the latitude of the Horn, was shortened down to her lower topsails,
and with the wind snoring away under them and past each taut downhaul,
clewline, and halyard, she was hove to. It was necessary to try to keep
her from sagging off to the eastward, for in this latitude every mile
counts.
During the morning watch the mate had reason to call the captain, for
with a falling glass and shifting wind, he was on the lookout for a
definite change.
The captain came on deck and took in the situation. It was still dark,
but the growing light on the horizon told of the approaching day. He
stood near the man at the wheel a moment and the mate went forward
where the green seas sometimes rose above the topgallant rail and fell
upon the deck as the staggering ship plunged into the trough. Through
the dim, misty light of the early morning he saw the watch turning out
to clew down the foretopsail, and as the foremost man took the ratlines
he turned and walked to the binnacle to watch the shifting course.
The increasing gale and gloomy prospects had caused the grumbling
element among the crew to be more careless than usual, in spite of the
master’s efforts to pacify them. The leader of the malcontents came aft
with two others to take a pull in the spanker sheet, for upon the boom
had been bent the storm trysail to hold the vessel’s head up to the
gale while hove to. The men hauled surlily upon the line, but it came
in so slowly that the mate came aft and spoke to them to stir them up.
Then they flattened it in, but the stout landsman, or ordinary seaman,
who was taking in the slack upon the cleat, failed to catch a turn. A
tremendous sea hove the ship to leeward almost upon her beam-ends. The
struggling men were hove against the lee rail, and the sheet, whirling
loose from the fellow’s hands, caught a turn about his body and in an
instant he was flung over the side. The captain, who had just stepped
out from the wheel-house, made a grab to seize him, and a turn of the
now flying line caught him around the ankle and jerked him also over
the rail into the sea. Then followed the dreaded cry of “man overboard”
and the confusion of a crew of men without a leader.
The mate with ready knife cut away the lashings of the quarter-buoys
and let them go overboard. Then he tried to fling a line, but the ship
was moving too fast. She was forereaching heavily, but in that sea it
was madness to think of trying to stop her by laying the yards aback,
or losing control of her in any way. She must go on. They might shorten
her down enough to stop her, but even if they could do so within half
an hour she would be too far away to see a man in the water and the sea
too heavy to think of lowering a small boat.
Daylight was breaking over the stormy ocean and the roar from aloft was
sounding louder with the increasing gale. Many of the men forward had
not seen the incident and the cries of those upon the foretopsail yard
to those on deck could be heard. From a bunch at the weather clewline
came a faint strain of a “chanty”:
“‘Ole stormy, ’e was a good ole man--
Singing yo, ho, ho--with a hey--bar-rrr.’”
The absurd chorus struck forcibly upon the ears of the master, who
with both hands gripped the life-buoy and kept his head clear of the
breaking seas. The mate, leaning over the taffrail, bawled something to
him he could not understand, and then the ship drifted to leeward with
the faint sound of singing still in his ears:
“‘Ole stormy, ’e’ll come walking home,
Singing yo, ho, ho--with a hey--bar-rrrrr.
“‘le stormy, ’e has gone to sea--
But ’e’ll not come back, with a hey--bar-r-rr-rr.’”
The words of a “chanty” are generally grotesque and meaningless, but
it was this very absurdity that struck the listening master as fraught
with meaning. It was significant of his ending. He would not come back
again.
The water was quite cold, and to make certain that he would not lose
his hold upon the cork float he passed his head through the circular
opening and made his body fast with the hand-line to the buoy at both
sides, so that he would balance evenly. He would do all he could to
live, and if he floated long enough they might pick him up after all.
The minutes dragged into hours, and cold and exhaustion caused his mind
to wander. He fancied he saw green fields again and was back in the
land of his birth.
The suffering of passing was almost over and it held no terrors for
him. He had tried to do what he could aboard the ship to make things
less hard for his men. Perhaps if he had been more savage he would have
done better, for there are some men who cannot be touched save through
great bodily fear.
