blowing from just below his pale blue eyes, and a leonine head
covered with a straw-coloured mane. Although he was a giant in
stature he was not what you would call a fine figure of a man, for
he was round-shouldered and loosely jointed. And besides these
things he had a shambling, undecided gait and a furtive side-long
glance, ever apparently searching for a potential foe. Yet with all
his peculiarities I loved him, I never knew why. Perhaps it was
the unfailing instinct of a child--I was scarcely more--for people
whose hearts are kind. He was an A.B. on board of a lumbering old
American-built ship owned in Liverpool and presently bound thence
to Batavia. I was “the boy”--that is to say, any job that a man
could possibly growl himself out of or shirk in any way rapidly
filtered down to me, mine by sea-right. And in my leisure I had the
doubtful privilege of being body servant to eighteen men of mixed
nationalities and a never-satisfied budget of wants. Of course she
wasn’t as bad as a Geordie collier, the old _Tucson_. I didn’t
get booted about the head for every little thing, nor was I ever
aroused out of a dead sleep to hand a fellow a drink of water who
was sitting on the breaker. Nevertheless, being nobody’s especial
fancy and fully conscious of my inability to take my own part, I was
certainly no pampered menial.
They were a queer lot, those fellows. Nothing strange in that, of
course, so far, remembering how ships’ crews are made up nowadays,
but these were queer beyond the average. In the first place no two
of them were countrymen. There were representatives of countries
I had till then been ignorant of. The “boss” of the fo’c’s’le was
a huge Montenegrin, who looked to my excited fancy like a bandit
chief, and used to talk in the worst-sounding lingo I ever heard
with Giuseppe from Trieste and Antone from Patras. Louis Didelot,
a nimble black-avised little _matelot_ from Nantes, was worst
off for communication with his shipmates, not one of whom could
speak French, but somehow he managed to rub along with a barbarous
compound of French, Spanish, and English. Neilsen chummed, as far
as an occasional chat went, with a swarthy little Norwegian from
Hammerfest (I believe he was a Lapp), whose language did not seem to
differ much from Danish. The rest of the crew were made up of negroes
from various far-sundered lands, South American hybrids including
one pure-blooded Mexican with a skin like copper, a Russian and
two Malays. That fo’c’s’le was Babel over again, although in some
strange manner all seemed to find some sufficient medium for making
themselves understood. On deck of course English (?) was spoken,
but such English as would puzzle the acutest linguist that ever
lived if he wasn’t a sailor-man too. Nothing could have borne more
conclusive testimony to the flexibility of our noble tongue than the
way in which the business of that ship was carried on without any
hitch by those British officers and their polyglot crew. And another
thing--there were no rows. I have said that Sam the Montenegrin
(Heaven only knows what his name really was) was the boss of the
fo’c’s’le, but he certainly took no advantage of his tacitly accorded
position, and except for the maddening mixture of languages our
quarters were as quiet as any well-regulated household.
But as long as I live I shall always believe that most, if not all,
of our fellows were fugitives from justice, criminals of every stamp,
and owing to the accident of their being thus thrown together in an
easy-going English ship they were just enjoying a little off-season
of rest prior to resuming operations in their respective departments
when the voyage was over. I may be doing them an injustice, but as
I picked up fragments of the various languages I heard many strange
things, which, when I averaged them up, drove me to the conclusion I
have stated. From none of them, however, did I get anything definite
in the way of information about their past except Neilsen. He spoke
excellent English, or American, with hardly a trace of Scandinavian
accent, and often, when sitting alone in the dusk of the second
dog-watch on the spars lashed along by the bulwarks, I used to hear
him muttering to himself in that tongue, every now and then giving
vent to a short barking laugh of scorn. I was long getting into his
confidence, for he shrank from all society, preferring to squat with
his chin supported on both hands staring at vacancy and keeping up an
incessant muttering. But at last the many little attentions I managed
to show him thawed his attitude of reserve towards me a little, and
he permitted me to sit by his side and prattle to him of my Arab life
in London, and of my queer experiences in the various ways of getting
something to eat before I went to sea. Even then he would often scare
me just as I was in the middle of a yarn by throwing up his head and
uttering his bark of disdain, following it up immediately by leaving
me. Still I couldn’t be frightened of him, although I felt certain
he was a little mad, and I persevered, taking no notice of his
eccentricities. At last we became great friends, and he would talk
to me sanely by the hour, when during the stillness of the shining
night-watches all our shipmates, except the helmsman and look-out
man, were curled up in various corners asleep.
