Chapter C: Arthur Pearson, Ltd (7)

Sailors often speak of an “ugly” sea, but the adjective has quite another meaning to that usually attached to it. They do not mean that it is ugly in appearance, for they well know that the beauty of a wave is as much a part of it as is the water--it cannot be otherwise than beautiful, as it cannot cease to be wet. What they mean is a dangerous sea. And by “sea” they always mean wave. A sailor never speaks of a “high wave,” “cross waves,” “heavy waves”; in fact, on board ship, except when passengers are getting information from officers, you will not hear the word “wave” mentioned at all. It is necessary to mention this purely nautical detail to save constant explanation and digression. To return, then, to the sailor’s “ugly” sea. Its ugliness may be due to many different causes, but in the result the waves do not run truly with the wind; they rise unexpectedly and confusedly, changing the natural motion of the ship into a bewildered stagger, such as one will sometimes see in a horse when a brutal, foolish driver is beating him over the head and wrenching first at one rein and then the other without knowing himself what he wants the poor brute to do. It is very pitiful, too, to watch a gallant ship being pressed through an ugly, untrue sea--such, for instance, as may be met with in the North Atlantic with a south-west gale blowing, and the vessel in the midst of the Gulf Stream. The conflict between wind and current, all the more terrible for its invisibility, is deep-reaching, so deep that every excuse must be found for those who have spoken of seas running mountains high. As the steady, implacable thrust of the storm booms forth, the black breadths of water rise rebellious; they would fain flow in the face of the wind, but that cannot be. So they rise, sullenly rise, peak-like, against their persecutor, until his might compels them forward against the mighty stream beneath, and their shattered crags and pinnacles tumble in ruinous heaps around.

Even this, however, is less dangerous than that time--to be spoken of by those who have seen it, and live, with bated breath--when, rotating like some wheel of the gods, the tropical cyclone whirls across the Indian seas. Round and round blow the incredibly furious winds, having a centrifugal direction withal, and yet the whole mighty system progresses in some given direction, until towards its centre there is a Maelstrom indeed--a space where the wind hath left, as it were, a funnel of calm in the world-tumult. And there the waves hold high revel. Heap upon heap the waters rise, without direction, without shape, save that of fortuitous blocks hurled skyward and falling again in ruin. The fountains of the great deep appear to be broken up, and woe to man’s handiwork found straying there in that black hour.

All those who have ever “run the Easting down” will remember, but not all pleasurably, the great true sea of the roaring “forties” or “fifties.” How, unhindered in its world-encircling sweep, the premier wind of all comes joyously, unwaveringly, for many a day without a pause, while the good ship flies before it with every wing bearing its utmost strain. In keeping with the wind, the wave--the long, true wave of the Southern Seas, spreading to infinity on either hand, a gorgeous concave of blue, with its direction as straightly at right angles to the ship’s track as if laid by line, and its ridge all glistening like a wreath of new-fallen snow under silver moon or golden sun. It pursues, it overtakes, rises astern with majestic sound as of all the war-chariots of Neptune; then, easily passing beneath the buoyant keel, it is gone on ahead, has joined its fellows in their stately progress to the East. Adown its far-spreading shoulders stream pennons of white; in the broad valley between it and the next wave the same bright foam creams and hisses until wherever the eye can rest is no longer blue but white--a wilderness of curdling snow just bepatched with azure.

The strong, exultant ship may rejoice in such a scene as this, but it is far otherwise with the weakling. Caught up in this irresistible march of wind and wave, she feels that her place is otherwhere; it is not hers to strive with giants, but to abide by the stuff. Then do the hapless mariners in charge watch carefully for a time when they may lay her to, watch the waves’ sequence, knowing that every third wave is greater, and leaves a broader valley of smooth behind it than its fellows; while some say that with the third sequence of three--the ninth wave--these differences are at their maximum. Why? Who knows? Certain it is that some waves are heavier than others, and equally certain it is that in the case of a truly running sea these heavier seas appear at regularly recurrent intervals of three. And that is all sailors know. Sufficient too, perhaps, as with their weak and overladen ship they watch the smooth, to swing her up between two rolling ranges of water, and without shipping more than thirty or forty tons or so, heave her to, her head just quartering the oncoming waves, and all danger of being overwhelmed by them removed.

