Part 15

By this time the faces of Nat’s audience had lost the look of apprehension they had worn at first. Everybody had an account to settle with those pigs, which swarmed homelessly about the fore part of the deck, and never missed an opportunity of entering our domicile during our absence, doing such acts and deeds there as pigs are wont to perform. As they were a particular hobby of the skipper’s we were loth to deal with them after their iniquities, the more so as she was a particularly comfortable ship. And if Nat’s idea should turn out to be a good one we should all be gainers. Consequently when Daddy appeared in the morning Nat greeted him at once with the question, “Yew got monkey?” Promptly came the stereotyped answer, “No, Sahib. Eberyting got. Monkey no got. Melican war make monkey bery dear.” However, as soon as Daddy was persuaded that a monkey really was desired he undertook to supply one, and sure enough next morning he brought one with him, a sinister-looking beast about as large as a fox-terrier. He was secured by a leathern collar and a dog-chain to the fife-rail of the foremast for the time, and one or two of the men amused themselves by teasing him until he was almost frantic. Presently I came round where he was lurking, forgetting for the time all about his presence. Seeing his opportunity, he sprang on to my shoulder and bit me so severely that I carry his marks now. Smarting with the pain I picked up a small piece of coal and flung it at him with all the strength I could muster. Unfortunately for me it hit him on the head and made it bleed, for which crime I got well rope’s-ended by Nat. And besides that I made an enemy of that monkey for the rest of his time on board--many months--an enemy who never lost a chance of doing me an ill turn.

He took to his master at once, and was also on nodding terms with one or two of the other men, but with the majority he was at open war. Nat kept him chained up near his bunk, only taking him out for an airing at intervals, and at once commenced to train him to go for the pigs. But one day Nat laid in a stock of eggs and fruit, stowing them as usual on the shelf in his bunk. We were very busy all the morning on deck, so that I believe hardly a chance was obtained by any one of getting below for a smoke. When dinner-time came Nat went straight to his bunk to greet his pet, but he was nowhere to be seen. The state of that bed though was something to remember. Jocko had been amusing himself by trying to make an omelette, and the débris of two dozen eggs was strewn and plastered over the bunk, intermingled with crushed bananas, torn up books, feathers out of Nat’s swell pillow, and several other things. While Nat was ransacking his memory for some language appropriate to the occasion, a yell arose from the other side of the forecastle where Paddy Finn, a Liverpool Irishman of parts, had just discovered his week’s whack of sugar _and_ the contents of a slush-pot pervading all the contents of his chest. Other voices soon joined in the chorus as further atrocities were discovered, until the fo’c’s’le was like Bedlam broken loose.

“Pigs is it ye’d be afther complainin’ of, ye blatherin’ ould omadhaun. The divil a pig that iver lived ud be afther makin’ sich a hell’s delight ov a man’s dunnage as this. Not a blashted skirrick have oi left to cover me nakidness wid troo yure blood relashin. Only let me clap hands on him me jule, thet’s all, ye dhirty ould orgin-grinder you.”

High above all the riot rose the wail of Paddy Finn as above, until the din grew so great that I fled dismayed, in mortal terror lest I should be brought into the quarrel somehow. It was well that I did so, for presently there was what sailors call a regular “plug-mush,” a free fight wherein the guiding principle is “wherever you see a head, hit it.” The battle was brief if fierce, and its results were so far good that uproarious laughter soon took the place of the pandemonium that had so recently reigned. Happily I had not brought the dinner in when the riot began, so that still there was some comfort left. Making haste I supplied the food, and soon they were all busy with it, their dinner hour being nearly gone. The punishment of the miscreant was unavoidably deferred for want of time to look for him, for he had vanished like a dream. But while we ate a sudden storm of bad language rose on deck. Hurrying out to see what fresh calamity had befallen we found the nigger cook flinging himself about in a frenzy of rage, while half-way up the main-stay, well out of everybody’s reach, sat Jocko with a fowl that he had snatched out of the galley while the cook’s back was turned, and was now carefully tearing into fragments. Rushing to the stay, the men shook it till the whole mainmast vibrated, but the motion didn’t appear to trouble the monkey. Holding the fowl tightly in one hand he bounded up into the main-top and thence to the mizen-topmast stay, where for the time he had to be left in peace.

