The frigate-bird (Pelicanus aquila), which had thus become the subject of conversation on board the Catamaran, is in many respects very different from other ocean-birds. Although generally classed with the pelicans, it bears but a very slight resemblance to any species of these misshapen, unwieldy, goose-like creatures.
It differs from most other birds frequenting the sea in the fact of its feet being but slightly webbed, and its claws being talons, like those of hawks or eagles.
Otherwise, also, does it resemble these last birds,—so much that the sailors, noting the resemblance, indifferently call it “sea-hawk,” “man-of-war hawk,” and “man-of-war eagle.” The last appellation, however, is sometimes given to the great wandering albatross (Diomedea exulans).
The male frigate-bird is jet black all over the body; having a red bill, very long, vertically flattened, and with the mandibles abruptly hooked downwards at the point. The female differs in colour: being sooty black above, and having a large white disc on the abdomen.
The legs are short in proportion to the bulk of the bird; the toes, as already stated, being furnished with talons,—the middle one scaly, and notched underneath; while the legs are feathered to the feet, showing another point of affinity with predatory birds of the land. Still another may be pointed out: in the innermost toe or pollex, being turned outwards, as if intended for perching,—which the frigate-bird actually does when it visits the shore, often making its nest upon trees, and roosting among the branches.
In fact, this creature may be regarded as a sort of connecting link between the birds of prey who make their home on the dry land, and the web-footed birds that equally lead a predatory life upon the sea. Perhaps it continues the chain begun by the ospreys and sea-eagles, who take most of their food out of the water, but do not stray far from the shore in search of it.
The frigate-bird, a true sea-hawk,—sea-eagle, it may be called, since its bold, noble qualities entitle it to the name,—makes its excursions so far from the shore that it is not unfrequently seen in the very middle of the Atlantic. Now, this is the most curious circumstance in its history, and one that has hitherto perplexed ornithologists. Since its feet are not provided with the “web,” it cannot swim a stroke; nor has it ever been seen to alight on the water for the purpose of taking rest. It is not likely that it can settle on the wave,—the conformation of its feet and body making this an impossibility.
How, then, does it find rest for its tired wings? This is the question to which an answer is not easily given.
There is a belief, as Ben alleged, that it returns every night to roost upon the land; but when it is considered that to reach its roost would often require a flight of a thousand miles,—to say nothing of the return journey to its fishing-ground,—the statement at once loses all vrai-semblance, Many sailors say that it goes to sleep suspended aloft in the air, and so high up as to be sometimes invisible. This was the belief of Snowball.
Now, this belief, or conjecture, or whatever you may—term it, on the part of Jack tar, though sneered at as impossible, and even scoffed at as ridiculous, may, after all, not be so very far beyond the truth. Jack has told some rare tales in his time,—“yarns” that appear to be “spun” out of his fancy, quite as much as this one,—which, after having run the gauntlet of philosophic ridicule on the part of closet naturalists, have in the long run turned out to be true! Has not his story of the “King of the Cannibal Islands,”—Hokee-pokee-winkee-wum, with his fifty wives as black as “sut,” and all his belongings, just as Jack described them,—actually “turned up” in reality, in the person of Thakombau and a long line of similar monsters inhabiting the Fiji Islands?
Why, then, may not his statements, about the frigate-bird going to sleep upon the wing be a correct conjecture, or observation, instead of a “sailor’s yarn,”—as sage and conceited, but often mistaken, professors of “physical science” would have us regard it?
Such professors as are at this moment, in almost every newspaper in the country,—scientific journals among the number,—abusing and ridiculing the poor farmer for destroying the birds that destroy his grain; and telling him, if he were to let the birds alone, they would eat the insects that commit far greater devastation on his precious cerealia! Conceited theorists! it has never occurred to them, that the victims of the farmer’s fowling-piece—the birds that eat corn—would not touch an insect if they were starving! The farmer does not make war on the insect-eating birds. Rarely, or never, does he expend powder and shot on the swallow, the wagtail, the tomtit, the starling, the thrush, the blackbird, the wren, the robin, or any of the grub and fly-feeders. His “game” are the buntings and Fringillidae,—the larks, linnets, finches, barley-birds, yellowhammers, and house sparrows, that form the great flocks afflicting him both in seed-time and harvest; and none of which (excepting, perhaps, the last-mentioned gentry, who are at times slightly inclined towards a wormy diet) would touch an insect, even with the tips of their bills. Ha! ye scribblers of closet conceits! you have been sneering at “Chaw-bacon” long enough. He may turn and scoff at you; for, in very truth, the boot (of ignorance) is upon the other leg!
Let us make sure then, lest Jack’s theory regarding the lumbers of the sea-hawk be not mythical in the mirror of our own incredulity.
That the bird can take rest in the air is perfectly certain. It may be seen—as the crew of the Catamaran saw it—suspended on outspread wing, without any perceptible motion except in its tail; the long, forked feathers of which could be observed opening and closing at intervals; according to the sailor’s simile, like the blades of a pair of scissors. But this motion might be merely muscular, and compatible with a state of slumber or unconscious repose. At all events, the bird has been seen to keep its place in the air for many minutes at a time, with no other motion observable than that of the long and gracefully-forking feathers of its tail.
