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Title: The Strife of the Sea

Author: T. Jenkins Hains

Illustrator: Clifford W. Ashley
        W. J. Aylward

Release date: October 20, 2017 [eBook #55780]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

Credits: Produced by Charlie Howard and the Online Distributed
        Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
        produced from images generously made available by The
        Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STRIFE OF THE SEA ***

[Illustration: IN THE WAKE OF THE WEATHER CLOTH.--See Pages 305-320.]




  THE STRIFE
  OF THE SEA

  T. JENKINS HAINS

  AUTHOR OF “THE WIND-JAMMERS,” ETC.

  [Illustration]

  NEW YORK
  THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO.
  _33-37 East Seventeenth St., Union Sq., North_




Copyright, 1903, by THE BAKER & TAYLOR CO.

  Copyright, 1901 and 1902, by HARPER & BROS.
  Copyright, 1902 and 1903, by THE SUCCESS CO.
  Copyright, 1902 and 1903, by THE INDEPENDENT.
  Copyright, 1903, by THE BUTTERICK PUB. CO. (LTD.)

_Published October, 1903._




TO

ROBERT MACKAY




[Illustration: CONTENTS]


                                                                    PAGE
  THE OLD MAN OF SAND KEY,                                            11

  THE OUTCAST,                                                        37

  THE SEA DOG,                                                        77

  THE CAPE HORNERS,                                                  101

  THE LOGGERHEAD,                                                    135

  THE WHITE FOLLOWER,                                                165

  KING ALBICORE,                                                     199

  THE NIBBLERS,                                                      227

  JOHNNY SHARK,                                                      251

  A TRAGEDY OF THE SOUTH ATLANTIC,                                   277

  IN THE WAKE OF THE WEATHER-CLOTH,                                  313




ILLUSTRATIONS


  CLAWING OFF THE CAPE,                                   _Frontispiece_

                                                           _Facing Page_
  THE GREAT SHAPE SAILED FOR THE TOP OF THE BUOY,                     44

  FULL INTO THE CENTER KING ALBICORE TORE HIS WAY,                   214

  THE LINE WAS WHIZZING OUT,                                         300




THE STRIFE OF THE SEA




[Illustration: _THE OLD MAN OF SAND KEY_]


He was an old man when he first made his appearance on the reef at
the Sand Key Light. This was years ago, but one could tell it even
then by the way he drew in his chin, or rather pouch, in a dignified
manner as he soared in short circles over the outlying coral ledges
which shone vari-colored in the sunshine beneath the blue waters of
the Gulf Stream. He had fished alone for many seasons without joining
the smaller and more social birds, and the keepers had grown to know
him. He was a dignified and silent bird, and his stately flight and
ponderous waddle over the dry reef had made it quite evident that he
was a bird with a past. Sandy Shackford, the head keeper, knew him well
and relied implicitly upon his judgment as to the location of certain
denizens of the warm Stream. He had come back again after a month’s
absence, and was circling majestically over the coral banks not a
hundred fathoms from the light.

The day was beautiful and the sunshine was hot. The warm current of
the Gulf flowed silently now with the gentle southwest wind, and the
white sails of the spongers from Havana and Key West began to dot the
horizon. Here and there a large barracouta or albicore would dart like
a streak of shimmering silver through the liquid, and the old man would
cast his glance in the direction of the vanishing point with a ready
pinion to sweep headlong at the mullet or sailor’s-choice which were
being pursued.

His gray head was streaked with penciled feathers which grew longer
as they reached his neck, and his breast was colored a dull, mottled
lead. His back and wings gave a general impression of gray and black,
the long pinions of the latter being furnished with stiff quills which
tapered with a lighter shade to the tips. His beak and pouch were of
more than ordinary proportions, for the former was heavy and hooked
at the end and the latter was large and elastic, capable of holding a
three-pound mullet.

He soared slowly over the reef for some time, and the keeper watched
him, sitting upon the rail of the lantern smoking his pipe, while his
assistant filled the body of the huge lamp and trimmed its several
wicks.

To the westward a slight ripple showed upon the surface of the quiet
sea. The pelican sighted it and stood away toward it, for it looked
like a mackerel that had come to the surface to take in the sunshine
and general beauty of the day. In a moment the old man had swung over
the spot at a height of about a hundred feet; then suddenly folding his
wings, he straightened out his body, opened his beak, and shot straight
downwards upon the doomed fish. It was literally a bolt from heaven
from out of a clear sky. The lower beak expanded as it hit the water
and opened the pouch into a dipper which scooped up the mackerel,
while the weight of the heavy body falling from the great height
carried everything below the surface with a resounding splash that
could be heard distinctly upon the light. Then up he came from the dive
with the fish struggling frantically in his tough leathern sack. He
rested a moment to get his breath and then stretched forth his pinions
again and rose in a great circle into the clear blue air.

“The old man’s fishin’ mackerel this mornin’,” said Sandy, “an’ I
reckon I’ll get the dory an’ try a squid over along the edge o’ the
Stream as soon as the breeze makes.”

“Well, take care you don’t lose nothin’,” said Bill with a grin.

“Whatcher mean?” snarled the older keeper.

“Nothin’,” answered the assistant.

“Then don’t say it,” said Sandy, and he walked down the steps of the
spider-like structure, muttering ominously, until he reached the reef
a hundred feet below, where, hauled high and dry, lay his boat. Sandy
was an old man, and had depended upon false teeth for some years. The
last time he had gone fishing he had lost them from his boat, and
as he could not leave the light he had nearly starved to death. In
desperation at last he had set the ensign union down and signaled for
assistance, the second keeper Bill being ashore on leave, and after
the U.S.S. _Ohio_ had come all the way from Key West to find out the
cause of the trouble he had been forced to explain to the officer his
humiliating disaster. As the danger of landing in the surf had been
great and the services of the man-of-war had been required for a whole
day, he had been forced to listen to a lecture upon the absurdity of
his behavior that did little to encourage him, and it was only his
emaciated appearance and unfeigned weakness from loss of food that
saved him his position as keeper.

He shoved his small boat off and sprang into her. Then he stepped the
mast, and hauling aft the sheet swung her head around and stood off
the reef, riding easily over the low swell. High above him was the
lantern, and he looked up to see Bill gazing down at him and pointing
toward the southward, where a ripple showed the breaching fish. His
lines were in the after locker, and he soon had them out, one of
them with a wooden squid trolling over the stern as the little craft
gathered headway.

The memory of his former disaster now came upon him, and he took out
his teeth, which were new, and examined the plates upon which they were
fastened. A small hole in either side showed, and through these he
rove a piece of line. Then he placed the teeth back in his mouth and
fastened the ends of the line back of his ear.

“Let ’em drop an’ be danged to it, they’ll git back mighty quick this
time,” he muttered. “I wonder where that old pelican left the school of
fish?”

The old bird had satisfied his present needs and had flown away to a
distant part of the outlying bank, where he was now proceeding to
enjoy his catch at leisure. Far away to the northward, where Key West
showed above the horizon, a long line of black specks were rapidly
approaching through the air. They were the regular fishermen of the
reef, and they were bound out to sea this morning for their daily meal.
On they came in single file like a line of soldiers, their distance
apart remaining regular and the motions of their leader followed with
military precision. Every time he would strike the air several sharp
strokes with his wings, the motion would be instantly taken up by the
long line of followers flapping their own in unison.

The “old man” heeded them very little indeed as he quietly ate his
fish, and they knew enough not to bother him. They sailed majestically
past and swung in huge circles over the blue Gulf to locate the passing
school.

The old man mused as he ate, and wondered at their stupidity. Even the
light-keeper knew as much as they. There was the breaching school a
mile away to windward, and the stupid birds were still watching him.

He saw his wives go past in line. There was old Top-knot, a wise and
ugly companion of former days, her penciled feathers on her neck rubbed
the wrong way. Behind her came a young son, an ingrate, who even now
would try to steal the fish from him did he but leave it for a moment
to dive for another. He glanced at him and ate steadily on. He would
finish his fish first and look out for his ungrateful son afterwards.

Further behind came his youngest companion, one who had hatched forth
twelve stout birds during the past few years and who was still supple
and vigorous, her smooth feathers still showing a gloss very pretty to
look at. But she gave him no notice, and he ate in silence until they
all passed far beyond and sighted at last the breaching mackerel.

When he had finished he sat stately and dignified upon the sand of the
reef, all alone. Far away to the southward, where the high mountains of
the Cuban shore rose above the line of water when he soared aloft, a
thin smoke rose from some passing steamer. To the northward the spars
of the shipping at Key West stuck above the calm sea. All about was
peaceful, bright, and beautiful daylight, and the ugly spider-like
tower of the Sand Key Light stood like a huge sentinel as though to
guard the scene.

The day was so quiet that the sullen splashes of the fisher birds
sounded over the smooth surface of the sea, and the breeze scarcely
rippled the blue water. The deep Gulf rolled and heaved in the
sunshine, and the drone of the small breakers that fell upon the
reef sounded low and had a sleepy effect upon the old fellow who had
finished his fish.

He sat with his pouch drawn in and his long, heavy beak resting upon
his neck, which he bent well into the shape of a letter S. Now and
then he would close an eye as the glare from the white coral in the
sunshine became too bright. The man in the boat was trolling back and
forth through the school of fish with hardly enough way on his craft
to make them strike, but every now and then he saw him haul aboard a
shimmering object that struggled and fought for freedom. Above, and at
a little distance, soared the pelicans. Every now and then one would
suddenly fold its wings and make a straight dive from the height of a
hundred feet or more, striking the sea with a splash that sent up a
little jet of foam.

The sun rose higher and the scorching reef glared in the fierce light.
The old man shifted his feet on the burning sand and looked about him
for a spot where he might bring another fish and lie quiet for the
afternoon. He turned his head toward the westward, where Mangrove Key
rose like a dark green bush a few feet above the water of the reef. Two
small specks were in the blue void above it, and his eyes instantly
detected them and remained staring at them with unwinking gaze.

The specks grew larger rapidly, but they were a long way off yet, and
he might be mistaken as to what they were. He had seen them rise above
the blue line before, and if they were what he took them to be there
would be trouble on the reef before long. Yes, he was not mistaken.
They rose steadily, coming on a straight line for him, and now they
were only a mile distant. Then he noticed one of the objects swerve
slightly to the eastward and he saw they were, indeed, a pair of the
great bald eagles from the Everglades of Florida.

He was an old man, and he gazed steadily at them without much concern,
although he knew they meant death to all who opposed their path. They
were pirates. They were the cruelest of killers and as implacable and
certain in their purpose as the Grim Destroyer himself. The pelicans
fishing for their living over the reef were good and easy prey. A
sudden dash among them, with beak and talons cutting and slashing
right and left, and there would be some full pouches of fish to empty.
It was much better to let the stupid birds fill up first and then sweep
among them. Then, after despoiling them of their hard-gotten catch,
they would carry as much of the plunder as they cared for to some
sheltering key to devour at leisure.

The white head of the leading pirate shone in the sunshine and his
fierce eyes were fixed upon the fishermen. The old man was apparently
unnoticed, although there was little within the sweep of that savage
gaze that was left unmarked. Those eyes could see the slightest object
on land or sea far beyond the reach of ordinary vision. They had even
this morning, probably, been watching the fishermen from some distant
key miles away to the northward.

The old man was a huge, tough old fellow, and he dreaded nothing. He
gazed at the fishermen and a feeling of disdain for their weakness
came upon him. He thought of his old scolding mate, Top-knot. What a
scared old bird she would be in a moment with that great eagle sailing
straight as a bullet for her, his beak agape, and his hoarse scream
sounding in her wake. How she would make for the open sea, only to be
caught in a few moments and torn until she disgorged her fish. His
eldest son would make a show of fight, perhaps, and in a very few
minutes would be a badly used up pelican. As for the rest, how they
would wildly and silently strike for the open ocean, going in single
file as was their custom, only to be overtaken one by one, until they
were all ripped and torn by the fierce fighters, who would follow
leisurely along behind, striking and clutching, screaming and calling
to increase their fright and dismay.

He was almost amused at the prospect, for the pirate birds seemed to
know him instinctively for a barren prize and swept with the speed of
the wind past him and over the reef to the blue waters of the Gulf
beyond, where the fishermen were still unaware of their approach. He
would watch and see the skirmish, for no harm could come to him even
though all the rest were killed and wounded. He swung himself around
and gazed seaward again, and suddenly the thought of his uselessness
came upon him.

Why should he sit there and see this thing done--he, an old man? He
had led the flock for many years. Should he, the father of many and
the companion of all in former days, see them cut up by two enemies?
What if they no longer cared for him? What if the younger birds were
ungrateful and would steal his fish? Was he not the old leader, the
one they all had looked to in the years gone by? Did not even the men
in the tower treat his knowledge with respect? And here a couple of
fierce marauders from the forests of the land had passed him to wreak
their will upon the timid birds whose leader had grown old. Memories
of former days came to him, and something made him raise his head very
straight and draw his pouch close in.

He sat gazing for a few moments longer. The eagles now had closed up
half the distance, for they were going with a rush. A pelican saw
them and headed straight out to sea, striking the air wildly with
outstretched pinions. Then in they dashed with hoarse cries that caused
the keeper in the boat to luff into the wind to witness the struggle.

The old man launched his weight into the air, and with a few sudden
strokes rose to the height of a couple of fathoms above the sea,
bearing down toward the screaming birds with the rapidity of an express
train.

Above Sandy Shackford a very mixed affair was taking place. The two
eagles had dashed into the pelicans without warning and were within
striking distance before many of them could even turn to flee. Old
Top-knot had just caught a fine fish and was in the act of rising with
it when the leading eagle swooped down upon her with a shrill scream.
She was an old and nervous bird and a touch from any other creature
she dreaded at all times. Now, right behind her came a giant shape,
with glaring eyes and gaping beak, a very death’s-head, white and
grisly, while beneath were a pair of powerful feet, armed with sharp
talons, ready to seize her in a deadly grip. She gave a desperate leap
to clear the sea and stretch her wings, but the sight was too much
for her, and she sank back upon the surface. The great eagle was too
terrifying for her old nerves, and she sat helpless.

In an instant the eagle was upon her. He seized her fiercely in his
talons and struck her savagely in the back, and the poor old bird
instantly disgorged her newly caught fish. Her savage assailant
hesitated a moment before striking her down for good and all, while he
watched the fish swim away into the depths below. Then he turned to
finish her.

At that instant there was a tremendous rush through the air, and a huge
body struck him full in the breast, knocking him floundering upon the
sea. The old man had come at him as straight as a bullet from a gun,
and, with the full force of his fifteen pounds sailing through the air,
had struck him with his tough old body, that had been hardened by many
a high dive from above.

The eagle was taken completely aback, and struggled quickly into the
air to get out of that vicinity, while the old man, carried along by
the impetus of his rush, soared around in a great circle and came
slowly back to renew the attack. In a moment the eagle had recovered,
and, with true game spirit, swung about to meet this new defender of
the fishermen. They met in mid-air, about two fathoms above the sea,
and Sandy Shackford cheered wildly for his old acquaintance as he
landed a heavy blow with his long, hooked bill.

“Go it, old man!” he cried. “Give it to him. Oh, if I had my gun,
wouldn’t I soak him for ye!”

The other birds had fled seaward, and were now almost out of sight,
being pursued by the second eagle. One limp form floated on the sea to
mark the course of the marauder. Old Top-knot had recovered from the
shock, and was now making a line for Cuba. The old man was the only one
left, and he was detaining the great bald eagle for his last fight, the
fight of his life.

Around and around they soared. The eagle was wary and did not wish
to rush matters with the determined old man, who, with beak drawn
back, sailed about ready for a stroke. Then, disdaining the clumsy
old fellow, the bald eagle made a sudden rush as though he would end
the matter right there. The old man met him, and there was a short
scrimmage in the air which resulted in both dropping to the sea.
Here the old man had the advantage. The eagle could not swim, his
powerful talons not being made for propelling him over the water. The
old man managed to hold his own, although he received a savage cut
from the other’s strong beak. This round was a draw. During this time
the second eagle had seen that his companion was not following the
startled game, and he returned just in time to see him disengage from
a whirlwind of wings and beaks and wait a moment to decide just how he
would finish off the old fellow who had the hardihood to dispute his
way. Then he joined the fight, and together they swooped down upon the
old man for the finish.

He met them with his head well up and wings outstretched, and gave them
so much to do that they were entirely taken up with the affair and
failed to notice Sandy Shackford, who was creeping up, paddling with
all his strength with an oar-blade.

The encounter could not last long. The old fellow was rapidly
succumbing to the attacks of his powerful antagonists, and although he
still kept the mix-up in a whirl of foam with his desperate struggles,
he could not hope to last against two such pirates as were now pitted
against him. One of them struck him fiercely and tore his throat open,
ripping his pouch from end to end. He was weakening fast and knew the
struggle must end in another rush. Both eagles came at him at once,
uttering hoarse cries, and drawing back his head he made one last,
desperate stroke with his hooked beak. Then something seemed to crash
down upon his foes from above. An oar-blade whirled in the sunshine and
struck the leading eagle upon the head, knocking him lifeless upon the
sea. Then the other rose quickly and started off to the northward as
the form of the keeper towered above in the bow of the approaching boat.

Sandy Shackford picked the great white-headed bird from the water and
dropped him into the boat and the old man looked on wondering. He had
known the keeper for a long time, but had never been at close quarters.

“Poor old man,” said Sandy. “Ye look mighty badly used up.” And then he
made a motion toward him.

But the old pelican wanted no sympathy. His was the soul of the leader,
and he scorned help. Stretching forth his wings with a mighty effort,
he arose from the sea. The reef lay but a short distance away, and he
would get ashore to rest. The pain in his throat was choking him, but
he would sit quiet a while and get well. He would not go far, but he
would be alone. The whole sea shimmered dizzily in the sunshine, but a
little rest and the old bones would be right again. He would be quiet
and alone.

“Poor old man,” said Sandy, as he watched him sail away. “He’s a dead
pelican, but he made a game fight.”

Then he hauled in his lines, and, squaring away before the wind, ran
down to the light with the eagle and a dozen fine fish in the bottom of
his dory.

The next day the old man was not fishing on the reef. The other birds
came back--all except one. But the old man failed to show up during the
whole day.

The next day and the next came and went, and Sandy, who looked
carefully every morning for the old fellow, began to give up all hope
of seeing him again. Then, in the late afternoon when the other birds
were away, the old man came sailing slowly over the water and landed
stiffly upon the coral of a point just awash at the end of the key.

As the sun was setting, the old man swung himself slowly around to
face it. He drew his head well back and held himself dignified and
stately as he walked to the edge of the surf. There he stopped, and as
the flaming orb sank beneath the western sea, the old man still stood
watching it as it disappeared.

Sandy Shackford lit the lantern, and the sudden tropic night fell upon
the quiet ocean.

In the morning the keeper looked out, and the old man was sitting
silent and stationary as before. When the day wore on and he did not
start out fishing Sandy took the dory and rowed to the jutting reef. He
walked slowly toward the old man, not wishing to disturb him, but to
help him if he could. He drew near, and the old bird made no motion.
He reached slowly down, and the head he touched was cold.

Sitting there, with the setting sun shining over the southern sea, the
old man had died. He was now cold and stiff, but even in death he sat
straight and dignified. He had died as a leader should.

“Poor old man,” said Sandy. “His pouch was cut open an’ he jest
naterally starved to death--couldn’t hold no fish, an’ as fast as he’d
catch ’em they’d get away. It was a mean way to kill a fine old bird.
Ye have my sympathy, old man. I came nigh goin’ the same way once
myself.”

And then, as if not to disturb him, the keeper walked on his toes to
his boat and shoved off.




[Illustration: The Outcast]


The day was bright and the sunshine glistened upon the smooth water
of Cumberland Sound. The sand beach glared in the fierce rays and the
heat was stifling. What little breeze there was merely ruffled the
surface of the water, streaking it out into fantastic shapes upon the
oily swell which heaved slowly in from the sea. Far away the lighthouse
stood out white and glinting, the trees about the tall tower looking
inviting with their shade. The swell snored low and sullenly upon the
bar, where it broke into a line of whiteness, and the buoys rode the
tide silently, making hardly a ripple as it rushed past.

Riley, the keeper of the light, was fishing. His canoe was anchored
close to the shore in three fathoms of water, and he was pulling up
whiting in spite of the ebb, which now went so fast that it was
with difficulty he kept his line upon the bottom. When he landed his
fiftieth fish they suddenly stopped biting. He changed his bait, but to
no purpose. Then he pulled up his line and spat upon his hook for luck.

Even this remedy for wooing the goddess of fortune failed him, and he
mopped his face and wondered. Then he looked over the side.

For some minutes he could see nothing but the glint of the current
hurrying past. The sunshine dazzled him. Then he shaded his eyes and
tried to pierce the depths beneath the boat.

The water was as crystal, and gradually the outlines of the soft bottom
began to take form. He could follow the anchor rope clear down until a
cross showed where the hook took the ground.

Suddenly he gave a start. In spite of the heat he had a chill run up
his spine. Then he gazed fixedly down, straight down beneath the small
boat’s bottom.

A huge pair of eyes were looking up at him with a fixed stare. At first
they seemed to be in the mud of the bottom, two unwinking glassy eyes
about a foot apart, with slightly raised sockets. They were almost
perfectly round, and although he knew they must belong to a creature
lying either to or against the current, he could not tell which side
the body must lie. Gradually a movement forward of the orbs attracted
his attention, and he made out an irregular outline surrounding a
section of undulating mud. This showed the expanse of the creature’s
body, lying flat as it was, and covering an area of several yards. It
showed the proportions of the sea-devil, the huge ray whose shark-like
propensities made it the most dreaded of the inhabitants of the Sound.
There he lay looking serenely up at the bottom of the boat with his
glassy eyes fixed in that grisly stare, and it was little wonder he was
called the devil-fish.

Riley spat overboard in disgust, and drew in his line. There was no use
trying to fish with that horrible thing lying beneath. He got out the
oars and then took hold of the anchor line and began to haul it in,
determined to seek a fishing drop elsewhere or go home. As he hauled
the line, the great creature below noticed the boat move ahead. He
watched it for some seconds, and then slid along the bottom, where the
hook was buried in the mud.

It was easy to move his huge bulk. The side flukes had but to be
ruffled a little, and the great form would move along like a shadow.
He could see the man in the boat when he bent over the side, and he
wondered several times whether he should take the risk of a jump
aboard. He was a scavenger, and not hard to please in the matter of
diet. Anything that was alive was game to his maw. He had watched for
more than an hour before the light-keeper had noticed it, and now the
boat was drawing away. His brain was very small, and he could not
overcome a peculiar feeling that danger was always near the little
creature above. He kept his eyes fixed on the boat’s bottom, and slid
along under her until his head brought up against the anchor line, now
taut as Riley hove it short to break out the hook. This was provoking,
and he opened a wicked mouth armed with rows of shark-like teeth. Then
the anchor broke clear and was started upward, and the boat began to
drift away in the current.

The spirit of badness took possession of him. He was annoyed. The boat
would soon go away if the anchor was withdrawn, so he made a grab for
it and seized the hook, or fluke, in his mouth, and started out to sea.
Riley felt the sudden tug from below. He almost guessed what it was,
and quick as lightning took a turn with the line about the forward
seat. Then, as the boat’s headway increased rapidly, he took the bight
of the line aft and seated himself so as to keep her head up and not
bury in the rush. His knife was at hand ready for a sudden slash at the
line in case of emergency.

“If he’ll let go abreast o’ the p’int, all right,” said Riley. “I seen
lots harder ways o’ getting about than this.”

The tide was rushing out with great rapidity, and going along with it
the boat fairly flew. Riley watched the shore slip past, and looked
anxiously toward the lighthouse for the head keeper to see him. It
would give the old man a turn, he thought, to see a boat flying through
the water with the occupant sitting calmly aft taking it easy. It made
him laugh outright to imagine the head keeper’s look of astonishment.
Then he saw the figure of the old man standing upon the platform of the
tower gazing out to sea. He roared out at the top of his voice, hoping
to attract attention, but the distance was too great.

Meanwhile the sea-devil was sliding along the bottom, heading for the
line of white where the surf fell over the bank of the outer bar.
The hook, or fluke, of the anchor was held securely in his powerful
jaws, and the force necessary to tow the following craft was felt very
little. The great side fins, or flukes, merely moved with a motion
which caused no exertion to such a frame, and the long tail, armed with
its deadly spear of poisoned barbs, slewed slightly from right to left,
steering the creature with accuracy. And while he went his mind was
working, trying to think how he could get the man from the boat after
he had taken him out to sea beyond any help from the shore. A sea-devil
he was, and rightly named. This he very well knew, and the thought made
him fearless. He had rushed many schools of mullet and other small
fish, who fled in frantic terror at his approach. He had slid into
a school of large porpoises, the fishermen who seldom gave way for
anything, and he sent them plunging in fear for the deep water. Once he
had, in sheer devilry, leaped upon a huge logger-head turtle weighing
half a ton, just to see if he could take a nip of his neck before the
frightened fellow could draw in his head behind the safe shelter of his
shell. He could stand to the heaviest shark that had ever entered the
Sound, and had once driven his spear through the jaws of a monster who
had sneaked up behind him unawares and tried to get a grip upon his
flukes. All had shown a wholesale respect for his powers, and he had
grown more and more malignant as he grew in size and strength. Even his
own family had at last sought other waters on account of his peculiarly
ferocious temper.

Now he would try the new game in the craft above, and he felt little
doubt as to the outcome. A sudden dash and twist might demoralize the
floating tow, and as he neared the black can buoy which marked the
channel, he gave a tremendous rush ahead, then a sudden sheer to the
right, and with a quick slew he was heading back again in the opposite
direction.

[Illustration: THE GREAT SHAPE SAILED FOR THE TOP OF THE BUOY.]

Riley felt the sudden jerk ahead. He was as far as he wished to go
down the shore, but had hesitated to cut the line in the hope that the
devil would let go. Lines were not plentiful, and to lose this one
meant an end to fishing for several days. The canoe shot ahead with
prodigious speed. Riley seized the knife and was about to cut loose,
when there was a sudden sheer to starboard, and before he could do
anything the canoe was jerked quickly over upon its side. He leaped to
the rail and tried to right it, but almost instantly it was whirled
about and capsized. The sea-devil now dropped the anchor and turned his
attention to the boat. The fluke, taking the ground in the channel,
anchored the craft a few feet distant from the can buoy, and Riley was
climbing upon the upturned boat’s bottom as the creature came up. Lying
flat upon the keel, Riley balanced himself so as to keep clear of the
sea, watching the big black can swinging to and fro in the current. If
he could but seize the ring in the top he might pull himself to a place
of safety.

The devil came back slowly, looking about for the occupant of the small
boat. He was not in sight, and the craft was perfectly empty. This
puzzled him, and he began circling around to see if he had overlooked
him in the tideway. Then he saw a movement upon the boat, and made out
the keeper lying upon the keel. He came slowly up to the side of the
craft, and Riley saw a huge shadow rising alongside of him, spreading
out a full two fathoms across the wings, or flukes. The ugly eyes
were fixed upon him, and he yelled in terror. It was like some horrid
nightmare, only he knew the deadly nature of the creature, and realized
what a fate was in store for him once the devil had him fast.

The devil was in no hurry to rush matters, however, for now that the
boat was again stationary he would investigate the subject before
making an attack. He was not hungry.

Riley edged away from the huge shadow as far as he could, and called
frantically for help. The can buoy swung close to him, and he looked up
to see if it were possible to make the spring for the top. To miss it
meant certain death. Then it swung away again, and he closed his eyes
to shut out the horrid shape rising beside the boat.

The mouth of the devil was under a breadth of shovel-shaped nose, and
it could not be brought to bear at once. It would necessitate a leap to
grab Riley, and as the devil was in no hurry he swam slowly along the
sunken gunwale waiting for a better opportunity to seize the victim. He
was apparently certain of his game, and he would take his time.

Riley shrieked again and again in terror, clinging with a frantic
clutch to the capsized boat.

About this time, Samuels, the keeper, who was in the tower, happened to
turn around far enough to notice the black speck of the upturned boat.
He was expecting Riley to show up about this time of day, and the speck
upon the surface of the Sound attracted his attention. In a few moments
he made it out to be the boat bottom up.

Instantly he sprang for his glasses. He saw Riley lying upon the
bottom. He rushed to the beach as fast as he could and pushed out in
a dory. His companion was in danger from drowning, and he would rescue
him if possible. He knew nothing of the danger that lurked below the
surface of the sea. The sea-devil was out of sight, and his small
dorsal fin would not show any great distance.

Riley howled and clung to the bottom of the boat, while Samuels strove
to reach him, and all the time the devil swam slowly fore and aft along
the side trying to decide whether to make the leap or push the boat
bodily over again. The last method appeared to be the least irksome,
and he gave the boat a good shove with his nose.

Riley felt the heeling of the craft, and clutched frantically at the
now slanting keel. She was turning over again, and in an instant he
would be in the water. The thought of the ending gave him a madman’s
energy. He saw the buoy swinging closer and closer to him as the craft
was pushed along sideways. Then a sudden eddy of the tide swung it
within a few feet of the boat.

