whole length of his back being finished off by a long spike that
stuck out over his nose like a jibboom, and had the largest tassel
of all depending from it. So curiously decorated a fish surely
never greeted man’s eye before, and when he moved, which he did
with dignified slowness, the effect of all those waving fringes and
tassels was dazzling beyond expression. I think he must have been
some distant relation of the angler-fish that frequents certain tidal
rivers, but he had utilised his leisure for personal decoration upon
original lines. This was in the Indian Ocean, near the Line; but some
years after, in hauling up a mass of Gulf weed in the North Atlantic,
I caught, quite by accident, a tiny fish, not two inches long, that
strongly reminded me of my tasselled friend, and may have been one of
the same species. I tried to preserve the little fellow in a bottle,
but had no spirit, and he didn’t keep in salt water.
By far the most numerous class of sociable deep-sea fish, however,
are those that delight to accompany a ship that is making good way
through the water. They do not like a steamer--the propeller with
its tremendous churning scares them effectually away--but the silent
gliding motion of the sailing-ship seems just to their taste. As
soon as the wind falls and the vessel stops they keep at a distance,
only occasionally passing discontentedly, as if they wondered why
their big companion was thus idling away the bright day. Foremost
among these, both in numbers and the closeness with which they
accompany a ship, is the “bonito,” a species of mackerel so named by
the Spaniards from their beautiful appearance. They are a “chubby”
fish, much more bulky in body in proportion to their length than our
mackerel, for one 18 in. long will often tip the scale at 30 lbs.
Their vigour is tremendous; there is no other word for it. A school
of them numbering several hundreds will attach themselves to a ship
travelling at the rate of six to eight knots an hour, and keep her
company for a couple of days, swimming steadily with her, either
alongside, ahead, or astern; but during the daytime continually
making short excursions away after flying-fish or leaping-squid
scared up or “flushed” by the approach of the ship. Not only so,
but as if to work off their surplus energy they will occasionally
take vertical leaps into the air to a height that, considering their
stumpy proportions, is amazing.
The probable reason for their sociability is, I think, that they
know how the passing of the ship’s deep keel through the silence
immediately underlying the sea-surface startles upward their natural
prey, the flying-fish and loligo (small cuttle-fish), and affords
them ample opportunities for dashing among them unobserved. In any
case, to the hungry sailor, this neighbourly habit of theirs is
quite providential. For by such simple means as a piece of white rag
attached to a hook, and let down from the jibboom end to flutter
over the dancing wavelets like a flying-fish, a fine bonito is
easily secured, although holding a twenty-pounder just out of the
water in one’s arms is calculated to give the captor a profound
respect for the energy of his prize. Unlike most other fish, they
are warm-blooded. Their flesh is dark and coarse, but if it were ten
times darker and coarser than it is it would be welcome as a change
from the everlasting salt beef and pork.
The dolphin, about which so much confusion arises from the difference
in nomenclature between the naturalist and the seaman, has long been
celebrated by poetic writers for its dazzling beauty. But between the
sailor’s dolphin, _Coryphœna Hippuris_ (forgive me for the jargon),
which is a fish, and the naturalist’s dolphin, _Delphinus deductor_,
which is a mammal, there is far more difference than there is between
a greyhound and a pig. Sailors call the latter a porpoise, and won’t
recognise any distinction between the _Delphinus_ and any other
small sea mammal (except a seal), calling them all porpoises. But
no sailor ever meant anything else by “dolphin” than the beautiful
fish of which I must say a few words in the small remaining space at
my disposal. For some reason best known to themselves the dolphin
do not care to accompany a ship so closely as the bonito. They are
by no means so constant in their attention, for when the ship is
going at a moderate speed they cannot curb their impatience and
swim soberly along with her, and when she goes faster they seem to
dislike the noise she makes, and soon leave her. But, although they
do not stick closely to a ship, they like her company, and in light
winds will hang about her all day, showing off their glories to the
best advantage, and often contributing a welcome mess to the short
commons of the fo’c’s’le. Their average weight is about 15 lbs., but
from their elegant shape they are a far more imposing fish than the
bonito. They are deepest at the head, which has a rounded forehead
with a sharp front, and they taper gradually to the tail, which is of
great size. A splendid dorsal fin runs the whole length of the back,
which, when it is erected, adds greatly to their appearance of size.
No pen could possibly do justice to the magnificence of their
colouring, for, like “shot” silk or the glowing tints of the
humming-bird, it changes with every turn. And when the fish is
disporting under a blazing sun its glories are almost too brilliant
for the unshaded eye; one feels the need of smoked glass through
which to view them. These wonderful tints begin to fade as soon
as the fish is caught; and although there is a series of waves of
colour that ebb and flow about the dying creature, the beauty of the
living body is never even remotely approached again, in spite of what
numberless writers have said to the contrary. To see the dolphin in
full chase after a flying-fish, leaping like a glorious arrow forty
feet at each lateral bound through the sunshine, is a vision worth
remembering. I know of nothing more gorgeous under heaven.