As soon as knock-off time came a hunt was organised. It was a very exciting affair while it lasted, but not only were the men tired, but that monkey could spring across open spaces like a bird, and catching him was an impossible task. The attempt was soon given up, therefore, and the rest of the evening after supper devoted to repairing damages. For the next three days she was a lively ship. That imp of darkness was like the devil, he was everywhere. Like a streak of grey lightning he would slide down a stay, snatch up something just laid down, and away aloft again before the robbed one had realised what had happened. All sorts of traps were laid for him, but he was far too wise to be taken in any trap that ever was devised. I went in terror of him night and day, for I feared that now he was free he would certainly not omit to repay me for his broken pate. And yet it was I who caught him. For the moment I had forgotten all about him, when coming from aloft and dropping lightly with my bare feet upon the bottom of one of the upturned boats on the roof of our house, I saw something stirring in the folds of the main-topmast staysail that was lying there loosely huddled together. Leaping upon the heap of canvas I screamed for help, bringing half-a-dozen men to the spot in a twinkling. Not without some severe bites, the rascal was secured, and by means of a stout belt round his waist effectually prevented from getting adrift again. I looked to see him summarily put to death, but no one seemed to think his atrocious behaviour merited any worse punishment than a sound thrashing except the cook and steward, and they being our natural enemies were of course unheeded. The fact is Jocko had, after his first performance, confined his attentions to the cabin and galley, where he had done desperate damage and made the two darkies lead a most miserable life. This conduct of his I believe saved his life, as those two functionaries were cordially detested by the men for many reasons. At any rate he was spared, and for some time led a melancholy life chained up on the forecastle head during the day, and underneath it at night. Meantime we had sailed from Bombay and arrived at Conconada, where the second mate bought a monkey, a pretty tame little fellow that hadn’t a bit of vice in him. He was so docile that when we got to sea again he was allowed to have the run of the ship. Petted by everybody, he never got into any mischief, but often used to come forward and sit at a safe distance from Jocko, making queer grimaces and chatterings at him, but always mighty careful not to get too near. Jocko never responded, but sat stolidly like a monkey of wood until the little fellow strolled away, when he would spring up and tear at his chain, making a guttural noise that sounded as much like an Arab cursing as anything ever I heard. So little Tip went on his pleasant way, only meeting with one small mishap for a long time. He was sitting on deck one sunny afternoon with his back against the coamings of the after-hatch, his little round head just visible above its edge. One of the long-legged raw-boned roosters we had got in Conconada was prowling near on the never-ending quest for grub. Stalking over the hatch he suddenly caught sight of this queer little grey knob sticking up. He stiffened himself, craned his neck forward, and then drawing well back dealt it a peck like a miniature pick-axe falling. Well, that little monkey was more astonished than ever I saw an animal in my life. He fairly screamed with rage while the rooster stood as if petrified with astonishment at the strange result of his investigations.