The devil, seeing the boat turning slowly over, pushed harder. In an
instant the man upon the bottom would be in the water and easy to
seize. He gave a sudden shove, throwing the capsized craft almost upon
its side. As he did so Riley made a last desperate effort. He arose
quick as lightning and balanced for an instant on the settling canoe.
Then he sprang with all his strength for the ring-bolt in the top of
the buoy.

Whether it was luck or the desperate strength of despair, he just
managed to get the fingers of his right hand into the ring. The can
toppled over as though it would capsize and land him in the sea, but
with his legs in the water almost up to his waist, it brought up on its
bearings, balanced by the heavy weight below. Then he hauled himself up
and tried to get his legs around the iron.

At each effort the can would twist slowly in the sea, and down he would
come again into the water, holding on by the ring above his head.

The sea-devil gave the craft a tremendous push which sent it clear
over, and then he slipped under it to find the game on the side beyond.
The man was gone, but he saw him hanging to the buoy close by, and he
gave a sudden dash to seize him. At that instant Riley clambered like a
cat upon the swinging iron, and by almost superhuman balancing he sat
up on the top, some four feet clear of the water, his legs swinging on
either side, making frantic efforts to keep his unstable craft from
turning around in the current and spilling him into the death-trap
which now lurked below in plain view. He prayed for a whale iron, and
screamed for help. Then he swore furiously and madly at the shape with
the stony eyes which, as implacable as death itself, lay watching him
as though certain of the ultimate outcome of the affair. Without even
his knife he would not be able to make the least resistance. A harpoon
iron would have fixed things differently. Oh, for one to throw at the
hideous thing waiting for him! How he would like to see the barbs sink
into that hard hide and pierce its vitals. He raved at it, and cursed
it frantically, but the sea-devil lay there silently watching, knowing
well that it was but a question of a few minutes before he would be at
his mercy.

The hot afternoon sun beat pitilessly upon the clinging wretch upon the
can buoy, and the heat upon his bare head made the water dance about
him. But to lose his balance was fatal, and he clung and cried, prayed
and screamed, cursed and raved, alternately, adjusting his trembling
body to each movement of his float.

As the minutes flew by, Samuels, who was rowing to him with rapid
strokes, heard his outcries, and turned to look. He could not
understand the man’s wild terror. It was evident that there was no time
to lose, and he bent to the oars again. Suddenly he heard a piercing
scream. He turned, and in time to see a great shape rise from the water
like a gigantic bat, and sail right for the top of the can buoy. It
struck it fair, and the thud of the huge body resounded over the sea.
Then it fell slanting off into the water with a great splash, and when
he looked at the top of the can there was nothing but a piece of blue
cloth hanging to the ring-bolt. Riley was gone.

In an instant Samuels sprang to his feet and stood looking at the
eddying current, paralyzed with horror at the sight. The hot sunshine
and smooth sea were still all around him, but the monstrous shape had
disappeared and his companion along with it. Now he knew why Riley had
screamed and cursed so frantically. It was not the fear of drowning
that had called forth such madness. But even while he stood there
in the sunlight a horrible nightmare seemed to be taking possession
of him, and he was trembling and helpless. He gave a hoarse cry and
set his teeth to control his shaking nerves. Then his brain began
its normal working again, and he seized his oars and gave several
tremendous strokes in the direction of the buoy, looking over his
shoulder and feeling his scalp tightening upon his head. There was a
cold chill in his blood, as though the weather were winter instead of
torrid July.

Suddenly something showed on the surface just under the boat’s bow. He
shivered in spite of himself, but the thought of his comrade nerved
him for the ordeal. He sprang forward, knife in hand, to seize it if
it were Riley’s form, or face the monster if he appeared. A white hand
came slowly upward. With a desperate effort Samuels reached over and
jerked the form of his assistant into the boat, and as he did so a huge
shadow darkened the water beneath him.

The sea-devil, carried along by the momentum of his rush, had knocked
his victim into the water from the buoy top, but had swept past him
before he could swing about far enough to seize him in his jaws. This
was all that saved Riley.

Instantly Samuels, who had a stout craft, seized his oars and pulled
for the lighthouse, gazing fixedly upon the smooth water astern of
him, and shivering with a nervous shake at each ripple in the wake
of his boat, lest it were made by the denizen below the surface. But
nothing followed. The Sound was as smooth as glass, and the sunshine
and silence were undisturbed. The great ray had missed his victim, and
was swimming slowly around the can buoy looking for him. He had failed
to notice Samuels pick him up, although he had seen his boat pass.

While Samuels watched astern he saw the capsized craft near the buoy
move suddenly, as though some power were exerted upon it from below.
The sight caused him to bend with renewed vigor to his oars, and, with
his heart sending his blood jerking through his temples with a pulse
he seemed almost to hear, he drove his boat for the beach and landed
safely. As he did so Riley sat up and looked about him with eyes that
were like those of a man in a dream. His lips were swollen to a livid
blue and he puffed through them, making a ghastly sound as they
quivered with his breath. Samuels spoke to him, but he would only gaze
about him and make the blowing noise with his mouth. Then the elder
keeper took him gently by the arm and led him painfully up the sand
to the lighthouse dwelling. The next day the victim was raving. It
would take a long time for the poor fellow to regain his equilibrium,
and absolute rest and quiet were the only thing that would steady the
terribly shaken nerves. Samuels took the man to the nearest town, and
then went back to tend the light alone.

The following week Samuels spent brooding over the horrible affair. The
log of the keeper refers to it several times, and it was like a wild
nightmare to him during his watch on the tower during darkness. During
the daytime he thought of it continually, and began to devise different
methods for the capture of the sea-devil, which he believed to be still
in the entrance of the Sound. He had sent word of the unfortunate
Riley’s condition to the inspector, and was tending the light alone
when the new assistant came to relieve him. When he arrived he found
Samuels hard at work upon a set of harpoons and lines which he had
been preparing for his hunt, while a couple of large shark-hooks lay
in the small boat ready baited. Two small boats were made ready, and
the shark-hooks and lines were placed in one. The other contained five
lilly-irons of the grummet-and-toggle pattern and two hundred fathoms
of small line capable of holding the small boat while being towed at
any speed. With this outfit they began to spend the days upon the
waters of the Sound, rowing in company to the various fishing drops,
and trying for a bite upon the great hooks.

Not a sign of the sea-devil had there been since the day the keeper
had met him. The weather was clear and fine, and the sea smooth.
Nothing rose to break the even surface. But Samuels hunted quietly on,
never losing faith that some day the monster would break water again
and give him a chance for either a harpoon or hook. In his boat he
carried a long whale lance with its heart-shaped head as sharp as a
razor, covered in a wooden scabbard to keep off the dampness. It would
penetrate any living body a full fathom, and nothing of flesh and blood
could withstand its stroke.

The sixth day out the new keeper began to give up hope of seeing
anything like the game they sought. He carried ordinary hand lines,
and busied himself fishing during their stays at the different drops.
Sea bass, drum, and sheeps-head were biting lively, and he managed to
make good use of the time they were away from the light. Toward the
late afternoon the fish suddenly stopped biting. It was the beginning
of the flood tide, and therefore not in keeping with the usual state of
affairs. Something was the matter, and Samuels began to pay attention
to his shark lines.

In a short time one of them began to go in little jerks. It was loose,
with a turn around a cleat so that it might run with any sudden pull.
Then it began to go steadily, going faster and faster, as fathom after
fathom of it flaked overboard. As a shark is never jerked for some
moments after he has taken bait, on account of his habit of holding a
morsel in his mouth sometimes for minutes before swallowing it, the
line was let run. After a shark gets it well in hand he suddenly bolts
the food and makes off. Then is the time to set back with a full force
upon the line in order to drive the barb of the hook into his tough
throat. The chain leader of the hook will then be the only thing he can
set his teeth upon, and he will be fast if the barb once gets under the
tough hide.

Samuels let the line go for nearly a minute before a quickening in the
movement told him that the fellow at the other end had swallowed the
bait and was making away. Then rising slowly to his feet he let the
line run through his fingers until he took a good brace upon the seat
of his boat with his foot. Then he grasped the line suddenly with both
hands, and setting back upon it with all his strength he stopped it
for an instant. The next moment there was a whir of whistling line.
He had dropped it and it was flying overboard. Before ten fathoms of
line had gone, Samuels had it on the cleat again and was snubbing it in
jerks which sent his boat as deep as her after gunwale. Soon, however,
the line began to give a little. Foot by foot he hauled it in, until a
long dark form showed beneath the surface of the water. It was only a
shark after all, and he was given a taste of the whale lance to quiet
him.

While he was engaged in this he heard a sudden roar behind him, and he
turned in time to see a gigantic form disappear in a tremendous smother
of foam. It sounded like a small cannon, and he well knew there was
only one creature in the Sound that could break water with such a rush
and smash.

The shark was forgotten, and as soon as possible the hook was rebaited
and cast. The other line was now watched, and the painter of the other
boat was passed over to make them tow together if the line should be
taken.

Suddenly the new keeper, who had been looking steadily over the side
into the clear water, gave a shout and pointed below.

Just a fathom beneath the boat’s keel a gigantic shadow drew slowly up.
It was a giant ray, the dreaded sea-devil they had been waiting for.

Samuels gazed down at it and could see the stony eyes fixed upon him.
Grasping a harpoon he sent it with all his force down into the depths.
It was a wild throw. But he had waited so long that he could not miss
any chance.

The long shank of the iron disappeared in the foam of the splash. Then
there was a moment’s pause. Almost instantly afterwards the line was
flying furiously over the side. The toggle had penetrated, and they
were fast.

The assistant keeper tossed over the anchor buoys to mark the slipped
moorings, and then Samuels snubbed the line.

Instantly the boats were jerked half under water. Settling back as far
as they could, they both tried to keep the bows of the towing craft
from being towed under, and the line had to be slacked again and again
to save them. Away they went, one behind the other, the ray leading,
Samuels’ boat next, with him in the stern-sheets, holding a turn of
the line which led over the runner in the stem, and the new keeper,
standing with steering oar in hand, slewing his flying craft first one
side and then the other to keep dead in the wake.

The breeze making from the sea sent the spray over the boats in sheets,
but they held on. The devil was heading for the bar under full speed,
for the iron had pricked him sorely in the side, and he was a little
taken aback at this sudden reception. He could not yet grasp the
situation, and would circle about before coming close to the small
craft again. But there was something dragging upon him that began to
cause alarm. There was a line to the thing that pricked so sore. The
feeling at first caused a desire to escape from the unknown enemy,
but gradually as the pain increased anger began to take the place of
fright, and he tried to find out just who his enemies were. He swerved
near the can buoy and broached clear of the sea to get a better view.
The crash he made as he struck the sea again sent the spray high in the
air, and the line was whirled out with renewed force.

But the men behind him had no thought of letting go. With lance in hand
Samuels waited patiently for a chance to haul line. As long as the
toggle would hold there was little chance for the iron drawing, for the
skin of the ray was as tough as leather, and the flesh beneath it was
firm.

On and on they went, the flood tide setting strong against them. The
swell from beyond the bar was now felt, and the ocean sparkled in the
sunshine where it was ruffled by the outside breeze. Two, three miles
were traversed, but there was no slacking of the tremendous pace. The
ray evidently intended to get to sea before attempting to make any
change in his actions. He was going at a ten-knot gait, keeping now
close to the bottom, and heading right through the north breaker,
which rolled in curved lines of white foam upon the bar. The channel
he cared not the least for, and Samuels watched the roaring line of
white with concern. The small boats would make bad weather of the
surf, even though the sea was smooth, for the swell rose high and fell
heavily, making a deep rumbling snore which grew louder and louder as
they approached. Far away the lighthouse shone in the sunshine, and the
buoys stood out like black specks to mark the way through the channel.

Samuels got out his hatchet ready for a sudden cut at the line if
the surf proved too dangerous. They were nearing the inner line of
breakers, and it would be only a matter of minutes before they were
either through or swamped. There must be some hasty judgment, but it
must be as accurate as it would be hasty, for there would be no chance
to change his mind when the water rose ahead. It was breaking in a
good fathom and more.

The sea-devil seemed to know what was in store for the boats towing
behind. He broached again and took a good look astern where they flew
along behind him. Then with redoubled speed he tore through the inner
line of breaking water, and before Samuels could grab the hatchet to
cut loose, his boat rose upon a crested breaker and plunged headlong
over into the trough beyond, pulling the assistant through, and almost
swamping him. It was now too late to let go. Ahead was another wall of
rising water which would break in an instant, and the only thing to do
was to go on and trust to the boat’s riding over it all right. To turn
the slightest, one side or the other, meant to be rolled over in the
rush of foam.

Samuels held on grimly. Once outside he hoped to haul line and come to
close quarters with the devil. Then he would deal with him in a more
satisfactory manner. That long lance would be brought into play, and
the fight would be with the odds upon his side. But he had reckoned
somewhat hastily with this outcast of the ocean. All the fearless
cunning of the sea-scavenger was being brought into play. The pain
in his side where the iron held was making him more and more savage.
He saw it was useless to run away, for the iron held his pursuers to
him. He had only intended to make a short run at the beginning, and
then turn to meet whatever there was in the shape of a foe. There was
little fear in his make-up. The sudden alarm at the stroke of the iron
was merely the natural instinct of the wild creature to keep out of
harm’s way. He had intended to come back and try his hand with the
small craft, only he would not run into unknown trouble. It would be
wiser to take things easy and approach the matter slowly, watching a
good chance to make a rush in when a fitting opportunity occurred. But
because he would go slow he would be none the less implacable. He had
never withdrawn from a fight yet, and his peculiar tenacity had more
than once brought him off victor when the odds were against him. He
was wary--an old wary fighter who began the struggle slowly only to
learn the forces opposed to him. When the issue was well begun he would
break forth in a fury unequaled in any other denizen of the ocean. The
continual pain of the pulling-iron was now goading him into a condition
of frenzied fury. In a moment he would turn, just as soon as he had
the small craft well into the foaming water, where he knew it would be
difficult to navigate.

Samuels had thought of the ray’s probable run for shoal water, and
dreaded coming up with him in the surf. He could not turn his small
boat broadside to the breakers without getting rolled over and swamped,
and his oars would be useless to pull clear with the iron fast. He
hoped the ray would make for the bottom in the deep water beyond
and pull him through. Just as the outer breaker rose ahead the line
suddenly slacked.

This was what Samuels dreaded most, and he began to haul in hand over
hand. Instead, however, of the line leading ahead, it suddenly let
off to starboard, and he was forced to let it go and take to his oars
to keep the boat’s head to the sea that was now upon her. He called
to the new keeper, who let go the line between the boats, to take out
his oars also. Both now headed straight for the crest, which instantly
broke over them, half filling Samuels’ craft and settling her almost
to the gunwales. At that moment the line came taut with a jerk. It
swung the boat’s head off broadside to the sea, and the next minute the
breaker rolled her over and over. As it did so a giant form rose like a
huge bat from the foam with mouth agape and flukes extended, its tail
stretching out behind, and the line from the harpoon trailing. Down it
came with a crash which resounded above the roar of the surf, and the
boat disappeared from view.

Samuels had by good luck been thrown clear of the craft when the sea
struck, and his head appeared a fathom distant just as the devil
crashed down. It was a close call. Then, as the half-sinking boat
returned slowly, bottom up, to the surface, he made for it with all
speed.

Beside it floated the long wooden handle of the lance, the blade
resting upon the bottom a fathom below. He seized it as he grasped the
keel, and calling for the keeper in the other boat to look out, he
made ready for the devil’s return, for the line was not pulling the
boat away, showing that the slack had not been taken up, and that the
creature was still close by.

He was not wrong in this. The huge devil swerved almost as soon as he
disappeared below the surface and headed back again slowly to where the
boat lay in the foam of the breaker. He kept close to the bottom and
came like a shadow over the sand.

The sun was shining brightly and objects could be seen easily. Samuels
soon made out a dark object creeping up from the side where the ray
had gone down. The water was hardly over his head when the seas broke,
and between them it was not more than four and a half feet deep. He
could keep his head out and his feet upon the sand until the rising
crest would lift him clear, when, by holding to the upturned boat’s
keel, he could keep his head out until the breaker had passed, the tide
setting him rapidly towards the deeper water inside the bar.

The keeper in the other boat saw the shadow and called out, at the same
time getting a harpoon ready and resting upon his oars. The smooth
between breakers gave both a good chance to note the position of the
approaching monster.

The sea-devil came slowly up, his eyes showing through the clear water
and the line from the iron trailing behind him. When within a couple of
fathoms he made a sudden rush at the capsized boat.

The new keeper threw his iron well. It landed fairly in the top of the
broad back and sank deep, but it did not in the least stop the savage
rush. The huge bulk rose to the surface at the instant the iron struck
and came straight for Samuels, who held the lance ready in one hand and
clung to the keel of his boat with the other. He drove the long, sharp
weapon a full two feet into the monster’s vitals and then ducked behind
the sunken gunwale to avoid the teeth.

There was a terrific commotion in the sea. The devil bit savagely at
Samuels’ arm, but missed it, his teeth coming upon the gunwale of the
boat and shearing out a piece. Then he gave a tremendous rush upon the
craft and drove it before him until it disappeared under the surface.
The great ray smote the sea with his flukes and strove after his prey,
but the lance was firmly planted in him, and, try as he might, he could
get no nearer than the length of the handle to the keeper, for with
this grasped firmly in both hands Samuels went below the surface only
to get his foothold again and reappear to be driven along before the
furious creature.

Meanwhile the new keeper came hauling line from the rear. There
was a smooth between the seas, and he pulled the boat close to the
floundering devil before he knew what was taking place. Then, with
three irons ready, he drove one after the other in quick succession
into the monster. Taken from the rear in this manner the devil whirled
about. His barbed spear in his tail he drove with accuracy at the form
in the boat, striking the keeper in the thick of the thigh and piercing
it through and through. He fell with a yell, clutching the boat to
keep from being drawn overboard, and the spear broke off short, the
poisonous barbs remaining in the flesh.

The sudden diversion saved Samuels. He managed to withdraw his lance,
and by an almost superhuman effort he drove it again into the devil
just as a sea broke over him. When he came to the surface again he was
exhausted and expected to fall a victim, but the great creature made
no attack and only swam around in a circle, apparently dazed.

Samuels lost no time in getting aboard the still floating craft, taking
the towline with him. She was full of water from the breaker which had
rolled in, but it had struck her fairly in the bow and she would float
a little longer. He reached for the oars and held her head to the sea,
while the other raised himself in spite of the agony of his poisoned
wound and bailed for his life.

The sea-devil was mortally hurt and was failing fast. He came to the
surface and made one blind rush at the boat, but he missed and received
the last iron fairly between the eyes. Then he began to go slowly
away, following the flood tide, and towing both boats in through the
breakers to the smooth water beyond. In a short time the motion ceased,
and Samuels hauled in the lines until he was just over the body in two
fathoms of water and clear of the surf on the bar. Then he turned his
attention to his wounded comrade, and by great force pulled the long,
barbed spine through the flesh of his thigh and sucked the wound. As
the tide was flooding, they left the capsized boat fast to the devil on
the bottom below, knowing it would not get far adrift, and made their
way to the light, where the keeper’s wound was carefully cauterized and
bound up.

The great ray lay quiet for some time, his flukes acting as suckers
to hold him down. Then, the feeling that his end was at hand coming
gradually upon him, he fought against the deadly weakness of his
wounds. Summing up all the remaining energy within his giant frame, he
rose to the surface to make one last, desperate rally and annihilate
the towing craft. He breached clear of the sea and fell with a
resounding crash upon the fabric, smashing it completely. Then he tore
it with his teeth and flung the splinters broadcast, reaching wildly
for anything which looked like a human form. Then he suddenly stopped
and a quiver passed through him. He gave a mighty smash with his flukes
upon the remains of the boat, and then his life went out. He sank
slowly down upon the clean sand below, and the ground-sharks of the
reef came silently in to their feast.




[Illustration: THE SEADOG]


He was a yellow brute, mangy, lean, and treacherous-looking. He had
been in two ships where dogs were not particularly liked by the
officers, and the last one had gone ashore in the darkness during a
northeast gale off the Frying Pan. How he had come ashore from the
wreck was a detail beyond his reasoning. Here he was on the beach of
North Carolina, and not one of his shipmates was left to take care of
him.

He had at first foraged among the bushes of beach myrtle and through
the pine woods, stealing into the light-keeper’s yard at Bald Head
during the hours of darkness, and rummaging through his garbage for a
bit of food to keep the life within his mangy hide. He had now been
ashore for nearly five months, and during all that time he had shown
an aversion to the light-keeper’s society. There was no other human
habitation on the island, and the light-keeper had fired a charge of
bird-shot at him on two occasions. This had not given him greater
confidence in strangers, and that which he had had was of a suspicious
kind, born and nurtured aboard ship, where a kick was the usual
salutation. He was as sly as a wolf and as wild as a razor-back hog,
for he had gradually fallen upon the resources of the wild animal, and
his one thought was for himself.

He had broken away into the night howling after the last reception
by the light-keeper at the Bald Head tower, and sore and stiff he
had crawled into the bushes to pick at the tiny pellets that stung
so fiercely. In the future he would be more careful. He must watch.
Eternal vigilance was the price for his worthless life. All the evil
desires and instincts begotten through a line of rascally curs now
began to grow within him. He would not repress them, for was it not
manifest that he must exercise every selfish desire to its utmost if
he would live? His eyes took on that wild, hunted look of the beast
with whom all are at war, and his teeth showed fiercely at each and
every sound. A sullen savageness of mind came upon him more and more
every day, until after these months of wildness he had dropped back
again into the natural state of his forefathers. He was a wild dog in
every sense. As wild as the hogs who rooted through the pine woods or
tore through the swamp, lean as deer and alert to every danger, the
degenerates of the well-bred pigs of the early settlers.

Sometimes he would run along the edge of the beach in the sunlight and
watch the surf, but even this was dangerous, for once the light-keeper
happened to be out hunting and sent a rifle bullet singing past his
ears. He broke for cover again, and seldom ventured forth except
after the sun went down. In the daytime he would go slinking through
the gloom of the dense thickets with ears cocked and senses alert,
watching like a wolf for the slightest sign of danger. A wolf is seldom
seen unless he means to be, and the yellow dog soon became as retiring.

Small game furnished food during this season, for the creeks swarmed
with fish and crabs, which were often caught in shallows at low water,
and gophers were plentiful, but sometimes when the wind was howling
and soughing through the forest, and the rain rattling and whistling
through the clearings, he would try the light-keeper’s back yard again,
and grab a defenseless duck or goose that happened to be within reach.
Their squawking was music to his ears, for he remembered the flash and
stinging pain following his earlier attempts to procure food, and he
would dash furiously through the timber with his prize, nor stop until
many miles were between him and the bright eye that flamed high in the
air above and could be seen fifteen miles or more up the beach. The
lighthouse was an excellent guide for him in all kinds of weather,
but it was especially useful on very dark and stormy nights. To him it
meant a guide out of danger, even as it did to his earlier masters, and
he soon learned to navigate by it.

He grew more and more savage as his life in the wilderness went on, and
as his savageness increased so likewise did his cunning.

William Ripley, the light-keeper, and his assistant, were both
good hunters. They had plenty of time during daylight to make long
excursions along the beach, and through the pine woods, and they often
brought home a hog or two. They were worried at the visits from the
strange animal who left footprints like those of a dog, and who kept
always well out of sight after his first visits, when a glimpse of
yellow had flashed through the darkness, giving something tangible to
fire at. They had seen the vessel come ashore on the outer shoals, some
twelve miles away, and had seen her gradually break up without being
able to lend a hand at saving her crew. Nothing had washed on the
beach that had signs of life, and it had never occurred to them that
a yellow dog had been a survivor of that tragedy. The wreck had been
visited afterwards, and the vessel’s name discovered, but nothing was
ever heard of the men who had manned her, and who had evidently gone
to the port of missing ships. Their interest in the matter ended after
getting a few fathoms of line and a bit of iron-work, and the shifting
sands of the treacherous Frying Pan soon swallowed up all trace of the
disaster.

But ducks and geese were scarce and valuable. There was a thief abroad,
and something must be done. The cold weather was approaching, and
already frost had turned the leaves of some of the trees. Soon a slight
fall of snow announced that winter was upon the coast in earnest.

The cold was hard upon the outcast. His thin hair was but poor
protection against the wind, and the food of the creeks was
disappearing. He was getting more and more savage and desperate,
and the great eye that shone above him through the blackness was
attractive, for it showed where there lay plenty. Often, when the gale
blew from the northward, and the weather was thick, the wild ducks and
geese came rushing down the wind and headed for the eye that shone
so brightly in the night. It had a peculiar dazzling fascination for
them, and they would go driving at it with a rush of a hundred miles an
hour, only to find too late that it was surrounded by a heavy wire net.
Then, before they could swerve off, they were upon it with a terrific
smash. Headlong into the iron meshes they would drive until, flattened
and distorted lumps of flesh and feathers, they would go tumbling down
to the ground beneath. In the morning the keeper would see traces of
their feathers and sometimes a duck or two, but more often he saw the
footprints of the strange animal that so resembled either a dog or wolf.

“I reckon it’s about time we caught up with that un,” said Ripley, one
morning; “there aint been no wolves around this here island sence I kin
remember, an’ I’m bound to find out jest what kind o’ critter this one
is. Why, what d’ye s’pose he done last night, hey?”

“Don’t ask me no riddles when I’m sleepy,” said the assistant.

“Oh, well, it’s no matter, then,” said Ripley, and he turned into the
house.

“Well, what?” asked the assistant.

“The first thing he done was to eat the seat out’n your pants you left
hangin’ on the line, but that’s no matter----”

“What next?” asked the assistant, awakening a little.

“Well, he chewed the uppers off’n your rubber boots, them ones you said
cost five dollars----”

“Name o’ sin, no! Did he? Where’s the gun, quick----”

“Hold on a bit. Wait a minute,” interrupted Ripley. “There aint no
hurry about the case. I was jest a-sayin’----”

“Go on,” said the assistant earnestly.

“Well, then, don’t interrupt me no more. That blamed critter got old
red-head by th’ neck an’ walked off with him, an’ there aint no better
rooster ever been hatched. That’s erbout all.”

“You kin hand me down the rifle,” said the assistant; “that critter or
me leaves this here island, an’ that’s a fact.”

The track led down the beach, and there was no trouble following it.
The assistant started off at a swinging pace, determined to cover the
distance between himself and the thief before midday.

But the track soon led into the scrub and was lost. When it was taken
up again it was a good half-mile farther down the shore. Here it swung
along easily for a short distance until a heavy belt of timber was
reached, and where the ground was hard and covered with pine-needles.
There all trace of it was swallowed up as soon as it struck the pines.
The assistant came home that evening a tired but no wiser man. That
night the outcast saw the man-tracks, and knew he had been followed,
and the spirit of deviltry entered deeper into his pariah soul. He
would make them sorry for his nightly visits. All were enemies to him,
and the more harm he could do to everything alive the better it would
be. Savagely he snarled at the footprints. As the moon rose he saw the
beautiful light silvering the cold ocean, and it stirred something in
his hard heart. He raised his nose high in the air and let forth a long
howl of fierce defiance and wrath.

Slinking through the darkening shadows of the forest, the outcast made
his way to the clearing wherein the great eye rose above the ground to
the height of a hundred feet or more. Here he halted upon the outer
edge, where the thicket hid him in its black shadow. Then he raised
his voice in such a prolonged howl that the fowls secured within the
coops of the yard set up a vast cackling. He changed his position in
time to avoid a charge of buckshot which tore through the thicket and
rattled about the leaves beneath the trees. Then he slunk away for a
little while, only to return again and give vent to his feelings in a
succession of yelping barks, such as had never disturbed the quiet of
the island before. Another charge of shot rattled about him, but he
was now far too wary to get hit, and his hatred was greater than his
fear. It gave him a savage joy to listen to the crack of the gun or the
sharper snap of the rifle, for he knew it worried the keeper to hear
him and know he was near. Night after night he now came, and many were
the shots fired at him, but all to no avail. He would do any mischief
he could, and woe to any duck or chicken that came within his reach.
His high, yelping howl resounded through the clearing and sounded above
the dull roar of the surf, making night hideous to the keeper on watch
in the light above.

Once he caught a loose fowl, and its feathers were strewn about the
yard. Again he found a string of fine fish the keeper had hung up for
the night. They went the way of the ill-fated. His keen sense of smell
told him many things the keepers did not wish him to know, and he
managed to keep out of harm’s way.

But this could not last. Ripley was an old hunter, and was not to be
disturbed beyond reason. He brought out an old mink-trap, with steel
jaws of great power, and he buried it in the sand on the edge of the
clearing, smoothing the rumpled surface of the ground so that nothing
showed, and strewing the place with dead leaves. Then he killed a
sea-gull and dropped it almost directly over the steel jaws. The
outcast would doubtless smell it and stop a moment to investigate. He
had only to step upon the ground in the near vicinity and his leg would
be instantly clasped in a steel embrace.

