side, and he waited.
In the dark, cold hole of the forecastle the drawn lips of the sick
boy were parted, showing his blue and swollen gums. He was grinning
horribly. “Take him away. Oh, take him away!” he was moaning. “Hear him
a-callin’ me? Don’t let him get me, Tom; take him away, take him away!
It’s the devil callin’ me!”
All the fear and anguish that can burn through a disordered brain
was upon the little fellow, and the dismal cry lent a reality to his
delirious thoughts. Suddenly he half rose in his bunk, and then the
latent spark of manhood, which was developing even in spite of his
sufferings, came to his aid. He thought of the Great Power which ruled
his fate, and shook himself into full consciousness, glancing up at the
aperture through which the dim light filtered as if he half expected to
see a vision that would give him strength. Then he felt that he would
face the end calmly, and meet whatever was in store as a man should.
Perhaps the captain and owners could not help matters, after all. He
could hear the song of the gale more distinctly, and once the tramp of
the men as they tailed onto the maintopsail brace. They were jamming
the yard hard on the backstay, and there was no show of a slant yet. He
must lie quiet and wait, listening to the weird cry that caused him to
shiver and see fantastic figures upon the carlines above his head.
Out on the great, high-rolling sea, the penguin had scented a peculiar
substance. He drew nearer the great fabric that rolled and swung so
loggily on the sea. He sent forth a wild cry, and drove headlong after
a piece of white matter that floated in the foam of the side wash. He
seized it and swallowed it. Then he came closer.
A form stood in the rigging above him, motionless, as if made of wood,
and a long, pointed thing was balanced in the air. A piece of fat
showed right beneath, and he went for it, in spite of the feeling of
dread that came upon him. He was hungry, and would snatch it and then
get away. He reached it, and at that instant something struck him in
the back, carrying him beneath the surface. Then his life went out.
“A fine turkey, an’ that’s a fact,” said Chips, a moment later. “Get
something to put him in, quick; the lad will have a stew, fer sure.
’Twill well-nigh cure him, and, anyways, it’ll keep him a-goin’ until
we speak a wessel fer fresh grub.”
The second mate came forward.
“Eight bells, ye starbowlines,” he bawled into the forecastle; “turn
out, or I’ll be right in there wid ye! One o’ ye bring Sammy’s mess
things. He’s got turkey fer dinner. Come, wake up, sonny! There aint
no devil or nothin’ a-chasin’ ye. Ye’ll be all right in a week o’
Sundays. Bring that beef juice right in here, Chips. Hold his head,
Tom,--there,--make him drink it while it’s hot.”
In a little while the hot broth made from the bird’s flesh warmed the
boy’s body, and his mind was clear again. The forecastle was empty,
and the wild cry he had heard no longer sounded above the gale. He
felt stronger, and his terror had vanished. A feeling of ease grew
within his poisoned body. A gleam of faint sunlight came through the
open door, and as he looked he knew that the God he felt had given him
strength had been kind. He knew no prayer, or word of thanks, but his
spirit was warm with gratitude. He smiled his thanks at his shipmates,
and closed his eyes. Then he slept.
A crowd of swearing and jostling men awakened him as they came tumbling
below some hours afterwards.
“Grub ahoy!” bawled one. Then the mess-kid came in steaming from the
galley, and upon it was a large fowl.
“Hi, yi, turkey, ahoy! Turkey, ’e was a good old man!” cried a Swede.
“An’ divil a bit will anyone but th’ bye git,” said the big bos’n.
“It’s sorry I am, Thomas, me dear, that I have tew whang ye afther yer
noble raid on ther poulthry.”
[Illustration: The LOGGER-HEAD]
He was probably named by sailors because of his fancied resemblance
to a certain piece of ship’s gear, but the Conchs of the Bahama Bank
believed he deserved his name in its true meaning, for he was certainly
the most stupid fellow on the reef. Those who knew him and watched him
crawl up the glistening white coral sand that glared in the heat of
the torrid sunshine never took the trouble to harm him, although the
law of the reef is very much like it is elsewhere. The strongest or
quickest-witted only might endure.
But the conch who first turned him, or rather attempted to turn
him, found that his dead weight of six hundred pounds of shell and
leather-like beef was not worth the trouble. Turtles of more manageable
size were plentiful, and there was no use of straining one’s self
trying to upset such a monster. He drew his knife to kill, but the
stupid one had sense enough to withdraw his head within the wall of
bony shell, and the black man called maledictions upon him for turning
the edge of his weapon. Then he smote him over the back with his
turning stave and called him a worthless one because he refused to
contribute himself to the Conch’s larder, and passed on.
