he kept no reckoning. Longer and longer grew the dark festoons of dank
weed around the battered hulk, while the barnacles, limpets, and other
parasites flourished amazingly. In those calm waters whither she had
drifted fish of all shapes and sizes, usually unseen by mortal eyes,
abounded. They swarmed around the weed-bedraped hull as they do about
a half-tide rock in some quiet cove unvisited by man. As the calm
persisted these marine visitants grew quainter and more goblin-like
of shape, fresh accessions to their numbers continually reaching the
surface. Pale eyes unfamiliar with the naked sunlight blinked glassily
at the garish day out of hideous heads, and the motion of these
denizens of the cold darkness below was sluggish and bewildered. The
water became thick with greasy scum and the usually invigorating air
took on a taint of decay, the stench of a stagnant sea. To the boy’s
disordered vision these gruesome companions grew more uncanny than the
dreams of a madman, but still, though they daily multiplied until the
water seemed alive with them, the strange fascination they exerted
over him conquered his natural repugnance to slimy things all legs and
eyes, that crawled horribly near. He could hardly spare sufficient time
for such scanty meals as he needed, and must fetch from his hoard in
an upper bunk on the weather-side of the cabin well out of reach of
the encroaching, restless flood that invaded almost every other nook.
Far into the night, too, under the stately stars, when the glazing
sea was all aglow with living fires brightening and fading in long
lines running in a multitude of directions and of a rich variety of
colours, he remained, as if chained to the rail, staring steadfastly
down at the phantasmagoria below with eyes that scarcely blinked,
though they ached and burned with the unreasoning intensity of his
gaze. His babbling ceased. He spoke no word now, only brooded over the
unhealthful waters like some paralysed old man. Voices came whispering
strange matters in his ears, tales without beginning or end, incoherent
fragments of mystery that wandered through the twilight of his mind and
left no track of sense.
At last one night he crept wearily into his bunk for a morsel of food,
meaning to bring it on deck and resume his unmeaning watching of the
sea. But when he had put a biscuit in the breast of his jumper and
tried to clamber back over the black flood that with sullen noise swept
to and fro in the darkened cuddy, he found himself unable to move, much
less to creep monkey-wise from point to point to the scuttle. So he
lay back and slept, never heeding the weakness and want of feeling in
his wasted limbs. When he awoke it was day, a long shaft of sunlight
piercing an opening in the deck over his head and irradiating the
gloomy den in which he lay. Suddenly there was a sound of voices, a
cheery, hearty hail of “Anybody aboard this hooker? Hullo, derelict,
ahoy!” He heard and smiled feebly. Such voices had been his constant
companions for days, and although he felt dimly that they sounded
different now, he was only too certain that they would change into
malignant mockeries again directly. Then all was still once more, save
for the ceaseless wash of the waves against the weed-hung bulkheads of
the cabin.
Outside upon the shining sea rode that most beautiful of all craft, a
whale-boat, whose trim crew lay on their oars gazing curiously and with
a certain solemnity upon the melancholy ruin before them. The officer
in charge, a young lieutenant in the smart uniform of the American
navy, stood in the stern-sheets pondering irresolutely, the undertones
of his men falling unmeaningly upon his ears. At last he appeared to
have made up his mind, and saying, “Pull two, starn three,” put the
tiller hard over to sheer the boat off to seaward, where the graceful
shape of his ship showed in strong relief against the blue sky. But
the sturdy arms had barely taken twenty strokes when, as if by some
irresistible impulse, the officer again pressed the tiller to port,
the boat taking a wide sheer, while the crew glanced furtively at his
thoughtful face and wondered whatever he was about. Not until the boat
headed direct for the wreck again did he steady the helm. “In bow,
stand by to hook on!” he cried sharply, and as the boat shot along
the lee-side, “unrow.” “Jemmy,” to his after-oarsman, “jump aboard
and see if you can get below, forrard or aft. If she isn’t bung full
you might find something alive.” “Ay, ay, sir,” said Jemmy, a sturdy
little Aberdonian, and in ten seconds he was scrambling over the
slippery timbers towards the cuddy scuttle. Plump! and he disappeared
down the dark hole. Two minutes’ breathless suspense followed, a
solid block of silence, then a perfect yell of delight startled all
the watchers nearly out of their wits. The dripping head of the daring
Scot reappeared at the scuttle ejaculating in choicest Aberdeen: “Sen’s
anither han’ here gin ye wull, sir. Ah’ve fun’ a laddie leevin, an’
thet’s a’.” In a moment another man was by his side, and the frail
little bundle of humanity was passed into the boat with a tender
solicitude beautiful to see in those bronzed and bearded men.