Curious indeed are the waves to be found over uneven bottoms with strong undercurrents--as, for instance, on the coast of Nova Scotia--and known as “overfalls.” Sufficiently annoying to vessels of large size that get among them, they are most dangerous to small craft. The water rises in masses perpendicularly, and falls a dead weight without apparent forward motion--a puzzling, deadly sea to meet when a howling gale is driving your small vessel across those angry waters. But the overfall character is common to nearly all waves raised in shallow seas and tidal streams. It adds to the dangers of navigation immensely, and although the eye must be charmed when from the lofty cliff we see the green-bosomed, hoary-shouldered wave come thundering shoreward, we need not expect those to greet him lovingly who must do so in weakness and undefended.

What of the tidal wave; that mysterious indispensable swelling of the waters that, following the “pull” of the moon, rolls round this globe of ours twice in each twenty-four hours, stemming the outflow of mighty rivers, penetrating far inland wherever access is available, and doing within its short lease of life an amount of beneficent work freely that would beggar the wealthiest Monarchy of the world to undertake if it must needs be paid for? Mysterious it may well be called, since, though its passage from zone to zone be so swift, it is, like all other waves, but an undulatory movement of that portion of the sea momentarily influenced by the suasion of the planet--not, as is vulgarly supposed, the same mass of water vehemently carried onward for thousands of miles. No; just as a tightly stretched sheet of calico shows an undulation if the point of a stick be passed along beneath its surface and pressed upward against it, an undulation which leaves every fibre where it was originally, so does the whole surface remain in its place while the long, long wave rolls round the world carrying up to their moorings the homeward-bound ships, sweetening mud-befouled tidal harbours, and giving to forlorn breadths of deserted shallows all the glory and vitality of the youthful sea.

To meet a tidal wave at sea is in some parts of the watery world a grim and unforgettable experience. Floating upon the shining blue plain, with an indolent swelling of the surface just giving a cosy roll to your ship now and then, you suddenly see in the distance a ridge, a knoll of water that advances vast, silent, menacing. Nearer and nearer it comes, rearing its apparently endless curve higher and higher. There is no place to flee from before its face. Neither is there much suspense. For its pace is swift, although it appears so deliberate, from the illimitable grandeur of its extent. It is upon the ship. She behaves in accordance with the way she has been caught and her innate peculiarities. In any case, whatever her bulk, she is hurled forward, upward, backward, downward, as if never again could she regain an even keel, while her crew cling desperately to whatever holding-place they may have reached, lest they should be dashed into dead pieces.

Some will have it that these marvellous upliftings of the sea-bosom are not tidal waves at all--that they do not belong to that normal ebb and flow of the ocean that owns the sway of the moon. If so, they would be met with more frequently than they are at sea, and far more disasters would be placed to their account. This contention seems reasonable, because it is well known that lonely islets such as St. Helena, Tristan d’Acunha, and Ascension are visited at irregular intervals by a succession of appalling waves (rollers) that deal havoc among the smaller shipping, and look as if they would overwhelm the land. The suggestion is that these stupendous waves are due to cosmic disturbance, to submarine earthquakes upheaving the ocean-bed and causing so vast a displacement of the ocean that its undulations extend for several thousands of miles.