A fish sleeps suspended in the water without any apparent effort. Why not certain birds in the air, whose body is many times lighter than that of a fish, and whose skeleton is constructed with air vessels to buoy them up into the azure fields of the sky? The sea-hawk may seldom require what is ordinarily termed rest. Its smooth, graceful flight upon wings, which, though slender, are of immense length,—often often feet spread,—shows that it is, perhaps, as much at ease in the air as if perched upon the bough of a tree; and it is certain that its claws never clasp branch, nor do its feet find rest on any other object, for weeks and months together.
It is true that while fishing near the shore it usually retires to roost at night; but afar over the ocean it keeps all night upon the wing. It does not, like many other ocean-birds,—as the booby, one of its own genus,—seek rest upon the spars of ships, though it often hovers above the mastheads of sailing vessels, as if taking delight in this situation, and not unfrequently seizes in its beak, and tearing away the pieces of coloured cloth fixed upon the vane.
A curious anecdote is told of a frigate-bird taken while thus occupied,—its captor being a man who had swarmed up to the masthead and seized it in his hand. As this individual chanced to be a landsman, serving temporarily on board the ship, and being remarkably tall and slender, the crew of the vessel would never have it otherwise, than that the bird, accustomed only to the figure of a sailor, had mistaken its captor for a spare spar, and thus fallen a victim to its want of discernment!
Strictly speaking, the frigate-bird does not fish, like other predatory birds of the ocean. As it cannot either dive or swim, of course it cannot take fish out of the water. How, then, does it exist? Where finds it the food necessary to sustain existence? In a word, it captures its prey in the air; and this commonly consists in the various species of flying-fish, and also the loligo, or “flying squids.” When these are forced out of their own proper element to seek safety in the air, the frigate-bird, ready to pounce down from aloft, clutches them before they can get back into the equally unsafe element out of which they have sprung.
Besides the flying-fish, it preys upon those that have the habit of leaping above the surface, and also others that have been already captured by boobies, terns, gulls, and tropic birds, all of which can both swim and dive.
These the frigate-bird remorselessly robs of their legitimate prize,—first compelling them to relinquish it in the air, and then adroitly seizing it before it gets back to the water.
The storm is the season of plenty to this singular bird of prey; as then it can capture many kinds of fish upon the surface of the waves. It is during those times when the sea is tranquil or perfectly calm, that it resorts to the other method,—of forcing the fishing-birds to yield up their prey, often even to disgorge, after having swallowed it!
Its wondrous powers of flight not only enable it to seize with certainty the morsel thus rejected, but so confident is it of its ability in the performance of this feat, that, if a fish chance to be awkwardly caught in its beak, it will fearlessly fling it into the air, and, darting after, grasp it again and again, until it gets the mouthful in a convenient position for being gulped down its own greedy throat.
The two birds which had attracted the attention of the Catamaran’s crew were seen suddenly to abandon their fixed poise in the air, and commence wheeling in circles, or rather in spiral lines that gradually descended towards the surface of the sea.
In a short while they were so low that the scarlet pouch under the throat of the male was easily recognisable, swollen out like a goitre; while the elegant conformation of the birds, with their long, scimitar-shaped wings, and slender forked tails, was sharply defined against the blue background of the sky.
The albacores no longer took any notice of the baited hooks; but, instead, commenced darting through the water in various directions, until they had got scattered about over the sea.
Was it fear of the predatory birds hovering above that was producing this change in their tactics?
It could not be that. They did not appear to be acting under any alarm; but rather as if prowling in search of something not yet visible either to them or to those who were watching them from the deck of the Catamaran.
Ben Brace and Snowball knew the fish were not frightened by the presence of the birds; but William, whose experience of sea-life was more limited,—although the albacores did not look alarmed,—thought, doubtingly, that they were so.
“Surely,” said he, appealing to his older companions, “such big fish needn’t be scared of them?”
As he put the interrogatory, he pointed upward to the two birds, now within a hundred fathoms of the surface. “Surely they can’t kill an albacore? If they did, they could never swallow it, I should think?”
“’T ain’t the albacore they be after,” replied Ben Brace, “nor be the albacore afeerd o’ them,—not a bit. There be another sort o’ fishes not far away, though we can’t see ’em. No more do these sky-blue chaps as be swimming around us. They be now lookin’ for ’em,—mighty sharp, as ye see; an’ they’ll be sartin to scare ’em up in three shakes o’ a shark’s tail.”
“What other sort of fish?” inquired William.
“Flyin’-fish, lad; same’s you an’ I made our first meal on, when we wur wellnigh starvin’. There’s a school not far off. The frigates has spied ’em from aloft, an’ that’s what’s brought them hoverin’ over. They’ve seed the albacores too; and as they know that these preys on the flyin’-fish, they’ve come down to be nearer thar game. Unless the albacores get thar eyes on the winged fish, and run down among ’em, there’ll be no chance for the frigates. They can do nothin’ till t’ other jumps ’em out o’ the water. The sky-blues don’t seem to see ’em yet; but I dare say it’ll not be long afore they do, judgin’ by their manoeuvres. Thar! Didn’t I tell thee, lad? See yonder! They be off after something.”
