Chapter Forty One.
A Lookout from Aloft.
After launching the kit, little William did not think of surrendering himself to inaction. He bethought him that something more should be done,—that some other waifs should be turned adrift from the Catamaran, which, by getting into the way of the swimmers, might offer them an additional chance of support.
What next? A plank? No; a cask,—one of the empty water-casks? That would be the thing,—the thing itself.
No sooner thought of than one was detached. The lashings were cut with the axe, in default of his finding a knife; and the cask, like the kit, soon fell into the wake. Not very rapidly it was true; for the Catamaran now, deprived of her sail, did not drift so fast to leeward as formerly. Still she went faster than either the kit or the cask, however; on account of the breeze acting upon her stout mast and some other objects that stood high upon her deck; and William very reasonably supposed that to swimmers so much exhausted,—as by that time must be both Ben and Snowball,—even the difference of a cable’s length might be of vital importance.
It occurred to him also, that the greater the number of waifs sent in their way, the better would be their chance of seeing and getting hold of one of them. Instead of desisting therefore, as soon as he had detached the first cask, he commenced cutting loose a second, and committing it to the sea in like manner.
Having freed a second, he continued on to a third, and then a fourth, and was actually about to sever the lashings of a fifth one, with the intention to leave only the sixth one—that which contained the stock of precious water—attached to the Catamaran. He knew that the raft would still float, without any of the casks to buoy it up; and it was not any fear on that score that caused him to desist, when about to give the cut to the cords that confined cask Number 5. It was an observation which he had made of an entirely different nature; and this was, that the third cask when set loose, and more especially the fourth, instead of falling into the wake of the Catamaran, kept close by her side, as if loath to part company with a craft to which they had been so intimately attached.
William wondered at this, but only for a short moment. He was not slow in comprehending the cause of the unexpected phenomenon. The raft, no longer buoyed up, had sunk almost to the level of the surface; and the breeze now failed to impel it any faster than the casks themselves: so that both casks and Catamaran were making leeway at a like rate of speed, or rather with equal slowness.
Though the sailor-lad was dissatisfied on first perceiving this, after a moment’s reflection, he saw that it was a favourable circumstance. Of course, it was not that the casks were making more way to leeward, but that the Catamaran was making less; and, therefore, if there was a chance of the swimmers coming up with the former, there was an equal probability of their overtaking the latter,—which would be better in every way. Indeed, the raft was now going at such a rate, that the slowest swimmer might easily overtake her, provided the distance between them was not too great.
It was this last thought that now occupied the mind of little William, and rendered him anxious. Had the swimmers fallen too far into the wake? Or would they still be able to swim on to the raft?
Where were they at that moment? He looked aft, towards the point from which he supposed himself to have been drifting. He was not sure of the direction; for the rude construction on which he stood had kept constantly whirling in the water,—now the stem, now the quarters, anon the bows, or beam-ends turned towards the breeze. He looked, but saw nothing. Only the sea-kit that by this time had got several hundred fathoms to windward, cask Number 1 a little nearer, and Number 2 still nearer. These, however, strung out in a line, enabled him to conjecture the direction in which the swimmers, if still above water, should be found.
Indeed, it was something more definite than a conjecture. Rather was it a certainty. He knew that the raft could not have made way otherwise than down the wind; and that those who belonged to it could not be elsewhere than to windward.
Guided, therefore, by the breeze, he gazed in this direction,—sweeping with his eye an arc of the horizon sufficiently large to allow for any deviation which the swimmers might have made from the true track.
He gazed in vain. The kit, the casks, a gull or two, soaring on snowy wings, were all the objects that broke the monotony of the blue water to windward.
He glided across the low-lying planks of the raft, and up to the empty cask still attached, which offered the highest point for observation. He balanced himself on its top, and once more scanned the sea to windward.
Nothing in sight, save kit, casks, and gulls lazily plying their long scimitar-shaped wings with easy unconcern, as if the limitless ocean was,—what in reality it was,—their habitat and home.
Suffering the torture of disappointment,—each moment increasing in agony,—little William leaped down from the cask; and, rushing amidships, commenced mounting the mast.
In a few seconds he had swarmed to its top: and, there clinging, once more directed his glance over the water. He gazed long without discovering any trace of his missing companions,—so long that his sinews were tried to the utmost; and the muscles both of his arms and limbs becoming relaxed, he was compelled to let go, and slide down despairingly upon the planks forming the deck of the Catamaran.
He stayed below only long enough to recover strength; and then a second time went swarming up the stick. If kit and casks should serve no better purpose, they at least guided him as to the direction; and looking over both, he scanned the sea beyond.
The gulls guided him still better; for both—there was a brace of them—had now descended near to the surface of the sea; and, wheeling in short flights, seemed to occupy themselves with some object in the water below. Though they were at a great distance off, he could hear an occasional scream proceeding from their throats: as if the object attracting them excited either their curiosity or some passion of a more turbulent character.
Their evolutions,—constantly returning towards a centre,—guided the eye of the observer until it rested on an object just visible above the sheen of the water. The colour of this object rendered it the more easy of being distinguished amidst the blue water that surrounded it; for it was blacker than anything which the sea produces,—unless it were the bone of the giant Mysticetus. Its shape, too—almost a perfect sphere—had something to do in its identification: for William was able to identify it, and by a process of negative reasoning. It was not the black albatross, the frigate-bird, nor the booby. Though of like colour, there was no bird of such form as that. There was neither beast nor fish belonging to the sea that could show such a shape above its surface. That sable globe, rounded like a sea-hedgehog, or a Turk’s-head clew, and black as a tarred tackle-block, could be nothing else than the woolly pate of Snowball, the sea-cook!