So matters progressed until we were half-way up the Indian Ocean
from St. Paul’s. One night in the middle watch I happened to say
(in what connection I don’t know), “It’s my birthday to-day. I’m
thirteen.” “Why, what day is it den?” he said listlessly. “The 25th
of June,” I replied. “My God! my God!” he murmured softly, burying
his face in his hands and trembling violently. I was so badly scared
I could say nothing for a few minutes, but sat wondering whether the
moon, which was literally blazing down upon us out of the intense
clearness above, had affected his weak brain. Presently he seemed to
get steadier, and I ventured to touch his arm and say, “Ain’t you
well, Neilsen? Can I get you anythin’?” There was silence for another
short spell. Then he suddenly lifted his head, and said, not looking
at me, but straight before him, “Yes, I vill tell him. I must tell
him.” Then, still without looking at me, he went on--“Boy, I’m goin’
t’ tell ye a yarn about myself, somethin’ happened to me long time
ago. Me an’ my chum, a little Scotch chap, was ’fore de mast aboard
of a Yank we’d shipped in in Liverpool. She wuz a reg’lar blood-boat.
You’ve herd o’ de kind, I ’spose, no watch an’ watch all day,
everythin’ polished ’n painted till you c’d see y’r face in it ’low
and aloft. Ole man ’n three mates alwas pradin’ roun’ ’ith one han’
on their pistol pockets ’n never a ’norder give widout a ‘Gaw-dam-ye’
to ram it down like. I tell ye wot ’tis; sailors offen tawk ’bout
hell erflote, but der ain’t menny off ’em knows wot it means, leest
not nowdays. I’ve sailed in de packets, the Westerun oshun boats I
mean, under some toughs, ’fore steam run ’em off, an’ I ’low dey wuz
hard--forrard’s well’s aft--but, boy, dey wuz church, dey wuz dat,
’longside the ’_Zekiel B. Peck_. W’y! dey tort nuttin’, nuttin ’tall,
ov scurfin’ ye way frum de wheel, you a doin’ yer damdest too, ter
pint her troo d’ eye ov a needle, ’n lammin’ th’ very Gawdfergotten
soul out ov yer jest ter keep der ’and in like. I wuz a dam site
biggern dose days den I am now, fur I wuz straight ez a spruce tree
’n limber too, I wuz; but I got my ’lowance reglar ’n took it lyin’
down too like de rest. ’N so I s’pose ’twoud a gone on till we got
to ’Frisco an’ de blood-money men come and kicked us out ov her as
ushal. Only suthin’ happend. Seems ter me suthin’s alwus a happenin’
wot ye ain’t recknd on, but sum things happen like ’s if de devil
jammed a crowbar inter ye somewheres ’n hove de bes’ part of ye inter
hell wile de rest ov ye goes a grubbin’ along everlastingly lookin’
fer wot ye lost an’ never findin’ it. Well,’twuz like dis; we wuz
a creepin’ along up de coast ov Lower California, de weadder bein’
beastly, nuttin’ but one heavy squall on top of anoder, ’n de wind
a flyin’ all round de compass. It wuz all han’s, all han’s night’n
day, wid boot ’n blayin’ pin ter cheer us up, till we wuz more like a
crowd o’ frightend long-shoremen dan a crew o’ good sailor-men. One
forenoon,’bout seven bells, we’d ben a shortenin’ down at de main ’n
wuz all a comin’ down helter-skelter, de mate n’ tird mate standin’
by in the skuppers as ushal to belt each man as he touched de deck
fer not bein’ smarter. I come slidin’ down de topmast backstays ’n
dropped on to de deck jest be’ind de mate as Scotty, my chum, landed
in front ov him. De mate jest let out and fetched Scotty in the ear.