The first night the keeper watched for him. It was very dark, and the
cold north wind soughed through the pines, and the surf thundered. The
cold made the keeper’s teeth chatter a little as he watched in silence
from his place upon the outer rail of the tower. He had his rifle with
him for a finish, should the trap take hold.

The outcast came slinking along late that night. He was hungry and
wet, and the light attracted him as it did always on particularly bad
nights, for it stood for the mark of plenty, the only thing on the
barren island that kept a glimmering of the past in his sullen mind.
He noticed a peculiar smell as he skirted the fringe of the cover, and
soon spied the dead gull. How came it there, was the question. Gulls
did not die ashore. At least, he had never seen one. But he knew them
in the air. There was something suspicious in the matter. Why should a
gull be dead so close to the lighthouse? He began to investigate, and
drew near the danger zone.

But months of wildness had made him cunning. All the sly instincts of
the races of animals from which he had sprung had been developing. He
approached the bait slowly, barely moving, and touching the ground ever
so lightly with his paws. Then he halted. No, it would not do. There
was something wrong with that bird, showing like a bit of white in the
darkness. He could smell it plainly. It was the scent of a man. He drew
slowly off, and began nosing about for the trail, and soon found it. He
followed along, and it led straight to the dwelling where the keeper
lived. Then he went back a little way into the scrub and sat upon his
haunches, and, in spite of his cold and hunger, he lifted up his voice
in a long, dismal howl, that to the keeper’s ears had an unmistakable
ring of derision.

Night after night the trap was set, but the pariah kept clear. Then,
one day, it grew thick, and a cold wind began setting in from the sea.
Before night it was howling and snoring away with hurricane force,
driving the seas roaring up the sands, and tearing their tops into
smothers of snowy spume drift.

The pariah came to the beach and tried to look seaward to see what was
coming with that fearful rushing blast, but the wind was so strong and
the snow so blinding that he soon took to the cover, and headed for the
light, in the hope he might pick up something to eat in the vicinity
of the keeper’s dwelling. Before going to the yard he looked again
seaward and saw a light flash out. He did not know what it meant, but
he knew it was off on the Frying Pan, far out on the treacherous shoals
where a thundering smother of rolling whiteness flashed and gleamed now
and again. Then he skirted the clearing, and brought up back of the
fowl-house, where now all the ducks and chickens were secured at night.

He went forward, trying to smell his way, but the snow was too much for
him. Then he stopped a moment. He located the house and started again,
when suddenly, “Snap!”

Something had leaped from the ground and seized his foreleg in a
viselike grip. He sprang forward and fought to get away, but it was
of no use. The thing had him fast with an awful grasp that cut into
his flesh and squeezed his leg so tight that it soon became numb.
With snarling growls, he fought desperately on, twisting and turning,
struggling and biting, but all to no purpose. He was fast. Then the
state of affairs began to dawn upon him, and he desisted, for the agony
was supreme. Sitting there in the flying snow of the winter’s night,
with the roar of the storm sounding over him, he raised his voice in a
long, yelping bark of challenge and disdain.

But in spite of his howling no one came near him. The snow grew deeper
and the wind roared with terrific force, blinding him so that the great
eye above was scarcely visible. He remained quiet now, and waited
patiently for the daylight, which would mean his end. His sufferings
were terrible, but he could not help it, and soon a sullen stupor came
upon him.

In the dim gray of the early morning forms were seen walking about the
lighthouse. They were men, and among them was the keeper. The others
wore clothes that reminded the pariah of former days, and one stranger
seemed to be familiar to him. This was a man, short, broad, and
bearded, with bow legs set wide apart, and long arms with huge hands
and crooked fingers. He was ugly, and reminded him of the crabs he had
seen and captured in the streams during the summer. There was something
of the crab about the queer little fellow, and his very ugliness
attracted the dog’s attention. It brought back some memory of past
days, a memory that was not all unpleasant, yet indistinct and unreal.

As the day dawned and the snow grew deeper the outcast waited no
longer. He held up his nose and let forth a howl that was heard above
the snore of the gale, and which brought the light-keeper to attention.
He came running with a club, and behind him followed the stranger with
the crablike body.

“Sink me if I aint got ye at last, ye varmint!” yelled the keeper as he
drew near. Then he halted. “A dog--what--jest a common everyday dog?
But I’ll make a good dog out o’ ye in a minute. All dead dogs is good
dogs, an’ you’ll do.”

He advanced with raised club, and the pariah crouched for a spring. He
would try for one last good bite. All the savageness of his mixed blood
surged through his fierce mind. He gave a low growl and showed his
teeth, and his eyes were like bits of yellow flame.

“Hold on thar, stranger; don’t kill that ’ar dog. Wait a bit,” said the
ugly man, waddling up behind. “What, caught ’im in a trap?”

“Sure I got him in a trap. D’ye want me to loose him?” asked the keeper
testily.

“That’s erbout the size o’ my games,” said the ugly man. “Yew may think
it a go, but that ’ar dog looks uncommon like the one I lost aboard the
_Seagull_ when she went ashore hereabouts last year. He ware a good
dog, part wolf, part hound, and the rest a mixture I don’t exactly
remember. Lemme try ’im?”

“Gwan, man; that critter is been stealin’ chickens since last summer,”
said the keeper, but at the same time he allowed the ugly fellow to
have his way.

“Hey, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!” said the ugly sailor. “Don’t yew know me,
Sammy?” And he bent forward toward him.

The pariah gazed at him. What did he mean? What was that voice? It
sounded like that of the man who had brought him aboard the vessel he
had gone ashore in. The only human who had never struck him or offered
him harm. He hardly remembered the ugly fellow, for he had only been in
the ship a short time before she was lost.

“Strange, that looks like the critter sure enough. I went ashore here
in the _Seagull_ a year ago, an’ here I goes ashore agin in this
howlin’ wind an’ sees the dog I lost. Strange, keeper, it’s strange,
hey?”

“He do appear to know ye, an’ that’s a fact,” said the keeper. “Would
ye like me to loose him off? Better do it afore the assistant comes
down, fer he’s got it in fer this dog.”

“Wait a bit,” said the ugly fellow, and he advanced closer to the
outcast. He put out his hand, and the dog wavered. Should he seize
it? He could crush it and tear it badly in his teeth before he
could withdraw it, and they would probably kill him anyway in the
end. But there was something in the ugly man’s eye that restrained
him--something that spoke of former times when all was not strife. No,
he would not bite him.

“Turn the critter loose; he’s my dog fer sure,” said the ugly man. “All
he wants is some grub. I reckon yew’d be savage, too, if yew had been
out in the snow all night. I knows I ware when I come in half drowned
this mornin’.”

The keeper pried the trap open and the cur went free.

“Come, Sammy, Sammy, Sammy!” said the ugly fellow, and he led the way
to the house.

The pariah hesitated. His foot was useless, but he could go on three
legs. There was the timber a short distance away. He looked at it for
an instant. Then he saw the ugly man beckoning with his great crooked
finger. He lowered his head and gave a short whine. Then he limped
slowly after him to the house.

A little later the ugly man fed him and bound up the wounded paw, while
the assistant mumbled something about rubber boots and breeches worth
about seven dollars a pair.

“Messmates,” said the ugly sailor, shifting his crablike body and
sticking out his great bushy face with its red beard, “that ’ar dog
ware a good dog, part wolf, part hound, an’ the rest I don’t exactly
recollect, but he ware a good dog. Treat a dog good an’ he’ll be a good
dog. Treat ’im bad an’ he’ll be a bad dog. When ye go erbout more among
men, as I does, yew’ll see that what I says is so. An’ men is mostly
like dogs.”

The assistant kept quiet, for there was something peculiarly aggressive
in that misshapen man. The animal was led away with a string, and went
in the boat to Wilmington with the wrecked crew.

Two years later another ship was added to the list of those whose
bones rest in the sands of the Frying Pan Shoals. She ran on the outer
breaker during the night, and in the morning the keeper saw a floating
object on the shore. He went to it and found the body of a man whose
peculiar figure he recognized. A life-buoy was strapped about his
waist, and in his great crooked fingers was a line. The keeper hauled
it in, and on the end of it he found the dead body of the yellow beast
that had stolen his fowls. They had gone to their end together.




[Illustration: The Cape Horners]


To the southward of where the backbone of the western hemisphere
dips beneath the sea rises a group of ragged, storm-swept crags and
peaks,--the wild rocks of the Diego Ramirez. Past them flows the
current of the great Antarctic Drift, sweeping from the father of all
oceans--the vast South Pacific,--away to the eastward, past the bleak
pinnacles of Cape Horn, to disperse itself through the Lemaire Strait
and Falkland Channel northward into the Atlantic Ocean.

With the wild snore of the great west wind sounding over them, and the
chaotic thunder of the Pacific Ocean falling upon their sides, they
are lonely and inhospitable, and are seldom, if ever, visited by man.
Only now and then he sees them, when the wind-jammer fighting to go
past the last corner gets driven close in to the land of fire. Then,
on some bleak and dreary morning, when the west wind is roaring through
downhaul and clewline and under the storm topsails, the heavy drift
may break away for a few minutes and show the wary navigator a glimpse
of the death-trap under his lee that will add a few gray hairs to his
head, and bring the watch below tumbling on deck to man the braces.

Bare of vegetation and desolate as they are, the rocks are inhabited.
To the leeward of the great Cape Horn sea that crashes upon them, the
ledges and shelves are full of life. In the shelter, the strange forms
sit and gaze seaward, peering this way and that, squawking and scolding
in hoarse voices that might be heard above the surf-thunder. They
appear like great geese sitting on their tails, for they sit upright,
their feet being placed well down on their long bodies, giving them a
grotesque look that is sometimes absurdly human.

They have no wings,--only little rudiments covered with fine hairlike
feathers that serve as side fins when swimming. They never flap them,
as do their cousins, the Cape pigeons and albatrosses. In fact, their
bodies are covered with short, close, hairlike feathers, very minute,
seldom wider than a pencil’s point, and lying tight to the skin, like
scales on a fish. These figures have birdlike heads, not unlike those
of diver-ducks, and they have beautiful black eyes, with red rings
around them. They are the creatures that hold sway over the barren
crags, waddling and walking about in their absurd way until a great
man-seal shows his bristling whiskers close to the ledge. Then they
gave forth the loud, long-drawn, wild cry that is so well known to the
Cape Horner, waddle to the brink, plunge headlong into the sea, and
disappear.

They are the penguins of the southern zone, half bird, half fish, and,
one might say, half human, to judge by their upright waddle on their
webbed feet.

The one whose story is now to be told was hatched on the Ramirez, high
above the lift of the Cape sea, and beyond the reach of straying seals.

He belonged to a brood of three, and first saw the light a little after
New Year’s Day, or midsummer there. There was no sheltering nest to
guard him against the bleak wind, which is nearly as cold in summer
as in winter. He came into the world on a bare rock and announced
himself by a strange, chirping sound that caused his mother to waddle
off a few feet and gaze at him in astonishment. He was followed by his
two brothers, and, within a very short time, showed an inclination to
follow his parent down the ledge and into the dark water where the kelp
weed floated in sheltered spots between the rocks. He was but a fluffy
ball, of the size of a baby’s fist, but he stood with dignity upon his
short legs and labored over the rough places, sometimes falling and
rolling over a step in the rock until, with a splash, he landed in the
sea.

At last! That was the place he was meant for. How fine it was to scull
one’s self furiously along the surface and then suddenly dive and go
shooting through the depths, coming up again to see if his parent were
at hand; for, in spite of the delightful novelty of life, there was
within him a strange feeling of fear, something that made him seek his
mother’s side continually. The heavy snore of the great Cape Horn sea,
breaking to windward of the rocks, sounded a deep note of menace, a
warning of the fierce, wild world in which only the hardiest could hope
to survive, and yet it seemed to tell of a power that ruled his destiny.

His brothers swam near, and he was joined by countless myriads of other
birds. With penguins, strength ashore exists solely in numbers, and the
bare cliffs must be covered with sturdy birds ready to snap and strike
fiercely with their strong, sharp beaks at each and every intruder,
if they would have security. Woe to the albatross or mollemoke that
attempts a landing on the sacred shore! He will be met by an army of
powerful birds walking erect as soldiers and stabbing and biting with
incredible power.

Soon this young one’s downy feathers hardened. They did not grow
like those of an ordinary bird. They were hardened almost to bone,
and pressed so stiff against his skin that it would be difficult to
distinguish them from the scales of a rockfish or a cod. His wings were
no more than flippers, exactly like those of a turtle, and were without
a bending joint at the pinion. They were devoid of feathers also, but,
as he would never use them in the air, this made it all the better.
They could scull him along faster under the sea. Already he could go
fast enough to catch any fish in the vicinity, and, as for the great
seals, they simply amused him with their clumsy attempts to catch him.
On land he could hop about on his short legs, but he preferred the
water for safety, and seldom took to the rocks.

During this period of his life he kept well with the crowd of
companions about him. Even the albatrosses, the huge destroyers, kept
their distance, for, as they would swoop down in great circles near
the young birds, they would meet an almost solid phalanx of screaming
and snapping beaks, and would sweep about in giant curves until, seeing
no chance to rush in, they would stand out to sea again and disappear.

Gradually, as the months passed, the older penguins began to scatter.
Some went farther and farther off shore, until, at length, when the
cold July sun swept but a small arc of a circle above the horizon, they
left the rocks and faced the wild ocean that sweeps past the Horn. Our
young one now felt a desire to roam with the rest, and, one day, when
the snore of the gale droned over the barren lumps, bringing thick
squalls of sleet and snow, he put out into the open sea and headed away
for the Strait of Magellan.

Away through the dark water he went, his feeling of loneliness
increasing as the land disappeared. The very majesty of that great
waste of rolling sea impressed him, and an instinctive longing to
realize what it meant came over him. He raised his head into the air
and gave forth a long, deep, sonorous cry; but the dark ocean made no
answer, the only sound being the distant noise of some combing crest
that broke and rolled away to the southward. There was not a living
thing in sight.

Through the gloom he made his way with the feeling of adventure
growing. He kept a lookout for small fish, and repeatedly dived to a
great depth, but, even down there, where the light failed entirely,
there was nothing. Only once during the day did he see anything alive,
and this was after hours of swimming. A dark object showed upon the
slope of a swell. It looked like a triangular knife-blade, and cut the
water easily, while the dark shadow beneath the surface appeared almost
as inert as a log or a piece of wreckage. The penguin drew nearer to
it to investigate, for one of his strongest feelings was a desire to
find out about things. Then the object drew toward him and appeared to
be drifting to meet him. Suddenly there was a rush through the water.
The protruding fin ripped the surface of the rolling swell, and, as
it came on the forward slope, the penguin saw a pair of enormous jaws
opening in front of him, while a row of teeth showed white in the dark
water. He made a sudden swerve aside and missed the opening by a hair’s
breadth. Before the shark could turn to pursue him, he dived and set
off at a great rate of speed below the surface, and was soon out of the
way. He had learned to look for danger wherever he might meet another
such peculiar-shaped object, and the lesson would be of use, for there
is no sea where sharks are not found.

Between Terra del Fuego and Staten Land lies the narrow water of
Lemaire Strait. Through this channel the current rushes with incredible
speed, swirling around the reefs and foaming over the sunken ledges
that line the shore. The tussock-covered hills of barren shingle form
a background so bleak and uninhabited that many of the large sea fowl
find it safe to trust themselves upon the cliffs where nothing may
approach from shoreward to take them unawares. The rocks are covered
with weed, and plenty of whale-food drifts upon them, so that there
is always a supply for winter. There the penguin landed after days of
cruising, and waddled on shore for the first time since leaving the
place of his birth.

To the westward, across the strait, the fires from the hills where the
savages dwelt shone in the gloom of the twilight. They were attractive,
and often he would sit and watch them in the growing gloom of the
long winter evenings after he had come ashore from a day’s fishing,
wondering at the creatures who made them. The light was part of his
mental enjoyment, and sometimes, after looking for an hour or more, he
would raise his head, which had a long, sharp beak, and, with lungs
full of air, let forth a wild, lonely cry. For days and days he would
come and go, seeing no companions save the raucous whale-birds who
would come in on the rock and who had no sympathy with his fishing.
They were mere parasites, and depended upon the great animals to show
them their food.

As the months passed and the sun began to stay longer above the
horizon, he became more and more lonesome. A longing for companionship
came upon him, and he would sit and gaze at the fires across the strait
until he gave vent to his feelings with his voice.

One day, when the sun shone brightly, he came upon the ledge and
rested. He was not very tired, but the sun was warm and the bright rays
were trying to his eyes after the long gloom of the winter. The ragged
mountains stood up clearly from across the strait, but the fires would
not shine in the sunlight. He stood looking for a time, and then broke
forth into a long-drawn call. To his astonishment an answering note
came sounding over the water. He repeated his cry and listened. From
far away in the sunshine a weird cry was wafted across the sea. It
thrilled him. He was not afraid, for the cry was one of yearning, and
he wanted companionship. He sat and waited until he saw a small object
on the rise of a swell. It came nearer, and then he saw it was one of
his own race, and dived into the sea and went to meet the stranger.

How smooth was the newcomer’s coat and how white the breast! He looked
the female over critically, and a strange feeling of companionship
pervaded his being. Then he went toward her and greeted her, sidling up
and rubbing his head against her soft neck and swimming around her in
circles. The sun shone brightly and the air was warm. The very joy of
life was in him, and he stretched forth his head and called and called
to the ledges and reefs, sea and sky, to bear witness that he would no
longer live alone, but would thenceforth take the beautiful stranger
with him and protect her. He climbed upon the ledge, she following,
and, proud as a peacock, strutted back and forth in his enjoyment of
her good will and comradeship.

They strayed about the rocks and swam in the sheltered places among
the reefs for a few days, but a desire to go into the great world to
the southward and make a snug home for the coming summer began to make
him restless. The warm sunshine made life a joy in spite of the thick
coating of fat and feathers, and the high cliffs of Tierra del Fuego
seemed to offer a tempting abode for the warmer months. His pretty
companion shared his joy, and also his desire to go out into the great
sea to the southward and find a suitable place on some rock or ledge
where they could make a home.

They started off shore one morning and swam side by side for many
leagues, skirting the sheer and dangerous Horn and meeting many more
couples who, like themselves, were looking for a suitable place
for a summer sojourn while the bright sun should last. They met a
vast crowd of their kind making an inner ledge of the Ramirez their
stopping-place, and there they halted. It was pleasant to be sociable
when united to a proud companion, and they went among the throng until
they found a place on the rocks where they could climb ashore easily.
Our friend led the way up the slope and found a level spot among the
stones where his mate could sit and be near the tide. She would lay her
eggs there, and he would take care that she fared well.

Weeks passed and two white shells shone in marked contrast to the
surrounding stones and gravel. His mate had laid two beautiful eggs,
and her care for them kept him busy fishing for two. Yet he was very
happy. He would make short trips to the outlying reef and seize a fish.
Then he would hurry home with it, and together they would eat it while
his mate sat calmly upon the eggs, keeping them warm and waiting for
the first “peep” to show the entrance into this world of her firstborn.
All about, the other couples had their nests, consisting only of the
bare stones, for there was no drift or weed out there to use, and they
sat in great numbers close enough to call to each other in case a
marauding albatross or mollemoke should come in from the sea and try
to steal eggs.

Day after day he fished and brought his mate the spoils, often sitting
on the eggs himself while she took a plunge into the cold water for
exercise and change. He was satisfied and the world was bright with the
joy of life.

One day his mate waddled quickly from the nest. Where before there had
been two shining white eggs, two little yellow puff-balls lay on the
stones, and they made a noise that showed him his offspring were strong
and healthy young ones. He strutted up and down the ledge, proud and
straight, while his mate gave forth cries of satisfaction and nestled
down again to give the delicate little ones shelter. He almost forgot
to go fishing, and only a call from his patient mate recalled him to
the fact that she must be fed. He stepped down the rocks, and, as he
dived into the sea, cried aloud for joy.

Out near the Ramirez the fish were playing in the sunshine. He made
his way thither, his breast high with the happiness of his existence.
Other fowl were there fishing. He joined them, but gave no heed to a
long object that came slowly over the water from the land of fire. It
headed toward the cliffs where the sea fowl dwelt, and two half-naked
savages propelled it with paddles. They were hunting for eggs, and the
rocks offered a tempting place to land, for the great crowd of birds
told plainly of the summer breeding-place. They ran the canoe into a
sheltered spot among the rocks where the heave of the sea was slight,
and then sprang ashore. Up they climbed and stood upon the level where
the penguin females sat and called wildly for their mates.

A savage stooped and began gathering eggs, pushing away the birds or
knocking them on the head with a stick, when, with their sharp beaks,
they protested against the robbery. He was a horribly filthy fellow,
and his ugly body was partly covered with skins of birds and sealskin.
He noticed a female sitting close, calling to our penguin for help,
and the bird seemed to be very fine and large, with a good skin. He
made a pass with his club and smote her on the head. She struggled
desperately to get away, but could not. The blow partly stunned her.
The little ones scurried off as she rose, and the savage saw there were
no eggs to be had from her. But he would have her skin anyway, so, with
a furious stroke of his weapon, he knocked her lifeless at his feet.
Then he picked her up and went on.

Later in the afternoon the male came back from fishing. He climbed the
cliffs and looked about him. His mate and young were missing, and he
sent forth his deep, sonorous cry. But it was not answered. Other birds
took it up, but there was no answering call from the mate, and the
little dark speck that rose and fell upon the heave of the swell away
in toward the shore of Tierra del Fuego gave no token of her fate.

All night he wandered over the rocks, his wild note of calling sounding
far out to sea. In the morning he stood once more upon the spot where,
a few days before, the mate of his bosom sat proudly upon the white
eggs. The empty shells were all that were left. He stood gazing out to
sea, and then his instinct told him he would see his family no more. He
gave one long-drawn cry, plunged into the sea, and was gone. The great
west wind came roaring over the sea before the sun set, and before it
he held his way. He would go far away from the scene of his summer’s
life. The vast ocean would be his home, and the memories of the ledge
be a thing of the past.

For many days the penguin roamed over the huge rolling hills of water.
The vastness of the ocean and its grandeur soothed him, though he
still called out at intervals when the sadness of his life was strong
upon him. Then came a day when sea and sky seemed to blend in one wild
whirl, and a hurricane from the high, ragged hills of Patagonia swept
the Antarctic Drift. Away he went before it, and the wildness of it was
joy, the deepening roar of the wind and crash of Cape combers making
music for his spirit. He headed for the middle of the current between
the land where the Pacific flows through and meets the western ocean,
the stretch of sea that reaches away past the South Shetlands to the
south pole.

How wild and lonely was the storm-swept sea! Great hills of rolling
water, fifty feet in height, with stately and majestic rush, passed
to the eastward, their tops crowned with huge white combing crests
and their sides streaked and flecked with long stripes of white
foam. Above, the dull banks of hurtling vapor flew wildly away to
somewhere in the distance, far beyond the reach of vision. It was more
comfortable beneath the surface than above it, and our penguin drove
headlong before the sea two fathoms below the foam, only coming up
once in a while to breathe. On and on he drove for hours, until hunger
warned him to keep a lookout for fish, as he occasionally came up
for air, and to see if there were signs of the oily surface denizens
showing in the sweep of that great, lonely sea. Suddenly an object
attracted his attention. It was a mere speck on the storm-torn horizon,
but he knew it must be of considerable size. It was different from
anything he had ever before seen, for above it three long, tapering
sticks stood upward, and upon the middle one a strip of white, like
the wing of an albatross, caught the weight of the wild west wind.
He was interested, and drove along toward it until the object loomed
high above him, and the deep snore of the gale sounded like a heavy
roaring comber tearing through the many lines of the rigging and under
the strip of white canvas. The great thing would rise upon the crest
of a giant wave and fling its long, pointed end high into the gale,
the rushing sea striking it and smashing over in a white smother like
the surge on the rocks. Then down it would swing slowly until it would
reach the hollow between the moving hills, and the penguin could see
upon its body, its tall sticks rolling to windward and the roar of the
gale deepening into a thunderous, rushing sound, until the advancing
sea would lift it again and roll it toward the lee. The sight of the
huge monster wallowing about, hardly making the slightest way through
the water, interested the penguin. It seemed like a floating rock
without life, and he felt a curiosity to know if it were alive. He rose
partly from the sea and uttered a long-drawn, hoarse call that floated
down the gale and swept over the great hulk. Nothing happened, and he
repeated the call,--a far-reaching, wild, deep, resonant cry.

But the great ship swung along slowly, as before, and he dived under
her to see what was below.

In the forecastle the dim light of the summer day made a dismal and
cheerless scene. The watch below had turned in, all standing, their wet
clothes wrapped about them in their “pews,” or bunks, making a vapor in
the cold air through which the light of the swinging lamp shone dimly.
The gray light from outside filtered in at the side ports and spoke
of the cold, hard day on deck. Once in a while some shivering wretch
would turn in his poultice of soaking flannel and get a fresh piece
of icy-cold cloth against his skin that would call forth maledictions
on the Horn, the weather, and the hove-to ship. In a corner of the
forecastle a pile of soaking clothes moved, and a moan sounded above
the noise without.

“Stow it, Sammy; you’ll be all right soon, my boy,” said a voice in a
bunk above him.

“Oh, but it’s so cold, Tom,” whispered the pile of clothes. “I can’t
last much longer, and they might let me die warm, at least.”

“What’s the little man sayin’?” asked a deep voice opposite. “Wants to
die warm, does he? Say, Sammy, me son, you’ll be warm mighty soon after
you’re dead; why in thunder don’t you put up with a bit o’ cold till
then, boy?”

“You’re a blamed brute, bos’n,” said the first speaker, “an’ if I
wa’n’t mighty well used up I’d soak you a good whanging for that. Yer
know the poor boy’s sick wid scurvy, an’ aint likely to pull through.”

“I’ll ware ye out when th’ watch is called, yer preacher,” said the
bos’n confidently. “Talk away, for you’ll only get it all the worse
when I shucks my dunnage.” Then, as if the matter were settled, he
snugged up in his soaking bunk and hove down to warm a piece of his
steaming covering until it should cease to send a chill through his big
frame and he could wander into dreamland.

The shivering form of the boy in the corner moved again, and he groaned
in agony. It was useless for him to try to sleep with his limbs swollen
and his flesh almost bursting with the loathsome disease. The pile of
wet clothes upon him could not keep him warm, and each shiver sent
agony through him. He would die unless he could get relief soon, and
there the ship was off the Horn in June, the beginning of winter,
without one chance in fifty of making port in less than two months.

In his half-delirious state he lived many of his early schooldays
again, and then followed thoughts of those who were nearest to him.
He must die. His grave must be in that great, dark void beneath. Oh,
the loneliness of that great ocean! What would it be like far below in
the blackness of the vast deep, beyond the heave of the great sea, in
the very bosom of the great world of silence? The horror of it caused
him to groan. Would anyone punish the cruel ship-owners and captain
who had so foully murdered him with the cheap and filthy food? What
would anyone care after he had gone? What would he care, away down in
that everlasting blackness, where no one would ever see him again? He
lay upon his back and stared with red and swollen eyes at the bunk
above him where Tom, the quartermaster, snored loud enough to be heard
above the dull, thunderous roar overhead. In another hour the watch
must turn out, but they would let him lie by; him, a dying ship’s-boy.
But would he die outright? Would his soul live down there in that
awful blackness, where they must soon heave his body? He had heard of
sailors’ spirits haunting ships. Could his do so? Was there a hideous
devil below waiting for him? He had heard there was. Far down in the
bottomless abyss some monster might await him. He gazed with staring
eyes at the dim lamp, and longed for a little light and sunshine to
relieve the terrible gloom of the Antarctic winter day.

Then there broke upon his ears a wild, sonorous, deep-drawn cry
sounding over the storm-swept sea. It was not human. What was it? Was
it for him? The thought made him sick with terror. He groaned aloud,
and Tom turned over in his wet clothes until the sudden chill of moving
from the one steaming place made him grumble audibly.

“What was it, Tom?” he whispered.

“What?” growled the sailor surlily.

“There----” and the cry was repeated.

Tom growled a little and then rolled snug again. Suddenly he started
up. “A man might as well freeze to death on deck as in this unholy
frozen hole,” he said. Then he climbed stiffly down from his bunk,
clapped his sou’wester on his head, and, tying the flaps snug under his
chin, he slid back the forecastle door with a bang, and landed on the
main deck.

There he stood a minute watching the great fabric straining under her
lower maintopsail, hove to in that sea that the Cape Horner knows so
well and dreads so much. In the waist, the foam on deck told of a flood
of icy water that poured again and again over the topgallant rail and
crashed like a Niagara upon the deck planks, rushing to leeward through
the ports in the bulwarks and carrying everything movable along with it.

He watched his chance, and dodged around the corner of the deck house,
where the port watch huddled to keep clear of the wind and the sea.