As to the speed of waves, judging from all experience, they would seem never to exceed sixteen to eighteen knots an hour in their hugest forms. And yet it is well known that they will often outstrip the gale that gave them birth, let it rage never so furiously. Lying peacefully rolling upon the smoothest of summer seas, you shall presently find, without any alteration in the weather, the vessel’s motion change from its soothing roll to a sharp, irritable, and irritating movement. And, looking overside, there may be seen the forerunners of the storm that is raging hundreds of miles away, the hurrying waves that it has driven in its path. So likewise, long hours after a gale is over, the waves it has raised roll on, still reluctant to resume their levelled peace, and should a new gale arise in some contrary direction, the “old” sea, as the sailor calls it, will persist, making the striving ship’s progress full of weariness and unease to those on board. Of the energy of waves, of the lessons they teach, their immutable mutability, and other things concerning them that leap to the mind, no word can now be spoken, for space is spent.

A BATTLESHIP OF TO-DAY

Last year it was my pleasant privilege to lay before the readers of the _Spectator_ a few details upon the polity of a battleship, and from the amount of interest shown in that subject, it would seem acceptable to supplement it by a few more details upon the mechanical side. First, then, as to the ship herself. Complaints are often heard of the loss of beauty and ship-like appearance consequent upon the gain of combative strength in these floating monsters. And it cannot be denied that up till a few years ago in our own Navy, and at the present date among the _cuirassés_ of France, the appearance of the vessels made such a complaint well founded--such ships as the _Hoche_ and _Charlemagne_, for instance, from which it may truly be said that all likeness to a ship has been removed. But in our own Navy there has been witnessed of late years a decided return to the handsome contour of vessels built, not for war, but for the peaceful pursuits of the merchant service. And this has so far been attended by the happiest results. These mighty ships of the _Majestic_ class, on board of one of which I am now writing, have won the unstinted praise of all connected with them. This means a great deal, for there are no more severe critics of the efforts of naval architects than naval officers, as would be naturally expected. In these ships the eye is arrested at once by their beautiful lines, and the absence of any appearance of top-heaviness so painfully evident in ships like the _Thunderer_, the _Dreadnought_, and the _Admirals_. Their spacious freeboard, or height from the water-line to the edge of the upper deck, catches a seaman’s eye at once, for a good freeboard means not only a fairly dry ship, but also plenty of fresh air below, as well as a sense of security in heavy weather. It is not, however, until their testing time comes, in a heavy gale of wind on the wide Atlantic, that their other virtues appear. Then one is never weary of wondering at their splendid stability and freedom from rolling, which makes them unique fighting platforms under the worst weather conditions. They steer perfectly, a range of over three and a half degrees on either side of their course being sufficient to bring down heavy censure upon the quartermaster. They have not Belleville boilers, and so enjoy almost complete immunity from breakdowns, maintaining their speed in a manner that is not approached by any other men-of-war afloat. In addition to great economy of coal usage they have, for a ship of war, very large coal bunkerage. In fact, in this respect their qualifications are so high that there is danger of being disbelieved in giving the plain facts. On a coal consumption of 50 tons per day for _all_ purposes a speed of eight knots per hour can be maintained for forty days. Of course, with each extra knot of speed the coal consumption increases enormously, reaching a maximum of 220 tons a day for a speed of fifteen knots with forced draught. It is necessary to italicise _all_ purposes, for it must always be remembered that there is quite a host of auxiliary engines always at work in these ships for the supply of electric light, ventilation, steering, distilling, &c. And this brings me to a most important detail of the economy of modern ships of war--their utter dependence for efficient working upon modern inventions, all highly complicated, and liable to get out of order. As, for instance, the lighting. It is quite true that the work of the ship can be carried on without electric light, but when one considers the bewildering ramifications of utterly dark passages in the bowels of these huge ships, and remembers how accustomed the workers become to the flood of light given by a host of electric lamps, it needs no active exercise of the imagination to picture the condition of things when that great illumination is replaced by the feeble glimmer of candles or colomb lights. Truly they only punctuate the darkness, they do not dispel it, and work is carried on at great risk because of its necessary haste. Then there is the steering. Under ordinary circumstances one man stands at a baby wheel upon a lofty bridge, whence he has a view from beam to beam of all that is going on, of the surrounding sea. At a touch of his hand the obedient monster of 150 horse-power, far down in the tiller-room aft, responds by exerting its great force upon the rudder, and the ship is handled with ridiculous