The lieutenant, in a voice choked with emotion, said, “Poor little
chap! Somehow I felt as if I _couldn’t_ leave that ship. Give way, men;
he’s so nearly gone that we must get him aboard sharp if we’re going to
save him after all.” The crew needed no spur, they fairly made the boat
fly towards the ship, while the officer, with a touch almost as gentle
as a mother’s, held the boy in his arms. When she arrived alongside the
_Essex_ everything was in readiness, the fact of a life being at stake
having been noted a long way off. He was gently lifted on board and
handed over to the doctor’s care, while the crew were piped to gunnery
practice and the dangerous obstruction of the derelict smashed into a
mass of harmless fragments.
A few days of such unceasing care as a king might desire in vain, and
the boy took firm hold on life again. But his youthful elasticity of
spirit has never returned to him. A settled gravity has taken its
place, remaining from the time when he kept his long and lonely vigil
on the _Olaf Trygvasson_, derelict.
STUDIES IN
MARINE NATURAL HISTORY
XIV
SOME OCEANIC BIRDS
It is surely a matter for congratulation that the sentiment of mankind
toward what we are pleased to call the lower animals is certainly,
if slowly, tending in the direction of kinder and more merciful
appreciation of them in nearly all their varieties as knowledge of them
grows from more to more. As perhaps is but natural, this benevolent
feeling is most strongly marked for birds, those feathered Zingari
of the air whose blithe evolutions above are more envied by man than
any other power possessed by the vastly varied members of the animal
kingdom. In obedience to the growing demand for more intimate knowledge
of birds and their habits whole libraries have been written, and
still this literature increases; but while in this there is nothing
to cavil at, one cannot help feeling that the marvellous life of the
sea-birds has received far from adequate attention. Like so many
other denizens of that vast and densely populated world of waters,
their inaccessibility has hindered that close observation by trained
naturalists necessary in order to describe them as they deserve, while
as yet no marine Richard Jefferies or White of Selborne has arisen. And
this want is really to be wondered at, seeing how fascinating is the
study of oceanic fauna, and remembering what a wealth of leisure is
enjoyed by masters of sailing ships, which alone afford opportunities
for observing the life of the sea-people.
Easily first in point of interest, as well as size, comes the lordly
albatross, whose home is far south of the Line, and whose empire is
that illimitable area of turbulent waves which sweep resistless round
the world. Compared with his power of vision (sailors give all things
except a ship the epicene gender “he”), the piercing gaze of the
eagle or condor becomes myopic, unless, as indeed may be the case, he
possesses other senses unknown to us by means of which he is made aware
of passing events interesting to him occurring at incredible distances.
Out of the blue void he comes unhasting on motionless pinions, yet at
such speed that, one moment a speck hardly discernible, turn but your
eyes away, and ere you can again look round he is gliding majestically
overhead. Nothing in Nature conveys to the mind so wonderful an idea of
effortless velocity as does his calm appearance from vacancy. Like most
of the true pelagic birds, he is a devourer of offal, the successful
pursuit of fish being impossible to his majestic evolutions. His
appetite is enormous, but his powers of abstinence are equally great,
and often for days he goes without other nourishment than a drink of
the bitter sea. At the Gargantuan banquet provided by the carcass of a
dead whale, he will gorge himself until incapable of rising from the
sea, yet still his angry scream may be heard as if protesting against
his inability to find room for more provision against hungry days
soon to follow. Despite his incomparable grace of flight when gliding
through mid-air with his mighty wings outspread, when ashore or on deck
he is clumsy and ill at ease. Even seated upon the sea his proportions
appear somewhat ungainly, while his huge hooked beak seems too heavy to
be upheld. On land he can hardly balance himself, and the broad silky
webs of his feet soon become lacerated. Thus his visits to the lone
and generally inaccessible rocks which are his breeding places are as
brief as may be, since even conjugal delights are dearly purchased with
hunger and painful restraint. A true child of the air, land is hateful
to him, and only on the wing does he appear to be really at home and
easeful.
