Part 7
As I have said elsewhere, the shark eats man because man is easy to catch, not because he likes man’s flesh better than any other form of food, as many landsmen and even sailors believe. But the shark is only able to gratify his sociable instincts in calms or very light airs. He is far too slothful, too constitutionally averse to exertion, to expend his energies in the endeavour to keep up with a ship going at even a moderate rate of speed. Let the wind drop, however, and in few parts of the sea will you be without a visit from a shark for many hours. In one vessel that I sailed in the skipper had such a delicate nose that he could not bear the stench of the water in which the day’s allowance of salt meat had been steeped to get some of the pickle out of it. So he ordered a strong net to be made of small rope, and into this the meat was put, the net secured to a stout line, and hung over the stern just low enough to dip every time the vessel curtsied. The plan answered admirably for some time, until one night the wind fell to a calm, and presently the man at the wheel heard a great splash behind him. He rushed to the taffrail and looked over, just in time to see the darkness beneath all aglow with phosphorescence, showing that some unusual agitation had recently taken place. He ran to the net-lanyard, and, taking a good pull, fell backward on deck, for there was nothing fast to it. Net and meat were gone. The skipper was much vexed, of course, that the net hadn’t been hauled up a little higher when it fell calm, for, as he told the mate, anybody ought to know that 30 lbs. of salt pork dangling overboard in a calm was enough to call a shark up from a hundred miles away.
As this particular shark, now sliding stealthily along the keel towards the stern, becomes more clearly visible, you notice what looks at first like a bright blue patch on top of his head. But, strange to say, it is not fixed; it shifts from side to side, backwards and forwards, until, as the big fish rises higher, you make it out to be the pretty little caranx that shares with the crocodile and buffalo birds the reputation of being the closest possible companion and chum of so strangely diverse an animal to himself. And now we are on debatable ground, for this question of the sociability of the pilot-fish with the shark has been most hotly argued. And perhaps, like the cognate question of the flight of flying-fish, it is too much to hope that any amount of first-hand testimony will avail to settle it now. Still, if a man will but honestly state what he has _seen_, not once, but many times repeated, his evidence ought to have some weight in the settlement of even the most vexed questions. Does the pilot-fish love the shark? Does it even know that the shark _is_ a shark, a slow, short-sighted, undiscriminating creature whose chief characteristic is that of never-satisfied hunger? In short, does the pilot-fish attach itself to the shark as a pilot, with a definite object in view, or is the attachment merely the result of accident? Let us see.
Here is a big shark-hook, upon which we stick a mass of fat pork two or three pounds in weight. Fastening a stout rope to it, we drop it over the stern with a splash. The eddies have no sooner smoothed away than we see the brilliant little blue and gold pilot-fish coming towards our bait at such speed that we can hardly detect the lateral vibrations of his tail. Round and round the bait he goes, evidently in a high state of excitement, and next moment he has darted off again as rapidly as he came. He reaches the shark, touches him with his head on the nose, and comes whizzing back again to the bait, followed sedately by the dull-coloured monster. As if impatient of his huge companion’s slowness he keeps oscillating between him and the bait until the shark has reached it and, without hesitation, has turned upon his back to seize it, if such a verb can be used to denote the deliberate way in which that gaping crescent of a mouth enfolds the lump of pork. Nothing, you think, can increase the excitement of the little attendant now. He seems ubiquitous, flashing all round the shark’s jaws as if there were twenty of him at least. But when half-a-dozen men, “tailing on” to the rope, drag the shark slowly upward out of the sea, the faithful little pilot seems to go frantic with--what shall we call it?--dread of losing his protector, affection, anger, who can tell?
The fact remains that during the whole time occupied in hauling the huge writhing carcass of the shark up out of the water the pilot-fish never ceases its distracted upward leaping against the body of its departing companion. And after the shark has been hauled quite clear of the water the bereaved pilot darts disconsolately to and fro about the rudder as if in utter bewilderment at its great loss. For as long as the calm continues, or until another shark makes his or her appearance, that faithful little fish will still hover around, every splash made in the water bringing it at top speed to the spot as if it thought that its friend had just returned.
No doubt there is a mutual benefit in the undoubted alliance between pilot-fish and shark, for I have seen a pilot-fish take refuge, along with a female shark’s tiny brood, within the parent’s mouth at the approach of a school of predatory fish, while it is only reasonable to suppose, what has often been proved to be the fact, that in guiding the shark to food the pilot also has its modest share of the feast. It is quite true that the pilot-fish will for a time attach itself to a boat when its companion has been killed. Again and again I have noticed this on a whaling voyage, where more sharks are killed in one day while cutting in a whale than many sailors see during their whole lives.