ease. Use accustoms one to the marvel, and no wonder is ever evinced at the way in which one man can keep that giant of 15,000 tons so steady on her course. But of late we have had an object-lesson upon the difference there is between steering by hand without the intervention of machinery and steering with its aid. In the next water-tight compartment forward of the tiller-room, there are four wheels, each 5 feet in diameter, and of great strength of construction. Some distance in front of these there is an indicator--a brass pointer moving along a horizontal scale marked in degrees. Forward of this again, but about 2 feet to port of it, there is a compass, and how any compass, however buttressed by compensators, can keep its polarity in the midst of such an immense assemblage of iron and steel furniture is almost miraculous. By the side of the compass is a voice-tube communicating with the pilot-bridge forward. To each of the wheels four men are allotted, sixteen in all. A quartermaster watches, with eyes that never remove their gaze, the indicator, which, actuated from the pilot-bridge 300 feet away, tells him how many degrees of helm are needed, and he immediately gives his orders accordingly. One man watches the compass, another attends the voice-tube, listening intently for orders that may come in that way from the officer responsible for the handling of the ship. Two men also watch in the tiller-room for possible complications arising there. Total, twenty-one men for the purpose of steering the ship alone, or a crew equal to that of a sailing-ship of 2000 tons, or the deck hands of a steamship of 6000 tons. Yet this steering crew is only for one watch. Of course, this steering by hand is a last resource. The engines which move the rudder are in duplicate, and there are seven other stations from which they can be worked--viz., one on the upper bridge, one in each of the conning-towers, one at each steering-engine, and two others on different decks in the lower fore-part of the ship. It is certainly true that some of these wheels actuate the same connection, so that one break may disable two, or even three, wheels; but even granting that, there still remains a considerable margin of chances against the possibility of ever being compelled to use the hand steering-gear. Those awful weapons of war, the barbette guns, may also be handled by manual labour, but it is instructive to compare the swift ease with which they, their containing barbettes (each weighing complete 250 tons), their huge cartridges of cordite and 850 lb. shells, are handled by hydraulic power, and the same processes carried out by hand. And so with all other serious operations, such as weighing anchor, hoisting steamboats, &c. The masses of weight to be dealt with are so great that the veriest novice may see at one glance that to be compelled to use hand labour for their manipulation in actual warfare would be equivalent to leaving the ship helpless, at the mercy of another ship of any enemy’s not so situated. Yes, these ships are good, so good that it is a pity they are not better. In the opinion of those best qualified to know, they have still a great deal too much useless top-hamper--nay, worse than useless, because in action its destruction by shell-fire and consequent mass of débris would not only mean the needless loss of many lives, but would pile up a mountain of obstacles in the way of the ship’s efficient working. Also, the amount of unnecessary woodwork with which these vessels are cumbered is very great, constituting a danger so serious that on going into action it would be imperative to put a tremendous strain upon the crew in tearing it from its positions and flinging it overboard. Upper works of course there must be, but they should be reduced to their simplest and most easily removable expression, and on no account should there be, as there now is, any battery that in action would be unworkable, and consequently only so much lumber in the way. Remembering the enormous cost of the flotilla of boats carried by these ships, three of them being steamers of high speed, it comes as somewhat of a shock to learn that upon going into action one of the first things necessary would be to launch them all overboard and let them go secured together so that they might possibly be picked up again, although not easily by the ship to which they belonged. It is only another lurid glimpse of the prospective horror of modern naval warfare. There will be no means of escape in case of defeat and sinking, for nothing will be left to float. Finally, after all criticisms have been made it remains to be said that it is much to be regretted that we have not double the number of these splendid battleships furnished with boilers that can be relied upon as the present boilers can. Other ships of their stamp are being built, but with Belleville boilers, of which the best that can be said is that our most dangerous prospective foe is using them exclusively also. But she, again, is rushing blindly upon certain disaster in the direction of accumulating enormous superstructures which are certain to be destroyed early in any engagement, and being destroyed will leave the ship a helpless wreck. We have shown our wisdom by reducing these dreadfully disabling erections, and shall yet reduce them more. Why not go a step farther, and refuse longer to load our engineers with the horrible incubus of boilers that have not a single workable virtue but that of raising steam quickly, and have every vice that a vehicle for generating steam can possibly possess?