“Merry Fourth o’ July to ye,” bawled a man of the watch, as he came
among them.

“What’s the matter? Can’t ye find enough work to do whin yer turn
comes?” asked another.

“Where’s the whale-iron?” asked Tom, of Chips, who had come out of his
room to get a look around.

The carpenter looked at him queerly. “What d’ye want wid it?” he asked.

“Listen!” said Tom.

Then the cry of the sea fowl sounded again.

“Penguin?” said Chips.

“Turkey,” said Tom, with a smile. “If we can get the steward to give us
a bit o’ salt pork fat we can git him, or I’m a soger.”

He was an old whaleman, and the carpenter hesitated no longer. He led
the way into his room in the forward house where he kept his tools, and
the iron was brought forth. A word to the mate on watch, and the sailor
was fast in the lee forerigging, standing upon the shear-pole, with the
iron ready to heave. The fat was tossed over the side, and he waited.

In the dark, cold hole of the forecastle the drawn lips of the sick
boy were parted, showing his blue and swollen gums. He was grinning
horribly. “Take him away. Oh, take him away!” he was moaning. “Hear him
a-callin’ me? Don’t let him get me, Tom; take him away, take him away!
It’s the devil callin’ me!”

All the fear and anguish that can burn through a disordered brain
was upon the little fellow, and the dismal cry lent a reality to his
delirious thoughts. Suddenly he half rose in his bunk, and then the
latent spark of manhood, which was developing even in spite of his
sufferings, came to his aid. He thought of the Great Power which ruled
his fate, and shook himself into full consciousness, glancing up at the
aperture through which the dim light filtered as if he half expected to
see a vision that would give him strength. Then he felt that he would
face the end calmly, and meet whatever was in store as a man should.
Perhaps the captain and owners could not help matters, after all. He
could hear the song of the gale more distinctly, and once the tramp of
the men as they tailed onto the maintopsail brace. They were jamming
the yard hard on the backstay, and there was no show of a slant yet. He
must lie quiet and wait, listening to the weird cry that caused him to
shiver and see fantastic figures upon the carlines above his head.

Out on the great, high-rolling sea, the penguin had scented a peculiar
substance. He drew nearer the great fabric that rolled and swung so
loggily on the sea. He sent forth a wild cry, and drove headlong after
a piece of white matter that floated in the foam of the side wash. He
seized it and swallowed it. Then he came closer.

A form stood in the rigging above him, motionless, as if made of wood,
and a long, pointed thing was balanced in the air. A piece of fat
showed right beneath, and he went for it, in spite of the feeling of
dread that came upon him. He was hungry, and would snatch it and then
get away. He reached it, and at that instant something struck him in
the back, carrying him beneath the surface. Then his life went out.

“A fine turkey, an’ that’s a fact,” said Chips, a moment later. “Get
something to put him in, quick; the lad will have a stew, fer sure.
’Twill well-nigh cure him, and, anyways, it’ll keep him a-goin’ until
we speak a wessel fer fresh grub.”

The second mate came forward.

“Eight bells, ye starbowlines,” he bawled into the forecastle; “turn
out, or I’ll be right in there wid ye! One o’ ye bring Sammy’s mess
things. He’s got turkey fer dinner. Come, wake up, sonny! There aint
no devil or nothin’ a-chasin’ ye. Ye’ll be all right in a week o’
Sundays. Bring that beef juice right in here, Chips. Hold his head,
Tom,--there,--make him drink it while it’s hot.”

In a little while the hot broth made from the bird’s flesh warmed the
boy’s body, and his mind was clear again. The forecastle was empty,
and the wild cry he had heard no longer sounded above the gale. He
felt stronger, and his terror had vanished. A feeling of ease grew
within his poisoned body. A gleam of faint sunlight came through the
open door, and as he looked he knew that the God he felt had given him
strength had been kind. He knew no prayer, or word of thanks, but his
spirit was warm with gratitude. He smiled his thanks at his shipmates,
and closed his eyes. Then he slept.

A crowd of swearing and jostling men awakened him as they came tumbling
below some hours afterwards.

“Grub ahoy!” bawled one. Then the mess-kid came in steaming from the
galley, and upon it was a large fowl.

“Hi, yi, turkey, ahoy! Turkey, ’e was a good old man!” cried a Swede.

“An’ divil a bit will anyone but th’ bye git,” said the big bos’n.
“It’s sorry I am, Thomas, me dear, that I have tew whang ye afther yer
noble raid on ther poulthry.”




[Illustration: The LOGGER-HEAD]


He was probably named by sailors because of his fancied resemblance
to a certain piece of ship’s gear, but the Conchs of the Bahama Bank
believed he deserved his name in its true meaning, for he was certainly
the most stupid fellow on the reef. Those who knew him and watched him
crawl up the glistening white coral sand that glared in the heat of
the torrid sunshine never took the trouble to harm him, although the
law of the reef is very much like it is elsewhere. The strongest or
quickest-witted only might endure.

But the conch who first turned him, or rather attempted to turn
him, found that his dead weight of six hundred pounds of shell and
leather-like beef was not worth the trouble. Turtles of more manageable
size were plentiful, and there was no use of straining one’s self
trying to upset such a monster. He drew his knife to kill, but the
stupid one had sense enough to withdraw his head within the wall of
bony shell, and the black man called maledictions upon him for turning
the edge of his weapon. Then he smote him over the back with his
turning stave and called him a worthless one because he refused to
contribute himself to the Conch’s larder, and passed on.

The loggerhead paid small heed to the man’s behavior. The bright
sunshine was warming the white sands, and the blue water of the Gulf
Stream was rippling past the cay, while above him the beautiful little
lumpy clouds, bunches of pure white vapor, were floating away to the
southward. It was enough to live without bothering with those who
fished upon the waters of the reef or the great swarm of creatures who
inhabited the clear depths. Everywhere the sea denizens seemed to be
in continual tumult, some trying to build homes among the sponges and
growths of the coral banks, and others hurrying to and fro through the
clear blue liquid with no especial purpose he could fathom. Then there
were the destroyers who came and went with a rush, chasing the smaller
to shelter and splashing a great deal of water in their efforts to
capture those weaker than themselves.

The loggerhead poked forth his nose and gazed about him, wondering at
the beauty of the world, and gave the struggling swarms but a passing
glance. Then he laboriously hauled himself up the warming sands until
he reached high-water mark.

The Conch had walked far away down the cay where his boat was hauled
up. His companion sat in the stern-sheets and lazily bailed the water
from her. When he had finished, the two men shoved her off and hoisted
a small sail. Then swinging her bow around before the breeze, they
headed away toward the distant line of white which showed to the
eastward where a larger cay of the Bank rose from the sea. After they
had gone the loggerhead watched the rippling water along the shore.
Soon the head of a huge turtle appeared, and in a few minutes the great
form of another like himself hauled slowly and lazily up the beach.

Before dark several followers had hauled up to high-water mark. On the
cay was soft fine sand of a nature not unlike that of more northern
beaches, and this had banked above the coral to a depth of three or
more feet.

With flippers of horny hardness and gigantic power the females began to
cut their way down. They scooped and scooped until they had holes at
least two feet deep nicely rounded and firmly packed on the sides as
though they were cemented. Then they dropped slowly egg after egg into
the little pits until a hundred or more had packed themselves into the
receptacles. The shells of the eggs were soft like leather, and each
egg had a small dent which showed it was fresh. Then as the night wore
on they softly covered the pits with sand and carefully smoothed them
over until not the slightest trace of any disturbance of the surface
showed. It was nice work, for the sand was soft, and the signs of
digging were easily made, but hard to conceal, and it was nearly dawn
before the females were satisfied with their efforts. Then they slipped
slowly down the sand into the sea and disappeared to return no more.
Their task was done.

The huge loggerhead who had led the way up the beach watched the
departing turtles as they went to sea. The sound of the murmuring ocean
was in the morning air, the song of the south sea awakening the day
as the soft wind sighed over heaving swell and rippled the beautiful
wavelets until they rolled into little combers and flashed white in the
sunshine. All about him was the light of the tropic dawn. The sweet
breath of the trade wind fanned his iron-hard head and he opened his
eyes lazily to watch the sunrise. It was well. The beauty of the world
attracted him.

Far away on the horizon the spurts of foam showed the beginning of the
strenuous life of the destroyers. He watched them lazily and wondered
at their fierceness, their uselessness of purpose. Then he saw a form
coming down the beach and looked eastward where the boat of the Conchs
had made the shore again.

The black man went slowly along the beach prodding the sand at
high-water mark wherever he saw the tracks of turtles. He had a long,
thin piece of iron with a sharp end which he drove into the sand and
withdrew again, looking at the end to see if there was any sign of
egg-yolk adhering to it. Once he struck a place where a turtle had
scooped out a nest, and the dripping iron caused him to give a cry to
his companion in the boat. Then he threw down a sack and dug until he
had unearthed the eggs, which he transferred quickly to the bag, and
picking up his iron staff he went along, bending down to watch the
tracks more closely.

The loggerhead watched him out of the corner of his eye and thought of
the turtle who had lost her eggs, but the whole thing interested him
but little and he made his way slowly down the sand to avoid being hit
over the head with the iron rod because the Conch did not like him.

The Conch saw him as he gained the surf, but he knew him, and shaking
his staff at him he went along searching for more prizes.

The great loggerhead swam easily just below the surface where the
sunlight filtered down and made the liquid a bright blue. He had no
object, and held his course across the Gulf Stream, letting himself
drift with the current. It was well to live and the uselessness of
effort was more apparent to him since he had seen the Conch’s work on
the cay of the Bahama Bank.

The warm stream was rushing silently northward and the gentle wind
caused but little roll to the sea. The loggerhead could lie upon the
surface and poke his head out, getting a glimpse of the eternal rim of
the circle which had no break. But he cared nothing for land, and the
sea was sparkling and blue. The sun overhead sent down hot rays which
he felt through his thick armor of shell, but when it grew too warm
he cooled himself by sinking a few feet below the surface for several
minutes.

Several big barnacles which had attached themselves to his underbody
made navigation tiresome, for he had to drag them through the water
along with him, but it was too much trouble to scrape them off. He had
seen some of his fellows do this on the rocks of the Florida Reef, but
it was laborious work and he preferred to take things easy.

He was not an old turtle. Some of his fellows had lived for several
centuries and were old before he was born. But he had grown very large
since the day he first saw the sun shining over the reef at Roncador.
He was but a tiny little fellow then, and his shell was so soft that
he felt the sun burn through it. His leather-like skin on his neck was
tender and even his bony beak could hardly cut the soft Gulf weed. His
flippers were dark and soft and very unlike the huge scaly paddles he
now used to scull himself along. He was quite rapid in his movements
then, but life upon the tropical sea had gradually had the effect of
making him sluggish and philosophical. The sunshine was all he cared
for.

He had no trouble getting enough to eat without fighting for it. It
seemed a great waste of energy to be eternally chasing other and weaker
creatures, and now he had drifted instinctively back to the habits of
his forefathers. He took things very coolly. When a savage shark or
albicore made a strike at him he did not retaliate by snapping at them
with his huge beak which would now slice out a couple of pounds of wood
from a floating log and shear through anything living. He simply hauled
in his paddles and stump of a tail to the sheltering safety of his
armor and the vigorous fish might chop all day at him for all he cared.
Their teeth might scratch his shell a little, but the powerful arch of
his back made it impossible to crush him and a few scratches upon his
plates would not injure him in any way whatever. His head he might draw
in until his ugly beak and steady eyes looked out of a sort of cavern.
It was trifling with sudden death to come within the radius of a foot
of that nose, and the vigorous fish after tormenting him a few minutes
generally gave him a shove and left him in disgust.

After they had gone away he would slowly and lazily shove out his
paddles again and proceed to scull himself leisurely on his way, his
small, dull mind undisturbed at the affront. Such creatures were a
nuisance to him, but they were in existence and it was not for him to
worry because they were. He would go along in the sunshine and soft
air in his easy way, and when these no longer attracted him he would
draw in his head, upset himself, then, thrusting it forward again, go
sculling for the cool depths where he would spend many hours among the
beautiful marine growths fathoms below the surface upon the coral
reef, and where the faint light of the sun filtering down made objects
dim and uncertain. All was quiet here, and it was the ideal place for
repose.

It had taken many years of wandering to get the loggerhead as far
north as the Bahama Bank. He had let himself drift along, and here
he was at last in the core of the great Florida Stream, going to the
northward at a rate which would have astonished him very much had he
known its velocity. It is doubtful even if he had known it that he
would have made any effort to either stem it or get clear, for he now
had the reposeful habit strong in his nature, and he took things as
they came. Nothing had as yet caused him the slightest harm, and there
was no reason to get excited at anything. Life was pleasant. Effort was
useless.

He would float along upon the bright blue surface of the warm stream
and poke his head up into the clear sweet air and sunshine. It was
enough. The life of albicore or dolphin was not for him. Theirs
was all effort, savage strife, and a sudden death. He might lie and
ponder at their lot with his head slightly raised and his paddles at
rest, but while he might notice them in their desperate play he had a
supreme contempt for them all. He had already lived as long as three
generations of them, and they had done nothing save fight and slay.

As he floated away he soon found many of his old acquaintances were
disappearing. The savage amber-jack and fat sunfish would pass him now
and then, but they were always heading south. Only his companions, the
flying fish, seemed to care as little as he for their whereabouts. The
flying fish were not afraid of him, and they were his friends. He held
them in high disdain for their cowardice, for they were always timorous
and ready for flight at the first sign of an approaching fish, and it
was more contempt than pity he had for those who were caught. The more
fortunate he would watch with languid interest.

The lives of all were so full of strife they were eminently
unsuccessful from his point of view, and it was only because the little
flyers were so pretty when they whirled upward from the blue water and
with whirring wings sailed away, that he liked them better than the
rest. They always knew where the best Gulf weed was to be had and never
disputed his claim to the largest share of any that he found. It was
manifest to him that he was a superior being, quite above the rest of
his fellows, and with the instinctive feeling common to all animals,
he felt that this superiority was a special gift from the great power
which he felt ruled his destiny. His dull brain worked slowly. There
was no quickening of his sluggish circulation to brighten his wits.

It was quite a fortnight after leaving the Bahama Bank that he began
to notice that the water about him was not quite so blue as before and
that there was a chill in it which he did not like. It stirred him
to action and he began paddling westward after the setting sun. The
next day a low shore appeared on the horizon with a bright sand beach
shining like a white band between the dark line of hammock and the
sparkling sea. He headed for it, thinking to haul out a little while
and sun himself upon the hot beach, for the air was much cooler than
what he had been accustomed to and the Gulf weed was scarce.

In spite of his unwieldy size the loggerhead was not slow when he once
started to use his great paddles. He kept up a steady stroke with all
four, his large front ones sculling him along like two oar-blades,
bending at each return, and his smaller hind ones shoving him ahead
with quick, jerky strokes. His head was thrust forward, and he went
along a few feet below the surface like a great oval shadowy shape.

In a little while he drew near the beach. It was a long sand-spit
stretching out to sea, upon which the long roll of the Atlantic swell
fell with a deep, sullen roar. Beyond the spit was a quiet lagoon, and
there was an opening through the line of breakers.

He paddled slowly in, keeping clear of the surf, poking his head up
now and then to get his bearings correctly. Upon the inner end of the
bar he saw three strange forms. They were absurd-looking creatures
with long legs and bills, their heads having light gray penciled
feathers giving them the appearance of being bald, as their wings and
breasts were dark. Their large eyes were watching the incoming tide
as it swirled through the inlet, and when they saw him they set up a
vast noise of protest, scolding loudly and threatening him. He felt
instinctively that these birds were timid creatures in spite of their
fierce threats, and a sudden movement toward them sent them shrieking
away in terror. This amused him, and he went in through the smooth
water unmolested.

Inside the lagoon was a long stretch of shoal water. Sculling along
close to the bottom so that but a few inches were between him and the
hard sand, he went swiftly up the sound. A great sand shark lay in
front of him, his long body barely moving, the sunlight playing upon
his flanks and his dorsal fin just awash. The loggerhead gave him a
brush with his paddle as he went past and the great fish shot ahead a
full fathom with the touch. He was not used to being brushed against,
and it startled him. Then he turned and chopped at the turtle, but his
teeth met the armor of shell and several broke with the impact. The
loggerhead went steadily on. The water was now getting warmer again and
the sunshine made it very bright, for it was shoal and the white sand
reflected the rays from the bottom, hurting his eyes with the glare.

He found a sloping beach and hauled lazily out into the heat of a
cloudless day.

The quiet of the lagoon was attractive to the turtle. He spent many
days drifting about its shallow depths feeding upon the drift-weed and
small shell-fish the tide drove into the inlet. He was well content to
lie upon the surface and watch the shear-waters go sailing past, their
beaks skimming the smooth sea, the tips sometimes cutting like a knife
through the yielding medium, ready to snatch up any unwary mullet or
small fry that happened upon the surface in their path. Often a great
pelican would come in from the sea and fish for a few hours over the
schools of mullet or whiting until with heavy pouch and tired pinions
he would withdraw to the sand-spit to gorge himself with the tender
morsels.

The loggerhead was amused at the harried schools of fish as they
scurried in terror for a shelter. He felt his superiority over all the
other denizens of the lagoon, and the poor little creatures hurrying in
terror from the destroyers filled him as before with disdain.

One day a fishing schooner hove to off the inlet. Boats were lowered
and a long seine placed in them. The net was very strong and its
leadline so heavy it took eight men to haul it. They headed slowly
in for the inlet and lay off the entrance for some time waiting for
the tide to favor an attempt to make the opening through the breakers.
They headed the long rollers, rowing easily, and one man stood in the
bow of the leading boat watching the shoaling water, ready to warn the
helmsman in time to prevent getting ashore.

Soon they saw the way clear ahead and the rowers put some strength into
their stroke, sending the small craft rapidly in. They went through the
entrance safely, although a breaker rolling close to the outer edge of
the sand-spit half filled the leading boat. Then they rested on their
oars and began to clear the net.

The loggerhead was far away up the lagoon when the fishermen entered.
He saw them as they were stretching the seine across the entrance of
the inlet and watched them haul it slowly up the slue, driving all the
fish before them. The mullet were jumping in terror and the whiting
were hurrying for the shoal water half a mile away. The great sand
shark who lay off the entrance saw the closing trap in time to make a
lunge past the end of the line, splashing the man in the bow with a
vigorous slap of his tail as he swung across and clear. He made a chop
at the trailing net, but missed it in his hurry. Then he went sullenly
to sea.

The fishermen landed on either side of the narrow lagoon and started to
walk the net slowly up, gradually closing the space above into smaller
and smaller scope. In half an hour they had gone more than halfway, and
the frightened schools of fish began to grow more and more restless as
they saw the strangers approaching. Some of them tried the meshes of
the seine, but they were too small for any save the tiniest mullet to
go through, and they fled back again to the shallow water farther up.

The loggerhead was resting upon the surface watching the men. They had
not yet noticed him, but he had gone so long without harm from anyone
that he anticipated none. He was satisfied that his superiority to
all other creatures put him beyond the pale of becoming a victim to
anything.

Suddenly a fisherman noticed him and yelled to his companions across
the slue, pointing at the bony beak that showed above the surface. His
companions were too far away to hear what he said, but their sharp eyes
followed his signals and they soon noticed the turtle.

The net was drawing in closer and closer, the water was getting
shoaler, and the men were walking the lines ahead more rapidly. The
fish imprisoned beyond its scope now saw their danger plainly and
they tore the water into foam in their frantic efforts to escape. The
loggerhead saw them and watched them lazily, much amused at their
struggles. His contempt for them grew so supreme that when they rushed
past him in one of their frantic plunges he snapped viciously at a
lagging mullet and very nearly cut him in two. Then he sank slowly
down to the sandy bottom below, for the hurrying fish annoyed him.

The net was now nearly up to the end of the slue, and a giant leader
of the mullet school made a mighty dash for liberty. He tore down the
lagoon and rising with a sudden sweep upward, leaped high in the air
and plunged over the line of corks which floated the top of the trap.

He went free. Another, encouraged by his example, made the dash also
and went over. The rest, seeing the leaders leap to liberty, made a
dash in unison and with a mighty rush plunged at the floating line of
buoys. Hundreds went over in spite of the fishermen, who manned their
boats and rowed along the net, holding it aloft wherever they saw the
crowd coming. Some gave out at the jump and drove against the deadly
meshes, and others, finding the crowd too close for them, swerved at
the line and flowed past in a solid phalanx of shimmering silver to
swim back and make a new trial.

The cries of the men and the rush of the passing schools began to
make the loggerhead restless. There was something very extraordinary
taking place. He was angry at the miserable fish who were so useless
and helpless. His contempt finally became so great that he concluded
that he would go down to the other end of the slue where the sand shark
usually lay waiting for the little fish to come out in deep water. He
started to scull himself forward and had just made headway when he
suddenly brought up against the net.

The water was less than ten feet deep where he was, and he followed the
obstruction upward to the surface, thinking to find it end before he
came into view of the men. But the line of buoys held it well up and
his head popped out of the water before he realized that he could not
pass. A man in a boat made a vicious lunge at him with a boat-hook, but
he got out of the way and followed the net along trying to find a way
to get through.

The mullet and whiting were now leaping by scores over the corked line.
Their active life had made them fleet and strong. They had fought for
existence from the beginning, and the trap about them was but another
of the many obstacles they must surmount if they would endure. They
were terrified, but they acted quickly and sensibly, their fright
not causing them to overlook any possible means of escape. They were
getting clear in spite of the shouting men who were now hauling line
as fast as they could. Several large skates and a couple of flounders
who had lived up the slue were vainly trying to burrow under the
heavy leadline that swept the bottom. The loggerhead noticed them as
he passed, but they paid no heed to him. A troop of crabs were being
hustled along the bottom by the weighted line. They were snapping at
everything that came in their reach.

The loggerhead began to get anxious to go away. He made a savage lunge
at the meshes closing about him and he drove his head through a great
rent he made with his beak. His paddles, or flippers, however, caught
in the snare and he struggled wildly and with gigantic power to get
through. His tremendous struggles soon drew the corked line below the
surface and brought the fishermen hurrying in their boats to find out
what caused the trouble. They gazed down into the depths and soon made
out the giant shape struggling frantically. Seizing the lines of the
seine they quickly hauled the loggerhead to the surface, where one of
them grasped his hind paddle and held it long enough to get a bowline
around it. Then they rowed to the shore, towing him ignominiously
behind the craft, while the few remaining mullet, who were too small
and weak to make the leap for liberty, crowded swiftly through the gap
and headed for the open sea.

Even the skates now made for the opening in the trap. They rose to the
surface with difficulty, but managed to get clear. In less than five
minutes every living thing in the shape of a fish had escaped.

The fishermen landed their prize and tried to haul him out of the
water. The loggerhead objected to this, and he began to haul them
bodily into the sea. The water was riled and he appeared monstrous in
the foam. They could not tell what kind of creature he was, but it was
for them to get him ashore, and six of them hauled on the line while
two, wading in, began to pry at him with oars to turn him upon his
back. In a little while they had him rolled over and helpless. Then
they came close to examine their victim.

“I’d be willing to lose half a ton of fish fer a fine green turtle,”
said the leader of the men. “He’s a corker, an’ that’s a fact.”

“Looks to me like he’s nothin’ but one o’ them loggerheads,” said an
old fisherman; “if he is, he’s played it on us fine.”

They looked at the markings on his shell and pulled out his flippers.
Then the leader mopped his streaming face with a handkerchief. The old
fisherman looked up sheepishly and grinned.

“He aint wuth his weight in mud. Turn him lose an’ let him slide,” he
said.

A sailor rapped him over the head and spoke feelingly. Then they cut
the line adrift and went to gather in their torn net.

The loggerhead lay upon his back and waited. He was annoyed at the
disturbance. It was provoking to be turned over by a lot of fishermen.

The mullet had seen him hauled out by the flipper, and he grew angry at
the thought. He tried to twist round and get upon his belly, but could
not.

All day he lay in the hot sunshine and snapped viciously at the
sand-crabs who came to examine him. Then, as the tide raised and
floated him, he managed to get again upon his paddles. He was
disgusted. Far away down the lagoon a ripple on the water showed the
returning mullet. He gazed at them for a moment, then hauled himself
clear of the bottom. His ugly beak was stuck far out, and with steady
strokes he pointed it for the open sea. He passed the returning
fish, and they wondered at him. Then he went through the opening and
disappeared into the great ocean to the eastward.




[Illustration: The White FOLLOWER]


He was a little more than fourteen feet across the tips of his
outspread wings, more than two fathoms, and his white breast, full
and rounded, was as broad as that of the man who stood at the wheel
and watched him go soaring past. The very tips of his huge wings were
black as jet, showing in marked contrast to the unbroken whiteness of
the rest of his feathers, and the only other dark spot upon his snowy
form was his eye. This was as black and shiny as the lanyards in the
rigging. It was large and held a steady gaze, fearless yet curious, so
that when the man at the wheel looked up the bird tilted his head to
one side to get a better view of him. The giant beak, nearly a foot in
length and of heavy bone, had a strangely hooked end, which swelled
a little in size from the middle portion. It was a serviceable pair
of shears which could cut a five-pound fish in two at a bite. The two
webbed feet, as large again as those of a swan, were held close in
to the short tail feathers so as not to offer resistance to the air,
through which the bird went at the speed of an express train. Silent
and otherwise motionless, save for that turn of the head, the great
creature swept past. Not a movement of leg or pinion, not a feather
disturbed in that headlong rush. With the great wings stretched far out
and slightly bowed, he held his way and tore past the fast-running ship
as though she were at anchor, instead of plowing through the southern
ocean at the rate of ten knots an hour with the wind behind her. Then,
as she was left far astern, he tilted himself a little, and off into
the curve of a tremendous circle he swerved, swinging with the speed of
the wind over the rolling wave-tops until he had covered at least three
miles upon the arc and was heading swiftly back again to repeat the
maneuver.

All the time that large black and shining pair of eyes watched the
surface of the sea. Not a morsel of anything went overboard unobserved.
From a distance of a mile or more the huge bird would note the smallest
bits of food or grease which the cook would toss over the side when
cleaning his coppers for a new mess of salt junk. Sailing over the bits
of floating stuff he would hover a moment to see if they were really
worth tasting. If so, he would soar in smaller and smaller circles
until he would breast a sea. Then, dropping his legs and bracing his
feet to retard the slowing flight, he would sink into the water and
check himself with both feet and wings until his body finally rested
gracefully upon surface. Folding his pinions slowly and a little
stiffly, he would propel himself like a huge goose toward the floating
prize and make a pass at it with his beak. Salt-pork rind, gristle,
anything that had grease or taste to it, was chopped by the bony shears
and quickly bolted. It mattered little just what it was as long as it
had some grease or taste to it. His appetite was not squeamish.

When nothing remained he would slowly and stiffly again stretch out
those wings and face to windward. Then he would propel himself along
into the breeze until he rose upon a sea. A quick couple of strokes
with the pinions and a sudden push with both feet generally lifted the
great body clear of the water before it began to sink down the slope of
the succeeding sea. After that it was but a detail to rise higher and
higher into the clear air without perceptible motion save of rushing
ahead and circling in spiral curves, which no mathematician might
describe or define as a means of ascending.

The ship was something over six hundred miles off shore. She was
heading for the last corner of the world, Cape Horn, to turn it and
then go northward up the South Pacific. She would head up the middle of
the great ocean and at times she would not be within a thousand miles
of any land whatever.

For more than two weeks the albatross had followed in the wake, his
tireless pinions showing no signs of weakening by the continuous
flight. Steadily night and day he had followed, and the men aboard
had watched him with the awe all deep-water men feel for the giant
birds, which seem to be able to soar through space for a lifetime
without tiring. Sometimes when he came up astern he slackened his pace
by some method and remained for a short moment poised a few fathoms
above the man at the wheel. Then his steady look as he slanted his
head sideways made the man have a queer feeling, as though he were
almost in communication with a stranger from the realms of space. When
the captain happened on deck he paid considerable attention to the
follower, but he never thought to harm him. The Winchester, which he
often used to take snap-shots at blackfish, was always laid aside at
his approach.

The great bird noted this. He was not afraid of the rifle, for although
he saw the effects of the shot, he knew nothing of its power. The
man was a creature of the earth like himself, and he had no reason
to suspect him of harmful purposes simply on that account. He was
interested in him, and a not unfriendly feeling came within his breast.

In the latitude of the “roaring forties” the weather is uncertain.
Sometimes it blows high and sometimes low, which latter means it is
dead calm for a spell. Under these conditions a sailing ship naturally
comes to a sudden stop, and, with clewed-up courses, rolls and switches
away often for days without making more than a degree of southing.

It was during one of these calm spells that the captain began to
formulate a plan which would bring him in closer contact with the
great bird which still soared and circled about the ship. He rigged a
trolling line with a bit of wood for a float near the hook. Then he
baited it with a piece of salt beef and tossed it over the side.

The ship was barely moving, but still had headway enough to get away
from the bait. When it was fifty fathoms astern the captain held the
line and waited.

