THE SHARK--"TO HELL WITH SHARK AND SHIP"
I was so overcome by the Captain's tears and his great love for his
deceased wife, that I failed to hear Old Charlie calling me from the
wheel until he attracted my attention by pointing over the stern.
"What is wrong?" I asked, thinking that perhaps the log line had carried
away.
"A black fin on the starboard quarter, sir."
"What is that?" said the Captain, throwing the sail aside and walking
aft.
"It is a shark, sir," said I, "and a black one."
Instantly all love and human kindliness left him. Jumping down onto the
poop deck and looking over the rail.
"By Heavens, you are right," he cried, "he must be twenty feet long. Run
to the pork barrel and get a chunk of meat while I get the shark hook."
"Aye, aye, sir." In the excitement it did not take me long to reach the
cook's salt pork barrel, and grabbing about ten pounds of salt horse I
was aft again in a minute. The Captain was bending a three-inch rope
into a swivel on a chain. The chain is about six feet from the hook.
When the shark comes down with his six rows of teeth on each jaw, it
takes more than manila rope to stop him, hence the quarter-inch chain.
The Captain was very much excited. "Here, damn it. No, he will nibble it
off the hook if you put it there. That is it. The center. Now over the
side with it. Slack away on your line there. That is enough. Make fast."
"All fast, sir," said I.
In our excitement of the morning we had forgotten to take our
observation for latitude. It was now past eight bells with the cook
ringing the bell for dinner. The black fin was swimming around the salt
horse, and it was easy to decide between them.
"By God, there," pointing astern, "is another one," said the Captain.
"Why in blazes don't he take the bait?"
No sooner said than done. The big black fin turned over on his back and
swallowed meat and hook, then righting himself and feeling grateful for
so small a morsel, and starting to swim away, he found that he was fast
to the end of a rope.
No one realized it more than the Captain. With a shout that could be
heard all over the schooner: "Lay aft, all hands," he cried, "and lend a
hand to pull in this black cannibal."
With all hands aft, including the cook,--his presence is always needed
in emergencies like this,--"Get that boom tackle from off the main
boom," he continued, "and you," pointing to Olsen, "get a strop from the
lazarette and fasten it up in the mizzen-rigging."
"If I go down there," said Olsen, pointing to the lazarette hatch, "the
cat may get out."
"To Hell with the cat," said the Captain, "this is no time to stand on
technicalities. Get the strop and get it up damned lively."
Meantime the cook forgot that he was the humble dispenser of salt horse
and pea soup. He who had fought the land sharks for years, he who had
stood hour after hour in the sweltering sun declaiming against the
crimps and other parasites of the Barbary coast, was it not befitting
that he should lead the charge on this black monster of the deep?
The Ballot-Box Cook, for this is the name I gave him, was standing abaft
the mizzen-rigging, with unkempt iron-gray hair waving in the wind, a
greasy apron, and bare feet. His large red nose had never lost any of
its cherry color, as one would expect it to, under the bleaching
influence of long voyages. His large supply of extract of lemon, with
its sixty per cent of alcohol, is not to be deprecated in these times,
when diluted to a nicety with water and sugar.
On this particular day he had not neglected his midday tonic. Tucking
his dirty apron into the belt that supported his overalls, and jumping
down from the deck-load to the poop deck, he exclaimed with the wildest
gestures:
"Holy Moses, men, don't let him get away."
From the way that the shark was thrashing and beating the water, one
would think that the three-inch rope would part from the strain at any
minute.
"Stop the ship!" cried the cook.
"Stop hell," retorted the Captain.
"You will never land him," insisted the cook; "she has too much bloody
way on her."
"I'll attend to this ship; I am master here," said the Captain angrily.
"Master, you are?" here discipline between master and cook was fused
away into the northeast trades. The cook, coming to attention with all
the dignity of a newly-made corporal, said: "Captain, I'll have you
understand that I have no masters, and"--shaking his fist at the
Captain, and slapping himself on the breast, "do you think that I have
always been a sea-cook?"
Under other conditions the Captain would have had him put in irons, but
there was now too much at stake for him to even think of such a thing.
For is not time the essence of all things? With this demon of the sea
dangling on the end of a sixty-foot line, every minute seemed a century
with the chance that hook, meat and line might sail away into fathomless
depths.
"Get to Hell forward to your galley! I will send for you when I need
you"--Here the cook, with rage interrupted:
"To Hell with you, shark and ship! The American Consul shall hear about
this!" With this parting shot he slouched forward to the galley.
"Here, damn you, here," continued the Captain, forgetting him on the
instant. "Here, you, Nelson, put a sheep-shank in the shark-line--now
hook your block in. That's the way. Hoist away on your tackle." After
giving these orders he hopped up on the deck-load to direct the course
of the incoming shark. With the crew pulling all their might, we could
not get him in an inch.
"If we wait a little while, Captain," said Olsen, "he may drown."
"Drown be damned, who ever heard of a shark drowning? Get a
snatch-block, hook it into the deck-lashing, take a line forward, and
heave him in with the capstan."
Leaving the second mate with the crew to heave in the shark, I walked
aft to join the Captain. While passing the galley I could hear the cook
singing, "Marchons, marchons,"--I knew it would be dangerous to
interrupt him.
After heaving about twenty minutes the shark was alongside with the head
about three feet out of water.
"Belay!" roared the Captain, "come aft, here, a couple of you. Slip a
running bowline over his head, we must not lose him. That is the way.
Take a turn around the mast. All right aft. Heave away on your capstan."
As the enemy of every sailor who sails the seas came alongside, with him
came the strains of the old capstan chantey:
"Sally Brown, I love your daughter,
Heave, ho, roll and go,
For seven long years I courted Sally,
I spent my money on Sally Brown."
Before the second verse of the aged Sally was finished, Black Fin was
ours to do and dare.
"Make fast forward," shouted the Captain, "and bring your capstan bars
aft. One of you get the crowbar from the donkey-room."
If there is anything in this world that a sailor loves, it is to kill a
shark. We secured him safely on the deck-load, for they are not to be
trusted out of water, especially if one gets too near to the head or
tail. This monster measured seventeen feet, six inches. With capstan
bars, crowbar and sharp knives it didn't take long to take the fight out
of him.
After being cut up, the choice parts were given to members of the crew,
such as the backbone for a walking-stick, the gall for cleaning shoes
and so forth. The eyeballs, when properly cured in the sunlight resemble
oyster pearls. I took the most coveted part, the jaw, and when it was
opened, it measured twenty-two inches. The Captain ordered what was left
of him thrown overboard, and turning to me said, "Have the steward serve
dinner."
"How about the other shark, sir?"
"Oh, we will leave him until after we eat."
After dinner there was no shark to be seen. "We have made a sad
mistake," lamented the Captain. "We should not have thrown the first
shark overboard. By doing that we have fed him to the second."