NAT’S MONKEY

When Nathaniel D. Troop (of Jersey City, U.S.A.), presently A.B. on board the British ship _Belle_, solemnly announced his intention of investing in a monkey the next time old Daddy the Bumboatman came alongside, there was a breathless hush, something like consternation, amongst his shipmates. It was in Bombay and eventide, and all we of the foremast hands were quietly engaged upon our supper (tea is the name for the corresponding meal ashore), with great content resting upon us, for bananas, rooties, duck-eggs and similar bumboat-bought luxuries abounded among us. So that the chunk of indurated buffalo that had resisted all assaults upon it at dinner-time lay unmolested at the bottom of the beef-kid, no one feeling sufficiently interested to bestow a swear on it.

For some time after Nat’s pronouncement nobody spoke. The cool breeze whispered under the fo’c’s’le awning, the Bramley-kites wheeled around whistling hungrily and casting their envious watchful eyes upon our plates, and somewhere in the distance a dinghy-wallah intoned an interminable legend to his fellow-sufferers that sounded like the high-pitched drone of bees on a sultry afternoon among the flowers. Then up and spake John de Baptiss: “Waffor, Nat? Wah we ben dween t’yo. Foh de Lawd sake, sah, ef yew gwain bring Macaque ’bord dis sheep you’se stockin trubble’ nough ter fill er mighty long hole.” “’Sides,” argued Cockney Jem, “’taint ’sif we ain’t got a monkey. ’Few wornt any monkey tricks played on us wot price th’ kid ’ere,” and he pointed to _me_.

“Naow jess yew hole on half a minnit,” drawled Nat, “’relse yew’ll lose your place. Djer ever know me ter make trubble sense I ben abord thishyer limejuice dog-basket? Naw, I’ve a learnt manners, _I_ hev, ’n don’t never go stickin’ my gibbie in another man’s hash I don’t. But in kase this kermunity sh’d feel anyways hurt at my perposal, lemme ’splain. I s’pose I ain’t singler in bein’ ruther tired er these blame hogs forrad here. Hogs is all right, ez hogs, but they don’t make parler pets wuth a cent. N’wen I finds one biggern a porpuss a wallerin’ round in my bunk ’n rootin’ ’mong the clean straw my bed’s stuffed with, its kiender bore in erpon me that fresh pork fer dinner’s wut I ben pinin’ fer a long time. Naow I know thet I kin teach a monkey in about tew days ’nough ter make him scare the very chidlins er them hogs inter sossidge meat if they kum investigatin’ where he’s on dooty. ’N so I calkerlate to be a sorter bennyfactor ter my shipmates, though it seems ’sif yew ain’t overnabove grateful.”

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.