As the sailor spoke, several of the albacores were seen suddenly heading in a direction parallel to the course of the Catamaran and passing rapidly through the transparent water.
In an instant after, several white objects were seen springing up before them, which, after glancing for a moment in the air, plunged back again into the water.
Not any of the Catamaran’s crew were ignorant of the character of these objects. The silvery sheen of translucent wings, as they glittered under the bright sunbeams, proclaimed the creatures to be a “flock” of flying-fish, of which the albacores—of all their many enemies the most dangerous—were now in pursuit.
There may have been several of the flying-fish that did not rise into the air, but fell a prey to their pursuers under the water; and of those that did succeed in springing above the surface there were two that never came down again,—at least not in the shape of flying-fish.
The sea-hawks, wheeling above both pursuers and pursued, had been watching their opportunity; and as the pretty creatures made their appearance above water, both the birds swooped straight down among the prinkling cohort, each selecting a victim. Both made a successful swoop; for they were observed to turn and fly with a slant upwards, each with a flying-fish in its beak.
One of them, the male bird, didn’t appear to be satisfied with the hold he had taken; for, with a sudden jerk of his head, he let go again, pitched the prey several feet upward, and again as it came down took a fresh “grip” upon it.
No doubt this was to his satisfaction, for almost in the same instant that the flying-fish returned within the mandibles of his beak it disappeared, wings and all, down that dark passage, where, no doubt, many another of its kind had preceded it.
It was evident that neither of the birds considered one flying-fish sufficient for a meal; for as soon as they had swallowed those already taken, they again placed themselves in position for shooting down upon a second victim.
And now the crew of the Catamaran had the fortune to witness one of those singular incidents that may sometimes be seen upon the ocean,—a little drama of Nature, in which three of her creatures,—all three differing in kind,—formed the dramatis persona.
The cock frigate-bird, on turning to look for a fresh victim, espied one, or that which was likely to become one, almost directly beneath him.
It was a single flying-fish, which by some chance,—perhaps from not being either so fast a swimmer or so swift upon the wing as its fellows,—had lagged behind the “school.”
It was no longer playing laggard, and for a very good reason: since an albacore, nearly full three feet in length, was swimming after it and doing his very best to overtake it. Both were exerting every bit of muscular strength that lay in their fins,—the former to make its escape, the latter to prevent this consummation.
It was evident, however, to those on board the Catamaran, that the pursuer was gaining upon the pursued; and this at length became also evident to the flying-fish. The tiny creature, as it cut through the clear water, could be seen quivering with fear; and the spectators looked to see it shoot upward into the air, and thus disappoint the greedy tyrant at its tail.
No doubt this would have been the very course of conduct for the flying-fish to have pursued; and no doubt it was on the eve of adopting it, when, all at once, the long, shadowy wings and outstretched neck of the frigate-bird were seen outlined above.
The sight was sufficient to keep the fish under water a while longer, but only a very little while. Above were that ugly red pouch and craning neck; below, those hideous jaws, ready to open and engulf it.
There seemed no chance of escape. It was only a question of choice as to the mode of death: whether it would prefer to become food for a fish, or be devoured by a bird.
As, in itself, it partook a little of the nature of, or, at all events, of the habits of both, there was not much to choose between them; but whether it did not desire to deliver itself over to the enemy most like to itself, or whether it was that the latter was now so near as to be almost certain of seizing it, it declared its preference for the bird by making a sudden spring which carried it clear out of the water, and into the air.
The sea-hawk hovering above in eager expectation lost no time in making the attempt to secure it; but whether he was too sure of his prize, or from some other unexplained reason, certain it is that he gave a practical illustration of the old and well-known adage about the cup and the lip, by failing to clutch the prey.
He was seen darting towards it with open beak,—his talons cruelly extended for its capture; but, notwithstanding all his activity, the white object that shot glittering past him, and dropped into the sea far beyond, proclaimed to the Catamarans that the Exocetus had escaped.
And now all eyes were turned towards the sea-hawk, and became fixed upon him with glances that expressed surprise; for, instead of again soaring upward, and renewing his pursuit either of the creature that he had so clumsily permitted to escape him, or some other of its kind, the bird was seen to stay down upon the surface of the sea,—his wings spread to their full extent, and flapping the water with such violence as to raise the spray in a thick cloud over and around him!
He was heard, too, giving utterance to loud and repeated screams,—not in the tone of a conqueror; but as if he was in danger of being vanquished, or had already become the victim of some ocean tyrant stronger than himself!
For some seconds this inexplicable movement,—a struggle it seemed,—continued; not in one place, but over a space of many square yards of surface,—which appeared to be also agitated by the exertions of some creature underneath; the bird all the while repeating its cries, and beating the water into froth, like a huge pelican at play!
The crew of the Catamaran, utterly unable to account for this strange conduct on the part of the old cock, stood upon the deck of their craft, looking on with feelings of intense astonishment.
