A STORM AT SEA—A TEMPEST-TOSSED LITTLE BIRD—FINE WEATHER AGAIN—FIGHT
BETWEEN A SWORDFISH AND A WHALE.
When I came on deck in the morning there was a great storm raging. The
sky above our heads was dark and threatening. The clouds were low and
moved with great swiftness. The wind blew with the fury of a hurricane
and hissed through the rigging. The sails were furled except two, which,
however, had three reefs in them. The sea looked fiercely angry and the
big waves broke one after another in foaming white crests. The ocean was
one mass of foam and spray. The rain was pouring in torrents. Our little
ship was tossed as if she had been a walnut-shell. Wave after wave broke
upon her side or buried her prow, pouring tons of water on our deck and
enveloping us at the same time in spray. At times the men were lashed to
keep them from being washed overboard. The gulls were flying over our
heads, and the stormy petrel had made its appearance. For a few hours it
looked as if our ship could not withstand the storm and would founder
under a big wave. I thought at that time that I should never see home
again.
For three days we were buffeted over the great sea. Then the storm
ceased. The sails were unreefed and the carpenters and the sailors made
the necessary repairs upon our battered little ship.
Suddenly I thought I heard the cry of distress of a bird, and looking
upward I saw a little bulfinch flying near the ship. The bird wanted to
perch on the rigging but did not dare. He came near, and then moved
away, uttering little cries of anguish. Evidently the sails scared
him—for he had never seen a ship before and he knew that it was not a
tree. The tempestuous wind, blowing from the land, had driven this
little wanderer far out to sea; he had lost his reckoning and did not
know where the land was. For several days and nights he had been flying,
finding no trees to rest upon, no water to drink, no berries, fruits or
seeds to eat. He was exhausted, for he had had no rest and no food. Fear
was in his little heart. I got water and bread ready for him in case he
came on board and we could catch him.
During the day he followed us, uttering his little cries of distress,
but did not dare to alight upon the ship, though he knew that the sea
was his enemy and that if he fell into the water he would meet his
death. Perhaps he thought of the land he had left behind—of his dear
mates, of trees, of water and of food, of lovely dales and little
brooks.
I noticed, as the day advanced, that the little bulfinch did not fly so
high above the sea as in the morning; lower and lower became his flight.
The motion of his wings in his despair became quicker and quicker as his
strength diminished. At times he almost touched the water, then,
uttering a shrill cry, he would rise, only to come down again. I
shouted: “Come and rest upon our little ship, dear little bulfinch. Come
on deck; I will take good care of you. Here are food and water waiting
for you. Nobody on board is so wicked as to kill you, or harm you.”
But the little bird kept on, and at last his body touched the sea, and
as he rose he uttered a most piercing cry of distress, then, taking an
upward flight, he hovered over the ship. His strength was gone, his
wings refused to move, and he fell upon the deck. I rushed quickly
towards him—he was panting. I took him in my hands—how quickly his heart
was beating! I gave him some water; he drank it, then dropped dead. His
struggles for dear life were over. Then I put the little bulfinch in a
small wooden box; it was his coffin, and I closed the top and buried him
at sea just as the sun was disappearing below the horizon.
The following day the weather was very beautiful,—a lovely blue sky was
over our heads. What a change between this and the great storm we had
passed through! The sea was a mass of beautiful “white caps,” each one
with its own changing form. Strange as it seems, there are no two things
exactly alike in the world—not even two white caps, two blades of grass,
two leaves, neither two men nor two women.
We sailed merrily along day after day, carried on by variable winds, our
course being one point south of east, and one afternoon gazing over the
ocean, I saw a number of whales disporting and spouting water high in
the air. Looking over the rail my attention was suddenly attracted to a
large, dark, elongated fish, that was swimming fast, as if in quest of
something. As it neared the ship and swam alongside I recognized it to
be a powerful swordfish, which I thought was about twelve or fifteen
feet in length. Its sword seemed about three feet long, and was a
continuation of its upper jaw. The sword was flat and pointed at the
end. The very shape of the fish showed that it could swim with great
rapidity.
The swordfish is the most fearless of all fishes, I reflected; he is
afraid of nothing and might take our little ship for a whale, and attack
us; for the whale and the swordfish are sworn enemies. There are many
instances on record of ships being attacked by swordfish, and their
thick oak hulls pierced through, the sword remaining in the wood, the
fish not having strength enough to draw it out when deeply imbedded in
the hull. There have also been instances in which small vessels have
been sunk by them.
Soon I noticed another swordfish, and saw both of them leap out of the
water, pursuing each other and then discovered that they were fighting.
They were swimming with the rapidity of an express train at the rate, I
thought, of thirty or forty miles an hour. They were so quick in their
movements that they could not hit each other with their swords. Their
dorsal fins as they cut through the surface of the water made a peculiar
noise like a sharp boat with sails set cutting through the sea. They
would disappear under the water and then reappear on the surface, then
swim towards each other with such extraordinary velocity that my eyes
could hardly follow them. They seemed to know that their vulnerable
point was the side, and wheeled with astonishing quickness, so that they
would always face each other.
[Illustration: “_The captain shouted to me: ‘A swordfish is fighting a
whale’_”]
A short time afterwards I saw ahead of us a great commotion in the
water—the sea was white with foam. The captain shouted to me: “A
swordfish is fighting a whale.” I went up the rigging to see the fight.
The whale spouted big streams of water in the air, its tail was slapping
the sea with terrific force, beating the water into white spray all
around. At times everything was like a white mist round the huge
creature, which seemed to be going in every direction, as if bewildered.
It was fighting for dear life, and was trying to hit its antagonist with
its powerful tail. If it only succeeded in striking the swordfish, then
the greatest creature of the sea would be the victor.
Unfortunately, the whale is unwieldy and the swordfish is very quick in
its movements. Every frantic motion the whale made was a sign that the
swordfish had plunged its long, pointed sword into its body. The fight
went on for a while, the swordfish getting evidently the better of the
whale, for the blows of the latter’s huge tail did not strike the water
with as much force as before, and the sea did not look so disturbed.
Then suddenly I saw a great spout of water rise above the sea, and all
became quiet. The fight was over; the whale had been vanquished and had
received its death-thrust from the swordfish, and it must have received
many wounds, for as we sailed over the place where they had been
fighting, the sea was red with blood.
“In these conflicts between the swordfish and the whale, it is said that
the whale is oftener the victor,” said the captain to me, “for if the
whale succeeds in striking the swordfish with its tail, the latter is
either killed or so much stunned that the combat is not renewed.”