Owing to the close watch kept upon Jocko he led a blameless life for months. Apparently reconciled to his captivity he gradually came to be regarded as a changed animal who had repented and forsaken his evil ways for life. But my opinion of him never changed. It was never asked and I knew better than to offer it, but there was a lurking devil in his sleepy eyes that assured me if ever he got loose again his previous achievements would pale into insignificance before the feats of diabolical ingenuity he would then perform. Still the days and weeks rolled by uneventfully until we were well into the fine weather to the north’ard of the Line in the Atlantic. We had been exceptionally favoured by the absence of rain, and owing to the exertions of the second mate, who was an enthusiast over his paint-work, her bulwarks within and her houses were a perfectly dazzling white, with a satiny sheen like enamel. In fact I heard him remark with pardonable pride that he’d never seen the paint look so well in all his seven voyages as second of the _Belle_. Tenderly, as if it were his wife’s face, he would go over that paint-work even in his watch below, with bits of soft rag and some clean fresh water, wiping off every spot of defilement as soon as it appeared. Tarring down was accomplished without a spot or a smear upon the paint, and the decks having been holystoned and varnished, the second mate now began to breathe freely. No more dirty work remained to be done, and he would have a lot more time to devote to his beloved white paint. We had been slipping along pretty fast to the north’ard, and one afternoon the old man had all hands up to bend our winter suit of sails. Every mother’s son of them were aloft except me, and I was busy about the mainmast standing by to attend to the running gear, as I was ordered from above. As they had hoisted all the sails up before they had started aloft, they were there a long time, as busy as bees trying to get the job finished. At last all was ready and down they came. One of them went forrard for something, and immediately raised an outcry that brought all hands rushing to the spot, thinking that the ship was on fire or something. The sight they saw was a paralysing one to a sailor. On both sides of the bulwarks and the lower panels of the house were great smears and splashes of Stockholm tar, while all along the nice blue covering-board the mess was indescribable. With one accord everybody shouted “That---- monkey.” Yes, as they spoke there was a dull thud and down from aloft fell a huge oakum wad saturated with tar. They looked up and there he sat, an infernal object, hardly distinguishable for a monkey, being smothered from head to tail-end with the thick glutinous stuff. But his white teeth gleamed and his wicked eye twinkled merrily as he thought of the heavenly time he’d been having, a recompense for what must have seemed years of waiting. Too late, the men now remembered that the tar barrel, its head completely out, had been left up-ended by the windlass where it had been placed for convenience during tarring down. It was there still, but leading from it in all directions were streams of tar where Jocko had dragged away the dripping wads he had fished out of its black depths. I was never revengeful, but if I had been I should have felt sorry for the second mate, my old tyrant, now. He drooped and withered like a scarlet runner under the first sharp frost. Not a word did he say, but he looked as if all the curses in every tongue that ever were spoken were pouring over his brain in a flood. Pursuit of the monkey was out of the question. Clambering over the newly tarred rigging was bad enough when done with all care, but in a chase, especially over places where it had been freshly anointed by the fugitive, we should have had all hands captured like flies on a gummed string. They all stood and glared at the mess like men not knowing how to adjust their minds to this new condition of things, nor, when the skipper and mate came forrard to see what was the matter, did they contribute any words good, bad, or indifferent. Apparently they would have remained there till they dropped, fascinated by the horrible sight, but suddenly piercing screams aft startled everybody. Jocko had crept down the mizen rigging and pounced upon poor little Tip, who was delicately combing himself (he was as daintily clean as a cat) on the after hatch. And now Jocko was perched on the cro’jack yard vigorously wiping his tar-drenched fur with Tip as if he had been a dry wad. The second mate started from his lethargy and sprang aloft to the rescue of his screaming pet with an agility scarcely inferior to that of Jocko. Rage seemed to give him energy, for presently he pressed Jocko so hard (he let poor little Tip go as soon as he saw his pursuer) that he ran out along the mizen topsail brace, and, balancing himself for a moment, covered his eyes with his hands and sprang into the sea. Bobbing up like a cork, he struck out away from the ship which was only just moving, but in less than five minutes he repented his rashness and swam back. A line was flung to him, he promptly seized it and was at once a captive again. The men were so impressed by his prowess that they refused to allow the second mate to touch him, nor did any of them even beat him lest they should have bad luck. But they replaced the chafed-through ring he had broken by a massive connecting-link, and when Jamrach’s man came aboard in London Jocko was sold to him for five shillings. Tip went to the Crystal Palace and met a worse fate.