A little beyond were two other objects of dark colour and founded shape; but neither so dark nor so round as that already identified. They must be the heads of the English sailor and Lilly Lalee. They appeared to be equally objects of attraction to the gulls, that alternately flew from one to the other, or kept hovering above them,—and continuously uttering their shrill, wild screams,—now more distinctly heard by little William, clinging high up on the mast of the Catamaran.
Chapter Forty Two.
Once more aboard.
The sailor-lad did not remain longer on the top of the mast than just to satisfy himself that what he saw were his companions, still afloat and alive. They were not at such a distance neither as to render it altogether impossible for them to recover their lost way; and, stimulated by this hope, little William determined upon continuing his efforts to assist them.
Gliding back upon the planks of the raft, he laid hold of the detached oar; and once more plying it as a paddle, he endeavoured to propel the Catamaran up the wind.
It is true he made but slight progress in this direction but he had the satisfaction of knowing that the craft held her ground, and something more; as he could tell from the fact of the casks last set loose by him, falling a little to leeward. This showed that he must himself be making way to the windward.
The sea-chest and the cask first loosed from its lashings, had been launched long before any of the others,—for it was only after an interval of reflection that he had set free the rest,—and the former were now far to windward. When looking from the masthead he had noted that the position of the swimmers was not so far beyond the kit; and it was scarce possible at that time, that they could have failed to discover it. Without staying to consider whether they had done so or not, William had come down from his perch; and now that he had reapplied himself to the oar, and saw that he was gaining ground in the right direction, he did not like to desist. Every fathom he made to windward was a fathom nearer to the saving of the lives of his companions,—a stroke less for the swimmers to make,—to whom, wearied as they must now be, the saving of even a single stroke might be an object.
With this thought urging him to perseverance, the sailor-lad stuck to his oar, wielding it with all the strength in his arms, and only thinking of the one purpose,—to make way against the wind. Fortunately the breeze, already gentle, seemed each moment to grow gentler,—as if unwilling to oppose his efforts in the cause of humanity; and little William perceived, to his great gratification, that the casks already passed by the Catamaran were falling far into her wake. This proved that he must be gaining upon the others.
All at once a glad sight came suddenly under his eyes. Earnestly occupied with the oar, he had permitted more than a minute to elapse without casting a glance ahead. When at length he renewed his lookout to windward, he was surprised to see, not only the cask and the sea-chest still nearer but on the top of the latter, a something that was not there before. Something that lay along the lid, with arms stretched downwards, and hands clutching its projecting edges. He also perceived two dark rounded objects in the water,—one near each end of the chest,—one rounder and blacker than the other, but both easily distinguishable as the heads of human beings.
The singular tableau was at once understood. Lilly Lalee was on the top of the sea-kit; Snowball and Ben Brace were flanking it, one at each end. The chest was supporting all three. Hurrah! they were saved!
Little William, at that moment, felt certain they would be saved; though that joyful certainty had not yet been communicated to them. Standing erect upon an elevated part of the raft, the boy had the advantage of them, and could note every movement they were making, without being seen by them.
He did not spend much time in merely looking at them. He knew that that would be of no avail; and after giving utterance to one or two joyous ejaculations, he returned to the oar, if possible plying it with greater energy than ever, from the renewed encouragement which he now derived from the confidence of success.
When he turned again and stood upright, looking to windward, the tableau had changed. Lilly Lalee was still lying along the lid of the chest, but only one head was seen in the water! It was that of the sailor, as the white face and the long flowing hair told him.
Where was the cranium of the sea-cook? Where was the skull of Snowball? Gone with his body to the bottom?
These interrogatories flashed across the brain of the lad, causing him a feeling of alarm. It was of short continuance, however. In the next moment they were answered, and to his satisfaction. The Coromantee was seen astride of the cask, more conspicuous than ever: only, being now in a slightly different direction, he had not been seen at the first glance.
Without shouting, or making any other idle demonstration, the intelligent youth once more applied himself to the oars, and vigorously propelled the raft to windward.
He did not again desist, until a voice falling upon his ear and, pronouncing his name, caused him to look once more in the direction of the swimmers.
Then, instead of seeing the Coromantee astride of the cask, he perceived the round black physiognomy of that individual above the surface of the water, and scarce a cable’s length from the Catamaran!
A double line of frothy ripple proceeding from each of his large spread ears, and running rapidly into his wake, indicated the direction in which he was swimming,—towards the raft,—while his eyeballs showing fearfully, and white as the froth itself,—the spluttering and blowing that proceeded from his thick lips, and the agitation of the sea around him,—all told that he was doing his very best to come up with the Catamaran.
“Golly!” he gasped out, on perceiving himself within safe distance of being heard. “Row dis way, lilly Willy! Row like de debbil, good lad! I’se most done up,—dat I be. In de space ob anoder cable length dis chile he muss a gub up!”
And ending his speech with a loud “Whugh,” partly to clear the water from his throat, and partly to express the satisfaction he felt at the near prospect of deliverance, he continued to strike on towards the raft.