The giant albacore, biggest mackerel of them all, reaching a weight
of a quarter of a ton, does seek the society of a ship sometimes,
but not nearly so often as bonito and dolphin. And although I have
caught these monsters in the West Indies from boats, I never saw
one hauled on board ship. It would not be treating the monarch of
the finny tribe respectfully to attempt a description of him at
the bare end of my article, so I must leave him, as well as the
“skipjack,” yellow-tail, and barracouta, for some other occasion.
Perhaps enough has now been said to show that sociability is not by
any means confined to land animals, although the great subject of the
sociability of sea-mammals has not even been touched upon.
ALLIGATORS AND MAHOGANY
Merchant seamen as a rule have very little acquaintance with the
appalling alligator, whose unappeasable ferocity and diabolical
cunning make him so terrible a neighbour. Had the alligator been a
seafarer, it is in my mind that mankind would have heard little of
the savagery of the shark, who, to tell the truth fairly, is a much
maligned monster; incapable of seven-tenths of the crimes attributed
to him, innocent of another two-tenths, and in the small balance of
iniquity left, a criminal rather from accident than from design.
But all the atrocities attributed by ignorance to the shark may
truthfully be predicated of the alligator, and many more also, seeing
that the great lizard is equally at home on land or in the water.
I speak feelingly, having had painful experience of the ways of the
terrible saurian during my visits to one of the few places where
sailors are brought into contact with him. Tonala River, which
empties itself into the Gulf of Mexico, has a sinister notoriety,
owing to the number of alligators with which it is infested; and
through the proverbial carelessness of seamen and their ignorance
of the language spoken by the people ashore, many an unrecorded
tragedy has occurred there to members of the crews of vessels
loading mahogany in the river. Like all the streams which debouch
into that Western Mediterranean, Tonala River has a bar across its
mouth, but, unlike most of them, there is occasionally water upon
the bar deep enough to permit vessels of twelve or thirteen feet
draught to enter with safety. And as the embarkation of mahogany in
the open roadstead is a series of hair-breadth escapes from death
on the part of the crew and attended by much damage to the ship, it
is easy to understand why the navigability of Tonala Bar is highly
valued by shipmasters fortunate enough to be chartered thither,
since it permits them to take in a goodly portion of their cargo in
comparative comfort. Against this benefit, however, is to be set off
a long list of disadvantages, not the least of which are the swarms
of winged vermin that joyfully pass the short space between ship and
river-bank, scenting fresh blood. The idea of there being any danger
in the river itself, however, rarely occurs to a seaman until he
sees, some day, as he listlessly gazes overside at the turbid current
silently sweeping seaward, a dead log floating deep, just awash in
fact. And as he watches it with unspeculating eyes, one end of it
will slowly be upreared just a little and the hideous head of an
alligator, with its cold, dead-looking eyes, sleepily half unclosed,
is revealed. Just a ripple and the thing has gone, sunk stone-like,
but with every faculty alert, that rugged ironclad exterior giving no
hint to the uninitiated of the potentialities for mischief, swift and
supple, therein contained.
In spite of having read much about these creatures and their habits,
I confess to having been very sceptical as to their agility until I
was enlightened in such a startling manner that the memory of that
scene is branded upon my mind. I was strolling along the smooth sandy
bank of the river opposite the straggling rows of huts we called
the town one lovely Sunday morning, all eyes and ears for anything
interesting. After about an hour’s walk my legs, unaccustomed to such
exercise, begged off for a little, and seeing a stranded tree-trunk
lying on the beach some little distance ahead, I made towards it for
a seat. As I neared it a young bullock came leisurely down towards
the water from the bush, between me and the log. I, of course, took
no notice of him, but held on my way until within, I should say,
fifty yards of the log. Suddenly that dead tree sprang into life and
spun round with a movement like the sweep of a scythe. It struck
the bullock from his feet, throwing him upon his side in the water.
What ensued was so rapid that the eye could not follow it, or make
out anything definitely except a stirring up of the sand and a few
ripples in the water. The big animal was carried off as noiselessly
and easily as if he had been a lamb, nor, although I watched long,
did I ever catch sight of him again. Notwithstanding the heat of
the sun I felt a cold chill as I thought how easily the fate of the
bullock might have been mine. And from thenceforth, until familiarity
with the hateful reptiles bred a sort of contempt for their powers,
I kept a very sharp look-out in every direction for stranded
tree-trunks. This care on my part nearly proved fatal, because I
forgot that the alligators might possibly be lying hid in the jungly
vegetation that flourished thickly just above high-water mark. So
that it happened when I neared the spot where I was to hail the boat,
as I nervously scanned the beach for any sign of a scaly log, I heard
a rustling of dry leaves on my right, and down towards me glided one
of the infernal things with a motion almost like that of a launching
ship. I turned and tried to run--I suppose I did run--but to my
fancy it seemed as if I had a 56-lb. weight upon each foot. Hardly
necessary to say, perhaps, that I escaped, but my walk had lost all
its charms for me, and I vowed never to come ashore again there alone.