The albatross soon sighted the piece of beef and circled slowly toward
it. Then as it floated in clear view he settled upon the surface of the
sea and paddled up to it and gave it a chop. He cut away half the beef,
but missed the hook, and the captain’s jerk upon the line merely pulled
it from him. He made another grab, and as he did so the line tautened
and the barb of the hook caught under his beak.

Hand over hand the captain hauled him in. He spread forth his wings and
backed water hard with his feet, but the seaman kept a steady strain
upon the line and prevented the hook from slipping clear. Soon he was
directly under the ship’s counter, and as she squatted down into the
hollow of a swell the captain quickly hauled the bird over the rail to
the deck.

Inside the poop-rail it was impossible for the albatross to get headway
enough to rise into the air, the wind was so unfavorable in the
shelter. While he might waddle about upon the white planks it was as
impossible for him to get away as though he had been chained by the
leg. It was most provoking to be in such an absurd position. The man at
the wheel grinned at him, and the mate came up to take a better look
at close quarters. He stretched forth his wings and tried to rise by a
series of powerful strokes, but it was in vain. He only managed to go
plunging into the rail before he got his feet clear of the planks. This
made him angry and he snapped at the mate, making a savage chop with
his great beak, which came together with a loud clap. But the seaman
jumped aside, and the captain admonished him to keep away.

Gradually the feeling of being upon a floating thing with other
creatures seemed less strange. It was remarkable how different the
ship was now that he was on board it from what it appeared while he
was a few fathoms in the air. Yet he had followed it so long that he
had become accustomed to it, and the unpleasant sensation of becoming
suddenly a prisoner aboard gave place to that of curiosity. The captain
brought some choice fat and ordered the steward to keep the slush from
the coppers as clean as possible and give the stranger as much as he
wished. After eating several pounds he lost for the time all desire to
get away and waddled about the quarter-deck perfectly satisfied with
the sudden change in his condition.

The ship’s dog rushed up and made a savage attack, and for a few
minutes the great bird was frightened, for the noise was distracting
and a sudden bite gave him pain. Then the captain dragged the animal
away and gave the newcomer a choice piece of salt pork to make up for
the lack of courtesy shown by the dog.

There was much of the dog’s spirit aboard the ship, although it was
not manifest to the albatross. Among the men forward were several
who had much the same feeling for their fellows. Under the cover of
bluff and honest exteriors they concealed dispositions like that of
the dog. They were a type of what is known as “sea lawyer,” and were
always dwelling upon the grievances of sailors and the rascality of
mates and masters. Close and intelligent observers would have noticed
at once that the faults their leader saw in others were the ones rising
to the surface in himself and which he was trying to conceal. He was
saturnine, and his ugly little eyes held an unpleasant look every time
he came in the vicinity of either the mate or captain. The second
officer was in the other watch and therefore not often about to give
him orders.

As the vessel gradually made her way southward and the hardships became
more trying with the colder weather, the feeling aboard among the men
who listened to the grumbler became more sinister. The captain was not
such a man as to let things go unnoticed, but as long as there was no
direct disobedience of orders he took no action and let the mate warm
up the discontented men with extra work, for it is well known that
hard work will do more for an ugly crew than any medicine.

The captain spent much time on deck and made a pet of the bird he
had captured. He was a generous man and lonesome among the rough
fellows who made up the crew, for his position forbade any intercourse
whatever with anyone except his first officer. Even this seaman, able
and intelligent as he was, could not be made more of than a slight
acquaintance. Such is the rule aboard deep-water ships, for discipline
must be enforced if safety is to be considered.

During many lonely hours the master tried to reconcile the dog to the
newcomer. The old wolf spirit bred through thousands of generations
of the land animal was not easy to pacify. It was the old spirit of
suspicion for strangers based upon the experience of hundreds of
ancestors, who had perhaps trusted not wisely but too well in the
days when all living things were at war with each other and only the
strongest and most cunning might survive. It was as evident in the
dog as in the men of the forecastle, and the master studied carefully
and comprehensively to subdue it, or at least pacify it to an extent
that strife might be averted. Kindness and unselfishness were the two
antidotes he would employ.

The great bird was not slow to notice his friendship. After a day or
two he was on the lookout for the master, who appeared regularly to
take his morning observation for longitude, and he walked laboriously
up to him in spite of the dog’s yelping. There was something in the
man’s behavior that made him instinctively his friend. Finally even
the dog’s suspicions were allayed, and instead of seizing the bird’s
feathers in the rear to jerk them and then dodge the snap of the beak,
he met the bird face to face and refrained from either a bite or bark.
The two became reconciled.

During several days the albatross waddled about the quarter-deck and
was fed, until the captain, fearing that he would grow so fat he would
be unable to fly, finally took him in his arms one day and placed him
upon the rail. Then he tied a bit of fancy red cord about his leg so
that he might distinguish him from other birds that would follow in
the ship’s wake. The great bird had long ago learned to eat from the
man’s hand and took care not to chop too close to the fingers with
his powerful beak. The master would stroke the beautiful white head
and smooth the snowy feathers until the petting became a thing looked
forward to. It was a smooth day in the latitude of the Falklands when
he determined to set the captive free, and the dark water seemed
less attractive than usual under the gloom of the overcast sky. The
lonely cry of a stray penguin broke now and again upon the ears of the
listening seaman and had a depressing effect.

With a last caress he gave the pet a gentle push to start him. The
great black eyes looked hard at the sailor, and then, with the giant
wings outstretched, he swung off in a graceful swoop, curving upward
as the falling body nearly touched the sea. He was gone.

That night it came on to blow hard from the westward. The ship, nearing
the latitude of the Horn, was shortened down to her lower topsails,
and with the wind snoring away under them and past each taut downhaul,
clewline, and halyard, she was hove to. It was necessary to try to keep
her from sagging off to the eastward, for in this latitude every mile
counts.

During the morning watch the mate had reason to call the captain, for
with a falling glass and shifting wind, he was on the lookout for a
definite change.

The captain came on deck and took in the situation. It was still dark,
but the growing light on the horizon told of the approaching day. He
stood near the man at the wheel a moment and the mate went forward
where the green seas sometimes rose above the topgallant rail and fell
upon the deck as the staggering ship plunged into the trough. Through
the dim, misty light of the early morning he saw the watch turning out
to clew down the foretopsail, and as the foremost man took the ratlines
he turned and walked to the binnacle to watch the shifting course.

The increasing gale and gloomy prospects had caused the grumbling
element among the crew to be more careless than usual, in spite of the
master’s efforts to pacify them. The leader of the malcontents came aft
with two others to take a pull in the spanker sheet, for upon the boom
had been bent the storm trysail to hold the vessel’s head up to the
gale while hove to. The men hauled surlily upon the line, but it came
in so slowly that the mate came aft and spoke to them to stir them up.
Then they flattened it in, but the stout landsman, or ordinary seaman,
who was taking in the slack upon the cleat, failed to catch a turn. A
tremendous sea hove the ship to leeward almost upon her beam-ends. The
struggling men were hove against the lee rail, and the sheet, whirling
loose from the fellow’s hands, caught a turn about his body and in an
instant he was flung over the side. The captain, who had just stepped
out from the wheel-house, made a grab to seize him, and a turn of the
now flying line caught him around the ankle and jerked him also over
the rail into the sea. Then followed the dreaded cry of “man overboard”
and the confusion of a crew of men without a leader.

The mate with ready knife cut away the lashings of the quarter-buoys
and let them go overboard. Then he tried to fling a line, but the ship
was moving too fast. She was forereaching heavily, but in that sea it
was madness to think of trying to stop her by laying the yards aback,
or losing control of her in any way. She must go on. They might shorten
her down enough to stop her, but even if they could do so within half
an hour she would be too far away to see a man in the water and the sea
too heavy to think of lowering a small boat.

Daylight was breaking over the stormy ocean and the roar from aloft was
sounding louder with the increasing gale. Many of the men forward had
not seen the incident and the cries of those upon the foretopsail yard
to those on deck could be heard. From a bunch at the weather clewline
came a faint strain of a “chanty”:

        “‘Ole stormy, ’e was a good ole man--
        Singing yo, ho, ho--with a hey--bar-rrr.’”

The absurd chorus struck forcibly upon the ears of the master, who
with both hands gripped the life-buoy and kept his head clear of the
breaking seas. The mate, leaning over the taffrail, bawled something to
him he could not understand, and then the ship drifted to leeward with
the faint sound of singing still in his ears:

        “‘Ole stormy, ’e’ll come walking home,
        Singing yo, ho, ho--with a hey--bar-rrrrr.

        “‘le stormy, ’e has gone to sea--
        But ’e’ll not come back, with a hey--bar-r-rr-rr.’”

The words of a “chanty” are generally grotesque and meaningless, but
it was this very absurdity that struck the listening master as fraught
with meaning. It was significant of his ending. He would not come back
again.

The water was quite cold, and to make certain that he would not lose
his hold upon the cork float he passed his head through the circular
opening and made his body fast with the hand-line to the buoy at both
sides, so that he would balance evenly. He would do all he could to
live, and if he floated long enough they might pick him up after all.
The minutes dragged into hours, and cold and exhaustion caused his mind
to wander. He fancied he saw green fields again and was back in the
land of his birth.

The suffering of passing was almost over and it held no terrors for
him. He had tried to do what he could aboard the ship to make things
less hard for his men. Perhaps if he had been more savage he would have
done better, for there are some men who cannot be touched save through
great bodily fear.

The dawn of the southern day had broken over the heaving ocean, and
at times he would try instinctively to look for the ship. She had
disappeared. Nothing but the great rolling seas as far as the eye
could reach, and these turned now and again into grass-grown hills
before his failing vision.

It was late in the morning, after the daylight had become strong, that
he fancied he heard a dull, thunderous noise. It had little effect upon
him now, for he was too far gone to pay much attention. The noise grew
louder and louder as the minutes passed and suddenly his dulled brain
became alert again. He looked toward where the sound came from, and
it was from the northward and behind him, and through the haze of the
flying spume-drift he saw the dark gray shadows of rocks. He fancied
his mind was at fault, and in spite of the heavy roar which now filled
the air he paid little attention. Then he was hove nearer the ledge and
felt the rush of the lifting sea.

It spurred him to recover. He dashed the salt water from his eyes and
made a desperate effort to realize his position. Then a great, high
rolling surge that had run for miles across the southern ocean picked
him up on its crest and bore him shoreward with the speed of the wind.
As it broke into a white smother of foam he saw clearly at last that he
was being hurled upon the rocks. He struggled to keep his head out of
the boiling rush and looked for a place where he would strike. To hit
the ledge at the speed he was going meant instant death, and he tried
to see if there was no slue or opening into which he might be hurled.
The current of the Antarctic had caused an eddy within a few miles of
the rocks of Hermite Isle, in which he had drifted, and it had carried
him toward the land at a rapid rate.

Rising upon the roll of the crest, he just managed to keep from
striking until the weight and speed of the breaker had been exhausted.
Then by chance and the aid of the buoy he managed to float into a
crevice between the rocks and cling there until the back-wash had left
him almost high and dry. With the last remaining energy left he hauled
his body clear of the tide and lost consciousness.

When he regained his senses the sun was well up on the northwestern
horizon. The wind had gone down considerably, and heavy, oily-looking
clouds were hurrying past overhead, with breaks between them. He felt
the sting of sleet upon his face and the chill from his wet clothes
almost paralyzed him. He staggered to his feet and gazed about him.
Then he crawled higher up the rocks.

There was no doubt about it, he was upon the rocks of Cape Horn. He was
clear in his mind now and remembered his struggles, and he had seen the
ragged hump too often not to recognize it at once. How his ship had
been driven in so close was hard to guess, but he knew the treacherous
currents of the Drift and remembered that a careless helmsman might
very easily nurse the vessel off her course with the help of an unknown
set to the northward.

While he looked about him he became aware that he needed nourishment
very badly. He was faint with the long swim and continued exposure to
the cold water and he must have remained unconscious for many hours
after coming ashore. There was nothing to eat upon the ledge. Tufts
of the great tussac-grass shot up here and there upon the heights
above him, but there was nothing that looked as if it might be used to
prolong his life.

But a seaman is never beaten until he dies. The master would not
despair. He sat a moment and studied the question. Then he arose again
and clambered painfully up the crags, hoping that he might find some
Cape pigeon eggs upon the higher terraces. There was not a sign of
anything except a great rock-hopper, or penguin, who skipped nimbly
down and plunged into the sea with a loud cry before the sailor could
reach him. Some thirty feet above the ledge upon which he landed he
discovered a pool of half-stagnant water, but it was not salty and
came from the melted snow and sleet. He drank some and felt better,
although it made him colder. He felt through his clothes for a match,
but found the metal case in which he carried them had failed to keep
out the sea water. His numb fingers could scarcely open the case, but
he finally placed the little sticks in a lee, where he hoped they would
dry enough to light. Then he sat down and waited, and before he knew it
he had fallen asleep.

The sun had swung up again in the northeast when he opened his eyes
and the weather was less ugly. He tried his matches. First one was
scratched carefully upon a dry piece of stone. The head crumbled slowly
away. A bit of smoke seemed to start from it and the seaman’s heart
beat rapidly. Then the head fell away, leaving the bare stick. It was
worthless. He tried another of his scanty store. He grasped the little
stick close to its head of composition and drew it very carefully upon
the rock. A bunch of finely shredded grass, perfectly dry, was rolled
into a ball to catch the first spurt of flame. The match cracked
softly and at each noise the sailor’s heart seemed to stop. His hand
shook violently. Then the head of the match crumbled again, and his
spirits sank within him. It was life or death, for he must have warmth
soon or perish. He had only three more fuses and he stopped a little to
think of some way he might make them burn. He gazed steadily at them
for a long time and then took up one. It failed.

Hope died away as he took up the other two. He struck them carefully
as before, but they were spoiled. Then he cast the grass from him and
looked out to sea.

He had been gazing for a long time before he was aware of a form which
appeared circling over the ocean beyond the lift of the breakers. It
was that of a huge albatross, which had come in from the sea and was
apparently looking for a sheltered place upon the Horn to rest. The
master gazed at the great white form skimming along over the wave-tops
and remembered his pet. The bird appeared larger than the one he had
caught, but all of the great Cape albatrosses were so much alike that
he could not distinguish between them. He watched the bird circle about
him and finally noticed that he had been discovered, for the creature
came nearer and nearer at each sweep until he caught the look of its
eye as it bent its head a little in order to observe him better. The
albatross was evidently hungry and it might take very little indeed
to invite an attack. The bird was practically carnivorous, for it ate
anything in the way of flesh it could capture. It was very powerful
and could get the best of a man without much trouble, provided the
man was incapable of vigorous defense. The thought made him alert and
brought to his own hungry self the idea of capture. He might do worse
than eat a thirty-pound bird during his stay ashore. He could not
cook the creature, but that would be of but small consequence in his
present state. The food was the main thing and it was necessary to get
something at once.

The bird came closer and closer until finally with outstretched wings
and projecting feet it backed against its own headway and settled upon
the ledge not twenty feet distant.

The captain’s heart beat high with expectation. He lay perfectly still
watching it, hoping that it would come near enough for him to grasp it.
If it was strong enough to conquer, it was well; he would soon be dead
anyway without food. If he could master it by gripping its throat, he
might live for many days.

The bird came straight toward him. He was quiet as a cat waiting for
a spring, his eyes glaring at it as it approached. Then something
attracted his attention. Upon the foot of the bird was a bit of cord.
Yes, there was no mistake, it was his pet, the bird he had captured. He
started up with a cry, but the bird came steadily toward him without
fear, and in an instant was poking his great beak into his hand for
food.

The seaman’s heart was beating wildly. Here was food enough for a week
right in his grasp. He had but to seize the bird’s neck quickly and
with the little strength he had left he could strangle it. The thought
called forth all the wild wolf spirit in his nature. He was trembling
with the excitement. But, as he looked down upon the beautiful, smooth
white neck of his former pet, he wavered. Something within him rose
against a deed of violence. He stroked the soft feathers and looked
at the creature, who was probably almost as hungry as himself. No, he
would commit no horrid act. He would probably starve anyhow, and it
would be better to die than to have such a conscience. Then all of the
beast fell away from him and he felt better.

But while he sat and stroked the great bird his mind was active. The
albatross would not remain there long. He would follow some vessel for
the beef-fat from her coppers, and as the thought came to him he began
a plan to attract attention.

He tore from his shirt a long piece of linen. This was a piece having
his name written upon it in indelible ink which had stood the wash of
the laundry. It would stand the wash of the sea. He made it fast to the
bird’s leg, and the bight of it he brought up over the back beneath
the wings, tying it loosely and leading the other end down so that it
could be fastened to the other leg. The thin cloth lying loose would
prevent the bird from cutting it with its beak, for the edges of that
appendage, while very sharp, were not laid as close together as those
of a pair of shears, and the thin cloth would work between them. Upon
the top of the piece he wrote with his own blood, “Cape Horn, Hermite
Isle, Help.” Underneath this he put the date, and let his laundry mark
do for signature. Then he led the bird gently to the edge of the rock
and pushed him over.

Afterward he settled down in his bed of tussac and waited for the end
he now felt was at hand. He prayed to the God he had felt in the breath
of the trade wind and roar of the storm, the power which was manifest
in all nature. Then a feeling of peace came upon him and his sufferings
were over; he had collapsed.

Two days later the Norwegian bark _Eric_ was working to the westward
past Cape St. John. Her captain had noticed a great albatross following
his vessel all day, and saw the bird had something fast to its leg.
Being of a very superstitious nature the master did everything he could
to attract the bird’s attention and draw him close enough to observe
the hanging cloth more thoroughly. He was astonished to find the bird
quite tame, and had no difficulty in hauling it on deck with a baited
hook. He took off the rag and read the inscription, which had luckily
kept clear and dry, for the weather had been cold and the sleet squalls
had not caused the writing to run.

Being in the neighborhood of the Horn, he did what no one but a very
superstitious master would have done without great trepidation. He
stood under all sail for Hermite Isle and hove his ship to not three
miles from the rocks. The weather was better than usual and he had no
difficulty in lowering a small boat and making a landing.

As the craft drew near the land the white life-buoy attracted the
helmsman’s attention, lying high up on the rocks and showing out
strongly against the background of black ledge. The boat was headed
into a rift or slue, and two of the men managed to spring out of her,
the rest keeping her clear of the rocks, which, although sheltered in
the slue, felt the tremendous lift and back-wash of the heavy swell
outside. The master was found unconscious in his bed of tussac-grass.

By care and skill they managed to get him into the small boat alive
and started for the bark that was riding safely in the offing. They
hurried back aboard and came alongside just as the Norwegian navigator
set the great bird free again. The men rested upon their oars and
watched the albatross as it stretched forth its wings and bore away to
the southward. A man standing in the lee rigging held a line to throw
to the bow oarsmen, but he hesitated and watched the majestic flight.
The officer in the boat looked instinctively upward, and, as the huge
creature soared away, he took off his cap and bowed his head.




[Illustration: KING ALBICORE]


He came from a race of giants. His ancestors had held sway over the
great breadth of the Pacific for many centuries, and were the lords of
the South Sea. When he first saw the light it was where the towering
peaks of Juan Fernandez rose above the eastern sea, like the backs
of huge marine monsters, from the deep ocean, topped by a heavy pall
of vapor which rose densely for miles into the blue above and spread
out like an enormous umbrella. Between the darkening under surface of
the higher layers of white, reaching down to the green hills beneath,
rectangular sections of steel-blue showed the semi-tropic rainfall.
They were sharply outlined against the clear sky beyond, for off the
land the sky was devoid of a single trade-cloud.

All around was peaceful calm. The great Pacific, father of waters, was
resting. Only the high-rolling swell from far away to the westward came
majestically onward toward the shore, rising higher and higher as it
met, deep down, the resistance of the outlying reefs, until it threw
its crest far into the air, and, with a thunderous roar of welcome,
rushed white and churning against the iron-hard cliffs, which received
it silently and hurled it backward as if coldly repellent of its
embrace.

The sun had shone strongly for days upon the smooth, heaving swell,
and out upon the sunken ledges where the albicore lingered; the rays
filtered down to the solid rock. Here, sheltered by the reef beyond,
the breakers did not disturb the ocean denizens. The deep-toned thunder
of the fall on the outer barrier filled the air, but beneath the
surface of the clear water all was quiet in the sunshine. The king was
a young one of a large family. Scores of his brothers and sisters lay
close to the bottom peering in and out among the forests of kelp, and
enjoying the rays of the warm sun, for the albicore is essentially a
surface fish. The heat and light were very pleasant to them, and they
were growing strong and healthy.

The older fish had come inshore some weeks before our hero was born,
but food was plentiful about the island and they still lingered. They
had spawned and had seen their young brought forth. Now their duty
was done and they swarmed about the ledges or plunged playfully about
the slues in the reef, chasing the smaller fish to shelter in pure
wantonness. They lingered on when it was time for them to take to the
great stretch of ocean to the westward and make room for others of the
deep ocean tribes. Now the young were about in great numbers, and they
seemed almost to crowd the waters in the sheltered coves. It was high
time to go to sea again, and on the morrow the leaders of the school
would start for the open ocean to the west, where the sun sank out of
sight. Those who could follow might be safe, for the older fish were
very strong, and their numbers would prevent any of the hanger-on crowd
of sullen sharks from coming too near the flanks of the moving throng.

A leader passed while our young one was watching the light. He was a
great fish six feet in length, his sides shimmering like silver. His
long, sinuous body apparently made no motion, save that it went ahead
slowly and steadily, and his eyes sparkled like glistening crystals.
His thin, tapering head seemed barely to disturb the medium about him
as he went through it, and the only vibration of the light rays near
him was caused by the huge mouth, which, although shut, showed heavy
projecting lips and a half-concealed row of pointed teeth that rippled
the water slightly as he slipped past. He was a long, powerful fellow,
capable of great speed, and a stroke from those jaws of his meant
death to anything in the sea of his size except the shark. Even the
tough hide of this scavenger would not protect him from a frightful
cut when the long, muscular body was launched at him with the speed
of an arrow. A dark shadow which had come near the edge of the broken
water gradually drew away with the albicore’s approach, and the young
one experienced a feeling of relief instinctively which he could not
understand. He was a very sensitive young one, all nerves, and the
uneasiness which possessed him when the large relative drew away caused
him to make an effort to follow. But the great albicore took no notice
of him, nor waited, but suddenly made a dart ahead, leaving only the
vision of a silvery flash.

Other large fellows came and went while the younger ones strayed about
the shoal water and chased the herring spawn or whale-food, eating much
and gaining strength hourly.

High above the bare rocks a shaggy goat nibbled the grass of the
hillside, and to the southward a chunky, dirty bark lay with her
courses hauled up and her mainyards aback, while a dense smoke arose
from her trying-out furnace. Alongside of her the carcass of a freshly
killed whale rolled just awash in the swell, attracting countless
thousands of whalebirds and loafing sharks.

The young albicore grew very nervous as the sun sank behind the sea
in the far west, dyeing the waves a deep crimson. He was remarkably
sensitive for an ocean fish. Instinct told him that he would fare
better away from that reef after the last full-grown albicore had gone.
They had been going to sea all day by twos and threes, but had paid
not the slightest attention to him or any of his younger mates. The
longing for the open ocean came upon him and with it a nameless dread.
He had no mother to guide him, no father to protect him. They had gone
to sea with the rest and left him to shift for himself. But there was
something in the deepening roar of the surf and the moaning of the
sea among the sunken ledges that spoke of an all-pervading Power that
would guide him onward to whatever life held in store. And yet with it
all was that nameless fear and dread which made him alert to every
vibration of the water. Darkness came suddenly, and some of his smaller
companions began to seek shelter of the more shallow water within the
coves and between the rocks. Their shimmering bodies grew less and less
distinct until only the phosphorescent flare of the disturbed water
when they moved gave notice of their presence. The semi-tropical night
fell upon the peaceful ocean.

All that night the great fish moved westward. In the morning, just
before the sun rose, the last of the laggards had started off into deep
water, leaving the high cliffs like a wall in the eastward, while the
somber bank of vapor rose again from the land and cast a gloom over the
outlying reef.

While the young fish were waiting for the growing light to guide them
in the wake of their forbears, there was a sudden commotion on the
edge of the surf. Numerous plunges and splashes told of a horde of
rapidly moving bodies advancing through the shoal water of the reef.
The feeling of terror that had come over our young one the day before
now seemed to pervade the entire crowd that scurried here and there in
the gloom. Everywhere there seemed to be a state of wild alarm. Bunches
of the smaller fish tried to find shelter in deep, dark holes where the
kelp weed formed mats and snaky tangles. Then, just as the first rays
of the morning sun glistened upon the crest of a great roller, there
was a sudden rush through the water all about, and dark forms came
plunging onward with incredible speed.

Our young one caught a glimpse of a great fish high in the air heading
for him, and the next instant there were several huge gaping mouths
between pairs of shining eyes rushing upon him from all sides. He saw
his young comrades seized and swallowed, their frantic efforts to
escape availing them not the least. Then with a wild terror, which
spurred him to frantic action, he rushed seaward. A giant mouth made a
snap at him as he went past. A huge form rose in the air and dropped
upon him with jaws gaping. He made a mad dodge and just missed the
rows of teeth, while the stroke of the falling body almost stunned
him. Then he recovered and tore for the outer breakers. The bonita had
struck inshore, and lucky would be the small fish who could escape
their rush.

Away into the deepening blue of the ocean he sped headlong with all
his energy. He looked neither to the right nor left, but held his way
straight ahead with the terror of those fierce monsters vibrating
through his whole being. On and on, without a thought of rest or
slacking his speed, he pushed until the bright sunshine showed him a
desolate waste of fathomless blue void around and beneath him, and a
bluer void above, with the little lumpy trade-clouds swinging past
overhead. He was heading almost due west, and as the day wore on and
his terror gave place to fatigue, he slacked his speed enough to take a
careful look about him. There was not a living thing in sight.

Hunger soon came upon him and stirred him to further action. He began
searching the sea for food. Soon one of his former companions came up
almost as exhausted as himself with the run for life, and together they
swam slowly along just beneath the surface in the roll of the swell.

As the day passed more of his youthful relatives hove in sight until by
night six followers held their way in his wake. These were all who had
gotten to sea. Few indeed had escaped. The day had marked the death of
countless young fish, for the bonita spared nothing that came in their
path.

The seven albicore cruised in company, capturing what small surface
fish accident cast in their way, but all the time they held a general
course to the westward and northward to where the coral reefs rose
from the bed of the equatorial ocean. Day after day they swam steadily
on, the young albicore leading. Their silvery bodies grew apace and
their backs took on a shifting blue color, so that looking down from
above, it would have been hard to tell them from the surrounding blue
depths. Sometimes the ugly and noisy bos’n-birds would swoop down as
though to strike them, but by sinking a few feet beneath the surface
the albicore easily escaped. At night the seven swam beneath a tropic
moon, and as they went their courage grew rapidly with their size.
Unfortunately they approached an unknown peak lying below the surface
of the great ocean. Here they were chased by a huge dolphin who haunted
the vicinity. Three of their number fell prey to him before they could
get away. A week or two later the remaining four fell in with a roaming
pair of bonita. Two more went the way of the weak.

The remaining pair of albicore now cruised onward together, our hero
leading as before, until they came to Tahiti, in the South Sea. Long
accustomed to danger now, they approached the shore warily, their
tapering bodies scarcely disturbing the sea. The albicore had grown
very fast, developing during these weeks of travel into powerful fish.
The teeth of the male leader began to show sharply beyond his lips.
He was growing more and more muscular, and the long swim was hardening
him. He was sturdy and shrewd, and the wild instinctive fear that had
governed his younger actions now gave place to a feeling of confidence.
His mate had also developed into a strong fish, and as they swam slowly
in through the outer breakers of the barrier reef, their long, sinuous
bodies armed with jaws and teeth which were not to be despised, smaller
fish approached to welcome them. The albicore received them coldly,
heading straight into the sheltered coves of coral, where they would
rest from their long run. Here they stopped at last and set about
making a new home.

During the months that followed the albicore grew several feet longer.
Our leader was now nearly six feet in length, with his long jaws armed
with razor-like teeth, his tapering flanks with silvery scales covering
muscles of great hardness and power. And with that power came a
consciousness of his worth. His wild life and flight made him careful
of the denizens of the coral banks. He grew cold and thoughtful until,
as he reached his final development physically, he was a dignified and
quiet fellow. The smaller sociable fish of the reef did not understand
him. Theirs was a life of ease and comparative safety, and their
thoughts seldom went beyond the boundaries of the outer barrier. They
fussed among themselves and voted the great stranger and his companion
surly company. The inquisitive little sunfish would sometimes take a
peep in at the cove where the albicore usually lay in the sunshine on
bright afternoons, but there was something in the great fish’s manner
that the little reefer could not understand, and he set him down for
a villain, keeping at a distance and looking askance always at those
ragged teeth that peeped out from the long, sharp jaws. Even the mullet
were warned, and gave the albicore a wide berth, while all the time he
lay there with his thoughts far away where the peaks of Juan Fernandez
rose from the sea. He was indeed a stranger in a strange place.
Finally he was left alone with his mate.