In a few seconds more the long-protracted struggle was brought to a termination. Snowball succeeded in reaching the raft, and, assisted by the sailor-lad, clambered aboard.
Only staying to catch a little breath, the negro laid hold of the second oar; and the Catamaran, under the double stroke, was soon brought en rapport with the sea-chest; when the remainder of the crew were restored to her decks, and delivered from a death that but a short time before had framed so certain as to be inevitable.
Chapter Forty Three.
Refitting the Raft.
On once more setting foot on the deck of the Catamaran the strong sailor was so thoroughly exhausted that he was unable to stand erect, and after scrambling aboard, and staggering a pace or two, he lay down along the planks. Lilly Lalee was taken care of by little William; who, half-leading, half-lifting her in his arms, tenderly placed her upon some pieces of canvas near the foot of the mast.
For this service, so fondly yet delicately performed, the boy felt himself amply rewarded by the glance of gratitude that shone in the eyes of the child,—even without the thanks faintly murmured by her on perceiving she was safe.
Snowball, equally exhausted, dropped into a recumbent position. All three remained silent for a considerable length of time, and without stirring either hand or foot,—as though to speak or move in their state of extreme weariness was impossible.
Little William, however, did not resign himself to inaction. As soon as he had disposed of Lalee, he made direct to that corner of the Catamaran where a small barrel or keg, half submerged under the water, was attached to one of the timbers of the craft. It was the keg containing the precious “Canary.”
Carefully extracting the bung,—which, in the lashing of the keg, had been purposely kept upwards,—he inserted a dipper,—that is to say, a small tin vessel, or drinking “taut,”—which had turned up among the stores of the sea-kit, and which, having been already used for the same purpose, was provided with a piece of cord attached around its rim, like the vessel in use among the gaugers or wine-merchants for drawing their wine from the wood. This was hoisted out again, filled with the sweet fluid which the keg contained; and which was at once administered,—first to Lilly Lalee, then to William’s own especial protector, Ben Brace; and lastly, after a fresh draw from the keg, to the real owner of the wine,—the Coromantee. The spirit of the grape, grown upon the declivities of Teneriffe, acted like magic on all three; and in a few minutes both sailor and sea-cook were sufficiently restored to think about taking certain prudent measures, that had now become necessary, and that would require a fresh exertion of their strength.
These measures were the recovery of the empty casks which William had detached from the Catamaran; and for the want of which that improvised craft not only lay much lower in the water than when they had left her, but was altogether a less seaworthy structure.
The sailor’s chest,—for which its owner now felt increased affection,—was the first thing secured; and next the cask upon which Snowball had bestraddled himself to get a better view. Both were near, and easily reached by a little rowing.
The other three casks had drifted to a considerable distance to leeward, and were still continuing their course; but as all three were in sight, the crew of the Catamaran anticipated no great difficulty in overtaking them.
Nor did any occur. A pair of oars handled by the sailor and sea-cook, with the sailor-boy standing up to direct the course in which they should pull, soon brought the raft down upon the straying hogsheads; and they were picked up one after the other, the severed ropes respliced, and all of them set back in their old positions,—so that but for the wet garments clinging around the bodies of those who had been overboard, and perhaps the pale and wearied expression upon their countenances, no one could have told that anything had gone wrong on board the Catamaran.
As to their wet clothes, none of them cared much for that; and if there had been any discomfort in it, it was not likely to continue long under the hot sun then shining down upon them. So rapidly was this part of the damage becoming repaired that all three,—but more especially Snowball—were now surrounded by a cloud of evaporation that would soon dry every stitch of clothing they had on.
The negro,—partly from the natural heat proceeding from his own body, and partly from the strong sunbeams,—was smoking like a fresh kindled pit of charcoal: so that, through the strata of steam that encompassed his head and shoulders, it would have been impossible to tell whether he was black or white. In the midst of this Juno-like nimbus however, the negro continued to talk and act, helping the sailor and little William, until not only were the water-casks restored to their proper places, but the sail was hauled up to the mast, and the Catamaran once more scudding before the breeze, as if not the slightest accident had occurred either to craft or crew.
Care was taken, however, this time to make fast the halliard rope with a proper “belay”; and although Snowball might have deserved a caution to be more vigilant for the future, it was not deemed necessary to administer it, as it was thought the peril out of which they had so miraculously escaped would prove to him a sufficient reminder.
There was but one misfortune arising out of the adventure that might have caused the crew of the Catamaran any serious regret. This was the loss of a large portion of their stock of provisions,—consisting of the dried fish,—partly those that had been half cured by Snowball previous to the union of the two rafts, and partly the flitches of shark-meat, that had been taken from the lesser raft, and added to Snowball’s store.
These, with the object of having them thoroughly dried, had been exposed to the sun, on the tops of the water-casks which little William had let loose. In the hurry and excitement of the moment, it was not likely the lad should give a thought to the flitches of fish. Nor did he; and while freeing the water-casks from their fastenings, and pushing them off from the raft, the pieces were all permitted to slide off into the water, and either swim or go to the bottom, as their specific gravity might dictate. The consequence was, that, when everything else was recovered, these were lost,—having actually gone to the bottom, or floated out of sight; or, what was more probable than either, having been picked up by the numerous predatory birds hovering in the heavens above, or the equally voracious fish quartering the depths of the ocean underneath.