Pore ole chap, he flung up his arms, ’n spoutin’ blood like a whale,
dropped all ov a heap in his tracks. I don’t rightly know how ’twuz,
but next ting I’d got de mate (’n he wuz nearly as big as Sam) by de
two ankles, a swingin’ him roun’ my head ’sif he wuz a capsan-bar. He
hit sometin’, I spose it wuz de topsl-halliard block, ’n it sounded
like a bag ov eggs. De rest ov de purceedins wuz all foggy like to
me, ’cept dat I was feelin’ ’bout as big ’n strong as twenty men
rolled inter one ’n I seemed ter be a smashin’ all creation into
bloody pieces. I herd de poppin’ ov revolver shots in hunderds, but
I didn’t feel none ov ’em. Presently it all quieted down ’n dere
wuz me a settin’ on de deck in de wash ov de lee scuppers a nursin’
Scotty like a baby ’n him a lookin’ up at me silly-like. The ship
was all aback an de rags ov most ov the canvas wuz slattin’ ’n
treshin’ like bullock whips, while long pennants of canvas clung to
de riggin’ all over her. I put Scotty down ’n gets up on my feet to
hev a look roun’. De deck was like a Saladero, dead bodies a lyin’
about in all directions. Seein’ Scotty standin’ up holdin’ on ter de
pin-rail I sez to him, ‘Scotty, what in hell’s de matter, hev we ben
struck by lightnin’?’ He jest waggled his head ’sif he wuz drunk ’n
sez, ‘Yes, chum, I guess we hev. Ennyhow I’m glad ter see it’s hit
de right ones.’ ’N den he laughed. ‘Sounded like breakin’ dishes it
did.’ Well, I begun to git scared ’cause I couldn’t sort it out at
all, until some ov de other fellers come from somewhere, ’n we sot
down along de spars while dey told me, all de while keepin’ deir
eyes on me, ’n lookin’ ’s if dey wuz ready to git up and scoot if I
moved. It ’peared I’d simply sailed in ’sif I’d ben made of iron,
’n slaughtered dem officers right an’ left with nottin’ but me bare
hands ’n takin’ no more notice of deir six-shooters dan if dey’d
ben pea-guns. I wonderd wot made me feel so stiff an’ sore here and
dere, seems I’d got two or tree bullets plugged inter me while we
wuz playin’ de game. ’N right in de dick of it, down comes a reglar
hurrikin squall ketchin’ her flat aback ’n rippin de kites offn her
’sif dey wuz paper. Most o’ de fellers, seein’ de hand I had, chipped
in, ’n two ov em laid quiet ’longside ov de der corpses. It wuz a
reglar clean sweep. All tree mates, carpenter, and stooard, _an’_ de
ole man, blast him, wuz dead, ’n dey said I’d killed em all. Well, I
cou’dn’t conterdickt em, but somehow I didn’t feel s’if ’twas true,
I didn’t feel bothered a bit about it, ’n as ter feelin’ sorry--why
I wuz just as contented as a hog in a corn-bin. But sometin’ had ter
be done fer we none of us tought de late officers ov de ’_Zekiel B.
Peck_ wort hangin’ fur, so we made shift to run her in fur de land,
due East. When we got widin twenty mile ov it we pervisioned a couple
ov boats an’ set fire to her, waitin’ till she got well a goin’,
’n den lowerin ’n pullin’ fur de beach. We didn’t take nuttin’ but
some grub, dere warnt a pirut among us, an we ’ranged ter separate
soon’s we got ashore, after we’d smashed de boats up. It come off
all right, ’n me and Scotty wandered up country till we got steady
work on a ranch (sort o’ farm) an’ we ’lowed we wouldn’t never go to
sea no more. We wuz very happy for ’bout a year until Scotty begun
ter weaken on me. He’d picked up wid some gal at a place a few mile
off ’n I wuz out of it. He useter leave me alone night after night,
knowin’ he wuz all de world ter me, knowin’ too det I’d gin a good
many men’s blood fer his’n. Last we fell out, ’n after a many words
’d been slung between us, he upn and call me a bloody murderer. ’Twuz
all over in a second, ’n I wuz nussin’ him in my arms agen like I did
once before, but his head hung over limp, his neck wuz broke. ’N I
ben talkin’ to him ever sence ’n tellin’ him how I’d gin forty lives
ef I had’m ter see him chummy wit me agen, but I never get no answer.”
He stopped, and almost immediately “eight bells” struck. I went below
and slept my allotted time, waking at the hoarse row of “Now then you
sleepers, seven bells,” to get the breakfast in. The morning passed
in humdrum fashion, the wind having dropped to almost a dead calm.
After dinner I was looking over the side at the lovely cool depths
smiling beneath, and the fancy suddenly seized me to have a dip, as
I had often done before, although never in that ship. I could swim,
but very little, so I made a bowline in the end of a rope, and making
it fast so that about a couple of fathoms would trail in the water, I
stripped in the chains, slipped the bowline over my head and under my
arms, and slid down into the sea. It was just heavenly. But I found
the ship was slipping along through the water just a little. So much
the better. Putting my left arm out like an oar I sheered away from
the side until the rope that held me was out straight, and there was
a wide gap of blue between me and the black hull of the ship. I was
enjoying myself in perfect fashion when suddenly I saw a huge black
shadow stealing upward from under the ship’s bottom towards me, and
immediately, my bowels boiling with fear, I lost all my strength,
my arms flew up and I slipped out of the loop. I heard a splash,
and close beside me an awful struggle began while I lay in full
possession of all my senses, just floating without motion. Neilsen
had sprung into the sea and seized the shark by the tail, being all
unarmed. Suddenly I felt the coils of a rope fall upon me, and with a
sense of returning life I clutched them, and was presently hauled on
board. I must have fainted, for when I again realised my surroundings
Neilsen was lying on deck near me, a wide red stream creeping slowly
down from him to the scuppers. Opening his eyes as I staggered to my
feet, he said feebly, “Dis’ll pay, won’t it, boy?” and died.