Hitherto we have only considered those inhabitants of the deep sea that forgather with a ship during a calm. Not that the enumeration of them is exhausted, by any means, for during long-persisting calms, as I have often recorded elsewhere, many queer denizens of the middle depths of ocean are tempted by the general stagnation to come gradually to the surface and visit the unfamiliar light. Considerations of space preclude my dealing with many of these infrequent visitors to the upper strata of the sea, but I cannot refrain from mention of one or two that have come under my notice at different times. One especially I tried for two days to inveigle by various means, for I thought (and still think) that a stranger fish was never bottled in any museum than he was. He was sociable enough, too. I dare say his peculiar appearance was dead against his scraping an acquaintance with any ordinary-looking fish, who, in spite of their well-known curiosity, might well be excused from chumming up with any such “sport” as he undoubtedly was. He was about 18 in. long, with a head much like a gurnard and a tapering body resembling closely in its contour that of a cod. So that as far as his shape went there was nothing particularly _outré_ in his appearance. But he was bright green in colour--at least, the ground of his colour-scheme was bright green. He was dotted profusely with glaring crimson spots about the size of a sixpence. And from the centre of each of these spots sprang a brilliant blue tassel upon a yellow stalk about an inch long. All his fins--and he had certainly double the usual allowance--were also fringed extensively with blue filaments, which kept fluttering and waving continually, even when he lay perfectly motionless, as if they were all nerves. His tail was a wonderful organ more than twice as large as his size warranted, and fringed, of course, as all his other fins were, only more so. His eyes were very large and inexpressive, dead-looking in fact, reminding me of eyes that had been boiled. But over each of them protruded a sort of horn of bright yellow colour for about two inches, at the end of which dangled a copious tassel of blue that seemed to obscure the uncanny creature’s vision completely.
To crown all, a dorsal ridge of crimson rose quite two inches, the whole length of his back being finished off by a long spike that stuck out over his nose like a jibboom, and had the largest tassel of all depending from it. So curiously decorated a fish surely never greeted man’s eye before, and when he moved, which he did with dignified slowness, the effect of all those waving fringes and tassels was dazzling beyond expression. I think he must have been some distant relation of the angler-fish that frequents certain tidal rivers, but he had utilised his leisure for personal decoration upon original lines. This was in the Indian Ocean, near the Line; but some years after, in hauling up a mass of Gulf weed in the North Atlantic, I caught, quite by accident, a tiny fish, not two inches long, that strongly reminded me of my tasselled friend, and may have been one of the same species. I tried to preserve the little fellow in a bottle, but had no spirit, and he didn’t keep in salt water.
By far the most numerous class of sociable deep-sea fish, however, are those that delight to accompany a ship that is making good way through the water. They do not like a steamer--the propeller with its tremendous churning scares them effectually away--but the silent gliding motion of the sailing-ship seems just to their taste. As soon as the wind falls and the vessel stops they keep at a distance, only occasionally passing discontentedly, as if they wondered why their big companion was thus idling away the bright day. Foremost among these, both in numbers and the closeness with which they accompany a ship, is the “bonito,” a species of mackerel so named by the Spaniards from their beautiful appearance. They are a “chubby” fish, much more bulky in body in proportion to their length than our mackerel, for one 18 in. long will often tip the scale at 30 lbs. Their vigour is tremendous; there is no other word for it. A school of them numbering several hundreds will attach themselves to a ship travelling at the rate of six to eight knots an hour, and keep her company for a couple of days, swimming steadily with her, either alongside, ahead, or astern; but during the daytime continually making short excursions away after flying-fish or leaping-squid scared up or “flushed” by the approach of the ship. Not only so, but as if to work off their surplus energy they will occasionally take vertical leaps into the air to a height that, considering their stumpy proportions, is amazing.
The probable reason for their sociability is, I think, that they know how the passing of the ship’s deep keel through the silence immediately underlying the sea-surface startles upward their natural prey, the flying-fish and loligo (small cuttle-fish), and affords them ample opportunities for dashing among them unobserved. In any case, to the hungry sailor, this neighbourly habit of theirs is quite providential. For by such simple means as a piece of white rag attached to a hook, and let down from the jibboom end to flutter over the dancing wavelets like a flying-fish, a fine bonito is easily secured, although holding a twenty-pounder just out of the water in one’s arms is calculated to give the captor a profound respect for the energy of his prize. Unlike most other fish, they are warm-blooded. Their flesh is dark and coarse, but if it were ten times darker and coarser than it is it would be welcome as a change from the everlasting salt beef and pork.