The dawn of the southern day had broken over the heaving ocean, and
at times he would try instinctively to look for the ship. She had
disappeared. Nothing but the great rolling seas as far as the eye
could reach, and these turned now and again into grass-grown hills
before his failing vision.
It was late in the morning, after the daylight had become strong, that
he fancied he heard a dull, thunderous noise. It had little effect upon
him now, for he was too far gone to pay much attention. The noise grew
louder and louder as the minutes passed and suddenly his dulled brain
became alert again. He looked toward where the sound came from, and
it was from the northward and behind him, and through the haze of the
flying spume-drift he saw the dark gray shadows of rocks. He fancied
his mind was at fault, and in spite of the heavy roar which now filled
the air he paid little attention. Then he was hove nearer the ledge and
felt the rush of the lifting sea.
It spurred him to recover. He dashed the salt water from his eyes and
made a desperate effort to realize his position. Then a great, high
rolling surge that had run for miles across the southern ocean picked
him up on its crest and bore him shoreward with the speed of the wind.
As it broke into a white smother of foam he saw clearly at last that he
was being hurled upon the rocks. He struggled to keep his head out of
the boiling rush and looked for a place where he would strike. To hit
the ledge at the speed he was going meant instant death, and he tried
to see if there was no slue or opening into which he might be hurled.
The current of the Antarctic had caused an eddy within a few miles of
the rocks of Hermite Isle, in which he had drifted, and it had carried
him toward the land at a rapid rate.
Rising upon the roll of the crest, he just managed to keep from
striking until the weight and speed of the breaker had been exhausted.
Then by chance and the aid of the buoy he managed to float into a
crevice between the rocks and cling there until the back-wash had left
him almost high and dry. With the last remaining energy left he hauled
his body clear of the tide and lost consciousness.
When he regained his senses the sun was well up on the northwestern
horizon. The wind had gone down considerably, and heavy, oily-looking
clouds were hurrying past overhead, with breaks between them. He felt
the sting of sleet upon his face and the chill from his wet clothes
almost paralyzed him. He staggered to his feet and gazed about him.
Then he crawled higher up the rocks.
There was no doubt about it, he was upon the rocks of Cape Horn. He was
clear in his mind now and remembered his struggles, and he had seen the
ragged hump too often not to recognize it at once. How his ship had
been driven in so close was hard to guess, but he knew the treacherous
currents of the Drift and remembered that a careless helmsman might
very easily nurse the vessel off her course with the help of an unknown
set to the northward.
While he looked about him he became aware that he needed nourishment
very badly. He was faint with the long swim and continued exposure to
the cold water and he must have remained unconscious for many hours
after coming ashore. There was nothing to eat upon the ledge. Tufts
of the great tussac-grass shot up here and there upon the heights
above him, but there was nothing that looked as if it might be used to
prolong his life.
But a seaman is never beaten until he dies. The master would not
despair. He sat a moment and studied the question. Then he arose again
and clambered painfully up the crags, hoping that he might find some
Cape pigeon eggs upon the higher terraces. There was not a sign of
anything except a great rock-hopper, or penguin, who skipped nimbly
down and plunged into the sea with a loud cry before the sailor could
reach him. Some thirty feet above the ledge upon which he landed he
discovered a pool of half-stagnant water, but it was not salty and
came from the melted snow and sleet. He drank some and felt better,
although it made him colder. He felt through his clothes for a match,
but found the metal case in which he carried them had failed to keep
out the sea water. His numb fingers could scarcely open the case, but
he finally placed the little sticks in a lee, where he hoped they would
dry enough to light. Then he sat down and waited, and before he knew it
he had fallen asleep.