The little sociable fish were heeded not at all by the albicore. He
went to the reef daily and caught what small game he wished. His
dignified movements were even watched by the great ground shark who lay
daily under the shelter of the outer barrier, waiting to snap up any
unwary traveler who might be unfortunate enough to be caught in the
rolling surf and lose control of himself. Once only did the shark come
in contact with the stranger. It was when the albicore had been rolled
shoreward in the roaring surge. The lurking monster thought it a good
chance to strike. He received a savage cut over the eye that left him
somewhat bewildered and much more respectful of the powerful stranger’s
rights in the vicinity.

As the season changed and the trade-wind shifted to the eastward,
bringing with it little watery clouds, the two albicore became more
and more restless. The future king’s sensitive nature became more and
more imbued with the feeling that he must return to the waters of his
birth to take his place among those of his kind. He would be needed.
The bonita would come again, and there might be no albicore leader to
protect those who had escaped their last assault, and who would return
to the beautiful peaks that rose from the sea of his birth. There
was a feeling within him that he must be there for a purpose. He was
something more than a mere cruising pirate of the reefs of the South
Pacific. The petty life of little sociable fish was not for such as
he. There was something for him to do before he died, and this feeling
became stronger and stronger until one rainy morning he started out
accompanied by his faithful mate.

He was now at the fullness of his powers, a full-grown albicore of the
southern ocean. All the inheritance of the race of giants from whom he
had sprung was in his strong frame and lightning-like actions. He could
dart so swiftly the eye could hardly follow his form, and by a slight
swerve upwards he could spring high into the air above, leaving the
sea ten feet or more below him, and then with head pointed gracefully
downward, he would plunge into the blue depths, slipping his long,
sinuous body so easily into the unresisting medium that there would be
hardly a splash to mark his entrance. There were strength and grace in
all his movements, and he was as bold as he was beautiful.

The speed of the fastest ship was slow as compared with his tremendous
pace, so although he took his time and spent several days hunting upon
the surface of the sea, it was but a short run for him to Mas-a-fuera.
It was a very different passage from the one made when as a little
fellow he voyaged out.

[Illustration: FULL INTO THE CENTRE KING ALBICORE TORE HIS WAY.]

The high, grim cliffs of Mas-a-fuera rise a sheer thousand feet on
the north side of the island, and the wind is usually southerly. This
makes a ponderous lee, the only sea being the heave of the offshore
swell. Many denizens of the deep ocean come in here to rest and
search for food, and even the great cachalot, or sperm-whale, often
takes a quiet cruise through the clear depths to enjoy the stillness,
and incidentally look up a stray octopus or cuttle fish who might be
ensconced within some ocean cavern in the cliffs.

It was toward this sheltered lee-shore our albicore held his way.
Above the heights the huge pall of vapor rose as in his younger days,
standing out clearly against the void of blue, as sharply outlined as a
heavy cumulus cloud. There was no mistaking the place. He felt like a
sailor who had made a long voyage and had sighted the home port at last.

As he went shoreward, followed by his mate, he noticed many silvery
flashes in the water between him and the land. Drawing nearer he saw
that these were caused by countless albicore. Soon he was amid a throng
of his fellows numbering thousands, all making their way toward the
sheltered sea in the lee of the island. With the spirit and instinct
born in him and developed by his roaming life, he at once took the
lead of this vast school and led them slowly in to the submerged rocks
which would shelter them during their stay. Great numbers of females,
heavy with spawn, straggled from the flanks of the column, but he swam
around them, forcing them all into an almost solid phalanx of moving
fish. The memory of the bonita was still fresh within him. He would
take no chances with these helpless kindred. They seemed to recognize
his leadership without question, and followed quietly wherever he led
the way. Now and then some frisky younger member of the horde would
make a sudden start to sheer away, but with a rush our leader was
upon him, and he was forced back again. As they drew near the island
a school of porpoises made a dash among them. These fellows drove the
more timid in frantic throngs until our leader came plunging to the
rescue followed by a few of the largest and boldest of the school. In a
few minutes the warm-blooded animals had received some severe strokes
from the razor-like teeth and they went plunging seaward. Then the mass
of albicore went in and took possession of the rocks, the smaller fish
fleeing before them.

Here at last our hero was in the waters he loved. Game was plentiful
and the schools of the albicore led by him along the sunken rocks found
it easy to keep supplied. His great size, greater than even the largest
of that vast host, made his leadership unquestioned. Everything stood
clear of his rush except the sullen sharks, and even they took care not
to precipitate trouble by hanging too closely about the rear of his
foraging parties as they went their way along the shore.

During the whole season the albicore hung about the reefs of
Mas-a-fuera and Juan Fernandez Island. The young had come forth and the
sheltered places inside the outer breakers were teeming with them. Our
leader had driven to sea all other fish who were at all antagonistic
to them, and peaceful tranquillity reigned. Once or twice a growing
fellow, who had reached six feet or more in length, wanted to try
conclusions with the leader, but he soon had enough after encountering
the sharp teeth, and took his place among the followers. He was their
king. A king by election and superiority, he led them steadily until
the season waned, and the time for the bonita to strike inshore came at
hand.

As this time drew near the feeling of unrest began to show itself among
the school. Stragglers began to leave the reef and seek the open ocean
with the instinctive longing for that safety which exists there. Our
king watched them go by pairs and sometimes dozens, but he made no
attempt to stop them. There would be enough to look out for without
them, and they could well be spared.

Finally the time came for the general movement. He had marshaled the
great host of albicore from the adjacent reefs, and together in one
vast throng they left for open ocean, going to the northward to avoid
the enemy who would attack from the south and west. The bonita were
not as large or as heavy as themselves individually, but they were the
strongest creatures of their size in the ocean, and their countless
numbers made them absolutely fearless. They would attack anything that
stood in their path, and their great vitality and quickness made them
the most dreaded of all the foraging bands of sea-wolves which roamed
the South Sea.

The solid phalanx of albicore started offshore at sunrise, the king in
the van and the younger and more helpless bringing up in the rear of
the column; but as before many of the young had been overlooked as they
loitered among the sheltered places in the rocks.

The head of the moving mass was a full mile from shore before the end
of the crowd had begun to leave, and as the sun shone upon the calm
ocean, its rays struck glancing along the flanks of thousands of moving
bodies, making the water seem like shimmering silver as the light
flashed from the bright scales. There was no wind at all, and far away
to the westward our leader thought he saw a peculiar disturbance of the
sea surface. He took a leap into the air to get a better view and was
followed by many of his companions, who usually imitated his example
in all his movements. As he rose in the sunshine his glistening armor
reflected the light and made him visible for miles. What he had seen
upon the western skyline was enough. As far as the eye could reach the
ocean had spurted white at his plunge, for the bonita had seen him, and
with a front of several miles in extent they were plunging toward the
band of albicore, tearing the calm surface to foam with their rush. It
was as though some mighty explosion had taken place and spurted the sea
upward in little jets along the front of a sunken reef, for the bonita
acted almost in unison in spite of their vast numbers. They were now in
full charge.

When two rapidly moving bodies, of almost equal weight, meet, the one
having the swifter movement will prevail. King Albicore understood
this principle instinctively, and instantly darted forward. His
followers joined him, and away they rushed straight for the line of
breaking water which drew nearer and nearer as the moments flew by. The
rear of the column, finding the head leaving at speed, closed up the
gap and came onward until soon the entire mass of albicore were driving
headlong to the westward as fast as they could go.

It was a magnificent sight to watch those charging columns. A million
bonita charging a hundred thousand albicore. Nowhere on land could such
vast hosts of large living creatures marshal. The sea was ruffled and
foamed for miles with the disturbance of the fleeting bodies, and from
above the bos’n-birds could watch the long line of pointed heads making
the ocean darken with a huge shadow as the hordes rushed onward.

A mile, then a half--a quarter, and still the ruffling lines of ocean
surface seemed to draw nearer with undiminished speed. There was a
seeming instant of quiet. A space of apparently unruffled water. And
then they met.

Like an eruption from some subterranean crater the sea sprung upward.
The long lines of pointed heads struck together. Bodies flung high in
the air. Tails, heads, quivering sides streaming from ugly gashes, were
thrown into the sunlight, and then upon the quiet of the morning there
broke a deep, dull, moaning roar of immense volume.

Full into the center of the great army the king albicore tore his
way. Bonita snapped and flashed upon all sides, their vigorous bodies
fairly quivering with the rapidity of their movements, but with his
jaws cutting like a pair of flying shears, he held his way while his
sturdy followers entered behind him and forced the gap. Into this, like
a wedge, pressed the body of the column, cutting and fighting with
incredible fury. Comrades fell out by the hundred, chopped and torn
by the bonita who surged in upon the flanks, but the great mass of
albicore tore its way through, killing everything in its path.

Away they went straight ahead. The bonita fell away sullenly from the
solid ranks, and in half an hour the last albicore had gone through the
gap in close column, leaving the sea and its scavengers to wipe out the
marks of their passage. There was no changing front to that horde. The
course was straight ahead. It was certain death to be left behind.

The bonita held their way toward the reefs of Mas-a-fuera and were soon
out of sight in the East.

But King Albicore, what of him?

With flanks cut and ripped almost to ribbons he stuck at the head of
the column. No sheering this way or that. The feeling had come upon
him that he had done his duty. He had fulfilled his mission. He, the
king, had led his comrades to victory, and he must pay the great debt
which falls to all sons of nature. Silently and steadily he went along,
his instinct telling him his time had come. But with it there were no
regrets.

He had done all he could for his kind, and like a king he would die.

The bright sunshine would fade and the blue water would disappear
forever. They would forget him, and another leader would take his
place. But he knew he had done his duty and knew he had done it well,
and the great throng would live to be thankful for his prowess.

The sunlight seemed to be fading and darkness appeared to be coming
upon the ocean, yet he knew it was not quite midday. He turned to take
one look at the mighty host he had brought to sea. They were still
following him faithfully.

Then the light went out. He turned upon his side and sank downward
through the blue depths, while the albicore held their way to the coral
reefs of the South Sea.




[Illustration: _The NIBBLERS_]


The “Nibblers” received their name from Mr. Keon, second officer of
the steamship _Spitfire_ of the Great American Fruit Company’s line
running to the tropics for bananas. The family, commonly speaking,
were simply ship’s rats, but Mr. Keon was of a romantic and discerning
turn of mind, and after making their acquaintance he christened them
comprehensively.

To Mr. Keon they were much more than ordinary rats. He knew the whole
family intimately from old Mrs. Nibbler, the mother, down to little
Tiny, the smallest and most timid youngster of the lot, and to be known
by the second officer was a privilege not granted to all who came
aboard the fruit ship. He was a man who possessed an enormous fund of
material from which he could draw without effort for sea stories, and,
according to many authorities, consequently possessed a large amount
of “gray matter” in his head. Whether this came outside in the form of
hair, or remained inside in the form of brains, it is not necessary to
inquire. He told the story of “The Nibblers,” sitting one night on the
edge of the forward hatch with the full tropic moon behind him and the
soft wind of the Florida Stream blowing the smoke from his pipe away to
leeward, and enough of it was remembered to get his name down as that
of a very remarkable man.

“Ye see,” said he, after we had been watching the antics of a huge rat
who was scampering around the edge of the hatchway, “that feller has
got as much sense as you have. It’s ole Toby, one o’ the old fellers
what’s been aboard this vessel since she carried her first cargo. He’s
a most uncommon old rat, an’ that’s a fact. He’s as happy an ole raskil
as ever haunted a ship’s bilge, an’ he aint afeared o’ much. I seen
him chase a cat clean into the galley door onct, and he would ha’ got
her but fer the fool ‘doctor’ heavin’ a pan at him. See how quick he
kin jump. Just look at them whiskers, hey?

“I remember when I first seen him, away back in the eighties, when
Captain Jackson took command. He ware a young feller then an’ the
captain’s wife used to come o’ evenings an’ sit on the bridge jest over
this forrad hatch. She ware a fine-lookin’ gal, an’ that’s a fact, a
heap finer-lookin’ than the ole man. He warn’t nothin’ much fer looks
anyway, a little chap with a squint an’ grizzled whiskers fer all the
world like ole Toby’s there, but he ware a terrier fer handlin’ canvas
in the ole days. I seen him onct--but no matter, that aint got nothin’
to do with what I’m goin’ to tell ye.

“Ye see, the gal was mighty pretty. I don’t know as I ever seen a woman
as good-lookin’. She had golden hair, an’ eyes as soft an’ blue----”

“Go on with the yarn,” interrupted the bos’n; “we’ll let the girl go.”

Keon smoked on in silence after this as though he had taken offense,
but we soon saw by the look of his eyes that he was far away from that
fore hatch.

“The second mate used to sit right here,” he went on at last, “an’ she
would look over the bridge rail on fine evenings an’ watch the Nibblers
goin’ an’ comin’ around this hole. Rats is like all other animals,
includin’ humans, in respects to selections, an’ the way these fellows
would fight an’ scrap fer each other was somethin’ funny to see. The
biggest an’ strongest rat would knock the other out an’ take up with
one o’ the young an’ frivolous females, jest like it occurs in story
books. He was the hero, big an’ strong an’ fine-lookin’, an’ o’ course
the gal rat would care fer him like females care fer all heroes. He was
supposed to have all the fine qualities o’ rat in his make-up, jest
like a hero has, an’ the way he would go a-scamperin’ around after
some little feller who wasn’t strong enough to stand to him was funny
to see. The captain’s wife used to come to the rail an’ look down an’
watch them fer hours, an’ laugh an’ laugh when some fellow like big
Toby there would put the rest out the way, an’ the second mate he would
sit there close by durin’ the dog-watch, an’ watch, too, but he warn’t
always lookin’ at the rats. Then when he had to go on the bridge he had
to meet that queer little captain who waren’t no bigger’n a good-sized
mouse. He didn’t reach much more’n up to the second mate’s shoulder.
Sometimes the young woman looked hard at the two when they were
together, an’ the skipper would get nervous, fer he thought a lot o’
her--an’ so did the second mate. The men forrads used to notice a thing
or two, an’ they called the skipper ‘Squeak Jackson,’ he was so little
an’ small in his voice. But he kept his temper an’ never let on as to
what he thought o’ his size, fer he had been a good one.

“Ye see, rats don’t have no consciences. That’s where they differs with
humans. Fools don’t have none to speak on, but sometimes there comes
a time to most men when they wonders what about the little feller what
gets licked. It’s all right in stories o’ love, and no one bothers at
the time about the weaklin’ who can’t hold his own, but really when it
comes down to hard fact without all the romance o’ women in it, there’s
somethin’ sorrowful about the poor feller who can’t hold his way agin
the stronger one. He aint done nothin’ wrong in bein’ weak, an’ he was
born that way, so why blame him fer it? Sometimes it seems as if the
world was wrong, always goin’ sides with the fine, handsome hero o’
the affair who can drive off the weaklin’ an’ rescue the female. What
about the feller who was born weak an’ small, aint he got no feelin’s?
But nobody cares a rap fer him. It’s nature. It shows humans are mostly
animals, an’ as fer me I sometimes feel I lost somethin’ by not bein’
born a rat.

“Ye see, the _Spitfire_ was in the banana trade then. Bananas are the
devil to carry if they get ripe on you, and get switchin’ around below.
I seen the banana slush four feet deep in the lower hold, an’ ye know
banana juice is about as acid as anythin’ goin’, an’ it cuts iron
into holes an’ pits quicker’n you can tell o’ it. Ye got to be mighty
careful cleanin’ a banana ship’s bilge if you don’t want her to get
pitted, an’ her bottom like a piece o’ blottin’ paper soft enough to
poke yer foot through with a kick. It takes a man who knows how to take
care o’ a banana ship to keep her up!

“I don’t know how rats come to be in ships, but they come by the
hundreds. Mebbe they come in the fruit, or stores. Anyways, there they
be, an’ there’s no way to git rid o’ them.

“Ye see, there has to be a ceiling of wood in an iron ship to keep
the fruit off’n the plates, an’ it’s in atween this that the little
critters git. They aint no more like a shore rat than you are. They are
all sailors, every one o’ them, an’ they stan’ their watches same as
you an’ me. You see these fellers running around here now, but there’s
a lot more below that won’t come on deck until I go below. Toby there
is in my watch, an’ I feed him. Them that aint in my watch won’t come
out till the bell strikes, an’ then they peep up, an’ if they see the
mate out they come on deck an’ look fer the grub some fellers in his
watch fetches up now an’ then.

“But what I was tellin’ was this. We took aboard a lot o’ fresh ones
down to Montego Bay, an’ among ’em was that old fat female rat ye see
there sittin’ on the edge o’ the coamin’. She’s the mother o’ half a
hundred now, but when she first come aboard she was a young an’ frisky
rat as ever you see. She’d been aboard a week or two afore I noticed
her, but on the way south again, one night when we struck into the warm
water, I noticed her come on deck with a lot more. It was just such a
night as this an’ the little skipper an’ his wife were on the bridge
a-lookin’ down at the black hole o’ the fore hatch. Soon the gal made
out the rats a-runnin’ an’ jumpin’ around the opening an’ the second
mate sat there waitin’ fer the bells to strike afore he went on watch.

“That ole rat was skippin’ away from a whole crowd o’ young rats what
was a-followin’ her around, an’ that big Toby there he was gettin’ sort
o’ interested. He was a young rat then, ye see, an’ he looked on sort
o’ solemn like fer a while an’ let ’em skip around, but I seen that he
wasn’t goin’ to stand still long. Suddenly he gave a squeak. Then the
frolickin’ stopped sudden like an’ Toby come forrads.

“Well, sir, you may not believe it, but he went straight up to that
handsome young female an’ said ‘How d’ye do’ as plain as ye please. I
don’t mean to say he spoke, but that was his action, an’ no mistakin’,
fer the pair stood nose to nose fer the space o’ half a minute. Then
they went off together to another part o’ the deck, an’ ye ought to
seen how them other young rats took it. It was comical an’ that’s a
fact. He had done the polite to that female rat an’ was gettin’ along
handsome’ an’ the gal above was laughin’ at it, while the skipper
walked athwartships an’ took no notice.

“Toby hadn’t been more’n two minutes with his fair one when up comes
a sassy-lookin’ rat, about as big as a kitten. He was lookin’ fer
trouble, that rat, fer he jest walked right up an’ lit into Toby
without waitin’ fer further orders. Sink me, if that weren’t a scrap.
Ye never would think them little critters would take on so. A pair o’
bulldogs warn’t in it with them rats, an’ the rest all crowded around,
comin’ up slowly, an’ lookin’ to see which one would do fer the other.

“Well, sir, the second mate sat still lookin’ on, an’ the gal was
lookin’ down from above over the bridge rail. The night was bright
enough fer to see things pretty well on deck, an’ the gal’s eyes showed
interest. It was the same old story, the choosin’ o’ the hero, only
they was rats, an’ there wasn’t no doubt that we wanted the best one to
win: him that was the biggest an’ strongest an’ best-lookin’.

“It’s been a long time ago now, but ye would think that ole rat would
still have the marks o’ that fight on him, an’ mebbe he has. They
grabbed at each other with them long teeth, an’ I tell you they made
the fur fly fer a few minutes. The sassy big rat made a pass an’
grabbed Toby by the leg, an’ sech a squealin’ ye never heard. But that
female rat sat quiet, an’ jest kept lookin’ on, waitin’ fer the finish.
Toby saw he was in a bad fix. He was gettin’ the worst o’ the fight,
fer that rat had him fast enough by the hind leg. It was up an’ down
an’ all over the deck forrads, the old fellow squealin’ an’ bitin’, an’
that sassy-lookin’ rat jest holdin’ on fer further orders. It looked
blue fer Toby an’ he seen somethin’ must be done sudden if he wanted
that fine female rat fer a side pardner down in the bilge. He stopped
his squealin’ an’ was quiet fer a minute, thinkin’ an’ tryin’ to plan
out some kind o’ game fer to git away an’ get his grip on that sassy
rat that was slowly sawin’ his leg off. All to onct he give a jerk.
Then he bent his body double an’ rolled on his back like a ball. That
brought his enemy up alongside him an’ the next minute he was fast to
him amidships, gettin’ a good grip o’ the feller’s belly.

“I tell you he must have pinched right hard. That sassy-lookin’ rat
couldn’t stand the bite, an’ let go the leg grip he had, squealin’ an’
twistin’ to get away. But no sirree. Old Toby had him fer sure this
time, an’ he jest settled right down to business, shakin’ an’ pullin’,
fer there aint nothin’ a rat kin stand less than a good shakin’. Pretty
soon the feller began to give up an’ try to get away, squealin’ a
different sort o’ squeal from the sassy squeal he began with.

“Then Toby goes fer him harder than ever, but jest as he was tryin’ to
get a new hold, the fellow up an’ bolts fer the open hatchway, an’ the
fight was over. Then all hands scrambled below, an’ Toby walks right
up to the fine female rat what was waitin’ fer him an’ they goes off
together. Then the gal on the bridge laughs right out an’ says ‘Bully
boy,’ an’ the second mate looks up an’ sees the look in her eyes,
an’--well, I dunno, after that they used to come together somehow until
the skipper speaks up one day an’ asks the second mate his business.

“‘Ye seem to have too much to do,’ says he one evenin’ to the second
mate, ‘an’ if I was you I’d keep more by meself, or mebbe I’ll take ye
in hand a bit.’

“That second mate was thinkin’ o’ them rats, an’ speaks up: ‘You kin
try yer hand when we gets in port. I’m an officer here an’ can’t get no
show, but on the beach I’ll take yer skin or I’m a soger,’ says he.

“An’ so the captain was too proud to take advantage o’ his position,
an’ waits until the vessel was in at Port Antonio. Then he steps ashore
an’ tells the second mate to follow him an’ take a lickin’.

“Well, sir, there aint no use tellin’ how that fight come off. It took
three hours to put that dinky little skipper temporarily to sleep, an’
the fellers what seen the scrap tells a thing or two about it,--but
they was only niggers an’ didn’t count. Anyways, the second mate
was as well pounded as a beefsteak, but he was a hero, an’ that’s a
fact. He was a pretty good sort o’ man, an’ some says he was fairly
good-lookin’. Anyways, he was way ahead in looks o’ that dinky little
skipper, an’ the gal, I believe, thought so too. Yessir, it ware the
same ole story o’ choosin’ the hero over again, jest like it takes
place in story books--only a bit different, fer the gal was already
married in this case, an’ sech doin’s never is printed except in
papers. But that second mate, he ware the hero jest the same.

“When the _Spitfire_ went to sea again there was a mighty quiet sort o’
skipper aboard, an’ a second mate who was a-lookin’ out fer squalls.
There was evidently goin’ to be a change aboard at the end of the
passage. But all the time that gal she jest kept to herself, an’ by the
look o’ her eyes she ware tellin’ the second mate plainer ’n mud that
he ware the man fer her. The dinky little skipper could see it too.

“The night she went to sea the second mate was sittin’ on the edge o’
the hatchway here as usual when it come on eight bells, an’ he seen
all that new load o’ rats a-gettin’ ashore fast. It aint no good sign
to see rats gettin’ out o’ a ship. They generally leave afore she goes
down, an’ when the second mate seen them a-goin’ ashore he was fer
followin’ them. Then he thinks o’ that gal again an’ stays, fer you may
not believe it, but ole Toby, there, an’ his mate wouldn’t go ashore.
They stays on deck at the last minute when the second officer was
gettin’ ready to clear an’ when he seen it he says he’d stay too. It
sort o’ put him in mind o’ hisself.

“It began to come on to blow the day after we passed Cape Maysi. Ye
know how it is in the windward passage, so it didn’t bother us much.
But along about dark the glass began to drop sudden like, until it got
down about three marks below where it ought to stayed. The air was
warm an’ sultry comin’ hot from the s’uthard. The haze what comes with
the hurricane was raisin’ plain in sight, an’ the dinky little skipper
puts her head to the east’ard to clear the center, fer it ware jest in
our wake.

“I seen it blow before, but sink me if ever it blew anywhere’s like
that. The sea ware jest a roarin’ hill leapin’ up with a cross heave
in it, an’ the air was like a solid wall when it struck. No, sir, ye
couldn’t stand on the bridge. It would have picked ye up bodily an’
hove ye overboard. The roar ware deafenin’, an’ we hove her to on the
starboard tack to work clear, an’ jest then, by some luck or other,
she waded right into the center o’ that whirl where the seas ware jest
standin’ right up on end.

“Ye can’t do nothin’ with a ship caught in the center of one o’ them
circular storms. It blows in sech squalls that there aint no way
a tellin’ which way it’s comin’, only it comes with sech a mighty
weight that no ship kin stan’ to it. An’ the sea falls down on ye from
anywhere at all till the decks are under tons o’ water, an’ everythin’
gone to the devil stove up.

“The _Spitfire_ ware knocked over in one o’ the rushes o’ hot wind
that ripped the funnel out o’ her. Then an almighty sea broke right
amidships an’ tore the side o’ the house away an’ flooded the engine
room. It ware lookin’ kind o’ bad fer us, an’ when the engineer come
on deck half drowned, an’ said the engine ware done fer an’ the water
a-comin’ in about two feet at a jump, we made up our minds the ole ship
ware done fer, an’ the best thing ware to get clear as soon as we could.

“But no small boat could have lived in that sea a minute. There wasn’t
anything to do but wait until the gale wore down, which it did after
about three hours of the heaviest blowin’ I ever seen. Then she eased
up an’ the ole ship was jest decks out in a sea what would make yer
hair white to look at.

“We made a lee o’ the side an’ lowered down the boats before daybreak,
that dinky little skipper jest a-standin’ an’ lookin’ on an’ never
a-sayin’ a word.

“The first officer he takes the first boat what swings clear, an’ then
the gal she looks down at the second mate. He puts her in the next
boat an’ they lower it down an’ they scramble to get in, fer the ship
is wallowin’ in that nasty sea an’ feels dead. Some fool fumbles the
tackle an’ nearly capsized the craft, but the second mate he grabs
the line in time to save it an’ she goes clear. The men rush to find
places, an’ then the second mate stan’s there alone with that dinky
little skipper, who hasn’t spoken or moved from the chart-house door.

“It’s all mighty plain. The fellers from below, white with scare an’
tremblin’ as they grab the ship’s sides. Some pushes the others an’
then they curse and swear to kill each other when there aint enough
breath in them to speak out loud.

“‘Be ye a-goin’ in that boat, sir?’ says the second mate to his
captain.

“‘Go an’ be d----d,’ says the dinky little skipper.

“An’ the second officer jumps in an’ the painter is cast off. Then the
little skipper stan’s out an’ watches them slowly go away--watches them
drawin’ off further an’ further, an’ his eyes is on the gal in the
boat, an’ his hands is folded on his breast. That’s the last they sees
o’ him as he stands there with the risin’ sun a-shinin’ on him an’ the
blue sea washin’ nigh up to the ole hooker’s deck.

“Fer seven days an’ nights the fellers in that boat has a time with it.
Then there comes a ship bound in an’ takes ’em aboard, an’ in a few
days they finds themselves in New York, the second mate an’ the gal
hardly speakin’.

“When they comes ashore the first man the gal sees is that dinky little
skipper a-waitin’ there on the dock, jest as natural an’ chipper as if
he wasn’t the ugliest skipper ever in a decent ship. An’ funniest of
all she jest naturally goes an’ flings herself at him like a dolphin
at a bait, landin’ right in his arms. Fer, ye see, that old hooker
_Spitfire_ warn’t so badly used up as the engineer thought, an’ when
the sea went down she didn’t make no more water to speak of. The next
mornin’ a vessel comes along an’ lends a hand to the dinky little
feller aboard, an’ pretty soon the engine is a-goin’ an’ the ole ship
is headin’ away on her course with one o’ the company’s ships alongside
to see her through. There aint no salvage to pay, an’ all is taut as a
gantline.”

Here Mr. Keon stopped and knocked the ashes from his pipe. The great
rat he called Toby scampered down the hatchway as the bells struck off,
warning us that the first watch was at hand.

“What became of the little captain?” asked the bos’n.

“Oh, that little feller got the finest ship in the company’s fleet.
He’s commodore now, ye see,” said the second mate, “an’ we got ‘Peepin’
Shaw’ in his place.”

“Did they discharge the officers that deserted?” asked a sailor.

Mr. Keon looked sorrowfully at him and rose from the hatchway. Then he
stopped a moment and fumbled his pipe.

“D’ye think second officers sech as me are plentiful abouts, hey?” he
asked.

He was a powerfully built man and showed to some advantage in his
working clothes of light duck.

“Second mates sech as me aint to be picked up everywhere, ye might
know, an’ this ship has never had but one since she was launched,” and
he went on the bridge for his watch on deck.