It was not without some chagrin that Snowball contemplated his reduced stores,—a chagrin in which his companions could equally participate. At the time, however, they felt the misfortune less bitterly than they might otherwise have done,—their spirits being buoyed up by the miraculous escape they had just made, as well as by a hope that the larder so spent might be replenished, and by a process similar to that by which it had been originally stocked.
Chapter Forty Four.
The Albacores.
The hope of replenishing their larder was likely to be realised easily, and ere long. Scarce had their sail caught the breeze, when they perceived alongside the Catamaran a shoal of the most beautiful fish that are to be found in any part of the boundless ocean. There were several hundreds in the shoal; like mackerel, all nearly of one size, and swimming, moreover in the same direction,—just as a school of mackerel are seen to do.
They were much larger, however, than the common mackerel,—each being about four feet in length, with a stout, though well-proportioned body, having that peculiar elegance of shape which belongs to all the mackerel tribe.
Their colour was sufficient of itself to entitle them to the appellation of beautiful creatures. It was a bright turquoise blue or azure, showing, in certain lights, a tinge of gold. This was the colour of their backs; while underneath they were of a silvery white, gleaming with a lively iridescence. A row of spurious fins above the tail, and another underneath, were of a bright yellow; while their large round eyes exhibited an iris of silver.
Their pectoral fins were very long and sickle-shaped; while the dorsal one, also well developed, presented a structural peculiarity in having a deep groove running longitudinally down the spine of the back, into which the fin,—when at rest and depressed,—exactly fitted: becoming so completely sheathed and concealed, as to give to the fish the appearance of being without this apparatus altogether!
If we except their lovely hues, their greater size, and a few other less notable circumstances, the fishes in question might have been taken for mackerel; and it would have been no great mistake to so describe them: since they were in reality of this genus. They were of a different species, however,—the most beautiful species of the mackerel tribe.
“Albacore!” cried Ben Brace, as soon as he saw them shooting alongside the raft. “Albacore be they. Now, Snowy, out wi’ your hooks an’ lines. In this fresh breeze they be a’most sure to bite; and we’ll be able, I hope, to make up for the loss o’ the others. Hush all o’ ye! Ne’er a word; ne’er a movement to scare ’em off. Softly, Snowy! Softly, ye ole sea-cook.”
“No fear, Massa Brace,—no fear o’ dem leabin dis ole Cat’maran, so long’s de be a-gwine on dat fashion. Looker dar! Fuss to one side, den de todder,—back and for’rad as ef de cudn’t be content nowha.”
While Snowball was speaking, and before he had commenced, the albacores had entered upon a peculiar movement. On first joining company with the Catamaran, they swam for a time alongside,—the starboard side,—keeping pace with the raft, and evidently making no exertion to go ahead of her, as they might easily have done. On the contrary, they scarce moved their fins; but floated slowly along at the exact rate of speed at which the craft was sailing, and not one bit faster. As they swam parallel to the raft, and also parallel to each other, one might have fancied them all joined together by some invisible link, that kept them from changing their relative positions both to the Catamaran and to one another!
All at once, however, and quick as the change of a kaleidoscope, this parallelism was terminated,—not as regarded each other, but with respect to the course of the Catamaran By a single flutter of their tails, the whole school was seen simultaneously turning head towards the craft; and then, like a flash of lightning, they passed underneath.
For a moment they were out of sight; but in the next they appeared on the starboard beam, swimming parallel as before, both to the course of the Catamaran and to each other. The manoeuvre was executed with such precision and uniformity, as could not be imitated among men,—even under the tuition of the ablest drill-sergeant that ever existed. They swerved from right to left, as if each and all were actuated by the same impulse, and at the same instant of time. At the same instant their tails made a movement in the water,—at precisely the same point of time they turned together,—showing a list of its silvery abdomen, and with like simultaneous action did they dive under the keel of the Catamaran.
It was this peculiar manoeuvre on the part of the fish,—won after repeated by their shooting back to the starboard, and again returning to larboard,—that had elicited from Snowball the assertion, so confidently put forward, that there was no fear of their leaving the Catamaran so long as they were going in that fashion.
Of those upon the raft, Ben Brace alone comprehended Snowball’s meaning. To little William it was a matter of some surprise when the ex-sea-cook spoke so confidently, and acted, moreover, as if he had no fear of frightening the shy-looking creatures that were swimming alongside.
“Why, Snowy?” asked the lad,—“why is there no fear of their being scared off?”
“Kase, lilly Willy, I hab de idea dar be something else not far off, dat dem albacore am more feerd on dan we. I no see dat someting yet. We sure see de long snout, by ’m by.”
“The long snout!—what do you mean by that, Snowy?”
“Wha do a mean?—de long-nose a mean. Tole ye so! dar he be yonner,—right on de la’bord quarter. Dis nigger knew he no far off. Da’s why de beauties hab come roun de raff; an dat I hope keep um hyar till we hab cotch a few ob dem!”
“A shark!” cried the boy-sailor, catching a glance of some large fish at some distance out in the water on the larboard bow,—the direction in which Snowball had pointed.
“Shark! nuffin ob de kind,” rejoined the negro; “diff’rent sort ob fish altogedder. If him wa shark, de albacore no stay hyar. Dey go up to him, and dart all ’bout im,—jess like de lilly birds when dey see big hawk or de vulture. No shark he,—dat ere skulkin’ fella. He am massa long-nose,—de real enemy ob de albacore. No fear ob dem leabin’ us, while he anywhar in sight.”