The dolphin, about which so much confusion arises from the difference in nomenclature between the naturalist and the seaman, has long been celebrated by poetic writers for its dazzling beauty. But between the sailor’s dolphin, _Coryphœna Hippuris_ (forgive me for the jargon), which is a fish, and the naturalist’s dolphin, _Delphinus deductor_, which is a mammal, there is far more difference than there is between a greyhound and a pig. Sailors call the latter a porpoise, and won’t recognise any distinction between the _Delphinus_ and any other small sea mammal (except a seal), calling them all porpoises. But no sailor ever meant anything else by “dolphin” than the beautiful fish of which I must say a few words in the small remaining space at my disposal. For some reason best known to themselves the dolphin do not care to accompany a ship so closely as the bonito. They are by no means so constant in their attention, for when the ship is going at a moderate speed they cannot curb their impatience and swim soberly along with her, and when she goes faster they seem to dislike the noise she makes, and soon leave her. But, although they do not stick closely to a ship, they like her company, and in light winds will hang about her all day, showing off their glories to the best advantage, and often contributing a welcome mess to the short commons of the fo’c’s’le. Their average weight is about 15 lbs., but from their elegant shape they are a far more imposing fish than the bonito. They are deepest at the head, which has a rounded forehead with a sharp front, and they taper gradually to the tail, which is of great size. A splendid dorsal fin runs the whole length of the back, which, when it is erected, adds greatly to their appearance of size.
No pen could possibly do justice to the magnificence of their colouring, for, like “shot” silk or the glowing tints of the humming-bird, it changes with every turn. And when the fish is disporting under a blazing sun its glories are almost too brilliant for the unshaded eye; one feels the need of smoked glass through which to view them. These wonderful tints begin to fade as soon as the fish is caught; and although there is a series of waves of colour that ebb and flow about the dying creature, the beauty of the living body is never even remotely approached again, in spite of what numberless writers have said to the contrary. To see the dolphin in full chase after a flying-fish, leaping like a glorious arrow forty feet at each lateral bound through the sunshine, is a vision worth remembering. I know of nothing more gorgeous under heaven.
The giant albacore, biggest mackerel of them all, reaching a weight of a quarter of a ton, does seek the society of a ship sometimes, but not nearly so often as bonito and dolphin. And although I have caught these monsters in the West Indies from boats, I never saw one hauled on board ship. It would not be treating the monarch of the finny tribe respectfully to attempt a description of him at the bare end of my article, so I must leave him, as well as the “skipjack,” yellow-tail, and barracouta, for some other occasion. Perhaps enough has now been said to show that sociability is not by any means confined to land animals, although the great subject of the sociability of sea-mammals has not even been touched upon.
ALLIGATORS AND MAHOGANY
Merchant seamen as a rule have very little acquaintance with the appalling alligator, whose unappeasable ferocity and diabolical cunning make him so terrible a neighbour. Had the alligator been a seafarer, it is in my mind that mankind would have heard little of the savagery of the shark, who, to tell the truth fairly, is a much maligned monster; incapable of seven-tenths of the crimes attributed to him, innocent of another two-tenths, and in the small balance of iniquity left, a criminal rather from accident than from design. But all the atrocities attributed by ignorance to the shark may truthfully be predicated of the alligator, and many more also, seeing that the great lizard is equally at home on land or in the water.
I speak feelingly, having had painful experience of the ways of the terrible saurian during my visits to one of the few places where sailors are brought into contact with him. Tonala River, which empties itself into the Gulf of Mexico, has a sinister notoriety, owing to the number of alligators with which it is infested; and through the proverbial carelessness of seamen and their ignorance of the language spoken by the people ashore, many an unrecorded tragedy has occurred there to members of the crews of vessels loading mahogany in the river. Like all the streams which debouch into that Western Mediterranean, Tonala River has a bar across its mouth, but, unlike most of them, there is occasionally water upon the bar deep enough to permit vessels of twelve or thirteen feet draught to enter with safety. And as the embarkation of mahogany in the open roadstead is a series of hair-breadth escapes from death on the part of the crew and attended by much damage to the ship, it is easy to understand why the navigability of Tonala Bar is highly valued by shipmasters fortunate enough to be chartered thither, since it permits them to take in a goodly portion of their cargo in comparative comfort. Against this benefit, however, is to be set off a long list of disadvantages, not the least of which are the swarms of winged vermin that joyfully pass the short space between ship and river-bank, scenting fresh blood. The idea of there being any danger in the river itself, however, rarely occurs to a seaman until he sees, some day, as he listlessly gazes overside at the turbid current silently sweeping seaward, a dead log floating deep, just awash in fact. And as he watches it with unspeculating eyes, one end of it will slowly be upreared just a little and the hideous head of an alligator, with its cold, dead-looking eyes, sleepily half unclosed, is revealed. Just a ripple and the thing has gone, sunk stone-like, but with every faculty alert, that rugged ironclad exterior giving no hint to the uninitiated of the potentialities for mischief, swift and supple, therein contained.