The sun had swung up again in the northeast when he opened his eyes
and the weather was less ugly. He tried his matches. First one was
scratched carefully upon a dry piece of stone. The head crumbled slowly
away. A bit of smoke seemed to start from it and the seaman’s heart
beat rapidly. Then the head fell away, leaving the bare stick. It was
worthless. He tried another of his scanty store. He grasped the little
stick close to its head of composition and drew it very carefully upon
the rock. A bunch of finely shredded grass, perfectly dry, was rolled
into a ball to catch the first spurt of flame. The match cracked
softly and at each noise the sailor’s heart seemed to stop. His hand
shook violently. Then the head of the match crumbled again, and his
spirits sank within him. It was life or death, for he must have warmth
soon or perish. He had only three more fuses and he stopped a little to
think of some way he might make them burn. He gazed steadily at them
for a long time and then took up one. It failed.
Hope died away as he took up the other two. He struck them carefully
as before, but they were spoiled. Then he cast the grass from him and
looked out to sea.
He had been gazing for a long time before he was aware of a form which
appeared circling over the ocean beyond the lift of the breakers. It
was that of a huge albatross, which had come in from the sea and was
apparently looking for a sheltered place upon the Horn to rest. The
master gazed at the great white form skimming along over the wave-tops
and remembered his pet. The bird appeared larger than the one he had
caught, but all of the great Cape albatrosses were so much alike that
he could not distinguish between them. He watched the bird circle about
him and finally noticed that he had been discovered, for the creature
came nearer and nearer at each sweep until he caught the look of its
eye as it bent its head a little in order to observe him better. The
albatross was evidently hungry and it might take very little indeed
to invite an attack. The bird was practically carnivorous, for it ate
anything in the way of flesh it could capture. It was very powerful
and could get the best of a man without much trouble, provided the
man was incapable of vigorous defense. The thought made him alert and
brought to his own hungry self the idea of capture. He might do worse
than eat a thirty-pound bird during his stay ashore. He could not
cook the creature, but that would be of but small consequence in his
present state. The food was the main thing and it was necessary to get
something at once.
The bird came closer and closer until finally with outstretched wings
and projecting feet it backed against its own headway and settled upon
the ledge not twenty feet distant.
The captain’s heart beat high with expectation. He lay perfectly still
watching it, hoping that it would come near enough for him to grasp it.
If it was strong enough to conquer, it was well; he would soon be dead
anyway without food. If he could master it by gripping its throat, he
might live for many days.
The bird came straight toward him. He was quiet as a cat waiting for
a spring, his eyes glaring at it as it approached. Then something
attracted his attention. Upon the foot of the bird was a bit of cord.
Yes, there was no mistake, it was his pet, the bird he had captured. He
started up with a cry, but the bird came steadily toward him without
fear, and in an instant was poking his great beak into his hand for
food.
The seaman’s heart was beating wildly. Here was food enough for a week
right in his grasp. He had but to seize the bird’s neck quickly and
with the little strength he had left he could strangle it. The thought
called forth all the wild wolf spirit in his nature. He was trembling
with the excitement. But, as he looked down upon the beautiful, smooth
white neck of his former pet, he wavered. Something within him rose
against a deed of violence. He stroked the soft feathers and looked
at the creature, who was probably almost as hungry as himself. No, he
would commit no horrid act. He would probably starve anyhow, and it
would be better to die than to have such a conscience. Then all of the
beast fell away from him and he felt better.
But while he sat and stroked the great bird his mind was active. The
albatross would not remain there long. He would follow some vessel for
the beef-fat from her coppers, and as the thought came to him he began
a plan to attract attention.
He tore from his shirt a long piece of linen. This was a piece having
his name written upon it in indelible ink which had stood the wash of
the laundry. It would stand the wash of the sea. He made it fast to the
bird’s leg, and the bight of it he brought up over the back beneath
the wings, tying it loosely and leading the other end down so that it
could be fastened to the other leg. The thin cloth lying loose would
prevent the bird from cutting it with its beak, for the edges of that
appendage, while very sharp, were not laid as close together as those
of a pair of shears, and the thin cloth would work between them. Upon
the top of the piece he wrote with his own blood, “Cape Horn, Hermite
Isle, Help.” Underneath this he put the date, and let his laundry mark
do for signature. Then he led the bird gently to the edge of the rock
and pushed him over.