Even Snowball, who thought himself au fait to every incident of ocean-life, was surprised and puzzled equally with the rest.
“What be the matter wi’ the creetur, Snowy?” inquired Ben, thinking Snowball could explain its odd behaviour. “The frigate ’pears to ha’ got on its beam-end; shiver my timbers if ’t ain’t goin’ to founder!”
“Shibber ma timber, too,” rejoined Snowball, rudely pirating the sailor’s favourite shibboleth; “shibber ’um, if dis nigga know what am de matter. Golly! someting got de ole hawk by de legs,—dat seem sartin. Maybe ’um be shark, maybe ’um be long-nose—de—”
Snowball was going to say “sword-fish,” had he been permitted to finish his speech. But he was not; for while in the act of its delivery, with the whites of his eyes rolling in conjectural wonder, something from below struck the plank, upon which he was standing, and with such a shock that the piece of timber was started from its fastenings, and impelled suddenly upwards,—not only knocking the ex-sea-cook out of his perpendicular position, but pitching him, as from a catapult, clear across the Catamaran, and into the sea on the opposite side!
This was not all. The plank from which Snowball had been projected instantly fell back into its place,—in consequence of its being one of the heaviest pieces of timber in the raft,—but instead of remaining there, it was again seen to shoot upward, then fall back upon the water, as if dragged down by a powerful but invisible hand,—the hand of some sea-god or demon,—perhaps of Neptune himself!
Not only the plank, but the whole raft moved under this inexplicable impulsion,—which had communicated to it a rocking motion, not from side to side, but upwards and downwards! So quick and violent was this mysterious oscillation, that it was with difficulty the three individuals who still occupied the decks of the craft could keep either their balance or their feet.
Along with the motion of the raft there was a corresponding commotion in the water,—accompanied by a loud splashing noise that seemed to proceed from under the timbers, on which, like so many acrobats, they were endeavouring to balance themselves; and in a few seconds after they had felt the great shock, the sea all around exhibited a surface of high waves crested with foam!
Snowball, who had risen to the surface after the somersault that had plunged him deep down into the sea, perceiving that the raft still continued to heave upward and downward, made no attempt to get on board; but swimming alongside, sputtered forth his terrified ejaculations. Even the brave man-o’-war’s-man, who had faced death in a thousand shapes, was, at that moment, the victim of fear.
How could it be otherwise? He could think of nothing in nature capable of causing that mysterious commotion and who, without trembling, could withstand the assaults of the supernatural?
“Shiver my timbers!” cried Ben, himself shivering as he spoke the words, “what in old Nick’s name has got under us? Be it a whale that’s bumpin’ its back against the rail? Or—”
Before he could pronounce the second interrogatory, a loud crash sounded in the ears of all,—as if the plank heaving so mysteriously had been suddenly torn in twain!
This sound, whatever had caused it, seemed to proclaim the climax of the commotion: for immediately after the Catamaran began to compose herself, the waves caused by her continued rocking gradually grew less, until at length, once more “righted,” she lay in her customary position upon the tranquil surface of the sea.
As soon as the Catamaran had fairly recovered her equilibrium, Snowball condescended to climb aboard. The ludicrous appearance of the negro, as he stood dripping upon the deck, might have excited laughter; but neither Ben Brace, nor his acolyte, nor the little Lalee, were in a mood for mirth. On the contrary, the curious incident that had just occurred was yet unexplained; and the awe with which it had inspired them still continued to hold all three in a sort of speechless control. Snowball himself was the first to break silence.
“Good Gorramity!” he exclaimed, his teeth chattering like castanets, as the words passed between them. “Wha’s all de rumpus ’bout? Wha you tink, Massa Ben? Wha make dat dratted fuss under de raff? De water be plash bout so I’ve see nuffin, ’cepting a big black heap o’ someting. Golly! I b’lieve it war de jumbe,—de debbil!”
The terrified looks of the speaker, while giving utterance to these words,—especially when pronouncing the dreaded name of the jumbe—told that he was serious in what he said; and that he actually believed the devil to have been the agent who had been causing the mysterious commotion!
The English sailor, though not entirely free from a certain tinge of superstition, did not share Snowball’s belief. Though unable, by any experience he had ever gone through, to account for the odd incident, still he could not ascribe it to supernatural agency. The blow which started the plank on which Snowball had been standing had communicated a shock to the whole structure. It might have been given by some huge fish, or other monster of the deep; and though unaccountable and unexpected, might, nevertheless, be quite natural. It was the shaking which the Catamaran kept up afterwards,—almost to the spilling of the whole crew into the water,—that most perplexed the old man-o’-war’s-man. He could not imagine why a fish, or any other creature, having butted its head once against the “keel” of the craft, would not instantly desist from such an idle encounter, and make off as fast as fins could carry it.