The other members of the albatross family, who, with their chief
(_Diomedea exulans_), are all classed by whalers under the ugly name
of “gooneys,” bear few of the majestic characteristics of their great
head. The “mallymoke,” which comes nearest to the albatross in size and
beauty, is actually found north of the Line, a fact which severs this
bird very widely from the albatross in geographical range. Also, he
is much livelier and more given to bustle fussily about. It costs him
far less exertion to rise from the sea for flight than the unwieldy
paddling run along the surface necessary to give sufficient impetus
for raising the huge albatross, and consequently his alightings are
much more frequent. But he is undoubtedly a beautiful bird, suffering
only by comparison with the most splendid of all sea-fowl. A brown
kind of albatross, with a dirty white beak, is very much in evidence
south of 20° S., dropping continually into the turbulence of a ship’s
wake, and diving to considerable depths after scraps. Sailors call them
Cape hens, for some misty reason which is never given. Among Southern
birds they occupy much the same place in the esteem of those who are
acquainted with them as does the sparrow at home.
A general favourite among seamen is the Cape pigeon, a pretty, busy
little sea-bird about the size of a dove, but plumper, with a black
head and an elaborate pattern in black and grey upon the white of its
open wings. Around the stern of any passing ship large numbers of
these fluttering visitors hover continually, their shrill cries and
unwearying manœuvres contrasting pleasantly with the deep monotone
made by the driving keel through the foaming sea. In common with most
Southern sea-birds having hooked beaks, they are easily caught with
hook and line, but will not live in captivity. Thoughtless passengers,
wearied with what they call the tedium of the voyage, often amuse
themselves by shooting these graceful wanderers, although what
satisfaction may be found in reducing a beautiful living thing to a
useless morsel of draggled carrion is not easy to see. Occasionally a
passing ship finds herself accompanied for a very short time by large
flocks of small dove-coloured birds, who, however, do not seem to care
much for the association with vessels so characteristic of sea-birds
generally. These are known as whale-birds, probably because in the
_mêlée_ that goes on round the carcass of a dead whale they are never
seen. Indeed they would stand but little chance of a meal among the
hordes of larger and more voracious feasters. Mention must also be made
of a peculiar and unprepossessing member of the petrel family, which
looks much like a disreputable albatross, but is somewhat scarce. Known
indifferently among whalemen as the “Nelly” or the “stinker,” it seems
probable that this bird is the Southern representative of the Arctic
fulmar, which is abundant in the North. His chief peculiarity is his
forwardness. No sooner does a whale give up the ghost than the Nelly
boldly alights upon the black island-like mass and calmly commences
to peck away at the firm blubber, while thousands upon thousands of
other birds wait impatiently around, not daring to do likewise. Hence
the terrible threat current in whaleships, “I’ll ’light on ye like a
stinker on a carcass.”
At the bottom of the size scale, but in point of affectionate interest
second to none, comes the stormy petrel, or Mother Carey’s chicken, a
darling wee wanderer common to both hemispheres, and beloved by all
sailors. With its delicate glossy black-and-brown plumage just flecked
with white on the open wings, and its long slender legs reaching out
first on one side and then on the other as if to feel the sea, it
nestles under the very curl of the most mighty billows or skims the
sides of their reverberating green abysses content as hovers the lark
over a lush meadow. Howling hurricane or searching snow-blasts pass
unheeded over that velvety black head. The brave bright eye dims not,
nor does the cheery little note falter even if the tiny traveller must
needs cuddle up close under the lee of some big ship for an occasional
crumb. Only once have I known an individual cruel or senseless enough
to harm a stormy petrel, and then the execrations of his shipmates
fairly scared him into repentance. They seem to have solved the secret
of perpetual motion, and often at night a careful listener may hear
their low cry, even if he be not keen-sighted enough to see them flit
beneath him.