Saying this the Coromantee proceeded to single out his hooks; and, assisted by Ben Brace, commenced baiting them with an unconcern that testified a full confidence in the truth of his assertion.
Chapter Forty Five.
The Sword-Fish.
Little William,—whose curiosity had become excited at the appearance of the strange fish,—stood looking over the larboard quarter, in hopes of getting a better view of it.
As yet, he had only obtained a slight glimpse of it: for the larboard quarter lay towards the south-west, and the sun, just then sinking down upon the sea, hindered him from having a fair opportunity to scan the surface in that particular direction.
Shading his eyes with the palm of his hand, he gazed for some time, but saw nothing,—either upon the surface or under it. Snowball, notwithstanding that he seemed wholly occupied with the hooks and lines, took notice of the reconnoissance of the sailor-lad.
“No use you look dat way, lilly Willy,” said he. “Doan you see dat de abbacores are now on de larbord side. Wheneber dey am on de larbord, you look for long-nose on de starbord. Truss dem take care dey no get on de same side wit’ dat ere fella.”
“There, Will’m!” interposed Ben. “Look out that way! there he be,—right astarn,—don’t ye see?”
“I see, I see!” cried William. “O, look, Lalee! What in odd fish it is! I never saw one like it before.”
This was true; for although the young sailer had already traversed many a long league of the Atlantic Ocean, he had not yet seen a fish of the same kind; and he might traverse hundreds of long leagues of any of the oceans without seeing the like again.
It was, in truth, one of the most singular denizens of the great deep that had thus come under the observation of the Catamaran’s crew,—so peculiar in its appearance that, without the intervention of Ben Brace, who at that moment called out in name, the boy could have pronounced it for himself.
It was a fish of some eight or ten feet in length; with a long bony snout, projecting horizontally forward, at least one third of the length of its body. This snout was nothing more than a prolongation of the upper jaw,—perfectly straight, of osseous structure, and tapering towards the end like the blade of a rapier.
Otherwise the fish was not ill-formed; nor did it present that hideous aspect characteristic of the more predatory creatures that inhabit the ocean. For all that, there was a certain shyness combined with great swiftness in its motion,—a skulking in its attitudes: as Snowball’s speech had already declared,—a truculent, trap-like expression in its quick watchful eyes, that told of an animal whose whole existence was passed in the pursuit of prey.
It was not to be wondered at that William should have mistaken the creature for a shark: for, in addition to the fact of the sun being in his eyes, there were points of similarity between the fish in question, and certain species of sharks, requiring a good view and an experienced observer to tell the difference. William perceived a large crescent shaped fin rising several inches above the surface of the water,—a tail lunated like that of the shark,—a hungry eye, and prowling attitude: the very characteristics of the dreaded tyrant of the deep.
There was one thing in which the creature in question differed materially from all the individuals of the squalus tribe. Instead of swimming slowly, it appeared to be one of the swiftest of fishes: for at each instant as the albacores changed their position from one side of the raft to the other, the long-snouted creature was seen to shoot to the same side with a velocity that almost baffled the sight to keep pace with it.
In fact, the eye could scarcely have traced its course, had it not been aided by two circumstances altogether strange and peculiar. The first was that the strange fish, while darting from point to point, caused a rushing sound in the water; like that produced by heavy rain falling upon the leaves of a forest. The second peculiarity was, that while thus progressing its hues became completely changed. Instead of the dull brown,—its colour when at rest,—its body presented a striated appearance,—a brindling of bright and dark blue,—sometimes heightened to a uniform azure!
It was not these peculiarities that had guided little William to the identification of the species; but the long, tapering snout, straight as a rapier, that projected in front of its body. This was a token not to be mistaken,—never to be forgotten by one who had seen it before. And the young sailor had before seen such a one; not at sea, nor under the sea, but in a collection of “natural curiosities,” that had by chance been carried through his native town; and whose inspection, perhaps, had much to do with that impulse that first caused him to “run away to sea.” Under a glass-case he had examined that piece of osseous structure, described by the showman as the sword of the sword-fish. Under the waves of the tropical Atlantic,—but little less translucent than the glass,—he had no difficulty in identifying the formidable weapon!
Chapter Forty Six.
The Swordsman of the Sea.
While William was gazing upon the strange fish, it was seen all at once to make a rush in the direction of the raft. They could hear a “swishing” sound, as its huge body passed through the water, at the same time that its great scimitar-shaped dorsal fin, projecting above the surface, rapidly traced a rippling line through the whole of its course.
The dash was evidently directed against the shoal of albacore swimming alongside the Catamaran.
But these creatures were constantly on the alert. Although exhibiting every symptom of fright, they did not seem for an instant to lose their presence of mind; and as the sword-fish was seen rushing towards them, all turned as if by a common impulse, and, quick as lightning, passed to the other side of the raft.
The sword-fish, seeing himself foiled, checked the velocity of his charge with a suddenness that displayed his great natatory powers; and, instead of pursuing the albacores under the Catamaran, he continued to follow after the craft, in a sort of skulking, cowardly fashion,—as if he designed to use stratagem rather than strength in the capture of his prey.