But as if the performances of these ugly beasts were to be fully
manifested before our eyes, on the very next day, a Greek trader came
off to the ship accompanied by his son, a boy of about ten years old.
Leaving the youngster in the canoe, the father came on board and
tried to sell some fruit he had brought. We had a raft of mahogany
alongside, about twenty huge logs, upon which a half-breed Spaniard
was standing, ready to sling such as were pointed out to him by the
stevedores. The boy must needs get out of the canoe and amuse himself
by stepping from log to log, delighted hugely by the way they bobbed
and tumbled about beneath him. Presently a yell from the slingsman
brought all hands to the rail on the jump, and there, about fifty
yards from the raft, was to be seen the white arm of the boy limply
waving to and fro, while a greasy ripple beneath it showed only too
plainly what horror had overtaken him. The distracted father sprang
into his canoe, four men from our ship manned our own boat, and
away they went in chase, hopelessly enough to be sure. Yet, strange
to say, the monster did not attempt to go down with his prey. He
kept steadily breasting the strong current, easily keeping ahead of
his pursuers, that pitiful arm still waving as if beckoning them
onward to the rescue of its owner. Boat after boat from ships and
shore joined in the pursuit, every man toiling as if possessed by
an overmastering energy and impervious to broiling sun or deadening
fatigue. For five miles the chase continued; one by one the boats and
canoes gave up as their occupants lost their last ounce of energy,
until only one canoe still held on, one man still plied his paddle
with an arm that rose and fell like the piston-rod of a steam-engine.
It was the bereaved father. At last the encouraging arm disappeared,
as the alligator, having reached his lair, disappeared beneath the
surface, leaving the river face unruffled above him. Quick as a wild
duck the solitary pursuer swerved and made for the bank, where a
score of his acquaintances met him tendering gourds of aguadiente,
cigaritos, and such comfort as they could put into words. He took
the nearest gourd and drank deeply of the fiery spirit, accepted a
cigarette and lit it mechanically, but never spoke a word. All the
while his eyes were roving restlessly around in search of something.
At last they lit upon a coil of line hanging upon a low branch to
dry. He rushed toward it, snatched it from its place, and taking his
cuchillo from his belt felt its edge. Then roughly brushing aside
all who attempted to hinder him, he boarded his canoe again, taking
no notice of one of his friends who got in after him. Under the
pressure of the two paddles they rapidly neared the spot where the
beast had sunk. As soon as they reached the place the silent avenger
laid aside his paddle, took one end of the coil in his hand and
flinging the other to his companion, slipped overside and vanished.
In about two minutes he returned to the surface, ghastly, his eyes
glaring, and taking a long, long breath disappeared again. This time
he did not return. When the watcher above felt that all hope was gone
he hauled upon the line as much as he dared, but could not move what
it was secured to. Soon, however, boats came to his assistance, and
presently extra help raised to the surface the huge armoured body of
the man-eater, the line being fast round his hind legs. The bereaved
father was clinging to the monster’s throat, one arm thrust between
his horrid jaws and the other hand still clutching the haft of the
bowie-knife, whose blade was buried deep in the leathery folds of the
great neck. With bared heads and solemn faces the helpers towed the
group ashore, and reverently removing the poor remains of father and
son, buried them deep under a wide-spreading tree.
In the intervals (frequently occurring) between the shipment of
one consignment of logs and the arrival of another, it was part of
our duties to hunt along the river banks for ownerless log-ends
or even logs of mahogany or cedar which we might saw and split up
into convenient pieces for broken stowage or filling up the many
interstices between the logs in the hold. Naturally this led us into
some queer places and not a few scrapes, but incidentally we were
able to do some good service to the inhabitants by destroying many
hundreds of embryo alligators. For wherever, in the course of our
journeyings, we came across a swelling in the sand along the river
bank, there we would delve, and we never failed of finding a deposit
of ball-like stony-shelled eggs, which each contained a little devil
of an alligator almost ready to begin his career of crime. Needless
perhaps to say that none of those found by us in this manner ever
did any harm. But while busy on one occasion destroying a clutch of
these eggs, a huge specimen some sixteen feet long appeared from no
one knew where, and actually succeeded in reaching with the horny tip
of his tail, as it swept round, the legs of a West countryman, one
of our finest seamen. Fortunately for him the bo’sun was carrying a
loaded Snider rifle, and without stopping to think whether anybody
else might be in the way he banged her “aloose.” The alligator was
at the moment in a half circle, swinging himself round to reach
the fallen man with his awful jaws wide spread and displaying all
their jagged yellow fangs. The heavy bullet plunged right down that
stinking throat and ploughed its way out through the creature’s
belly into the sand. With a writhe like a snake the monster recoiled
upon himself, snapping his jaws horribly and loading the air with a
faint, sickening smell of musk. After two or three twists and turns
he managed to slip into the water, but not before the bo’sun had
fired twice more at him and missed him by yards. Poor Harry, the
man knocked down, was so badly scared that he sat on a log end and
vomited, looking livid as a corpse and shaking like a man of ninety.