Ben’s first impression was, that a whale had by chance risen under the raft; as he had known them to do against the sides of ships. But then the persistence of the creature, whatever it was, in its odd attack, argued something more than accident. On the other hand, if the attack was designed, and had been made by a whale, of whatever species, the sailor knew that it would not have left off after merely shaking the raft. A whale, with a single flirt of his tail, would have sent the whole structure flying into the air, sunk it down into the deep, or scattered it in fifty fragments over the surface of the water.
One of these things a whale would undoubtedly have done. So believed Ben Brace; and therefore the creature that had come so near capsizing them could not be a whale. What was it, then? A shark? No. It could not be a shark. Though there are two or three species of these monsters, quite as large as good-sized whales, the sailor never knew of their assaulting anything after that fashion.
As they stood speculating on the cause of their curious adventure, a shout from Snowball announced that the ex-cook had at length discovered the explanation.
Snowball’s first thought, after having partially recovered from his fright, was to examine the plank from which, like an acrobat from his spring-board, he had made that involuntary somersault.
There, just by the spot on which he had been standing, appeared an object that explained everything: a sharp, bony, proboscis-like implement, standing up a full foot’s length out of the timber, slightly obliqued from the perpendicular, and as firmly imbedded in the wood as if it had been driven in by the blows of a blacksmith’s hammer!
That it had penetrated the plank from underneath could be easily seen, by the ragged edge, and split pieces around the orifice where it came out.
But the negro did not stay to draw deductions of this nature. On catching sight of the object,—which he knew had not been there before,—his terror at once came to an end; and a long cachinnation, intended for a peal of laughter, announced that “Snowball was himself again.”
“Golly!” he exclaimed. “Look dar, Massa Brace. Look at de ting dat hab gub us sich a frightnin. Whuch! Who’d a beliebed dat de long-nose had got so much ’trength in im ugly body? Whuch!”
“A sword-fish!” cried Ben. The rostrum of one of these singular creatures was the sharp bone protruding above the plank. “You’re right, Snowy, it be a sword-fish, and nothing else.”
“Only de snout o’ one,” jocularly rejoined the negro. “De karkiss ob de anymal an’t dar any more. Dat was de black body I seed under de raff; but he an’t dar now. He hab broke off him long perbossus; and no doubt dat hab killed him. He gone dead, and to de bottom, boaf at de same time.”
“Yes,” assented the sailor. “It must have broke off while he was struggling to get clear, I heerd the crash o’t, like the partin’ o’ a spar; and just after, the raft stopped shakin’, an’ began to settle down again. Lor ha mercy on us! what a thrust he have made! That plank be five inches thick, at the very least, an’ you see he’s stuck his snout through it more’n a foot! Lor ’a mercy on us! What wonderful queery creeturs the ocean do contain!”
And with this philosophic reflection, from the lips of the man-o’-war’s-man, ended the adventure.
To the two oldest of the Catamaran’s crew the curious circumstances of the sword-fish thrusting his rostrum through the raft, and snapping it asunder, needed no explanation. Both knew that it was not with an intention of attacking the Catamaran that the “stab” had been given; nor was the act a voluntary one, in any way.
Not likely, indeed; since it had proved fatal to the swordsman himself. No one doubted his having gone dead to the bottom of the sea: for the bony “blade” was found to have been broken close to the “hilt,” and it was not possible the owner could exist without this important weapon. Even supposing that the fearful “fracture” had not killed him outright, the loss of his long rapier, the only tool by which he could obtain his living, would be sure to shorten his lease of life, and the final moment could not be long delayed.
But neither sailor nor ex-sea-cook had any doubt of the fish having committed suicide, no more than that the act was involuntary.
The explanation given by Ben Brace to his protégé was simple, as it was also rational. The sword-fish had been charging into a shoal of albacores. Partly blinded by the velocity of its impetuous rush, and partly by its instinct of extreme voracity,—perhaps amounting to a passion, it had seen nothing of the raft until its long weapon struck the plank, piercing the latter through and through. Unable to withdraw its rostrum from the fibrous wood, the fish had instantly inaugurated that series of struggles, and continued them, until the crash came, caused, no doubt, by the upheaved raft lurching suddenly down in a direction transverse to its snout.
Only a part of this explanatory information was extended to little William: for only a part was required. From some previous talk that had occurred on the same subject, he was already acquainted with a few of the facts relating to this foolish fencing on the part of the sword-fish.
Nor was there at that moment any explanation either offered or asked; for, as soon as the Catamaran had settled into her proper position, and Snowball had got aboard, the eyes of her whole crew,—those of the Coromantee among the rest,—became once more directed to that which had occupied their attention previous to receiving the shock,—the strange behaviour of the frigate-bird.
This creature was still down on the surface of the water, darting from point to point, fluttering and flopping, and throwing up the little clouds of spray, that, surrounding it like a nimbus, seemed to follow it wherever it went!
Though Ben Brace and Snowball had been able to explain the action of the fish, they were both at fault about the behaviour of the bird. In all their sea experience neither had ever witnessed the like conduct before,—either on the part of a frigate-bird, or any other bird of the ocean.
For a long time they stood watching the creature, and exchanging conjectures as to the cause of its singular action. It was clear this was not voluntary; for its movements partook of the nature of a struggle. Besides, its screams,—to which it gave an almost continuous utterance,—betokened either terror or pain, or both.