It soon became evident to little William that the albacores had sought the companionship of the Catamaran less from the idea of obtaining any droppings there might be from her decks, than as a protection against their formidable pursuer,—the sword-fish. Indeed, this is most probably the reason why not only the albacores and their kindred the bonitos, but several other kinds of shoal-fish, attach themselves to ships, whales, and other large objects, that they may encounter floating or sailing upon the open ocean.
The mode in which the sword-fish makes his attack,—by rushing irresistibly upon his prey, and impaling it on his long, slender beak,—is full of risk to himself; for should his “sword” come in contact with the sides of a ship, or any substance of sufficient strength to withstand his impetuous “thrust,” the chances are that the weapon either gets broken off altogether, or so embedded that the owner of it falls a victim to his rash voracity.
Under the excitement of fear, and occupied in watching the movements of their enemy, Snowball knew there was no chance of the albacores paying any attention to the hooks he had baited for them. Instead, therefore, of throwing them over the side, he permitted them to lie upon the planks, and waited until the sword-fish should either take his departure or fall far enough into the wake of the Catamaran to permit, on the part of the creatures swimming alongside, a temporary forgetfulness of his presence.
“It am no use trowin’ dem de hook,” said he, addressing himself to the sailor, “no use jess yet, so long de sharp snout am dar. We mus’ wait till he go out ob dar sight an out ob dar hearin too.”
“I suppose we must,” rejoined Ben; “that be a pity too. They’d bite greedy enough, if the ugly thing warn’t there. That I know, for I’ve seed ’em many’s the time.”
This was not the only bit of information concerning the albacore and their enemy communicated by the sailor to his companions on the raft, but more especially to his protégé, who, feeling a strange interest in those creatures, had asked several questions concerning them. During the interval, while they were waiting for some change in the tactics of the pursuer,—hoping that he might get ahead and abandon the pursuit,—Ben imparted to his audience several chapters of his experience,—in which either albacore or sword-fish, and sometimes both, had figured as the principal actors. Among others, he related an anecdote of a ship in which he had sailed having been pierced by the beak of a sword-fish.
At the time the incident occurred there was no one on board who had any suspicion of its nature. The crew were below at their dinner; when one of the sailors who chanced to be on deck heard a loud splashing in the water. On looking over the ship’s side, and seeing a large body just sinking below the surface, the sailor supposed it to be some one of the crew who had gone over, and instantly raised the cry of “A man overboard!”
The crew were paraded; when it was ascertained that no one was missing. Though the sailors were at a loss to account for the singular appearance, the alarm soon subsided; and nothing more was thought of the matter. Shortly after, one of the men,—Ben Brace himself, it was,—chanced to ascend the rigging; and while aloft he perceived a rugged mass projecting from the side of the ship, just below the water line. On a boat being lowered and the thing examined, it proved to be the rostrum of a sword-fish, broken off from the animal’s head. It was the body of the animal,—no doubt, killed by the concussion,—which the sailor had seen sinking in the water.
The “sword” had pierced completely through the copper sheathing and solid timbers of the larboard bow of the ship; and on the sailors going below, they found eight or ten inches of its top projecting into the inside, embedded among some coals contained in the hold!
Singular as the sailor’s story might appear, it was not in the least an exaggeration. Snowball knew it was not: for the ex-sea-cook could have told of like experiences; and William was also satisfied of its truth, from having read the account of a similar incident, and heard that the evidences of it,—that is, a piece of the solid wood of the ship’s timbers, with the sword imbedded in it,—were to be seen at any time in the British Museum.
Just as Ben had finished his curious relation, a movement upon the part of the pursuer told an intention of changing his tactics,—not as if he was about to retreat, but rather to assume a bolder attitude of offence. The sight of such a fine shoal of fat albacores,—so near and yet so long keeping clear of his attack, appeared to have tantalised him to a point beyond endurance; and, being extra hungry, perhaps he was determined to dine upon them, coute qui coute.
With this intent he drew nearer to the Catamaran swooping from quarter to quarter, then along the sides, and once or twice darting ahead, so as to create in the shoal a degree of excitement that might force them into irregularity of action.
This very effect he at length succeeded in producing; for the pretty creatures became more frightened than ever; and instead of swimming, as hitherto, in concert, and parallel to each other as they had been doing, they got huddled into a crowd, and commenced darting, pell-mell, in every direction.
In the midst of their confusion a large band became separated,—not only from the others, but from the Catamaran,—and fell several fathoms’ length into the wake of the craft.
Upon these the hungry eyes of the prowling monster were now fixed; but only for a moment: for in the next he was charging down among them with a velocity that caused the water to spray upwards against his dorsal fin, while the rushing sound made by his body could be heard afar off over the ocean, “Look, Will’m!” cried Ben, anxious that his protégé should not miss seeing the curious spectacle. “Look, lad! yonder’s a sight worth seein’. Shiver my timbers, if he han’t got a brace o’ ’em on his toastin’ fork!”
While Ben was speaking, the sword-fish had charged into the middle of the frightened flock. There was a momentary plashing,—as several of the albacores leaped up out of the water and fell back again,—there was a surging and bubbling over a few yards of surface, which hindered a clearer view of what was passing; and then outside reappeared the sword-fish, with his long weapon projected above the water, and a brace of the beautiful albacores impaled upon its point!
The wretched creatures were struggling to free themselves from their painful position; but their struggles were not for long. They were terminated almost on the instant,—by the sword-fish giving a quick jerk of his head, and tossing, first one and then the other of his victims high into the air!