We could do nothing for him, but watched him sympathetically, hoping
for his recovery, when suddenly with a wild yell he sprang to his
feet and began to tear his clothes off as if he were mad. Lord, how
he did swear too! We were all scared, thinking the fright had turned
his brain, but when he presently danced before us in his bare buff,
picking frantically at his skin, our dismay was changed into shrieks
of laughter. A colony of red ants, each about half an inch long,
had been concealed in that log. They had walked up his trouser legs
quietly enough and fastened upon his body, their nippers meeting
through the soft skin. Hence his endeavours to get disrobed in haste.
He said it was nothing to laugh at, but I don’t believe the man was
yet born that could have seen him and not laughed. Happily it cured
him of his fright.
Whether by good luck or good management I don’t presume to say, but
in all our explorations we met with no accident either from snake or
saurian, while the crew of a Norwegian brig lying close by us lost
one of their number the second day after their arrival. They had been
very short of water, and in consequence sent a boat up the river to
one of the creeks for a supply. Four hands went on this errand, and,
tempted by the refreshing coolness of the water, one of them waded
out into the river until the water was up to his waist, and stood
there baling it up with the dipper he carried and pouring it over
his head. The others were in the boat laughing at his antics, when
suddenly, as they described it, a dark sickle-like shadow swept round
him, and with one marrow-freezing shriek he fell. All the signs of
a fearful struggle beneath the water were evident, but never again
did they see their shipmate, nor was it until some time afterwards
that they learned what the manner of his going really was. And when
they did find out, nothing would tempt any of them to leave the ship
again while she lay there. One of them told me that his shipmate’s
last cry would be with him, reverberating through his mind, until his
dying day. I am not naturally cruel, but I confess that when one day
I caught one of these monsters with a hook and line while fishing
for something else, I felt a real pleasure in taking the awful thing
alongside, hoisting it on board, and ripping it lengthways from end
to end. From its stomach we took quite a bushel basket-full of eggs,
nearly all of them with shells, ready for laying, and we felt truly
thankful that so vile a brood had been caught before they had begun
their life of evil.
COUNTRY LIFE ON BOARD SHIP
I
At first sight, any two things more difficult to bring into
intimate relations than bucolic and nautical life would appear
impossible to find. Those unfortunate people who, having followed
the calm, well-ordered round of pastoral progress through the
steadily-succeeding seasons of many years, suddenly find themselves,
by some freakish twist of fortune’s wheel, transferred to the
unstable bosom of the mutable deep, become terribly conscious of
their helplessness in the face of conditions so utterly at variance
with all their previous experience of settled, orderly life. The old
order has changed with a vengeance, giving place to a bewildering
seasonal disarrangement which seems to their shaken senses like a
foretaste of some topsy-turvy world. Like sorrowful strangers in a
strange land are they, wherein there is no sure foothold, and where,
in place of the old familiar landmarks known and cherished so long,
is a new element constant to nothing but change and--upon which
they seem to be precariously poised--the centre of a marginless
circle of invariable variability. This subversion of all precedent
is of course no less disconcerting to the humbler denizens of the
farmyard and meadow than it is to those who are ordinarily the
august arbiters of their destinies. And a sudden change from the
placid environment of the homestead, with all its large liberty
and peaceful delights, to the cramped, comfortless quarters which,
as a rule, are all that shipboard arrangements allow them, at once
brings them to a state of disconsolate wretchedness wherein all their
self-assertive individuality is reduced to a meek, voiceless protest
against their hard and unmerited fate. Sea-sickness, too, that truly
democratic leveller, does not spare animals, but inserts another set
of totally new and unpleasant sensations into the already complicated
disorganisation of their unfortunate position.
In spite of these admittedly difficult factors, I have the temerity
to attempt the setting forth of certain phases of nautical life
experienced by myself which have always appeared to me to bring into
close contact two such widely differing spheres of existence as
country life and sea life, principally in the management of farmyard
animals at sea. Sailors are proverbially handy at most things, if
their methods _are_ unconventional, and I venture to hope that
country readers will at least be amused by Jack’s antics when dealing
with the familiar creatures of the countryside.