Afterward he settled down in his bed of tussac and waited for the end
he now felt was at hand. He prayed to the God he had felt in the breath
of the trade wind and roar of the storm, the power which was manifest
in all nature. Then a feeling of peace came upon him and his sufferings
were over; he had collapsed.
Two days later the Norwegian bark _Eric_ was working to the westward
past Cape St. John. Her captain had noticed a great albatross following
his vessel all day, and saw the bird had something fast to its leg.
Being of a very superstitious nature the master did everything he could
to attract the bird’s attention and draw him close enough to observe
the hanging cloth more thoroughly. He was astonished to find the bird
quite tame, and had no difficulty in hauling it on deck with a baited
hook. He took off the rag and read the inscription, which had luckily
kept clear and dry, for the weather had been cold and the sleet squalls
had not caused the writing to run.
Being in the neighborhood of the Horn, he did what no one but a very
superstitious master would have done without great trepidation. He
stood under all sail for Hermite Isle and hove his ship to not three
miles from the rocks. The weather was better than usual and he had no
difficulty in lowering a small boat and making a landing.
As the craft drew near the land the white life-buoy attracted the
helmsman’s attention, lying high up on the rocks and showing out
strongly against the background of black ledge. The boat was headed
into a rift or slue, and two of the men managed to spring out of her,
the rest keeping her clear of the rocks, which, although sheltered in
the slue, felt the tremendous lift and back-wash of the heavy swell
outside. The master was found unconscious in his bed of tussac-grass.
By care and skill they managed to get him into the small boat alive
and started for the bark that was riding safely in the offing. They
hurried back aboard and came alongside just as the Norwegian navigator
set the great bird free again. The men rested upon their oars and
watched the albatross as it stretched forth its wings and bore away to
the southward. A man standing in the lee rigging held a line to throw
to the bow oarsmen, but he hesitated and watched the majestic flight.
The officer in the boat looked instinctively upward, and, as the huge
creature soared away, he took off his cap and bowed his head.
[Illustration: KING ALBICORE]
He came from a race of giants. His ancestors had held sway over the
great breadth of the Pacific for many centuries, and were the lords of
the South Sea. When he first saw the light it was where the towering
peaks of Juan Fernandez rose above the eastern sea, like the backs
of huge marine monsters, from the deep ocean, topped by a heavy pall
of vapor which rose densely for miles into the blue above and spread
out like an enormous umbrella. Between the darkening under surface of
the higher layers of white, reaching down to the green hills beneath,
rectangular sections of steel-blue showed the semi-tropic rainfall.
They were sharply outlined against the clear sky beyond, for off the
land the sky was devoid of a single trade-cloud.
All around was peaceful calm. The great Pacific, father of waters, was
resting. Only the high-rolling swell from far away to the westward came
majestically onward toward the shore, rising higher and higher as it
met, deep down, the resistance of the outlying reefs, until it threw
its crest far into the air, and, with a thunderous roar of welcome,
rushed white and churning against the iron-hard cliffs, which received
it silently and hurled it backward as if coldly repellent of its
embrace.
The sun had shone strongly for days upon the smooth, heaving swell,
and out upon the sunken ledges where the albicore lingered; the rays
filtered down to the solid rock. Here, sheltered by the reef beyond,
the breakers did not disturb the ocean denizens. The deep-toned thunder
of the fall on the outer barrier filled the air, but beneath the
surface of the clear water all was quiet in the sunshine. The king was
a young one of a large family. Scores of his brothers and sisters lay
close to the bottom peering in and out among the forests of kelp, and
enjoying the rays of the warm sun, for the albicore is essentially a
surface fish. The heat and light were very pleasant to them, and they
were growing strong and healthy.