The loggerhead paid small heed to the man’s behavior. The bright
sunshine was warming the white sands, and the blue water of the Gulf
Stream was rippling past the cay, while above him the beautiful little
lumpy clouds, bunches of pure white vapor, were floating away to the
southward. It was enough to live without bothering with those who
fished upon the waters of the reef or the great swarm of creatures who
inhabited the clear depths. Everywhere the sea denizens seemed to be
in continual tumult, some trying to build homes among the sponges and
growths of the coral banks, and others hurrying to and fro through the
clear blue liquid with no especial purpose he could fathom. Then there
were the destroyers who came and went with a rush, chasing the smaller
to shelter and splashing a great deal of water in their efforts to
capture those weaker than themselves.
The loggerhead poked forth his nose and gazed about him, wondering at
the beauty of the world, and gave the struggling swarms but a passing
glance. Then he laboriously hauled himself up the warming sands until
he reached high-water mark.
The Conch had walked far away down the cay where his boat was hauled
up. His companion sat in the stern-sheets and lazily bailed the water
from her. When he had finished, the two men shoved her off and hoisted
a small sail. Then swinging her bow around before the breeze, they
headed away toward the distant line of white which showed to the
eastward where a larger cay of the Bank rose from the sea. After they
had gone the loggerhead watched the rippling water along the shore.
Soon the head of a huge turtle appeared, and in a few minutes the great
form of another like himself hauled slowly and lazily up the beach.
Before dark several followers had hauled up to high-water mark. On the
cay was soft fine sand of a nature not unlike that of more northern
beaches, and this had banked above the coral to a depth of three or
more feet.
With flippers of horny hardness and gigantic power the females began to
cut their way down. They scooped and scooped until they had holes at
least two feet deep nicely rounded and firmly packed on the sides as
though they were cemented. Then they dropped slowly egg after egg into
the little pits until a hundred or more had packed themselves into the
receptacles. The shells of the eggs were soft like leather, and each
egg had a small dent which showed it was fresh. Then as the night wore
on they softly covered the pits with sand and carefully smoothed them
over until not the slightest trace of any disturbance of the surface
showed. It was nice work, for the sand was soft, and the signs of
digging were easily made, but hard to conceal, and it was nearly dawn
before the females were satisfied with their efforts. Then they slipped
slowly down the sand into the sea and disappeared to return no more.
Their task was done.
The huge loggerhead who had led the way up the beach watched the
departing turtles as they went to sea. The sound of the murmuring ocean
was in the morning air, the song of the south sea awakening the day
as the soft wind sighed over heaving swell and rippled the beautiful
wavelets until they rolled into little combers and flashed white in the
sunshine. All about him was the light of the tropic dawn. The sweet
breath of the trade wind fanned his iron-hard head and he opened his
eyes lazily to watch the sunrise. It was well. The beauty of the world
attracted him.
Far away on the horizon the spurts of foam showed the beginning of the
strenuous life of the destroyers. He watched them lazily and wondered
at their fierceness, their uselessness of purpose. Then he saw a form
coming down the beach and looked eastward where the boat of the Conchs
had made the shore again.
The black man went slowly along the beach prodding the sand at
high-water mark wherever he saw the tracks of turtles. He had a long,
thin piece of iron with a sharp end which he drove into the sand and
withdrew again, looking at the end to see if there was any sign of
egg-yolk adhering to it. Once he struck a place where a turtle had
scooped out a nest, and the dripping iron caused him to give a cry to
his companion in the boat. Then he threw down a sack and dug until he
had unearthed the eggs, which he transferred quickly to the bag, and
picking up his iron staff he went along, bending down to watch the
tracks more closely.
The loggerhead watched him out of the corner of his eye and thought of
the turtle who had lost her eggs, but the whole thing interested him
but little and he made his way slowly down the sand to avoid being hit
over the head with the iron rod because the Conch did not like him.
The Conch saw him as he gained the surf, but he knew him, and shaking
his staff at him he went along searching for more prizes.
The great loggerhead swam easily just below the surface where the
sunlight filtered down and made the liquid a bright blue. He had no
object, and held his course across the Gulf Stream, letting himself
drift with the current. It was well to live and the uselessness of
effort was more apparent to him since he had seen the Conch’s work on
the cay of the Bahama Bank.
The warm stream was rushing silently northward and the gentle wind
caused but little roll to the sea. The loggerhead could lie upon the
surface and poke his head out, getting a glimpse of the eternal rim of
the circle which had no break. But he cared nothing for land, and the
sea was sparkling and blue. The sun overhead sent down hot rays which
he felt through his thick armor of shell, but when it grew too warm
he cooled himself by sinking a few feet below the surface for several
minutes.
Several big barnacles which had attached themselves to his underbody
made navigation tiresome, for he had to drag them through the water
along with him, but it was too much trouble to scrape them off. He had
seen some of his fellows do this on the rocks of the Florida Reef, but
it was laborious work and he preferred to take things easy.
He was not an old turtle. Some of his fellows had lived for several
centuries and were old before he was born. But he had grown very large
since the day he first saw the sun shining over the reef at Roncador.