But why did it keep to the surface of the sea, when it was well-known to be a bird that could rise almost vertically into the air, and to the highest point that winged creatures might ascend?
This was the query to which neither sailor nor sea-cook could give a reply, either with positive truth or probable conjecture.
For full ten minutes it remained unanswered; that is, ten minutes after the sword-fish adventure had ended, and twenty from the time the frigate-bird had been seen to swoop at the flying-fish. Then, however, the problem received its solution; and the play of the Pelicanus aquila was at length explained.
It was no play on the part of the unfortunate bird, but a case of involuntary and fearful captivity.
The bird had begun to show symptoms of exhaustion, and as its strength became enfeebled, its wings flopped more gently against the water, the spray no longer rose around it, and the sea underneath was less agitated.
The spectators could now see that it was not alone. Beneath, and apparently clutching it by the leg, was a fish whose shape, size, and sheen of azure hue proclaimed it an albacore,—no doubt, the one that simultaneously with the bird itself had been balked in the pursuit of the flying-fish.
So far the detention of the frigate-bird upon the surface of the sea was explained; but not sufficiently. There was still cause for conjecture. The albacore seemed equally tired of the connection,—equally exhausted; and as it swam slowly about,—no longer darting swiftly from point to point, as at the beginning of the strife,—the spectators could now see that the foot of the sea-hawk, instead of being held between the jaws of the fish,—as at first they had supposed it to be,—appeared to be resting on the back of its head, as if the bird had perched there, and was balancing itself on one leg!
Mystery of mysteries! What could it all mean?
The struggles of both bird and fish seemed coming to a termination: as they were now only continued intermittently. After each interval, the wings of the former and the fins of the latter moved with feebler stroke; until at length both wings and fins lay motionless,—the former on, the latter in, the water.
But that the bird’s wings were extended, it would, no doubt, have sunk under the surface; and the fish was still making feeble endeavours to draw it down; but the spread pinions, extending over nearly ten feet of surface, frustrated the design.
It so chanced that the curious spectacle had occurred directly ahead of the Catamaran, and the craft, making way down the wind, kept gradually approaching the scene of the strife.
Every moment the respective positions of the two parties revealed themselves more clearly; but it was not until the raft swept within reach, and the exhausted adversaries were both taken up, that the connection between them became thoroughly understood.
Then it was discovered that the contest which had occurred between them was on both sides an involuntary affair,—had not been sought by either; but was the result of sheer accident.
How could it be otherwise: since the albacore is too strong for the beak of the frigate-bird,—too big for even its capacious throat to swallow; while, on the other hand, the frigate-bird never ventures to intrude itself on the cruising-ground of this powerful fish?
The accident which had conducted to this encounter, leading to a fatal entanglement, had been caused by a creature which is the common prey of both,—the little flying-fish, that for once had escaped from his enemies of both elements,—the air and the water.
In dashing down upon the flying-fish, the curving talons of the bird, missing the object for which they had been braced, entered the eye of the albacore. Partly because they fitted exactly into the socket, and partly becoming imbedded among the fibrous sutures of the skull, they remained fixed; so that neither bird nor fish—equally desirous of undoing the irksome yoke—was able to put an end to the partnership!
Snowball gave them a divorce, as effectual as could have been obtained in the court, ever to be noted as that of Sir Cresswell Cresswell.
The process was brief,—the execution following quick upon the judgment; though the sentences pronounced upon the criminals were not exactly the same.
The fish was knocked on the head; while a different, though equally expeditious, mode of punishment was executed upon the bird. Its head was twisted from its body!
Thus, somewhat after the fashion of Kilkenny cats, perished two tyrants of the sea. Let us hope that the tyrants of the land may all receive an analogous compensation for their crimes!
The reappearance of the sword-fish,—if it was the same that had already paid them a visit,—or more likely the discovery and pursuit of the “school” of flying-fish,—had caused the albacores to decamp from the neighbourhood of the Catamaran; so that with the exception of that taken from the talons of the frigate-bird, not one was any longer to be seen.
Once recovered from the excitement, caused by the singular accident that happened to the Catamaran,—as well as the other incident almost as singular,—her crew made an inspection of their craft, to see if any damage had accrued from the shock.
Fortunately there was none. The piercing of the plank, in which the bony rostrum remained firmly imbedded, was of no consequence whatever; and, although several feet of the “sword,”—the whole of the blade, in fact, excepting that which protruded above,—could be perceived jutting out underneath, they made no attempt to “extract” it: since it could not greatly interfere with the sailing qualities of the Catamaran.
The plank itself had been started slightly out of place aid one or two other timbers loosened. But in such able hands as those of Snowball and the sailor, these trifling damages were soon made good again.
The two baited hooks were once more dropped into the water, but the sun went down over the ocean without either of them receiving a nibble. No albacore,—no fish whatever,—no bird,—no living creature of any kind,—was in sight at the setting of that sun; which, slowly descending, as it were, into the silent depths of the ocean, left them in the purple gleam of the twilight.