THE MYSTERY OF THE “SOLANDER”
Towering in lonely majesty for two thousand feet above the blue
waters of Foveaux Strait, the mighty mass of the Solander Rock seems
to dominate that stormy region like some eternal sentinel set to hail
the coming of the flying fleets of the northern hemisphere to the
brave new world of New Zealand. To all appearance it is perfectly
inaccessible, its bare weather-stained sides, buffeted by the
tempests of ages, rising sheer from a depth of hundreds of fathoms
without apparently a ledge or a crevice wherein even a goat could
find precarious foothold. Not that landing would be practicable even
were there any jutting shelves near the water’s edge; for exposed as
the rock is to the full range of the Southern Ocean, it must perforce
meet continually with the effects of all the storms that are raging
right round the southern slopes of this planet of ours, since there
is absolutely nothing to hinder their world-engirdling sweep in those
latitudes. Even when, as happens at rare intervals, the unwearying
west wind stays for a brief space its imperial march to meet the
rising sun, and the truce of storm and sea broods over the deep in
a hush like the peace of God, the glassy bosom of the ocean still
undulates as if with the throbbing of earth’s heart, a pulse only
to be timed by the horology of Creation. That almost imperceptible
upheaval of the sea-surface, meeting in its gliding sweep with the
Solander Rock, rises in wrathful protest, the thunders of its voice
being audible for many miles; while torn into a thousand whirling
eddies, its foaming crests chafe and grind around the steadfast
base of the solitary mountain, in a series of overfalls that would
immediately destroy any vessel of man’s building that became involved
therein. And this in a stark calm. But in a gale, especially one
that is howling from Antarctica to Kerguelen--from Tristan d’Acunha
to the Snares--over the most tremendous waste of waters this earth
can show, then is the time to see the Solander. Like a never-ending
succession of mountain ranges with snowy summits and gloomy
declivities streaked with white, the storm waves of the Southern Sea
come rushing on. Wide opens the funnel of Foveaux Strait before them,
fifty miles from shore to shore at its mouth, and in its centre,
confronting them alone, stands the great Rock. They hurl themselves
at its mass, their impact striking a deeper note than that of the
storm; as if the foundations of the earth were jarred and sent upward
through all her strata a reply to the impetuous ocean. Baffled,
dashed into a myriad hissing fragments, the sea recoils until the
very root-hold of the rock is revealed to the day, and its strange
inhabitants blink glassily at the bright glare of the sun. Then are
the broken masses of the beaten wave hurled aloft by the scourging
wind until the topmost crag streams with the salt spray and all
down the deeply-scored sides flows the foaming brine. So fierce and
continuous is the assault that the Rock is often invisible, despite
its huge mass, for hours together, or only dimly discernible through
the spindrift like a sombre spectre, the gigantic spirit of the
storm. Only the western face of the Solander is thus assaulted. For
to the eastward the Straits narrow rapidly until at their outlet
there is but two or three miles of open water. Therefore that side
of the Rock is always comparatively peaceful above high-water mark.
During the fiercest storm, the wind, meeting this solid obstruction,
recoils from itself, making an invisible cushion of air all around
the mountain, within the limits of which it is calm except on the
side remote from the wind, where a gentle return breeze may be felt.
But down below a different state of things prevails. The retreat of
the mighty waves before that immovable bastion drags after them all
the waters behind it, so that there is created a whirlpool that need
fear no comparison with the Maelström. Its indraught may be felt at a
great distance, and pieces of wreckage are collected by it until the
tormented waters are bestrewn with débris twirling in one mad dance
about those polished cliffs.
It is therefore easy to understand why the Solander Rock is left
lonely. Passing merchantmen give it a wide berth, wisely judging the
vicinity none too safe. Fishermen in this region there are none.