[Illustration: JOHNNY SHARK]


In the middle of the South Atlantic Ocean, about six hundred miles to
the eastward of Cape St. Roque, rises the peculiar peak called the St.
Paul’s Rock. It is some sixty feet above the sea level, and is a ragged
granite point. Within a cable’s length of it the bottom apparently
falls out of the ocean, for it takes nearly three miles of piano wire
with an enormous deep-sea lead attached to find the half-liquid ooze
below. If the blue water were suddenly to subside the tiny point of the
St. Paul’s would present a different appearance. It would then be the
highest pinnacle of a most colossal mountain.

It is on the edge of the calm belt, close to the equator, and the blue
depths surrounding its huge flanks are seldom, if ever, disturbed by a
storm. Only the steady trade swell rolling gently in upon its sides
forms a white ring about it, and the dull roar of the southern ocean
is but a low monotonous thunder that would hardly frighten the timid
flying fish.

Besides this there is nothing save the occasional snore of a sea
breaking over a submerged peak to disturb the silence; for here
desolation and loneliness reign supreme. It is as though a bit of the
Great Silence of the ocean bed were raised up to be burned in the glare
of the torrid sunshine, and fanned by the breath of the unending trade
wind.

But, if the peak is devoid of life, a look into the beautiful blue
abyss alongside shows a different state. All kinds of shell-fish
inhabit the hospitable caverns beneath, and fish can be seen darting
here and there through the bunches of seaweed. The busy coral works
steadfastly at his never-ending toil. The sea-crabs, star-fish, and
their myriad brethren are all visible.

Sometimes a couple of albicore will dart past below the surface, or
a flash of white reveal the quick strike of a dolphin, followed
instantly by a shower of glittering gems that break from the surface
and scatter,--the flying fish that have escaped those rapid jaws.

Then a huge dark shadow will rise slowly out of the blue invisibility
below, and all the smaller fish will disappear. The shadow will take
form, and will be that of an old shark lazily policing the rocks for
pieces of the game that are deserted. He is a large brute, but in spite
of his enormous fins and tail he is quite willing that others shall do
his work of the chase for him.

If there happens to be an injured fish near, the great tail will give
one or two powerful strokes, and chop! Those jaws, armed with half a
dozen rows of sawlike teeth, with the points of those above fitting
into the spaces between those below, seldom have to strike twice.

The first motion upon the part of the monster is a signal which
produces a strange effect. No sooner has he bolted the game than from
all around rise dark-brown and gray shadows. These congregate about
him, and he lazily swims away, leaving probably half a hundred of his
relations to search the clear depths for what might be left.

And such relatives! One has a head half a fathom wide, his eyes peering
wickedly from the curving sides of his shovel-like nose. Another has
stripes like those of the tiger on land, and is hardly less ugly
in disposition. Let the old fellow who first tackled the game get
a slit in his hide and the striped fellow see it. He will find his
affectionate relative’s knowledge of the fact announced by a sudden
chop. Then there will be a general mix-up, and if he is still active
and strong enough he may live to dine upon the unsympathetic cousin.
But more than likely the cousin will be re-enforced by a host of
hungry comrades, whose ideas of fair play are somewhat biased by an
uncontrollable appetite for anything nutritious. If this is the case he
will apparently melt into that beautiful blue void about him, leaving
but a slight stain which will soon disappear. It was here in these
abodes of the genus carcharodon that our hero was born.

He was one of a school of six when he first saw the light, and his five
brothers and sisters were so like him that the great mother shark could
hardly tell them apart. When she opened her enormous mouth one day to
receive them and give them shelter while a desperate sword-fish swung
his weapon in her face, she made a miscount when shutting her jaws, and
one belated little fellow was quickly swallowed by the insolent enemy.
The mother made a dash and chopped off a piece of the sword-fish’s tail
as he fled before her wrath, but he escaped in spite of this.

During his babyhood Johnny Shark had many trials. There were the
hideous little pilot fish to deal with. They were always following him
around trying to rob him of his rights. Then his brothers also lacked
in unselfishness, and he fought them, one and all, from the beginning,
until his disposition became somewhat combative.

During this period of his life his skin was of a most beautiful
velvety gray, shading to white on his belly. His hard bony lips formed
a sheath for his cutters, and they fitted in behind them as snug as a
sword in a scabbard. They were very small, but the same shape as his
mother’s triangles, and he could work them on their bases as though
hinged in his jaws. He was but little more than a foot in length, and
he kept close to his mother’s side, ready to shelter should a fierce
albicore or any of the giant mackerel tribe take a notion that he would
make a good meal.

And yet he could venture deep in the shadow of the mountain defiles,
where in some of the huge caverns gigantic, many-armed monsters, with
huge beaks and eyes a foot in diameter, lay waiting, seizing whatever
unfortunate fish happened within the sweep of their snaky tentacles.
In fact all around him was an eternal war. Everything seemed to be
fighting with everything else and only the luckiest and most powerful
beings seemed to last many changes of the moon.

As for his brothers and sisters they were like himself, keeping close
to his mother, and ready for a refuge within her huge jaws at the first
sign of an approaching enemy.

As he grew slowly he began to develop a wandering spirit. He would
leave the protecting shadow of his mother when she would float lazily
upon the surface, and explore the ragged fringe of foam to see what
might be had in the way of diversion. Once a great bonita made a dash
at him, but he saw him coming in time, and turning he chopped him
savagely. The taste of blood seemed to invigorate him, for he hung
fiercely upon his now fleeing enemy until he tore away, leaving a
mouthful of himself in the tightly locked jaws. He was too lazy to
follow up his victory. A fat porpoise chased his wounded assailant
until he conquered him and made him his meal.

In fact, he seldom cared for violent exercise, and could hardly
understand the foolish savagery of some of the warmer-blooded denizens
about him. When he fought he generally made a sure thing of it. He
would take no chances where a wound or exhaustion meant certain death.
There were plenty of small rockfish that were too stupid to run when he
approached, and he could always get enough of them without playing the
game of death for the pleasure of it.

Once a school of giants came to the Rocks, and he lay in the shadow
of a crag wondering at their size. They were sperm whales, and their
leader was an enormous old fellow whose fat sides were studded with
barnacles. These seemed to trouble him, and he would roll slowly up to
a peak near the surface where the sunlight filtered down through the
blue, and rub his belly for hours at a time, scraping off thousands of
the parasites. Then the stupid little fishes would dart out from their
hiding places to catch them, and he would dash among them before they
could get back again. While the monsters lay near the Rocks a very
long and thin relative of Johnny’s mother paid them a visit. His tail
was enormous, and it was evident he was fast. He seemed to have some
business with his parent, for soon afterwards she followed him off to
sea where one of the whales lay sleeping with the water breaking gently
over her back.

When they were close to her they made a sudden dash, the lean shark
leaping high in air and falling with a tremendous whack upon the
sleeping victim, while his mother chopped her savagely in the sides. It
was all so sudden he hardly had time to get away, for in an instant the
sleeping whale awoke and tore the sea into foam with her flukes.

His mother, however, heeded the outfly but little and held gamely on.
The whale tried to turn and seize her in the long thin jaw that was
studded with enormous teeth, but nothing could dislodge the grip of
her triangles. And all the time the thin fellow in company would throw
himself in the air and smash the whale terrific blows with his lean
tail.

The noise must have been an uproar, for in a very few minutes the great
leader who had been rubbing his belly came plunging through the water
towards them, leaving a great path of white foam to mark his course.

Then the whale sounded, carrying his mother out of sight below. Instead
of following, the thresher shark dodged the great bull leader and made
off, leaving the mother shark to get away as best she could.

She came up with the whale half a mile away, and then finding herself
deserted she let go and started to make off. As she did so she
encountered the big bull coming after her. She ducked from his bite,
but he smote her such a blow with his flukes as she dodged past that
she was hardly able to escape.

The next day she grew weaker, and a sword-fish, seeing her, gave her a
final taste of his weapon, and began to chop her up. Instead of driving
him away, several other sharks, that now appeared, openly joined him in
accomplishing her destruction, and soon she disappeared entirely.

With no protection save his own teeth, the little shark now went
his way among the peaks. Deep down in the blue abyss he would sink
until the terrible pressure would force him up again to the world of
sunlight. Sometimes he would stay for hours a mile or more down in
caverns and caves of the mountain side, guided alone by the sense of
smell and that delicate sense of feeling peculiar to his kind. Each and
every motion of the sea caused a vibration that instinct explained.
Once a huge arm reached out from a hiding place and circled him within
its embrace, but before it could draw him in he had chopped it in two,
and leisurely ate what remained as he swam on.

He was growing strong now, and his triangular teeth developed saw
edges, making the most perfect cutting machines possible to devise. His
skin was tough and coarse, a bony substance forming upon it that made
it almost tooth-proof to ordinary fish.

He developed a roving disposition, and the vicinity of the great
mountain became too well known. He started off to the westward where
the sun seemed to sink in a deep golden-red ocean, and he cruised along
near the surface, his dorsal fin and tip of tail just awash.

Out upon the lonely ocean he quickened his movement. There was nothing,
nothing but the never-ending sea ahead, with the soft murmur of the
trade wind turning the glistening surface a darker blue, while from
miles and miles away to windward came the low song of the South Sea.

On and on he went until hunger made him look about for a victim. He
was not particular as to who or what this creature might be, for his
own powers produced an apathy of fear for all dangerous denizens of
the deep. He was changing now, and no longer shunned a conflict with
anything that formerly might have wounded his soft sides.

One day a whale passed in his wake. The huge bulk of the creature
might have appalled any fish, but he was hungry, and the fat blubber
was tempting. His own three fathoms of lean, hard flank seemed meager
enough.

With a quick movement he turned and made straight for the cachalot.
The monster opened his mouth by dropping his long, thin under jaw, and
made a chop at him, but he swerved and sank his triangles deep in the
blubber of the animal’s neck, covering a good hundred pounds of him.

The whale plunged wildly, lashing right and left with his powerful
tail, finally throwing himself clear of the sea and falling again with
a stupendous crash. But the shark held grimly on. Rolling over and over
the animal tried to throw himself clear of that grip. The blubber was
tearing out in a huge ribbon where the triangles had cut it clear, and
the blood was showing upon the white fat. The sea was a surf upon a
submerged reef. And all the time the shark jerked and wrenched, dodged
and pulled until the huge mouthful came clear.

Quickly the whale turned to chop with that long jaw studded with huge
points of ivory. Quicker still slewed the shark. The whale missed, and
the shark again sank those terrible cutters deep in the hole already
made in the animal’s neck. This time it was flesh that felt the bite,
and the pain maddened the leviathan. With a bellow like a bull he
started off, dragging the shark along with him as though he had been
but a tiny pilot fish.

On and on the great whale tore, while the shark hung helpless by his
side. The whale was doing all the work, and all he had to do was to
hold on. Gradually the pace eased a little, and finally stopped. Then
down, straight down into the abyss below, plunged the leviathan.

But even here the shark still held his grip. The pressure became
enormous in that cold blackness, but he could stand it as well as the
monster.

Then, after an hour of twisting and rolling, they came quickly to the
surface again, the whale somewhat tired. Now was the shark’s chance.
Letting go his hold he made a sudden fresh chop to tear the bite out,
and he backed away with a huge piece of flesh. The whale turned as
quickly as possible, but he was tired now, and the shark chopped him
again and again, savagely tearing out great pieces of blubber and beef.

The sea was dyed red, and the surging of flukes and threshing about
brought several wandering sharks from the depth to see what it all
meant. One of these, a huge killer, joined the fight against the whale,
and soon he also chopped and tore the wound into a great hole. The
fight now became general, as the strangers took a hand. The worried
whale rolled and smote right and left, but our shark tore him deeper
and deeper.

One of the newcomers ventured across the whale’s head, and was promptly
seized in the long thin jaw that swung up and cut him in halves. All
except the first assailant left the whale to eat the unfortunate shark,
and the two fighters were alone again for some minutes.

The whale now became weaker, and except for an occasional lunge lay
quietly beating the sea with his flukes.

The shark now began to bolt large pieces of him at his leisure, and the
rest seeing him at work came sneaking back again. They formed a circle
around the dying monster, and rushed in and chopped him whenever they
dared. In a little while he began swimming slowly in a circle, and
then finally stopped. He gave one final sidelong blow with his flukes
that broke every bone in a shark’s body that happened in its way. Then
he lay still and rolled upon his sides. He was dead. And now from the
lonely depths where all was apparently a void, the scavengers came
sneaking forth.

Big sharks and little sharks, hammerhead and shovel-nose, all began to
circle about the huge carcass, and watch for a place to chop a piece of
blubber out. They crowded and jostled each other, and sometimes even
fought for a place alongside. Above them the whale-birds screamed and
squawked as they hovered and lit for an instant to tear at the juicy
covering of the carcass.

Our fighter had by this time gorged himself with several hundred pounds
of whale beef, and being tired from the exertion of the encounter, he
swam slowly away.

In the following weeks of cruising he found smaller game, but he now
felt a contempt for all other creatures. He had vanquished the largest
animal alive, and the feeling that he could conquer anything made him
slow to tackle smaller fish.

For months he cruised to the westward and skirted the shores of the
continent, finding enough to eat around the river mouths. In one harbor
where there was much offal he lived for several years, only going to
sea for a draught of fresh salt water now and then. He grew steadily in
size until he reached full twenty feet in length.

His hide was now of a dull grayish-brown, shading to white on his
belly. Upon it the little hard lumps of bony substance thickened. His
jaws were nearly three feet wide, and he now had six rows of triangles,
the outside and largest being over an inch on a side clear of the gums.
His eyes were large and bright, and his nose broad and sensitive.

Several ugly little fish followed him around wherever he went. They had
flat tops to their heads, and looked like black corrugated chunks of
rubber with tails to them, the corrugated part of their heads being on
top. With these slits they sucked strongly to the shark when he swam,
making him tow them about without any exertion on their part. His hide,
however, was too thick to mind a little thing like that, and he finally
came to know each one so well by sight that he never made a chop at
them. They were about the only living things he let pass him.

As time passed he developed a taste for company. A desire to meet his
kind came upon him, and he left the lazy life in the harbor and went to
sea again.

He traveled through the West Indies, and there one bright hot day on
the reef he met a shark that appeared most friendly. It was a new
feeling that came upon him at the meeting, a desire to live in the
companionship of the stranger for a time. He even found himself letting
her take the first choice of some barracuda he had killed, and from one
thing leading to another he waxed very affectionate.

They traveled together during a moon, and then they found a warm spot
on the Bahama Bank where the hot stream flowed past beautiful coral
hills that rose from the blue depths.

Here they lingered for some time, his mate giving birth to five
soft-skinned little sharks. He was not much interested in this and once
made a chop at one of the youngsters, cutting him in half.

For this his mate made a chop at him, and nearly cut off his side fin.
Then, finding that everything was not as pleasant as it had seemed, he
cruised away again to the southward.

One day he came to a queer thing floating upon the water. It was not
unlike a whale as viewed from underneath, but every now and then a
peculiar creature with arms and legs swaying wildly, dropped from it
and went to the bottom. Then, staying but a moment to collect some
shell-fish, it would rise again to the surface.

This interested him, and he lay by watching. Then, the smell of these
creatures being somewhat appetizing, he made a dash at one as he arose.

He came to the surface with the man in his jaws, and he saw the
whalelike object was full of similar animals. They shouted and made a
great noise when they saw their fellow chopped in halves and carried
away by him.

Now the taste of this peculiar creature was very good--much better, in
fact, than the fish he had been eating. For a long time after his meal
he waited a few fathoms below the surface, hoping another would descend.

Finally, he noticed a long line trailing away from the floating thing
above. He watched it and smelled it, and found there was something
tied to the end. He was a little afraid that there was something wrong
with that line and a sudden fear came upon him. He hesitated. Then his
old careless spirit came back, and he nosed the bait, finding it some
kind of flesh he had never tasted before. He pushed it about while the
instinctive fear of the peculiar smell held him. Then he made a chop
and bolted the lump.

The line, however, would not cut. He chopped and chopped, again and
again, backing away, but to no purpose.

Suddenly the line became taut. A sharp pain struck him in the throat,
and he knew he was fast to the line by some sharp thing in the flesh he
had bolted.

He became panic-stricken and fled away. But no sooner would he forge
ahead a few fathoms than that line would draw so tight the pain was
unbearable. He would be slowly and surely pulled back again.

This lasted for some minutes, and then his old spirit of apathy came
upon him, and he allowed the line drag him where it chose, while he
held it like a vice in his jaws.

Soon he found himself at the surface, and the strange creatures like
the one he had eaten made a great noise. There were several flashes
like lightning, only not so bright, and with the noise like thunder he
felt heavy blows upon his head. He made a desperate dash away, and tore
the line slack for many fathoms, but the pain in his throat stopped him
from going farther. Then he was lifted slowly back to the surface again.

There he lay a huge, dark shadow under the clear water. He was growing
faint and dizzy from the blows upon his head, and the last he saw of
the bright sunlight was the blue water foaming about him, and a row of
eyes looking over the edge of the floating thing.

They passed a bowline over his tail and hitched the throat-halliard
block to it. Then they hoisted him tail first into the air, and cut
the hook from his mouth. A diver cut off his tail and hung it on the
jib-boom end for luck. Later they cut him adrift and he sank slowly
down to the white coral below, lying there upon his side, a grisly
sight. The shadow above disappeared, and then the scavengers of the
reef came creeping up to do their work.




[Illustration: A TRAGEDY OF THE SOUTH ATLANTIC]


The whaling schooner _Erin_ was a modern vessel. She had a little of
the “old greaser” about her. She had been built and fitted out at New
Bedford, Mass., the mother-port of nearly all good whaling craft, and
she was manned by men who had served their time in whaling ships.
Her tonnage was not over three hundred, but she was so strongly put
together that she looked somewhat heavier than she really was. Her
bow was like that of a clipper, and her stern had the modern overhang
of a cruising yacht, but her beam was great and her top-sides bulky,
showing a tumble-home like that of the ancient frigates. Therefore,
she was not considered fast. Her spars were short and stumpy, and she
had no foreboom, owing to chunky smokestack that arose from her main
deck, over which the foresail passed. She was flushed fore and aft,
save for a heavy-built superstructure over her engines, through which
the smokestack protruded, and it was evident that she could stand a
great amount of rough usage. Being built for southern whaling in the
vicinity of Cape Horn, she needed all the strength that could be put
into her, and Captain Jackson, her commander, always kept her down to a
draught of fifteen feet, even when running light, to enable her to hold
up to the tremendous rolling seas off the Cape. Forward, she carried
a peculiar sort of cannon on her forecastle, which fired an exploding
harpoon weighing a hundred pounds, heavy enough to put a quietus upon
any ordinary member of the whale family. Her boats and other gear
were of the usual type; but, as she was not to carry oil, either in
bulk or casks, her deck was devoid of the ordinary furnace of the
sperm-whaler, and her hold of the odor which comes from the usual mass
of rancid blubber when packed for a long voyage from the Arctic Ocean,
in vessels hunting the right whale. She was, in fact, a stanch, trim
little vessel. Her crew of thirty men had been selected and shipped,
and Captain Jackson cleared for his last cruise.

When well off shore, the boiler was cooled and sails set, for there
must be no waste of coal, and the _Erin_ stood to the southward on her
long run to the Falkland Islands, where she would begin her hunt for
the giants of the southern ocean.

The run south was made without any unusual experience. On the
sixty-first day out she raised the huge mountains of Patagonia to the
westward, and, shortening sail so as to drift not over four knots
an hour, she hauled on the wind and stood through the “black water”
between the Falk Islands and Staten Land.

In December and January, the Antarctic summer months, the air is quite
cold as far north as the fiftieth parallel. The “blow” of a whale
stands out sharply against the sky as the warm air in the animal’s
lungs turns into vapor, giving the hunter a chance to see it at a
distance of several miles. Objects seem to lift from off the horizon as
in a mirage, only they are not inverted.

Here, in the summer season, the great rorqual, or finback whale,
disports himself in ease and security, for, until lately, he has had
few known enemies, and has been unmolested by man. Dozens of these
great creatures often follow a huge bull leader, and they jump and
plunge about as lively as they would if their weight were reckoned in
pounds instead of tons.

The huge, timid creature who led a school under the shadow of Tierra
del Fuego, that season, was a giant of his kind. One hundred feet of
solid bulk was between the tips of his tremendous flukes and the end
of his hideous head. A hundred tons of bone and sinew, covered with a
coating of thin blubber, to keep out the cold of the icy seas.

His head was ugly and flat-looking, and his mouth a hideous cavern,
full of slabs of whalebone, from which depended masses of horrible
hair to act as a sieve for the whale-food poured down his gullet. His
back slanted away to a place amidships, where a lumpy knob rose, as if
he were a hunchback, and from there aft he sloped in long and sinuous
lines to the spread of his tail or flukes, which were fully two fathoms
across. The blades of the _Erin’s_ wheel were not nearly so large or
so powerful as the blades of bone and cartilage that drove him ahead
through the yielding medium, or raised the tons of flesh and blood to
a height that showed a full fathom or more of clear sky under his thin
belly when he breached. He was a giant, a descendant from prehistoric
ages when monsters of his kind were more common than they are to-day.
It is doubtful if ever anything existed in flesh or blood of greater
size.

How old the giant was no one could learn. His age could hardly have
been less than two centuries, for whales grow slowly. They are like
other warm-blooded animals, and it takes many years to build up a mass
of a hundred tons of flesh fiber. He was known to Captain Jackson,
who had seen him on former voyages, but as yet he had not made his
acquaintance; for, in spite of the old whale’s size and age, he was
very timid. He would rush from a pair of fierce “killers,”--the dreaded
sharks who attack toothless whales,--and only his tremendous size and
activity would prevent them from following him. Consequently, whenever
Jackson lowered his small boats, with the intention of making him a
visit, the old fellow would wait only long enough to allow the boats
to approach within fifty fathoms of him. Then he would begin to edge
away, and, before the whale-gun could be brought to bear, he would be
in full flight to windward, his flock or school following in his wake.
Many were the maledictions cast upon him by the whalemen, whose tired
muscles bore witness to his speed, and, finally, he was left alone to
roam at will in the “black water.” Where he went to, at the beginning
of winter, it was impossible to tell, but, at the first easterly blow,
he would disappear, bound for other parts, leaving nothing behind but a
crew of angry sailors, and taking with him the memory of an undisturbed
old age.

On that December morning, when Captain Jackson hauled on the wind and
stood offshore, the sun shone brilliantly. The wind was light and
from the southwest, and objects stood up plainly from the sea. The
lookout at the masthead had just been relieved, when the time-worn cry
of “blo-o-ow” reached the deck. Away to the southward rose the jets,
looking almost as high as water spouts, as the warm vapor condensed in
the cool air. It was a large school, or, more properly speaking, herd,
for a finback is no more a fish than is a cow. Jackson came on deck and
watched the blows, counting them over and over to get the exact number
of his game. Whalebone at so much a ton was within easy distance,
and it looked as if a few thousand dollars’ worth of the substance
would find its way below hatches by dinner time. The forward gun was
overhauled and the line and harpoon cleared, the latter being charged
with a heavy load of powder. The explosion would open the huge barbs
of the harpoon and drive them deeper into the monster, expanding in
his flesh, making it absolutely impossible to withdraw them by pulling
on the line. They would not hunt him after the manner of the tame and
harmless sperm whale, that can be killed with about as much ease as a
cow in a pasture, in spite of all the sailors’ yarns to the contrary.

The whales paid no attention whatever to the schooner. They played a
quiet, frolicsome game, breaching and sounding, and coming often to
the surface to breathe. There were some young ones among them, and the
huge leader, the giant bull, seemed to take a special pride in one
whose antics were more pronounced than the rest. He would come near
it and seem almost to touch it gently with his side flipper, and the
little fellow would make a breach clear out of the water, apparently
with pure joy at the notice bestowed. Then he would come alongside the
big fellow and snuggle up to him in a most affectionate manner, and
the giant would roll toward him and put out his great arm or flipper,
as if to bestow a caress. He was a very affectionate old fellow, and,
as the vessel drew nearer, his size and actions were remarked by the
mate, who called the skipper’s attention to them. Just then the great
whale breached, and the sun, striking fairly upon his dark side,
showed several deep lines that looked like huge scars. His long, thin
shape and hideous head were plainly outlined against the sky, and, as
he struck, the sea resounded with the crash. He disappeared, and the
little fellow breached and followed him.

“That’s the big coward, the leader,” said Jackson. “You kin tell him by
them cuts he has in his sides, an’ there aint nothin’ bigger afloat. He
is an old one and wary. You wouldn’t think a whale with them scars on
him would be scared at a little boat, hey? Them was cut a long time
ago, mebbe, but they were done in a fight sech as ye’ve never seen.”

“Mebbe he got licked?” suggested the mate.

“He wouldn’t be here if he had,” said Jackson. “Howsomever, here he is,
and it’s our business to get him and cut him up, if we kin.”

To stop the leader of the whales was the object, for, if he was
held, the rest would either scatter or await developments. In either
case they would not get very far away, and could be reckoned with
afterwards. The _Erin_ was held pointed toward the spot where the whale
was expected to rise, and the mate went forward and stood behind the
gun with the harpoon loaded in it, and ready for a shot as soon as he
should come within twenty fathoms. The old coward, however, had seen
the approaching ship, and, with a peculiar movement of his flukes upon
the water, he gave the signal for danger.

Somewhere in that oily brain the memory of his past life was stored
in a strangely simple but vivid manner. He remembered, although he
was unable to reason it all out like the human being who hunted him;
but, a thousand moons before, he had gone forth in the ocean from his
birthplace in the South Pacific, and had held his way proudly and with
force. Fiercely he had fought for everything he took of the world’s
belongings, and the joy of battle had run warm in his blood. It had
surged through his great frame at the sight of a stranger, and he had
striven and conquered all who had opposed him or refused to do his
will. Many had died, for a sea fight is usually to the death, and the
strangeness of the passion had gradually worked its way into the old
mind, and he held aloof. The experience of a hundred years taught him
something. The oily brain learned slowly. The instinct, or feeling, had
gradually come upon him that to fight is a great waste of energy, for
life was more pleasant in the companionship of his many wives and young
ones, and continual strife was not the right thing. To avoid it, if
possible, was the thought uppermost in his old head; so, when he saw
the approaching schooner, he gave a warning stroke upon the sea.

Instantly all the whales sounded.

But Captain Jackson was an old whaleman. He was after whales, and he
had come thousands of miles to hunt them. The animals must come up
again, soon, and to be near the spot where they would reappear would
probably mean a capture. With a keen sense of reasoning, the bull knew
that bodies that travel through the air must necessarily be retarded
by the wind. Therefore, to windward he led the herd, and Jackson did
not underestimate his cunning. With fires started under the boiler, the
_Erin_ held her way straight into the eye of the breeze, and the mate
leaned over the forecastle rail, gun-lanyard in hand, peering into the
clear depths for the dark shadow below that would show the presence
of a rising monster. Jackson stood at the wheel with the signal pull
in his hand, waiting to “shake her up” at the first sign of the game.
The wheel turned slowly below, and the slight jar of machinery
vibrating the hull was the only sound save the stirred water abaft the
rudder from the thrust of the screw, gurgling and murmuring in a soft
undertone.

The whalemen were gathered about the forecastle head, or stood near
the boat falls, ready to lower away at a signal, and secure their
victim. The sun shone strongly, and objects were visible at a great
depth below the surface of the sea. Ten minutes passed, and Jackson
was getting nervous. He had tried to gauge the rapidity of the old
bull’s headway through the water, and had figured that he would come up
somewhere in the vicinity of the vessel on her course. But not a sign
of a whale had shown, and ten minutes had passed. They must be badly
gallied, indeed, to stay under much longer. The old bull was cunning;
but he, Jackson, knew a thing or two. It was pitting the old brain of
an animal with a century or two of experience against that of an old
man with keen intelligence. The skipper felt confident. He would take
a long shot at the big fellow, and, once fast to him, whalebone would
be plentiful for a few days. While the mate was leaning over the rail
forward, looking down into the depths, he noticed a sudden darkening of
the water just ahead of the vessel. He sprang to the cannon and stood
ready to fire. The great shadow rose toward the surface, and the men
saw instantly that it was a huge whale. Jackson was right, to a hair.
The great bull was coming up under the jib-boom end. A man raised his
hand aloft and gave a low cry, while the rest stood back from the gun
to escape the shock of the heavy discharge and powder-blast. Jackson
rushed to the rail and leaned over.

But the great shadow did not materialize into anything more. It
remained deep down beneath the surface, fully twenty feet below, and,
as the schooner forged ahead, it drifted alongside, a few fathoms
distant. The signal was made to stop the engines, and both the schooner
and the whale lay quietly drifting, the animal deep down and perfectly
safe from a shot.

“It’s the coward, all right,” said Jackson, coming to the mate’s side;
“that big coward bull what won’t show up for nothin’. I never seen sech
a scary whale. Look at him--sink me, jest look at him! Blamed if he
didn’t wink at me. Will ye look at that eye?”