Notwithstanding the interesting events which had transpired,—enough to secure them against a single moment of ennui,—they were far from being cheerful in that twilight hour. The stirring incidents of the day had kept them from thinking of their real situation; but when all was once more tranquil,—even to the ocean around them,—their thoughts naturally reverted to their very narrow chances of ultimately escaping from that wide, wild waste, stretching, as it seemed, to the ends of the world!
With wistful glances they had watched the sun sinking over the sea. The point where the golden luminary disappeared from their sight was due westward,—the direction in which they desired to go. Could they have only been at that moment where his glorious orb was shining down from the vertex, they would have been upon dry land; and, O what a thrilling thought is that of firm stable earth, to the wretched castaway clinging upon his frail raft in the middle of the endless ocean!
They were discouraged by the dead calm that reigned around them; for every breath of the breeze had died away before sunset. The surface of the sea was tranquil even to glassiness; and as the twilight deepened, it began to mirror the millions of twinkling stars gradually thickening in the sky.
There was something awful in the solemn stillness that reigned around them; and with something like awe did it inspire them.
It was not unbroken by sounds; but these were of a character to sadden rather than cheer them, for they were sounds to be heard only in the wilderness of the great deep,—such as the half-screaming laugh of the sea-mew, and the wild whistle of the boatswain-bird.
Another cause of discouragement to our castaways,—one which had that day arisen,—was the loss of their valuable dried fish.
It is true that only a portion of their stock had been spilled into the engulfing ocean; but even this was a cause of regret; since it might not be so easy to make up the quantity lost.
While angling among the albacores, with the prospect of making a successful troll, they had thought less of it. Now that these fish had forsaken them,—leaving only three in their possession,—and they were in doubt whether they might ever come across another “school,”—more acutely did they feel the misfortune.
Their spirits sank still lower, as the descending twilight darkened around them; and for an hour or more not a cheerful word was heard or spoken by that sad quartette composing the crew of the Catamaran.
Despondency cannot endure forever. Kind Nature has not ordained that it should be so. It may have its periods, longer or shorter as the case may be; but always to be succeeded by intervals, if not of absolute cheerfulness, at least of emotions less painful to endure.
About an hour after the going down of the sun, the spirits of those on board the Catamaran became partially freed from the weight that for some time had been pressing upon them.
Of coarse this change was attributable to some cause; and as it was a physical one, there could be no difficulty in tracing it.
It was simply the springing up of a breeze,—a fine breeze blowing steadily, and to the west,—the very direction in which it was desirous they should make way.
And they did make way; the Catamaran, in spite of the terrible “stab” she had received, scudding through the water, as if to show that the assault of the sword-fish had in no way disabled her.
Motion has always a soothing effect upon anyone suffering from despondent spirits; more especially when the movement is being made in the right direction. A boat stationary in the water, or drifting the wrong way against the stroke of the rower,—a railway carriage at a stand, or gliding back to the platform, contrary to the direction in which the traveller intends to go,—such experiences always produce a feeling of irksome uneasiness. When either begins to progress in its proper course,—no matter how slowly,—the unpleasant feeling instantly passes away; for we know that we are going “onward!”
“Onward!” a word to cheer the drooping spirit,—a glorious word for the despondent.
It was not that anyone on board the Catamaran had the slightest idea that that breeze would waft them to land; or even last long enough to bear them many leagues over the ocean. It was the thought that they were making progress in the right course,—going onward,—simply that thought that cheered them.
It roused them from their despondency sufficiently to beget thoughts of supper; and Snowball was seen starting up with some alacrity, and scrambling towards his stores.
His “locker” lay amidships; and as he had not far to go, nor any great variety of comestibles to choose from, he soon returned to the stern,—near which the others were seated,—carrying in his outstretched claws half a dozen of the “pickled” biscuits, and some morsels of cured fish.
It was a coarse and meagre meal; at which even a pauper would have pouted his lips; but to those for whom it was intended it had relish enough to make it not only acceptable, but welcome.
A greater delicacy was before their eyes, lying on the deck of the Catamaran. That was the albacore,—a fish whose flesh is equal in excellence to that of any taken out of the ocean. But the flesh of the albacore was raw; while that of Snowball’s stock, if not cooked, was at least cured; and this, in the opinion of the Catamarans, rendered it more palatable.
With a little “Canary” to wash it down, it was not to be despised,—at least, under the circumstances in which they were who supped upon it; but the wine was sparingly distributed, and drunk with a large admixture of water.
The bump of economy stood high upon the skull of the Coromantee. Perhaps to this might be attributed the fact of his being still in existence: since but for the industry he had exhibited in collecting his stores, and his careful hoarding of them, he might, with his protégé, have long before succumbed to starvation.
While eating their frugal supper, Snowball expressed regret at not having a fire,—upon which he might have cooked a cut from the albacore. The chef-de-caboose was not ignorant of the excellence of the fish.
He really felt regret,—less on his own account, than in consideration of his protégé, Lilly Lalee; whose palate he would fain have indulged with something more delicate than sun-dried fish and salty biscuit.