Only the whalers, who knew the western end of Foveaux Straits as one
of the most favourite haunts of the sperm whale, cruised about and
about it for weeks and months at a stretch, like shadowy squadrons of
a bygone day irresistibly held in a certain orbit by the attraction
of the great Rock and doomed to weave sea-patterns around it for
ever. One by one they have disappeared until now there are none left,
and the Solander alone keeps the gate.
Now at a certain period of a long voyage I once made as a seaman
on board a South Sea “Spouter,” it befell that we descended from
the balmy latitudes near the Line, where we had been cruising for
many months with little success, to see whether better luck might
await us on the stormy Solander “ground.” From the first day of our
arrival there the old grey mountain seemed to exercise a strange
fascination upon the usually prosaic mind of our elderly skipper. Of
romance or poetic instinct he did not seem to possess a shade, yet
for many an hour he would lean motionless over the weather rail, his
keen eyes steadily fixed upon the sphinx-like mass around which we
slowly cruised. He was usually silent as if dumb, but one morning
when we were about ten miles to the westward of the Rock, I happened
to be at the wheel as the sun was rising. The skipper was lolling
over the quarter, pipe in mouth, his chin supported upon his left
hand, apparently lost in thought. Suddenly the dark outlines of the
Rock became illuminated, the abrupt angles of its crags took on a
shimmering haze of tenderest glow, while from the jagged summits a
lovely coronal of radiant colour shot forth delicate streamers into
the clear morning sky. Towards us from the Rock’s black base crept
a mighty sombre shadow whose edges were so dazzling in brilliance
as to be painful to look upon. As this marvellous picture caught my
dull eyes I held my breath, while a strange tightening of the skin
over my head bore witness to the awe I felt. Then the skipper spoke,
unconscious I believe that he was uttering his thoughts aloud--“Great
God! haouw merv’llous air Thy works. The hull airth an’ the sea also
ez full o’ Thy glory.” There was utter silence again while the glow
deepened into blazing gold, crimson lances radiated from the central
dark into the deep blue around until they mellowed off into emerald
and violet, and then--the culminating point of the vision--the
vast fervent disc of the sun crowned the mountain with a blaze of
ineffable splendour.
Meanwhile we were steadily nearing the Rock, and as the wind freed
a point or two we headed straight for its centre, the vessel being
close-hauled on the starboard tack. The bright day came full circle,
the ordinary everyday duties of the ship began, but still the skipper
moved not, still I steered directly for the mountain’s broad base. I
noted several curious glances cast by the two busy officers, first
at the Rock and then at the motionless skipper, but they offered no
remarks. Nearer and nearer we drew until a great black space opened
up in the centre of the huge cliffs, looking like some enormous cave
extending far into the heart of the mountain as we rapidly lessened
our distance from it, and what was at first only a supposition
became a certainty--that enormous mass of rock was hollow. At last
when we were within a mile of it the skipper ordered me to keep her
away a couple of points, and had the yards checked in a little.
Then, binocular in hand, he mounted to the main-top and gazed long
and earnestly into the gloom of that tremendous cavern, whose floor
was at least fifty feet above high-water mark. In and out of it
flew a busy company of sea-birds, their snow-white wings gleaming
brightly against the dark background. We were so close now that we
could hear the sullen murmur of the restless waters about the base of
those wall-like cliffs, and even with the unassisted eye could see
a considerable distance within. Much anxiety began to be manifested
by all except the skipper, for everybody knew well how strong an
inset is always experienced in such positions. And as we got dead to
leeward of the rock we lost the wind--it was shut off from us by that
immense barrier. All hands were now on deck, and as “eight bells” was
struck the crisp notes came back to us with startling distinctness
from the innermost recesses of the great cavern. It was undoubtedly
a trying moment for us all, for we did not know what was going to
happen. But the old man descended leisurely, saying to the mate as
his foot touched the deck, “I’d give five hundred dollars to be able
to look round that ther hole. Ef thar ain’t suthin’ on-common to it
I’m a hoss.” “Wall, Cap’n,” answered Mr. Peck, “I guess one o’ these
yer Kanakas ’d hev’n all-fired hard dig at it fur a darn sight less
’n that. But doan’ ye think we mout so well be gittin’ a bit ov’n
offin’? I’m er soshibul man m’self, ’n thet’s a fack, but I’ll be
gol durned ef I wouldn’t jest ’s lieve be a few mile further away ’s
not.” As he spoke the reflex eddy of the wind round the other side
of the rock filled our head sails and we paid off to leeward smartly
enough. A sensation of relief rippled through all hands as the
good old tub churned up the water again and slipped away from that
terribly dangerous vicinity.