The older fish had come inshore some weeks before our hero was born,
but food was plentiful about the island and they still lingered. They
had spawned and had seen their young brought forth. Now their duty
was done and they swarmed about the ledges or plunged playfully about
the slues in the reef, chasing the smaller fish to shelter in pure
wantonness. They lingered on when it was time for them to take to the
great stretch of ocean to the westward and make room for others of the
deep ocean tribes. Now the young were about in great numbers, and they
seemed almost to crowd the waters in the sheltered coves. It was high
time to go to sea again, and on the morrow the leaders of the school
would start for the open ocean to the west, where the sun sank out of
sight. Those who could follow might be safe, for the older fish were
very strong, and their numbers would prevent any of the hanger-on crowd
of sullen sharks from coming too near the flanks of the moving throng.
A leader passed while our young one was watching the light. He was a
great fish six feet in length, his sides shimmering like silver. His
long, sinuous body apparently made no motion, save that it went ahead
slowly and steadily, and his eyes sparkled like glistening crystals.
His thin, tapering head seemed barely to disturb the medium about him
as he went through it, and the only vibration of the light rays near
him was caused by the huge mouth, which, although shut, showed heavy
projecting lips and a half-concealed row of pointed teeth that rippled
the water slightly as he slipped past. He was a long, powerful fellow,
capable of great speed, and a stroke from those jaws of his meant
death to anything in the sea of his size except the shark. Even the
tough hide of this scavenger would not protect him from a frightful
cut when the long, muscular body was launched at him with the speed
of an arrow. A dark shadow which had come near the edge of the broken
water gradually drew away with the albicore’s approach, and the young
one experienced a feeling of relief instinctively which he could not
understand. He was a very sensitive young one, all nerves, and the
uneasiness which possessed him when the large relative drew away caused
him to make an effort to follow. But the great albicore took no notice
of him, nor waited, but suddenly made a dart ahead, leaving only the
vision of a silvery flash.
Other large fellows came and went while the younger ones strayed about
the shoal water and chased the herring spawn or whale-food, eating much
and gaining strength hourly.
High above the bare rocks a shaggy goat nibbled the grass of the
hillside, and to the southward a chunky, dirty bark lay with her
courses hauled up and her mainyards aback, while a dense smoke arose
from her trying-out furnace. Alongside of her the carcass of a freshly
killed whale rolled just awash in the swell, attracting countless
thousands of whalebirds and loafing sharks.
The young albicore grew very nervous as the sun sank behind the sea
in the far west, dyeing the waves a deep crimson. He was remarkably
sensitive for an ocean fish. Instinct told him that he would fare
better away from that reef after the last full-grown albicore had gone.
They had been going to sea all day by twos and threes, but had paid
not the slightest attention to him or any of his younger mates. The
longing for the open ocean came upon him and with it a nameless dread.
He had no mother to guide him, no father to protect him. They had gone
to sea with the rest and left him to shift for himself. But there was
something in the deepening roar of the surf and the moaning of the
sea among the sunken ledges that spoke of an all-pervading Power that
would guide him onward to whatever life held in store. And yet with it
all was that nameless fear and dread which made him alert to every
vibration of the water. Darkness came suddenly, and some of his smaller
companions began to seek shelter of the more shallow water within the
coves and between the rocks. Their shimmering bodies grew less and less
distinct until only the phosphorescent flare of the disturbed water
when they moved gave notice of their presence. The semi-tropical night
fell upon the peaceful ocean.
All that night the great fish moved westward. In the morning, just
before the sun rose, the last of the laggards had started off into deep
water, leaving the high cliffs like a wall in the eastward, while the
somber bank of vapor rose again from the land and cast a gloom over the
outlying reef.
While the young fish were waiting for the growing light to guide them
in the wake of their forbears, there was a sudden commotion on the
edge of the surf. Numerous plunges and splashes told of a horde of
rapidly moving bodies advancing through the shoal water of the reef.
The feeling of terror that had come over our young one the day before
now seemed to pervade the entire crowd that scurried here and there in
the gloom. Everywhere there seemed to be a state of wild alarm. Bunches
of the smaller fish tried to find shelter in deep, dark holes where the
kelp weed formed mats and snaky tangles. Then, just as the first rays
of the morning sun glistened upon the crest of a great roller, there
was a sudden rush through the water all about, and dark forms came
plunging onward with incredible speed.