But as fire was out of the question, he was compelled to forego the pleasure of cooking Lalee’s supper; and could only gain gratification by giving to the girl more than her share of the sweet Canary.
Small as was the quantity distributed to each, it had the effect of still further cheering them; and, after supper, they sat for some time indulging in lighter converse than that to which they had lately accustomed themselves.
“Somethin’” said the sailor, “seem to tell me—jest as if I heerd it in a whisper—that we’ll yet reach land, or come in sight o’ a ship. I doan’ know what puts it in my head; unless it be because we’ve been so many times near going down below, an’ still we’re above water yet, an’ I hope likely to keep so.”
“Ya—ya! Massa Ben. We float yet,—we keep so long ’s we kin,—dat fo’ sartin. We nebba say die,—long ’s de Catamaran hold togedda.”
“I war ’stonished,” continued the sailor, without heeding the odd interpolation of the sea-cook, “wonderful ’stonished when that flyin’-fish chucked itself aboard our bit o’ plankin’, an’ it no bigger than the combin’ o’ a hatchway. What kud ’a conducted it thear,—to that spot above all others o’ the broad ocean? What but the hand o’ that angel as sits up aloft? No, Snowy! ye may talk as ye like ’bout your Duppys and Jumbes, and that other creetur ye call your Fetush; but I tell ye, nigger, thear be somethin’ up above us as is above all them,—an’ that’s the God o’ the Christyun. He be thear; and He sent the flyin’-fish into our wee bit o’ raft, and He sent the shower as saved me and little Will’m from dyin’ o’ thust; and He it war that made you an’ me drift to’rds each other,—so as that we might work thegither to get out o’ this here scrape, as our own foolishness and wickedness ha’ got us into.”
“Dat am de troof, Massa Brace, dat las’ remark,—only not altogedder! ’T want altogedder our own fault dat brought us on board de slabe-ship Pandora,—neider you not maseff. It mite a been our foolishness, dat I do admit; but de wickedness war more de fault ob oder men, dat am wickeder dan eider you or dis unfortunate Coromantee nigga.”
“Never mind, Snowy,” responded the sailor, “I know there be still some good in ye; and maybe there be good in all o’ us, to be favoured and protected as we’ve been in the midst o’ so many dangers. I think after what’s happened this day,—especially our escaping from that sharks an’ the long swim as we had to make after’ards,—we ought to be uncommon thankful, and say somethin’ to show it, too.”
“Say something! say what, Massa Brace?”
“I mean a prayer.”
“Prayer! wha’s dat?”
“Surely, Snowy, you know what a prayer be?”
“Nebba heerd ob de ting,—nebba in all ma life!”
“Well, it be to say somethin’ to Him as keeps watch up aloft,—either by way o’ askin’ for somethin’ you want to get, or thankin’ Him for what you ha’ got arready. The first be called a prayer,—the t’other be a thanksgivin’. Thear ain’t much difference, as I could ever see; tho’ I’ve heerd the ship’s chaplain go through ’em both,—ay, scores o’ times; but the one as we want now be the thanksgivin’; an’ I know little Will’m here can go through it like a breeze. Did you ever hear Will’m pray, Snowy?”
“Nebba! I tell ye, Massa Brace, a nebba heer anybody pray in de fashun you ’peak ’bout. Ob coas, I hab heer de nigga talk to da Fetish, de which I, tho’ I be a nigga maseff, nebba belieb’d in. Dis child no belieb in anyting he no see, an’ he see many ting he no belieb in.”
To this frank confession of faith on the part of the Coromantee Ben made no rejoinder that might signify either assent or opposition. His reply was rather a continuation of the train of thought that had led to his last interrogative.
“Ah, Snowy, if you heerd the lad! He do pray beautiful! Most equal to the parson, as we had aboard the frigate; an’ he warn’t slow at it, eyther. Do ’ee think, Will’m,” continued the sailor, turning to the lad with an inquiring look, “do ’ee think ye can remember that prayer as is in the Church Sarvice, and which I’ve heerd the frigate chaplain go through,—specially after a storm,—as speaks about deliverin’ us from all dangers by sea and by land? You’ve heerd it at home in the church. D’ye think ye could gie it as?”
“O,” answered William, “you mean the ‘Thanksgiving for Deliverance from our Enemies.’ Certainly I remember it. How could I forget what I’ve heard so many Sundays in church, besides often on week-days at home? O yes, Ben, I can repeat it, if you wish!”
“I do, lad. Gie it us, then. It may do good. At all events, we owe it, for what’s been done to us. So take a reef out o’ your tongue, lad, an’ fire away!”
Notwithstanding the bizarrerie of manner in which the request was made, the boy-sailor hesitated not to comply with it; and turning himself round upon his knees,—a movement imitated by all the others,—he repeated that thanksgiving of the Church Service, which, though well-known, is fortunately only heard upon very unfrequent occasions.
The thanksgiving appeared an appropriate finale to the toils and dangers of the day; and after it was offered up, Snowball, William, and Lalee lay down to rest,—leaving Ben Brace to attend to the steering-oar, and otherwise perform the duties of the dog-watch.