Quite apart from these true oceanic nomads are the large class of
sea-birds who, while gathering their food exclusively from the sea,
never go to any great distance from land. This difference between them
and the birds before mentioned is so strongly marked, that unobservant
as sailors are generally, there are few who do not recognise the
vicinity of land upon catching sight of a man-o’-war bird, booby,
gannet, or bo’sun. All these birds, whose trivial designations seem
somehow more appropriate than the nine-jointed nomenclature of the
schools, frequent for preference more accessible shores than the craggy
pinnacles generally chosen by the bolder outfliers. Of the first-named,
the “man-o’-war” or “frigate” bird, very little can be said to his
credit. Michelet has rhapsodised about him in a curious effusion, of
which one can only say that he seems to have confused three distinct
birds under one head. Were this bird to receive an entirely appropriate
title, it would be “pirate” or “buccaneer,” since it is only upon the
rarest occasions that he condescends to fish for himself, choosing
rather to rob humbler birds of their well-earned prey. No sea-bird
mounts so high as he, rising into the clear blue until only a black
speck to the unassisted eye. Usually, however, he contents himself
with a circling poise at an altitude of about 200 feet, whence he
keeps steadfast watch upon all that transpires beneath. With his long
tail dividing and closing like the halves of a pair of shears, and the
brilliant scarlet pouch at his neck occasionally inflated, he waits,
waits, until some fussy booby, like an overladen housewife hurrying
home from market, comes flapping along towards her nest. Then the broad
pinions suddenly close, and down like a meteor comes the marauder. With
a wild shriek of terror booby disgorges her fish, but ere it reaches
the water out hash the black wings again, and with a grand swoop the
assailant has passed beneath his frightened victim, caught the plunder,
and soared skyward. In like manner these birds may sometimes be seen
to catch a flying fish on the wing, a truly marvellous feat. It is,
nevertheless, a pathetic sight to see them, when old age or sickness
overtakes them, sitting in lonely dignity among the rocks where they
breed, helplessly awaiting with glazing eyes and dropping plumage the
tardy coming of deliverance.
As for the booby, whose contemptuous name is surely a libel, space is
now far too brief to do anything like justice to its many virtues. In
a number of ways it corresponds very closely with the manners of our
domestic fowls, notably in its care of its brood, and utter change in
its habits when the young ones are dependent upon it. Of stupidity the
only evidences really noticeable are its indifference to the approach
of generally dreaded dangers when it is drowsy. At night one may
collect as many from their resting-places as can be desired, for they
make no effort to escape, but look at their enemy with a full, steady
eye wherein there is no speculation whatever. Numberless instances
might be collected where the tameness, as well as the abundance, of
boobies have been the means of preserving human life after shipwreck,
while their flesh and eggs are by no means unpalatable. Of several
other interesting members of the great family of oceanic birds we have
now no room to speak, but hope to return to the subject later on.
XV
THE KRAKEN
Never, within the history of mankind, does there appear to have been
a time when dwellers by the sea did not believe in some awful and
gigantic monsters inhabiting that unknown and vague immensity.
Whether we turn to Genesis to find great sea-monsters first of
created sentient beings, or ransack the voluminous records of ancient
civilisations, the result is the same. What a picture is that of the
Hindu sage in the Fish Avatar of Krishna, finding himself and his eight
companions alone in their ark upon the infinite sea, being visited by
the god as an indescribably huge serpent extending a million leagues,
shining like the sun, and with one stupendous horn, sky-piercing.
In the brief compass of this chapter I do not propose to _réchauffer_
any sea-serpent stories, ancient or modern. More especially because my
subject is the Kraken, and while I hold most firmly that the gigantic
mollusc which can alone be given that title is the _fons et origo_ of
all true sea-serpent stories, it is with facts relating to the former
that I have alone to deal. As might have been expected, all stories of
sea-monsters have a strong family likeness, showing pretty conclusively
their common derivation, with such differences as the locality and
personality of the narrative must be held accountable for. But among
sea-folk, as among all people leading lives in close contact with the
elemental forces of Nature, legends persist with marvellous vitality,
and so the story of the Kraken is to be found wherever men go down to
the sea in ships, and do business in great waters.
Substantially the story is: that long low-lying banks have been
discovered by vessels, which have moored thereto, only to find the
supposed land developing wondrous peculiarities. Amid tremendous
turmoil of seething waters, arms innumerable, like a nest of mighty
serpents, arose from the deep, followed at last by a horrible head, of
a bigness and diabolical appearance unspeakably appalling. Fascinated
by the terrible eyes that, large as shields, glared upon them, the
awe-stricken seamen beheld some of the far-reaching tentacles, covered
with multitudes of mouths, embracing their vessel, while others
searched her alow and aloft, culling the trembling men from the rigging
like ripe fruit, and conveying them forthwith into an abysmal mouth
where they vanished for ever.
Such a story, especially when embellished by professional
story-tellers, has of course met with well-merited scepticism, but
sight has been largely lost of the fact that from very early times
much independent testimony has been borne to the existence of immense
molluscæ in many waters, sufficiently huge and horrific to have
furnished a substantial basis for any number of hair-raising yarns. And
having myself for some years been engaged in the sperm whale fishery,
all over the globe, I now venture to bear the testimony of another
eyewitness to the truth of many Kraken legends, however much they may
have been, and are now, doubted.