As they came down again, it was to fall, not upon the water, but into the throat of the voracious tyrant; who, although toothless and without any means of masticating, made shorter work of it by introducing them untoothed, and at a single gulp, into his capacious maw!
Chapter Forty Seven.
Angling for Albacore.
After a while the crew of the Catamaran watched the manoeuvres of the sword-fish with a degree of interest that almost caused them to forget their own forlorn situation. Little William and Lilly Lalee were especially delighted with the singular spectacle; and long after the sailor and Snowball had turned their attention to other and more necessary matters, the two stood side by side gazing out upon the ocean in the direction in which the sea-swordsman had been seen.
We say had been seen: for, after swallowing the brace of albacores, the voracious monster had suddenly disappeared, either by diving deep down into the sea, or shooting off to some distant point.
Little William and Lalee looked everywhere,—first astern, where the swordsman had made the display of his skill; then on both sides; and, finally, ahead. They looked in these different directions,—because, from what they had already seen of its natative powers, they knew that the great fish could pass in a few seconds through a hundred fathoms of water, and therefore was as likely to be on one side as the other.
On no side, however, could the fish be seen; and, although both the sailor-lad and Lalee would have been pleased to witness a little more of that same sword exercise, they were at length forced to the conclusion that the performance was over and the performer gone away,—perhaps, to exhibit his prowess in some other quarter of the aquatic world.
“Berry like,—berry like he gone way,” said Snowball, in reply to the interrogatory of little William. “A good ting if dat am de fack; fo’ den we hab chance to hook up some o’ dese hya abbacore. See dem now! Doan’ you see how berry different dey are behavin’. Dey no longer ’feerd. Dat am sign dat de long snout hab turn him nose in some oder direcshun. He gone fo’ sartin.”
Sure enough the behaviour of the albacores was very much altered, as Snowball had affirmed. Instead of flashing about from one side of the raft to the other, and exhibiting manifest symptoms of alarm, they now swam placidly alongside, at a regular rate of speed, just keeping up with the Catamaran.
They looked, moreover, as if they would now take the bait, which during the presence of the sword-fish they had obstinately refused to touch, though frequently flung, both by Snowball and the sailor, right under their snouts.
Both were again preparing to repeat their angling operations; and in a few seconds’ time each had his hook ready, with a piece of shark-meat temptingly attached to it, the bait being rendered still more attractive from having a little shred of scarlet flannel looped around the shank of the hook, while several fathoms of stout sennit-cord served as trolling-lines.
Plash into the water went the two baited hooks, both at once; and, almost before the ripples caused by the plunge had ceased to circle upon the surface, a still louder plashing could be heard, and a much rougher ripple seen,—in short, a large space of the surface agitated into foam, where a brace of albacores were fluking and struggling on the respective hooks of Snowball and the sailor.
Right rapidly were they hauled aboard, and their struggles brought to a termination by a smart tap on the head administered to each in succession, by a handspike, which had suddenly found its way into the grasp of the sailor.
No time was thrown away in contemplating the captives, or triumphing over their capture. Little William and Lalee alone examined the two beautiful creatures thus brought within their reach; while Snowball and the sailor, rapidly readjusting the baits upon their hooks, that had been slightly disarranged by the teeth of the tunnies,—for the albacore is a species of tunny fish,—once more flung them forth.
This time the baits were not so greedily “grabbed” at. As if the “school” had become suspicious, they all for a considerable time fought shy of it; but, as it was trolled so temptingly under their very snouts, first one and then another began to make approach,—now nearer and nearer, one or two taking a nibble at it, and then dropping it again, and suddenly shying off,—as if they had discovered something unpleasant either in its taste or touch.
This delicate nibbling continued for several minutes when, at length, an albacore more courageous than its companions, or perhaps with an emptier stomach than the rest, at sight of the tempting morsel suddenly took leave of his discretion; and, darting forward, seized the bait upon Ben’s hook, swallowing bait, hook, and several inches of the sennit-cord, at a single gulp!
There was no danger of its being able to detach itself from that hook. The barb was already fast in its entrails before Ben gave the jerk to secure it. Another jerk brought the fish out of its native element, landing it amidships on board the Catamaran, where, like its two predecessors, it was instantly knocked on the head.
Snowball continued to “troll” his line in the most approved fashion; and was soon again joined by his brother “piscator,” who, after settling the scores with the second fish he had caught, had adjusted a fresh bait, and once more flung his line into the water.
For some reason or other, the albacores became suddenly shy,—not as if alarmed at the action of the anglers, but rather from having their attention attracted to some other object invisible to the eyes of those on the Catamaran. The fish were so near the raft, that every movement made by them could be easily observed,—even to the glancing of their silvery irides,—and those who observed them could see that they were looking aloft.
Up went the eyes of the Catamarans, both anglers and idlers turning their glances towards the sky. There was nothing to be seen there,—at least, nothing to account for the shyness of the fish, or the upward cast of their eyeballs. So thought three of the party,—little William, Lalee, and the sailor,—who beheld only the blue, cloudless canopy of the heavens.
Snowball, however, whose single experience of ocean-life was greater than the sum total of the other three twice told, did not, like the rest, desist all at once from his scrutiny of the sky, but remained gazing with upturned look for period of several minutes.
At the termination of that time, an exclamatory phrase, escaping from his lips, proclaimed the discovery of some object that, to his mind, accounted for the odd behaviour of the albacores.