In spite of having read much about these creatures and their habits, I confess to having been very sceptical as to their agility until I was enlightened in such a startling manner that the memory of that scene is branded upon my mind. I was strolling along the smooth sandy bank of the river opposite the straggling rows of huts we called the town one lovely Sunday morning, all eyes and ears for anything interesting. After about an hour’s walk my legs, unaccustomed to such exercise, begged off for a little, and seeing a stranded tree-trunk lying on the beach some little distance ahead, I made towards it for a seat. As I neared it a young bullock came leisurely down towards the water from the bush, between me and the log. I, of course, took no notice of him, but held on my way until within, I should say, fifty yards of the log. Suddenly that dead tree sprang into life and spun round with a movement like the sweep of a scythe. It struck the bullock from his feet, throwing him upon his side in the water. What ensued was so rapid that the eye could not follow it, or make out anything definitely except a stirring up of the sand and a few ripples in the water. The big animal was carried off as noiselessly and easily as if he had been a lamb, nor, although I watched long, did I ever catch sight of him again. Notwithstanding the heat of the sun I felt a cold chill as I thought how easily the fate of the bullock might have been mine. And from thenceforth, until familiarity with the hateful reptiles bred a sort of contempt for their powers, I kept a very sharp look-out in every direction for stranded tree-trunks. This care on my part nearly proved fatal, because I forgot that the alligators might possibly be lying hid in the jungly vegetation that flourished thickly just above high-water mark. So that it happened when I neared the spot where I was to hail the boat, as I nervously scanned the beach for any sign of a scaly log, I heard a rustling of dry leaves on my right, and down towards me glided one of the infernal things with a motion almost like that of a launching ship. I turned and tried to run--I suppose I did run--but to my fancy it seemed as if I had a 56-lb. weight upon each foot. Hardly necessary to say, perhaps, that I escaped, but my walk had lost all its charms for me, and I vowed never to come ashore again there alone.
But as if the performances of these ugly beasts were to be fully manifested before our eyes, on the very next day, a Greek trader came off to the ship accompanied by his son, a boy of about ten years old. Leaving the youngster in the canoe, the father came on board and tried to sell some fruit he had brought. We had a raft of mahogany alongside, about twenty huge logs, upon which a half-breed Spaniard was standing, ready to sling such as were pointed out to him by the stevedores. The boy must needs get out of the canoe and amuse himself by stepping from log to log, delighted hugely by the way they bobbed and tumbled about beneath him. Presently a yell from the slingsman brought all hands to the rail on the jump, and there, about fifty yards from the raft, was to be seen the white arm of the boy limply waving to and fro, while a greasy ripple beneath it showed only too plainly what horror had overtaken him. The distracted father sprang into his canoe, four men from our ship manned our own boat, and away they went in chase, hopelessly enough to be sure. Yet, strange to say, the monster did not attempt to go down with his prey. He kept steadily breasting the strong current, easily keeping ahead of his pursuers, that pitiful arm still waving as if beckoning them onward to the rescue of its owner. Boat after boat from ships and shore joined in the pursuit, every man toiling as if possessed by an overmastering energy and impervious to broiling sun or deadening fatigue. For five miles the chase continued; one by one the boats and canoes gave up as their occupants lost their last ounce of energy, until only one canoe still held on, one man still plied his paddle with an arm that rose and fell like the piston-rod of a steam-engine. It was the bereaved father. At last the encouraging arm disappeared, as the alligator, having reached his lair, disappeared beneath the surface, leaving the river face unruffled above him. Quick as a wild duck the solitary pursuer swerved and made for the bank, where a score of his acquaintances met him tendering gourds of aguadiente, cigaritos, and such comfort as they could put into words. He took the nearest gourd and drank deeply of the fiery spirit, accepted a cigarette and lit it mechanically, but never spoke a word. All the while his eyes were roving restlessly around in search of something. At last they lit upon a coil of line hanging upon a low branch to dry. He rushed toward it, snatched it from its place, and taking his cuchillo from his belt felt its edge. Then roughly brushing aside all who attempted to hinder him, he boarded his canoe again, taking no notice of one of his friends who got in after him. Under the pressure of the two paddles they rapidly neared the spot where the beast had sunk. As soon as they reached the place the silent avenger laid aside his paddle, took one end of the coil in his hand and flinging the other to his companion, slipped overside and vanished. In about two minutes he returned to the surface, ghastly, his eyes glaring, and taking a long, long breath disappeared again. This time he did not return. When the watcher above felt that all hope was gone he hauled upon the line as much as he dared, but could not move what it was secured to. Soon, however, boats came to his assistance, and presently extra help raised to the surface the huge armoured body of the man-eater, the line being fast round his hind legs. The bereaved father was clinging to the monster’s throat, one arm thrust between his horrid jaws and the other hand still clutching the haft of the bowie-knife, whose blade was buried deep in the leathery folds of the great neck. With bared heads and solemn faces the helpers towed the group ashore, and reverently removing the poor remains of father and son, buried them deep under a wide-spreading tree.