To eager students of marine natural history, nothing can well be
stranger than the manner in which, with two or three honourable
exceptions, the sperm whale fishers of the world have “sinned their
mercies.” To them as to no other class of sea-farers have been
vouchsafed not glimpses merely, but consecutive months and years of the
closest intimacy with the secret things of old ocean, embracing almost
the whole navigable globe. And when, unpressed for time, they have
leisurely entered those slumbrous latitudes so anxiously avoided by the
hurried, worried merchantman, how utterly have they neglected their
marvellous opportunities of observation of the wonders there revealed.
It may not be generally known that during long-persisting calms the
sea surface changes its character. From limpid blue it becomes greasy
and pale, from that health-laden odour to which the gratified nostrils
dilate, and the satisfied lungs expand, there is a gruesome change to
an unwholesome stench of stagnation and decaying things, such as the
genius of Coleridge depicted when he sang:
The very deep did rot; O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Upon the slimy sea.
Strangest of all the strange visitors to the upper world at such times
is the gigantic squid, or cuttle-fish. Of all the Myriad species
of mollusca this monster may fairly claim chief place, and neither
in ancient or modern times have any excited more interest than he.
Gazing with childlike fear upon his awe-inspiring and uncanny bulk,
the ancients have done their best to transmit their impressions to
posterity. Aristotle writes voluminously upon the subject, as he did
about most things, but his cuttles are such as are known to most of us.
Pliny leaves on record much concerning the Sepiadæ which is evidently
accurate in the main, mentioning especially (lib. ix. caps. iv. and
xxx.) one monster slain on the coast of Spain which was in the habit
of robbing the salt-fish warehouses. Pliny caused the great head to
be sent to Lucullus, and states that it filled a cask of fifteen
amphoræ. Its arms were thirty feet long, so thick that a man could
hardly embrace them at their bases, and provided with suckers, or
acetabula, as large as basins holding four or five gallons. But those
who have leisure and inclination may pursue the subject in the works
of Ælian, Paulinus (who describes the monster as a gigantic crab),
Bartholinus, Athanasius Kircher, Athenæus, Olaus Magnus, and others.
Pontoppidan, Bishop of Bergen, in his _Natural History of Norway_, has
done more than any other ancient or modern writer to discredit reports,
essentially truthful, by the outrageous fabrications he tells by way of
embellishment of the facts which he received. Least trustworthy of all,
he has been in this connection most quoted of all, but here he shall be
mentioned only to hold his inventions up to the scorn they so richly
deserve.
The gigantic squid is, unlike most of the cephalopoda, a decapod, not
an octopod, since it possesses, in addition to the eight branchiæ
with which all the family are provided, two tentacula of double their
length, having acetabula only in a small cluster at their ends. This
fact was noticed by Athanasius Kircher, who describes a large animal
seen in the Sicilian seas which had _ten_ rays, or branches, and a
body equal in size to that of a whale; which, seeing how wide is the
range in size among whales, is certainly not over-definite. Coming down
to much later days, we find Denys de Montfort _facile princeps_ in
his descriptions of the Kraken (_Hist. Nat. de Molluscs_, tome ii. p.
284). Unfortunately, his reputation for truthfulness is but so-so, and
he is reported to have expressed great delight at the ease with which
he could gull credulous people. Still the best of his stories may be
quoted, remembering that, as far as his description of the monster is
concerned, he does not appear to have exaggerated at all.
He records how he became acquainted with a master mariner of excellent
repute, who had made many voyages to the Indies for the Gothenburg
Company, by name Jean Magnus Dens. To this worthy, sailing his ship
along the African coast, there fell a stark calm, the which he, even
as do prudent shipmasters to-day, turned to good account by having his
men scrape and cleanse the outside of the vessel, they being suspended
near the water by stages for that purpose. While thus engaged, suddenly
there arose from the blue placidity beneath a most “awful monstrous,”
cuttle-fish, which threw its arms over the stage, and seizing two of
the men, drew them below the surface. Another man, who was climbing
on board, was also seized, but after a fearful struggle his shipmates
succeeded in rescuing him. That same night he died in raving madness.
The mollusc’s arms were stated to be at the base of the bigness of a
fore-yard (_vergue d’un mât de misaine_), while the suckers were as
large as ladles (_cueillier à pot_).