“De frigate-bird!” was the phrase that came mutteringly from between Snowball’s teeth. “Ya, ya,—dar am two ob dem,—de cock an’ hen, I s’pose. Dat ’counts for de scariness of dese hya fish. Dat’s what am doin’ it.”
“O, a frigate-bird!” said Ben Brace, recognising in Snowball’s synonyme one of the most noted wanderers of the ocean,—the Pelicanus aquila of the naturalists, but which, from its swift flight and graceful form, is better known to mariners under the appellation given to it by Snowball.
“Where away?” interrogated the sailor. “I don’t see bird o’ any sort. Where away, Snowy?”
“Up yonner,—nearly straight ober head,—close by dat lilly ’peck ob cloud. Dar dey be, one on de one side, odder on fodder,—de ole cock an’ de ole hen, I’se be boun!”
“Your daylights be uncommon clear, nigger. I don’t see ne’er a bird—Ah, now I do!—two of ’em, as you say. Ye’re right, Snowy. Them be frigates to a sartainty. It’s easy to tell the cut o’ thar wings from any other bird as flops over the sea. Beside, there be no other I knows on as goes up to that height. Considerin’ that thar wings be spread nigh a dozen feet, if not all o’ that, and that they don’t look bigger than barn-swallows, I reckon they must be mor’n a mile overhead o’ us. Don’t you think so, Snowy?”
“Mile, Massa Brace! Ya, dey am two mile ’bove us at de berry lees. Dey doan’ ’peer to move an inch from dat same spot. Dar be no doubt dat boaf o’ ’em am sound ’sleep.”
“Asleep!” echoed little William, in a tone that betokened a large measure of astonishment. “You don’t say, Snowball, that a bird can go to sleep upon the wing?”
“Whoo! lilly Willy, dat all you know ’bout de birds in dis hya part ob do worl’? Sleep on de wing! Sartin dey go ’sleep on de wing, an’ some time wif de wing fold close to dar body, an’ de head tuck under ’im,—don’t dey, Mass’ Brace?”
“I ain’t sartin as to that,” doubtingly answered the ex-man-o’-war’s-man. “I’ve heerd so: but it do seem sort o’ unnat’ral.”
“Whoo!” rejoined Snowball, with a slightly derisive inclination of the head; “why for no seem nat’ral? De frigate hersef she sleep on de water widout sails set,—not eben a stitch ob her canvas. Well, den: why no dem frigate-birds in de air? What de water am to de ship de air am to de birds. What hinder ’em to take dar nap up yonner, ’ceptin’ when dar’s a gale ob wind? Ob coos dat u’d interrup’ dar repose.”
“Well, nigger,” rejoined the sailor, in a tone that betokened no very zealous partisanship for either side of the theory, “you may be right, or you may be wrong. I ar’n’t goin’ to gi’e you the lie, one way or t’ other. All I know is, that I’ve seed frigates a-standing in the air, as them be now, making way neyther to windart or leuart; f’r all that I didn’t believe they was asleep. I kud see thar forked tails openin’ and closin’ jist like the blades o’ a pair o’ shears; and that inclined me to think they war wide awake all the time. If they was asleep, how kud they a-kep waggin’ thar tails? Though a bird’s tail be but feathers, still it must ha’ some feelin’ in it.”
“Law, Massa Ben!” retorted the negro, in a still more patronising tone, as if pitying the poverty of the sailor’s syllogism, “you no tink it possible that one move in dar sleep? You nebber move you big toe, or you foot, or some time de whole ob you leg? Beside,” continued the logician, passing to a fresh point of his argument, “how you s’pose de frigate-bird do ’idout sleep? You know berry well he not got de power to swim,—him feet only half web. He no more sit on de water dan a guinea-fowl, or a ole hen ob de dunghill. As for him go ’sleep on de sea, it no more possyble dan for you or me, Massa Ben.”
“Well, Snowy,” slowly responded the sailor, rather pushed for a reply, “I’m willin’ to acknowledge all that. It look like the truth, an’ it don’t,—both at the same time. I can’t understan’ how a bird can go to sleep up in the air, no more’n I could hang my old tarpaulin’ hat on the corner o’ a cloud. Same time I acknowledge that I’m puzzled to make out how them thar frigates can take thar rest. The only explanation I can think o’ is, that every night they fly back to the shore, an’ turns in thar.”
“Whoogh! Massa Brace, you knows better dan dat. I’se heerd say dat de frigate-bird nebber am seed more’n a hunder league from de shore. Dam! Dis nigga hab seed dat same ole cock five time dat distance from land,—in de middle ob de wide Atlantic, whar we sees ’um now. Wish it was true he nebber ’tray more dan hunder knots from de land; we might hab some chance reach it den. Hunder league! Golly! more’n twice dat length we am from land; and dere ’s dem long-wing birds hov’rin’ ’bove our heads, an sleepin’ as tranquil as ebber dis nigga did in de caboose ob de ole Pandora.”
Ben made no reply. Whether the reasoning of the Coromantee was correct or only sophistical, the facts were the same. Two forms were in the sky, outlined against the back ground of cerulean blue. Though distant, and apparently motionless, they were easily distinguishable as living things,—as birds,—and of a kind so peculiar, that the eye of the rude African, and even that of the almost equally rude Saxon, could distinguish the species.