The old whale was lying almost motionless, and his eye could be seen
distinctly. He was watching the vessel carefully, and the rippling
water from the bends actually did give him the appearance of opening
and closing one eye as the waves of light flashed upon it. He seemed to
be very much absorbed in profound contemplation of the ship. Perhaps
he had not expected to find her so close aboard when he intended
to breach for a breath of air. However, there was plenty of time.
Breathing was something he was not obliged to indulge in more than
once every half-hour or two, and he would not come up until he had put
a little more distance between himself and the vessel. All hands were
peering over the side at him when, suddenly, several blows sounded
close aboard. All about, jets of spray and vapor shot skyward, and
fully a dozen whales breached and then disappeared again. The mate
rushed for the gun and Jackson sprang to the engine signal, while the
second and third officers, “bos’n,” harpooners, and the rest, ran for
their gear. When they looked over the side again the shadow of the
giant had disappeared, and the sea was as quiet as a lake. In a few
minutes a huge form breached about a quarter of a mile ahead--the bull
had breathed, and was quietly going to windward. The animals were not
badly gallied as the word is applied to thoroughly frightened whales.
They had gone along at a steady, but not fast, gait, and had come up
together as if at a signal. The schooner was not troubling them very
much, and the sea was wide. There was room enough for all.

The high, grim cliffs of Staten Land rose higher and higher as the
morning wore on. The _Erin_ was heading inshore, still pointing into
the breeze, and now and then a great spurt of foam and a blow would
show where the whales led the way straight ahead.

“Of all the low-lived critters I ever see, that cowardly bull air the
meanest,” said Jackson, after seven bells had struck; “but I’ll fix
him, if I chase him clear to ’Frisco. I won’t mind burning a few tons
o’ coal fer him. Put an extra charge of powder in behind that iron, and
loose off at him when we come within thirty fathom.”

“Looks like he’ll be a-climbing the mounting ahead thar in a minute,”
said the mate, motioning toward the high and ragged hills which rose
out of the sea.

“We’ll strike ile in half an hour, or I’m a sojer,” said the skipper
decisively. “You tend ter yer own, and don’t give no advice, an’, if
there’s any climbin’ to be done, I’ll do it.”

The animals still held along inshore, and it looked as if they would
soon be in shallow water. The leadline was gotten out when the vessel
came within half a mile of the rocks, and a sounding was taken. No
bottom was found at fifty fathoms, and she was allowed to drift further
in, her engines barely turning fast enough to give her steering way.
The land was very near, and Jackson was nervous. The heavy snore of the
swell upon the ledges sounded plainly over the sunlit sea, and every
now and then a spurt of foam showed that, although the ocean was calm,
there were heavy breakers falling upon the shore, caused by the lift
of the offshore heave. That barren island was not an inviting coast,
and to strike upon a sunken ledge would mean disaster. Jackson stood
upon the poop, with his hand upon the signal, ready to reverse the
engines and swing clear, when there seemed to be a slowing down in the
movements of the game ahead. Then the water whitened about the ship,
and the cause became evident. They were running through a great mass of
whale-food, and the tiny gelatinous bodies were so thick that the color
of the sea was changed by them. Jackson rang off the engine.

“We’ve got ’em now,” he said quietly, and watched the surface of the
ocean.

The big bull whale had run into the mass of food, and had slowed down
a little to allow quantities of it to pour down his gullet. There was
no unseemly haste in getting away from the pursuing stranger. He would
suddenly slew to the southward, when he reached four or five fathoms of
water, and then the pace could be increased until the following craft
would be dropped behind. He was a cool-headed old bull, and there was
no occasion for nervousness--all would have gone well with the whole
herd, if it had not been for a willful young cow.

As the _Erin_ slowed down the whales ahead were swimming upon the
surface, taking in the food in enormous quantities, apparently enjoying
their dinner, and showing no interest in the vessel that held along,
with her sinister purpose, in their wake. She barely rippled the water,
as she went through it, and Mr. Collins, the mate, stood behind the gun
on the forecastle, with the lanyard in his hand, ready to fire at any
back that might break water within thirty fathoms. The rest crowded
about the rail and waited, some standing by the line, ready to snub it
as soon as a stricken animal should become weak enough to allow them.

The young cow that lagged behind the rest was not very large, but she
had a thousand pounds or more of good bone in her mouth, and she had
breached dead in front of the vessel, with her tail toward it. The bull
saw the distance gradually closing between his followers and the ship,
and he gave again that peculiar stroke with his flukes which meant
danger. All save the lagging whale instantly sounded. She was enjoying
the food, and failed to regard the signal, and the _Erin_, going up
astern, quietly approached her.

On account of a whale’s peculiar development, it is difficult for it
to see directly ahead or astern, and an object approaching exactly
in line can do so quite often without being perceived until within
close range. The schooner came drifting slowly down upon the animal,
and was within thirty fathoms, when the big bull suddenly breached a
short distance ahead, the little fellow who had been under his care
being with him. Again he gave the sea a heavy blow with his flukes and
disappeared, and nothing broke the smooth surface.

But the young cow was obstinate. She enjoyed the food, and failed to
note how close the ship had approached. Suddenly the mate straightened
himself and looked along the cannon sights. There was a flash and a
loud report, and the exploding harpoon was launched full at the broad
back that lay drifting almost awash just ahead. The heavy missile went
straight to its mark.

“Stand by to haul line!” came the order, while the mate sprang forward
and slipped another charge into the harpoon gun.

The line whizzed out for a few fathoms before the men could snub it,
but there was no need for a second shot. The missile had done its
work, and the stricken cow began the flurry that ends in death. Round
and round she went in a circle, convulsively throwing herself clear of
the sea and lashing the water into a lather with her flukes. Blood dyed
the foam and her spiracles were crimson. Then she slowed down, and,
with a few shudders of her great frame, lay motionless.

The fluke chain was gotten out, and she was soon fast alongside.
A man was sent aloft to watch, and the operation of removing the
whalebone blades from the mouth began. While this was going on, the
rest of the herd did not run away or get gallied. The big bull was
seen approaching, after a time; and, for an hour, while the work of
cutting in went on, he came up repeatedly at a short distance from the
vessel. The men thought little of this, as the whale-food was thick,
but Jackson pondered at the strangeness of the old fellow’s behavior.
He was an old whaleman, and knew that, at the death of one, the rest
of a school usually get badly gallied, and seldom wait for a second
attack. A sperm whale will stand, but a finback, never; and, as the old
bull rose again and again close aboard, he watched him furtively from
the corner of his eye while superintending the work overside. In spite
of the fact that the cow was fat, the blubber was not stripped. She
was cast adrift early in the afternoon, having yielded a mass of prime
bone, and her carcass floated astern, to be devoured by the countless
sharks and birds that come, apparently by magic, from the void of sea
and sky.

It was late in the afternoon when the _Erin_ started ahead again, and
the mate took his place at the gun. No sooner had the carcass floated a
half-mile distant than the old bull was seen to swim alongside of it.
The schooner was turned slowly around and headed back again.

The old bull had come up to the carcass and examined it. The cow was
quite dead, and the fact that she had been killed by the stranger
gradually became clear to him. Suspicion became conviction on his
part, and he turned toward the rest of his charges and led the way
straight out to sea. Away out toward the Falkland Islands he headed,
and reluctantly the rest followed. The pace was increased to a rapid
gait, and soon the pursuing vessel was under a full head of steam,
plowing through the heavy swell at a great rate, in an effort to keep
the flying herd in sight. The sun sank behind the ragged peaks to the
westward, and the darkness soon put a stop to the chase. Jackson had
secured one of the herd, but the others were gallied and were headed
offshore, where they disappeared in the gathering darkness. Soon the
engine was rung off and the vessel put under easy canvas for the night,
while Jackson walked the poop and gave forcible expression to his
opinion of the old coward who had so ignominiously run away.

[Illustration: THE LINE WAS WHIZZING OUT.]

Away into the vastness of the southern ocean the old fellow led his
charges, always keeping the little whale he had with him close
aboard. He missed the mate who had been slain, but he knew that she
had disregarded his warning. He had done all he could. Now he would
take the rest far away to other feeding grounds, and the ocean would
leave no trail to show the stranger whither he had gone. The young one
near him needed protection, and he would keep him close until he was
large enough to look out for himself. On the edge of Falkland Channel
was plenty of food at that season of the year, and a few hundred miles
would put the stranger safely out of sight. The old brain longed for
rest and quiet. Strife was a useless thing, fit only for the young and
unthinking, or those possessed with the killing spirit.

The morning dawned, and, as the sun rose slanting from the southern
ocean, the old bull took a look around. Nothing broke the even line
of the horizon, and then, the feeling that the stranger had been left
behind coming upon him, he slowed the tremendous pace. One hundred
miles of trackless sea had been placed between him and the rocks of
Staten Land.

For many weeks the herd cruised to the northward of the Falkland
Islands, the old bull still keeping the young whale under his
protecting care. Finally there was born a pretty little baby whale with
rounded lines, weighing, perhaps, a little more than half a ton. A pair
of the fierce “killer” sharks soon scented the tender little fellow,
and made a concerted rush, one day, to seize him before the older
whales could prevent; but the bull smote one a blow with his flukes
that crushed him as flat as if a house had fallen upon him, and the
other took flight. He was a watchful old fellow, and had to keep on the
lookout night and day, for the mother whale was weak, and would recover
slowly.

As the days passed the weather began to change. The zone of the
“variables,” or that of the “roaring forties,” is not to be depended
upon long for sunshine and pleasant breezes. One day it started in for
a gale from the eastward, and the sea was white with rolling combers.
The whale-food was driven south, and the animals were forced to follow.
The sun shone only for a short time each day, being but a few degrees
above the sea line, and the high-rolling sea made life upon the surface
uncomfortable. The bull headed for the South Orkney Islands, and for
days the little band of giants went along below the surface, only
coming up every now and then to breathe.

As they made their way southward, the wind grew less violent. The high
black cliffs of the islands offered no shelter to vessels, but to the
whales the lee of the land was comfortable, and the sea was swarming
with food. There they would rest a while and take life easy, beyond the
reach of the hurricanes from Cape Horn.

The old bull guided the band among the sunken peaks, and for weeks they
fattened under his care, when one bleak morning he came to the surface
of the sea and noticed a black shape approaching. There was something
strangely familiar in the outlines, and, after watching it for some
minutes, he remembered the schooner _Erin_.

She was heading straight toward the whales, and was going slowly, as if
in no particular hurry, and upon her forecastle was the same murderous
gun which had slain the cow near Le Maire Strait.

The young whale, who was in company, breached playfully into full view
and sounded. The vessel did not change her course, but headed straight
for the cow with the newborn calf, who was feeding a mile distant to
the southward.

The old bull instantly struck the water with his flukes and headed for
her. The rest of the herd took notice of the warning, and sank from
view; but, whether the cow failed to notice it, or her young one was
disobedient, it was too late to find out. The schooner made a sudden
spurt of speed, and, coming close to the mother, fired the harpoon into
her before she fairly realized what was taking place.

The dull boom of the shot told the old whale what had happened, before
he came up to look. When he arrived within a hundred fathoms, the
mother was in her last agony, and her little baby was being towed along
with her, being unable to realize its mother’s death, and still holding
to her with all the tenderness of a child.

The old bull lay watching events, and once tried to make the little
fellow let go by giving the sea some tremendous slaps with his flukes;
but he was too young to understand, and, while the bull watched, a boat
was lowered and the sailors began their work of destruction. They rowed
slowly toward the infant, and suddenly one rose in the bow and hurled a
harpoon into his soft baby side. The little fellow gave a spring upward
in his agony. A man quickly pulled him alongside the boat and another
drove a lance through him.

Jackson was standing upon the poop, looking on, and the mate was on
the forecastle, loading the gun for another shot when an opportunity
should offer. The men in the waist were overhauling the fluke chain
to make fast to the dead mother, while the man at the wheel held the
spokes idly. The skipper turned toward him.

“Seems to me that that’s the old cowardly bull we fell in with to th’
no’th’ard; aint it?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; it looks like him fer sure,” answered the man; “jest see
him, sir.”

As they looked, the great whale lay watching the men in the boat.
His old oily brain was working, and the rapid events of the last
few minutes were gradually making an impression on his mind. He was
wondering at the slaughter, and could hardly understand how it was done
so quickly. The mother had been a favorite for many years, yet there
she lay, suddenly dead before him. Would the strange craft follow him
over the seas, and kill off the herd one by one, until all were gone?
The boat approaching the young whale stirred his attention. He smote
the sea savagely with his flukes to warn him of the danger. Then the
iron went home, and the little fellow was dead beside his mother.
Something flashed suddenly through the old brain. The pent-up reserve
of years seemed to give way within him, all thought of safety fell
away, and the old feeling of the conqueror rose within his heart.

“Good Lord, what’s a-comin’?” gasped Jackson.

His remark was not addressed to anyone in particular, but was caused by
a terrific commotion in the sea which caused the men to drop their gear
and look out over the side to see what was taking place.

The coward, the giant bull who had fled so often from them, was heading
straight for the small boat and was tearing the southern ocean into
foam with his flukes. Straight as a harpoon from the gun forward, he
shot with tremendous speed, hurling his hundred tons of bone and sinew
like a living avalanche upon the doomed craft.

“Starn all,” was the hoarse yell from the third officer, who stood upon
the stern-sheets and swung madly upon the steering oar. Men strained
their necks forward over the schooner’s rail to see. The unfortunate
men at the oars of the whaleboat struggled wildly. An oar snapped.
There was a wild cry, and some sprang up to dive over the side into the
sea. At that instant the whale leaped high in the air, clearing the
water fully two fathoms. Then he crashed down upon the boat, wiping all
out in a tremendous smother of spray. He was close to the _Erin_, and
the mate stood waiting. There was a loud report as Collins fired the
exploding harpoon into him, taking him almost “on the fly,” as it were,
and then as he disappeared beneath the surface there was a heavy jar
that shook the _Erin_ from stem to stern. She had been rammed.

For an instant not a man aboard moved. Then Jackson, with a face as
white as chalk, came forward and called below to the engineer.

The line was whizzing out upon the forecastle head, showing that
Collins had made the shot of his life. He had struck the whale, but
just where he had no idea. He stood watching the line as it flaked away
with the rapidity of lightning, but said no word to the men to have it
snubbed. He had felt the heavy jar beneath the schooner’s keel, and
knew what it meant as plainly as if he had seen the stroke.

Two,--three,--four,--five hundred fathoms went whirling over the side,
and silence still reigned aboard. The sea had smoothed again where the
whaleboat had been a few moments before, but the only signs of her were
a few floating splinters. Not a man ever appeared again.

Suddenly the strain was broken.

“Water comin’ in fast below, sir,” was the word passed on deck.

Jackson walked aft as if in a dream. The mate left the gun, and the
last fathom of the line flaked overboard unheeded. It brought up
suddenly, taut as a bowstring, then snapped. The mate paid not the
least attention to it, but went slowly aft.

“Shall we provision the boats, sir?” he asked, as he approached the
captain.

Jackson stared at him. “D’ye know what it means?” asked the old
whaleman huskily.

The mate nodded. Half an hour later, four boats full of men were
heading northward for the Falkland Islands, and the only thing that
remained upon the spot where the _Erin_ had floated a short time before
was the carcass of a mother whale with her baby alongside, while above
them the birds hovered and screamed as if to mark the grave of the lost
ship.

The next year a Scottish whaleman from the Falklands fell in with an
old bull whale whose starboard side bore a tremendous wound, partly
healed. He was so wary, however, that he was soon lost sight of, and
the school that followed him gave no chance for a catch.




[Illustration: IN THE WAKE OF THE WEATHER-CLOTH]


We had raised the great tower of the Hatteras lighthouse in the dim
gray of the early morning. The huge spark flashed and faded as the lens
swung slowly about its axis some fifteen miles to the south’ard of us.
Objects now began to be more distinct, and our masthead could be made
out against the leaden background above. Up there the fierce song of
the gale roared dismally as the little vessel rose upon the giant Gulf
sea, and swung her straining fabric to windward. Then, quartering the
heave of the foam-crested hill, she would drop slowly down that dread
incline and roll desperately to leeward as she started to meet the
rushing hill to windward and above her.

With a bit of the gaff hoisted, and leach and luff lashed fast down,
we were trying to forereach to the eastward and clear the death-trap
under our lee--the fatal diamond of the Hatteras Shoals. Buck and I had
been on deck all the day before, and all night, and we welcomed the
growing light as only hard-pressed men at sea can welcome it. It meant
a respite from the black hell about us, and the heavy snore of some
giant comber would no longer make us catch our breath in the dread it
might be the beginning of that white reach where no vessel that enters
comes forth again.

We could see we had many miles between us and the end--miles that
meant many minutes which might be utilized in the fight for life. We
were heading nearly east now, and the stanch little craft was making
better than south, while the gale had swung up to nor’-nor’east. She
was forereaching ahead, though going fast to leeward, and it looked as
if we might claw off into the wild Gulf Stream, where in spite of the
sea lay safety. To leeward lay certain death, the wild death of a lost
ship in the white smother that rolled with the chaotic thunder of riven
hills of water.

Buck’s face was calm and white in the morning light, and his oilskins
hung about him in dismal folds. White streaks of salt showed under
his eyes, which were partly sheltered by his sou’wester, and the deep
lines in his wet cheeks gave him a worn-out look. He must have been
very tired, for as I came from behind the piece of canvas lashed on
the weather quarter to serve as a weather-cloth, he left the wheel and
dropped down behind the bulwarks.

“Begins to look better,” I bawled, taking off the becket from the wheel
spokes, which had been hove hard down all night. “She needs a bit of
nursing,” and Buck nodded and grinned as he ducked from the flying
drift.

She was doing well now, and after trying to ease her a while I put the
wheel back in the becket and bawled down the scuttle to our little
black boy to get us some junk and ship’s bread.

Our other man, John, a Swede, had turned in dead beat out an hour
before, and as we four were all hands, I thought it just as well to let
him sleep as long as he could. As master, I would have to stay on deck
anyway.

Buck and I crouched in the lee of the bulwarks and tarpaulin, munching
the junk and watching the little ship ride the sea. We could do nothing
except let her head as close as we dared to the gale.

As long as the canvas held all would be well. The close-reefed mainsail
would have been blown away in the rush of that fierce blast, and it
would have been folly to try to drive her into that appalling sea. If
anything started we were lost men. She was only a twenty-ton vessel,
but she had a good nine feet of keel under her, and could hold on
grimly. We had used a sea anchor for twenty-four hours, but while it
held her head to the sea it caused her to drift dead to leeward, so we
had at last cut it adrift and put a bit of storm staysail on her to
work ahead.

“I’m glad we didn’t run durin’ the night,” said Buck, “she wouldn’t ’a’
done it an’ gone clear--just look at that fellow!”

As he spoke a giant sea rose on the weather beam, a great mass of blue
water capped with a white comber. The little vessel’s head dropped down
the foam-streaked hollow until we were almost becalmed under the sea
that followed. A dirty, dangerous sea to run in.

“I thought you might have run when we saw how bad it was--an’ trust
to luck to go clear. But fight on, says I, even when you know you’re
losing. If you’d started to run you’d never been able to swing her up
again if we’d had to--an’ now we’ll go clear. She’ll stand it.”

Buck was an American and John a Swede. The latter had hinted at running
off before the storm when we found ourselves close in. Buck cursed him
in my presence in true American fashion.

“Never give up a fight because you’re beat at the start,” says I.
“It’s them that fights when they have to, an’ because it’s right,
that always win. We did seem dead beat last night, an’ when that light
flashed out bright I was almost willing to say Amen. But I knew it ware
wrong, an’ we must fight it out. A man that fights to win is no sailor.
It’s him that fights when he _knows_ he will lose--an’ then maybe he
won’t lose after all.”

The sun showed a little through a break in the flying scud, and the
water looked a beautiful blue, streaked with great patches of white.
Buck was gazing hard to the southward and could make nothing out except
the Hatteras Light. He was tired, and refused to move from a wash of
foam along the deck where he sat.

“You see,” he said, wiping the spray from his face, “a man can’t tell
nothin’ in this world. There’s no use tryin’ to at sea--an’ the more
you risk sometimes the more you win. It isn’t always judgment. There
ware old man Richards. He knew the coast, but he trusted his judgment
too much--an’ I’m the bum ye see now. I don’t mean nothin’ agin your
boat, Cap’n.

“You remember Richards? Had the ole _Pocosin_. Used to run her from
Nassau to Hunter’s P’int. ’Taint much of a run, even for that kind o’
hooker, but in the winter this Cape is hell, an’ that’s a fact. You kin
almost jump from wrack to wrack from the Core Bank to Bodie’s Island.
I’ve seen forty vessels, big an’ small, on the beach here in one
season--an’ we aint out o’ the business yet, either.”

We were drifting down fast on the outer shoal, and I could see, or
fancy I could see, the Ocracoke Lighthouse. The wind had increased a
little with sunrise as usual in a northeaster, but it seemed to be
working a bit more to the northward and getting colder.

“It was just such a day as this. We hove the _Pocosin_ up when she was
almost in sight of the Capes and not ten hours’ run from Norfolk. But
she ware ramming her nose into it harder and harder, an’ there we was.
We couldn’t get no farther.

“It ware pretty bad when we started inshore, with the glass a-fallin’
an’ the sky like the inside of a lead pot. Then came the breeze and big
northeast sea what stopped us.

“We couldn’t push her through that sea. It was more’n common heavy, and
even with the whole mainsail on her she wouldn’t do a thing but rear up
on her hind legs an’ throw herself into it so she’d go out o’ sight to
her foremast. Man, she ware an’ old boat, an’ if she’d kept the racket
up she’d have split in two!

“We could see Cape Henry light by dark, but it warn’t no use, so we
wore around before it ware too late an’ got the foresail an’ jib stowed
safe. Then we came to on the port tack, lowering down the mainsail and
reefing it to balance the bit o’ staysail forrads. ’Twas a piece o’
work takin’ in that mainsail, an’ that’s the truth. You may search me
if it didn’t fair blow the hair off yer head by this time. I don’t mind
a bit o’ breeze, Cap’n, but when I say it ware blowin’ then, it aint
more’n half the truth. It ware fair howlin’.

“We got the sail on the boom, and then that same boom took charge for
twenty red-hot minutes while she threw it from port to starboard--an’
all hands hangin’ onto the mainsheet tryin’ to get it in when it
slacked with the throw.

“‘Balance-reef her,’ says the old man, an’ we lashed her down, givin’
about ten feet o’ leach rope hoisted taut with the peak downhaul
fast to windward. Then everything was made snug, an’ with the bit o’
staysail hauled to the mast we hung on to see what would happen next.”

Buck rose for a minute and gazed steadily to the southward as though he
had seen something. Then he settled down again.

“Me? I was mate, you know. I’d been with Richards over a year. He had
his wife an’ daughter aboard that trip--yessir--about as fine--she was
about seventeen.”

A sea struck the vessel while Buck was looking to leeward, but he paid
no attention to it as the spray filled his collar. He seemed to be
so deeply occupied in some object that I began to get a bit nervous,
and reached for the glasses to try and pick out a new danger. But he
evidently saw nothing, for he went on slowly after a bit.

“There were six of us men and a little coon boy in the galley. It gave
us three men in a watch, an’ that ware enough. I saw we were goin’ to
the south’ard fast, the sea was northerly yet, but the wind was working
fast to the eastward and we waren’t reaching off a little bit. She was
heavy with lumber an’ goin’ sideways like a crab--not shoving her nose
ahead like we are now. It was dead to leeward, and you know how that is
to the north’ard of Core Bank or Lookout.

“The old man had the wheel fast hard down and was standin’ there
watchin’ her take them seas. It was growing dark an’ them fellers
from the Gulf looked ugly. They just wiped her clean from end to end,
roarin’ over her an’ smotherin’ everything.

“‘We got to fight fer it to-night,’ said I. ‘Better try the
close-reefed mainsail before it’s too late. A bit o’ fore-reachin’ an’
we’ll clear.’

“‘’Twon’t stand,’ says he, ‘’twon’t stand ten minutes in this breeze.
Let her go. If she won’t go clear we’ll run her fer Ocracoke. It’s high
water at eight-bells to-night.’

“That may have been good judgment, but you know that entrance is a warm
place at night in a roarin’ northeaster. I got a bit nervous an’ spoke
up again after an hour or two.

“‘Better try her with the mainsail; we’ve got to fight her off,’ I said
again.

“‘’Taint no use,’ said he. ‘Let her go. A man never dies till his time
comes.’

“I’d heard that sayin’ before, but I never knew just how a feller could
reckon on his time. Seemed to me somebody’s was comin’ along before
daylight. Finally I kept on asking the old man an’ argufyin’--for there
was the two women--an’ he gave in. Before twelve that night we had her
under a single reef and shovin’ off for dear life. It ware blowin’
harder now, an’ the first thing away went that staysail. Then we tried
a bit o’ jib, but she gave a couple o’ plunges and drove her head under
a good fathom. When she lifted it up the jib ware gone.

“There we ware with the old hooker a-broachin’ to an’ no head sail on
her. The seas ware comin’ over her like a cataract and the dull roar
soundin’ louder an’ louder. There ware the two women below----

“Still the fight waren’t half over. Ther ware the new foresail to close
reef. It would have held an hour or two. That would have driven us off
far enough to have gone through the slue. But no. The old man had had
enough.

“‘Take in the mainsail,’ he bawled, and all hands wrastled for half
an hour with that sail while all the time we were goin’ fast to the
south’ard. ‘Close reef foresail,’ says he; ‘we’ll try an’ run her
through.’ Then he took the lashin’s off the wheel.

“There ware no use sayin’ nothin’ more. We ware hardly able to speak as
it was. We put the peak o’ that foresail on her an’ the old man ran the
wheel hard up. It ware near daybreak now, and she paid off an’ streaked
away before it through a roarin’ white sea. Just as she struck her gait
we saw the flash o’ the Hatteras Light.

“The old man saw it. It ware bright enough for all hands. So bright my
heart gave one big jump an’ then seemed to stop. There ware the two
women below, the girl--we tore along into the night with six men an’
one little black boy holdin’ on to anything they could an’ lookin’ out
over the jib-boom end----”

Buck was silent for a moment. Then he went on.

“It had to come. I saw it first. Just a great white spout o’ foam in
the blackness ahead. It ware the outer edge o’ the Diamond Shoal.”

Buck’s voice died away in the roar about us and close as I was to him
I could hear nothing he said, though I saw his lips move. I went
to the binnacle and peered into it. The lighthouse was drawing to
the westward. The roar aloft was deepening as she swung herself to
windward, but she was making good weather of it and holding on like
grim death.

“How did you get through?” I asked, ducking down again behind the
shelter.

“We didn’t. We didn’t get through. The _Pocosin’s_ there yet--or what’s
left of her. One more hour of fightin’ off under that reefed foresail
an’ we’d have got to sea--we’d have gone clear. There waren’t nothin’
happened--just a smashing crash in the night. Man, ye couldn’t hear or
see nothin’. Both masts gone with the first jolt, an’ up she broaches
to a sea what was breakin’ clear out in seven fathoms. I tried to get
aft--good God! I tried to get to the companion----”

Buck was looking steadily to leeward and the drift was trickling out of
his eyes.

When he turned he smiled and his tired face looked years older as
he wiped it with the cuff of his oilskin. The gale roared and snored
overhead, but breaks in the flying scud told that the storm-center was
working to the northward and the cold meant it would go to stay.

“I don’t know but what’s that’s so about a feller not goin’ till his
time comes, Cap’n. I came in the next day on a bit o’ the mainmast,
a little more dead than alive, but I’m tellin’ you fairly, Cap’n,
if it waren’t fer you an’ your little ship, I’d just as soon have
gone to leeward this mornin’. A feller gets sort o’ lonesome at
times--especially when he’s got no ties----”

“Haven’t you any?” I asked cheerfully.

Buck looked slowly up and his eyes met mine. They rested there for a
moment. His lips moved for a little, but I heard nothing he said. Then
he let his gaze droop to the deck planks and bowed his head.

A long time he sat there while I watched the lighthouse draw more and
more to the westward. Suddenly he looked up.

“She’s all clear now, sir, an’ if you say so I’ll go below an’ start a
bit o’ fire.”

“Go ahead, and tell Arthur to come here?” I said.

I watched him as he staggered below. He was tired out, wet, and
despondent. The fate of the _Pocosin_ was too evident for me to ask
questions. I respected him for not mentioning the girl again. It was
evident what she had been to him. It was long ago, but the memory was
fresh before him. He was passing near the grave of the one woman he had
loved, and there was more than the salt drift in his eyes as he went
down the companion. In a few minutes a stream of black smoke poured
from the funnel in the deck and was whirled away to leeward. Soon
the smell of frying bacon was swept aft, and I went below to a warm
breakfast to be followed by a nap, while the plunging little vessel
rode safely into the great Gulf sea. We had gone past the graveyard of
the Diamond Shoals.




Transcriber’s Notes


Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant
preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed.

Simple typographical errors were corrected; occasional unbalanced
quotation marks retained.

Ambiguous hyphens at the ends of lines were retained; occurrences of
inconsistent hyphenation have not been changed.

Chapter names have been combined with the illustrations preceding
the chapters.





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