Xiphius Platypterus
About this time, the loneliness of our voyage was relieved by an event
worth relating.
Ever since leaving the Pearl Shell Islands, the Parki had been followed
by shoals of small fish, pleasantly enlivening the sea, and socially
swimming by her side. But in vain did Jarl and I search among their
ranks for the little, steel-blue Pilot fish, so long outriders of the
Chamois. But perhaps since the Chamois was now high and dry on the
Parki’s deck, our bright little avant-couriers were lurking out of
sight, far down in the brine; racing along close to the keel.
But it is not with the Pilot fish that we now have to do.
One morning our attention was attracted to a mighty commotion in the
water. The shoals of fish were darting hither and thither, and leaping
into the air in the utmost affright. Samoa declared, that their deadly
foe the Sword fish must be after them.
And here let me say, that, since of all the bullies, and braggarts, and
bravoes, and free-booters, and Hectors, and fish-at-arms, and
knight-errants, and moss-troopers, and assassins, and foot-pads, and
gallant soldiers, and immortal heroes that swim the seas, the Indian
Sword fish is by far the most remarkable, I propose to dedicate this
chapter to a special description of the warrior. In doing which, I but
follow the example of all chroniclers and historians, my Peloponnesian
friend Thucydides and others, who are ever mindful of devoting much
space to accounts of eminent destroyers; for the purpose, no doubt, of
holding them up as ensamples to the world.
Now, the fish here treated of is a very different creature from the
Sword fish frequenting the Northern Atlantic; being much larger every
way, and a more dashing varlet to boot. Furthermore, he is denominated
the Indian Sword fish, in contradistinction from his namesake above
mentioned. But by seamen in the Pacific, he is more commonly known as
the Bill fish; while for those who love science and hard names, be it
known, that among the erudite naturalists he goeth by the outlandish
appellation of “_Xiphius Platypterus_.”
But I waive for my hero all these his cognomens, and substitute a much
better one of my own: namely, the Chevalier. And a Chevalier he is, by
good right and title. A true gentleman of Black Prince Edward’s bright
day, when all gentlemen were known by their swords; whereas, in times
present, the Sword fish excepted, they are mostly known by their high
polished boots and rattans.
A right valiant and jaunty Chevalier is our hero; going about with his
long Toledo perpetually drawn. Rely upon it, he will fight you to the
hilt, for his bony blade has never a scabbard. He himself sprang from
it at birth; yea, at the very moment he leaped into the Battle of Life;
as we mortals ourselves spring all naked and scabbardless into the
world. Yet, rather, are we scabbards to our souls. And the drawn soul
of genius is more glittering than the drawn cimeter of Saladin. But how
many let their steel sleep, till it eat up the scabbard itself, and
both corrode to rust-chips. Saw you ever the hillocks of old Spanish
anchors, and anchor-stocks of ancient galleons, at the bottom of Callao
Bay? The world is full of old Tower armories, and dilapidated Venetian
arsenals, and rusty old rapiers. But true warriors polish their good
blades by the bright beams of the morning; and gird them on to their
brave sirloins; and watch for rust spots as for foes; and by many stout
thrusts and stoccadoes keep their metal lustrous and keen, as the
spears of the Northern Lights charging over Greenland.
Fire from the flint is our Chevalier enraged. He takes umbrage at the
cut of some ship’s keel crossing his road; and straightway runs a tilt
at it; with one mad lounge thrusting his Andrea Ferrara clean through
and through; not seldom breaking it short off at the haft, like a bravo
leaving his poignard in the vitals of his foe.
In the case of the English ship Foxhound, the blade penetrated through
the most solid part of her hull, the bow; going completely through the
copper plates and timbers, and showing for several inches in the hold.
On the return of the ship to London, it was carefully sawn out; and,
imbedded in the original wood, like a fossil, is still preserved. But
this was a comparatively harmless onslaught of the valiant Chevalier.
With the Rousseau, of Nantucket, it fared worse. She was almost
mortally stabbed; her assailant withdrawing his blade. And it was only
by keeping the pumps clanging, that she managed to swim into a Tahitian
harbor, “heave down,” and have her wound dressed by a ship-surgeon with
tar and oakum. This ship I met with at sea, shortly after the disaster.
At what armory our Chevalier equips himself after one of his spiteful
tilting-matches, it would not be easy to say. But very hard for him, if
ever after he goes about in the lists, swordless and disarmed, at the
mercy of any caitiff shark he may meet.
Now, seeing that our fellow-voyagers, the little fish along-side, were
sorely tormented and thinned out by the incursions of a pertinacious
Chevalier, bent upon making a hearty breakfast out of them, I
determined to interfere in their behalf, and capture the enemy.
With shark-hook and line I succeeded, and brought my brave gentleman to
the deck. He made an emphatic landing; lashing the planks with his
sinewy tail; while a yard and a half in advance of his eyes, reached
forth his terrible blade.
As victor, I was entitled to the arms of the vanquished; so, quickly
dispatching him, and sawing off his Toledo, I bore it away for a
trophy. It was three-sided, slightly concave on each, like a bayonet;
and some three inches through at the base, it tapered from thence to a
point.
And though tempered not in Tagus or Guadalquiver, it yet revealed upon
its surface that wavy grain and watery fleckiness peculiar to tried
blades of Spain. It was an aromatic sword; like the ancient caliph’s,
giving out a peculiar musky odor by friction. But far different from
steel of Tagus or Damascus, it was inflexible as Crocket’s rifle tube;
no doubt, as deadly.
Long hung that rapier over the head of my hammock. Was it not storied
as the good trenchant blade of brave Bayard, that other chevalier? The
knight’s may have slain its scores, or fifties; but the weapon I
preserved had, doubtless, run through and riddled its thousands.