BIG GAME AT SEA

Sportsmen of ample means and unlimited leisure often deplore the shrinkage which goes on at an ever-accelerating rate of such free hunting-grounds as still remain. Owing to the wonderful facilities for travel allied to increased wealth, they foresee, not, perhaps, the extinction of the great wild animals which alone they consider worthy of their high prowess, but such close preservation of them in the near future that the free delight of the hunter will surely disappear. Therefore it may be considered opportune to point out from the vantage ground of personal experience some aspects of sport at sea which will certainly not suffer by comparison with any hunting on land, no matter from what point we regard it. It will readily be conceded that one of the chief drawbacks to the full enjoyment of sport in wild lands is the large amount of personal suffering entailed upon the hunters by evil climates and transport difficulties. It is all very well to say that these things are part of the programme, and that taking the rough with the smooth is of the very essence of true sportsmanship. That need not be disputed while denying that there is anything attractive in the idea of becoming a permanent invalid from malaria or being harassed to the verge of madness by the unceasing oversight of a gang of wily children of nature saturated with the idea that the white maniac is delivered over to them as a prey by “the gods of things as they are.” The fascination of sport consists in the dangers of the chase, the successful use of “shikar,” the elation of conscious superiority over the lords of the brute creation, and not, as some dull souls would assert, in the gratification of primitive instincts of blood-lust, or the exercise of cruelty to animals for its own sake. Neither does it consist in wading across fetid swamps, groping through steaming forests, or toiling with leathern tongue and aching bones over glowing sands, a prey to all the plagues of Egypt augmented by nearly every other ill that flesh is heir to. No; few of us need persuading that any of these horrors are the unavoidable necessary concomitants of sport, they are endured because to all appearance any hunting worthy the name is not to be obtained apart from them.

From all such miseries sport at sea is free. A well-appointed yacht, built not for speed but for comfort, need not be luxurious to afford as satisfactory a “hunting-box” as any sportsman could reasonably desire. And for the question of cost--it may be high enough to satisfy the craving for squandering felt by the most wealthy spendthrift, or so low as to become far cheaper than a hunting expedition to Africa or the Rockies. For a successful sporting voyage a sailing vessel, or at most an auxiliary screw-steamer of low power, is best, for the great game of the ocean is full of alarms, and must needs be approached with the utmost silence and circumspection. As for the question of equipment, it seems hardly necessary to say that everything should be of the very best, but not by any means of the most expensive quality procurable. All such abominations as harpoon-guns, bombs, &c., should be strictly barred, the object being sport, not slaughter. Given sufficient outlay, with the resources of science now at the purchaser’s disposal, it is quite possible to reduce whaling, for instance, to as tame an affair as a hand-fed pheasant battue or tame-rabbit coursing, neither of which can surely by any stretch of courtesy be called sport. The old-fashioned hand harpoons, the long, slender lances that, except for excellence of workmanship and material, are essentially the same as used by the first followers of the vast sea-mammals, these should be the sportsman’s weapons still if he would taste in its integrity the primitive delight of the noblest of created beings in the assertion of his birthright, “Dominion over the fish of the sea and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth.”

The best type of vessel for a sporting cruise at sea is what is known to seamen as a “barquentine,” a vessel, that is to say, of some 250 tons register, with three masts, square-rigged at the fore--after the style of the well-known _Sunbeam_. In her davits she should carry three whaleboats, such as the Americans of New Bedford or Rhode Island know so well how to build, the handsomest and most sea-worthy of all boats ever built. The whaleboats built in Scotland, though strong and serviceable, are less elegant and handy, being more fitted for rough handling among ice-floes, into which rough neighbourhoods the sea-sportsman need never go--should not go, in fact, for the best display of his powers. The whale-line, made in the old whaling ports of New England--tow-line as it is locally termed--cannot be beaten. It possesses all the virtues. Light, silky, and of amazing strength, it is a perfect example of what rope should be, and is as much superior to the unkind, harsh hemp-line of our own islands as could well be imagined. From the same place should be obtained the services of a few whaling experts, accustomed, as no other seafarers are, to the chase of the sperm-whale, the noblest of all sea-monsters. Advice as to fishing-tackle would be out of place, except the general remark that, as in the deep seas the angler will meet with the doughtiest opponent of his skill the ocean contains, he must needs lay in a stock of tackle of the very strongest and best. Tarpon fishing is a fairly good test of the trustworthiness of gear, but whoso meets the giant albacore in mid-ocean, and overcomes him, will have vanquished a fish to which the tarpon is but as a seven-pound trout to a lordly salmon. All the appliances known to naturalists for the capture and preservation of the smaller habitants of the deep sea ought to be carried, for, although not strictly sport, this work is deeply interesting and useful, besides affording a pleasant variety of occupation.