He was but a tiny little fellow then, and his shell was so soft that
he felt the sun burn through it. His leather-like skin on his neck was
tender and even his bony beak could hardly cut the soft Gulf weed. His
flippers were dark and soft and very unlike the huge scaly paddles he
now used to scull himself along. He was quite rapid in his movements
then, but life upon the tropical sea had gradually had the effect of
making him sluggish and philosophical. The sunshine was all he cared
for.
He had no trouble getting enough to eat without fighting for it. It
seemed a great waste of energy to be eternally chasing other and weaker
creatures, and now he had drifted instinctively back to the habits of
his forefathers. He took things very coolly. When a savage shark or
albicore made a strike at him he did not retaliate by snapping at them
with his huge beak which would now slice out a couple of pounds of wood
from a floating log and shear through anything living. He simply hauled
in his paddles and stump of a tail to the sheltering safety of his
armor and the vigorous fish might chop all day at him for all he cared.
Their teeth might scratch his shell a little, but the powerful arch of
his back made it impossible to crush him and a few scratches upon his
plates would not injure him in any way whatever. His head he might draw
in until his ugly beak and steady eyes looked out of a sort of cavern.
It was trifling with sudden death to come within the radius of a foot
of that nose, and the vigorous fish after tormenting him a few minutes
generally gave him a shove and left him in disgust.
After they had gone away he would slowly and lazily shove out his
paddles again and proceed to scull himself leisurely on his way, his
small, dull mind undisturbed at the affront. Such creatures were a
nuisance to him, but they were in existence and it was not for him to
worry because they were. He would go along in the sunshine and soft
air in his easy way, and when these no longer attracted him he would
draw in his head, upset himself, then, thrusting it forward again, go
sculling for the cool depths where he would spend many hours among the
beautiful marine growths fathoms below the surface upon the coral
reef, and where the faint light of the sun filtering down made objects
dim and uncertain. All was quiet here, and it was the ideal place for
repose.
It had taken many years of wandering to get the loggerhead as far
north as the Bahama Bank. He had let himself drift along, and here
he was at last in the core of the great Florida Stream, going to the
northward at a rate which would have astonished him very much had he
known its velocity. It is doubtful even if he had known it that he
would have made any effort to either stem it or get clear, for he now
had the reposeful habit strong in his nature, and he took things as
they came. Nothing had as yet caused him the slightest harm, and there
was no reason to get excited at anything. Life was pleasant. Effort was
useless.
He would float along upon the bright blue surface of the warm stream
and poke his head up into the clear sweet air and sunshine. It was
enough. The life of albicore or dolphin was not for him. Theirs
was all effort, savage strife, and a sudden death. He might lie and
ponder at their lot with his head slightly raised and his paddles at
rest, but while he might notice them in their desperate play he had a
supreme contempt for them all. He had already lived as long as three
generations of them, and they had done nothing save fight and slay.
As he floated away he soon found many of his old acquaintances were
disappearing. The savage amber-jack and fat sunfish would pass him now
and then, but they were always heading south. Only his companions, the
flying fish, seemed to care as little as he for their whereabouts. The
flying fish were not afraid of him, and they were his friends. He held
them in high disdain for their cowardice, for they were always timorous
and ready for flight at the first sign of an approaching fish, and it
was more contempt than pity he had for those who were caught. The more
fortunate he would watch with languid interest.
The lives of all were so full of strife they were eminently
unsuccessful from his point of view, and it was only because the little
flyers were so pretty when they whirled upward from the blue water and
with whirring wings sailed away, that he liked them better than the
rest. They always knew where the best Gulf weed was to be had and never
disputed his claim to the largest share of any that he found. It was
manifest to him that he was a superior being, quite above the rest of
his fellows, and with the instinctive feeling common to all animals,
he felt that this superiority was a special gift from the great power
which he felt ruled his destiny. His dull brain worked slowly. There
was no quickening of his sluggish circulation to brighten his wits.
It was quite a fortnight after leaving the Bahama Bank that he began
to notice that the water about him was not quite so blue as before and
that there was a chill in it which he did not like. It stirred him
to action and he began paddling westward after the setting sun. The
next day a low shore appeared on the horizon with a bright sand beach
shining like a white band between the dark line of hammock and the
sparkling sea. He headed for it, thinking to haul out a little while
and sun himself upon the hot beach, for the air was much cooler than
what he had been accustomed to and the Gulf weed was scarce.
In spite of his unwieldy size the loggerhead was not slow when he once
started to use his great paddles. He kept up a steady stroke with all
four, his large front ones sculling him along like two oar-blades,
bending at each return, and his smaller hind ones shoving him ahead
with quick, jerky strokes. His head was thrust forward, and he went
along a few feet below the surface like a great oval shadowy shape.