But, passing on to the actual conditions of conflict, let us suppose the sportsman cruising in the North Atlantic between the Cape Verde Islands and the West Indies--a wide range, truly, but no part of it barren of the highest possibilities for pleasure. A school of sperm whales is sighted, the vessel is carefully manœuvred for the weather-gage of them, and this being obtained, the boats are softly lowered, sail is set, and, with the fresh trade-wind, away they go leaping to leeward. The utmost precaution against noise must be taken, because the natural susceptibility of the whale to sound is as delicate as the receiver of a telephone. No amount of oral instruction would here be of any avail without long experience, which, since it can be hired, there is no need to waste time and patience in acquiring. Assuming, therefore, that the preliminary difficulty of approach to the sensitive monsters has been overcome, and there remains but a few fathoms of rapidly lessening distance between the boat and the unconscious whale, who could satisfactorily describe the sensations crowded into those few remaining moments of absolute quiet, the tension of expectation, the uncertainty of the result of the approaching conflict? The object of attack is the mightiest of living animals, he is in his own element, to which the assailant is but a visitor on sufferance, and he may retaliate in so fierce and tremendous a fashion that no amount of skill, courage, or energy shall suffice to protect the aggressor from his fury. But there is no thought of drawing back, the swift-gliding boat rushes high up on to the broad bank of flesh, and with a long-pent-up yell the harpoon is hurled. It enters the black mass noiselessly, the weight of its pole bends the soft iron shaft over as the attached line stretches out, and as the boat slowly, so slowly, backs away, the leviathan, amazed and infuriated, thrashes the quiet sea into masses of hissing foam, while the thunder of his blows resounds like the uproar of a distant cannonade. At this time certain necessary rearrangements, such as furling and stowing sail, make it impossible, even if it were wise, to approach the indignant whale, and as a general thing by the time these preparations are complete he has sought the shelter of the depths beneath, taking out flake after flake of the neatly coiled line. With ordinary care, especially where only one boat is engaged, it would seldom happen that all the line would run out, and the game be lost. Usually, after an interval of about twenty minutes, during which the line is slacked away as slowly and grudgingly as possible, it is felt to give, and the slack must be hauled in with the utmost smartness, a sharp look-out being kept meanwhile upon the surrounding surface for a sudden white glare beneath--the cavity of the whale’s throat, as he comes bounding to the surface with his vast jaws gaping wider than a barn-door. It is at this time that the true excitement, the joy of battle, begins. For in most cases the huge animal has come to fight, and being in his turn the aggressor, his enemies must exert all their skill in boatsmanship, preserve all their coolness and watchfulness, since a mistake in tactics or loss of presence of mind may mean the instant destruction of the boat, if not the sudden and violent death of some of her crew. As a general rule, however, after a few savage rushes avoided by wary manœuvring on the part of the hunters, the whale starts off to windward at his best speed (from twelve to fourteen knots an hour), towing the boat or boats after him with the greatest ease. This is a most exhilarating experience. For the mighty steed, ploughing his strenuous way through the waves, seems the living embodiment of force, and yet he is, as it were, harnessed to his exulting foes, compelled to take them with him in spite of his evident desire to shake himself free. While he goes at his best speed a near approach to him is manifestly impossible; but, vast as his energies are, the enormous mass of his own body carried along so rapidly soon tires him, and he slows down to five or six knots. Then all hands, except the one in charge and the helmsman, “tail on” to the line, and do their best to haul up alongside the whale. The steersman sheers the boat clear of his labouring flukes as she comes close to him, and then allows her to point inward towards his broad flank, while the lance-wielder seeks a vulnerable spot wherein to plunge his long, slender weapon. It is of little use to dart the lance as the harpoon is flung; such an action is far more likely to goad the whale into a new exhibition of energy than to do him any disabling injury. Being at such close quarters, it is far more sportsmanlike, as well as effectual, to thrust the lance calmly and steadily into the huge mass of flesh so near at hand. If the aim has been well taken--say, just abaft and below the pectoral fin--more than one home-thrust will hardly be needed, even in a whale of the largest size, and a careful watch must be kept upon the spout-hole for the first sign of blood discolouring the monster’s breath. For that is evidence unmistakable of the beginning of the end. It shows that some vital part has been pierced, and although the whale-fishers always continue their “pumping” with the lance up to the very verge of disaster, once the whale has begun to spout blood it is quite unnecessary to continue the assault. Still, at this stage of the proceedings the primitive instincts are usually fully aroused, and nothing seems to satisfy them but persistent fury of attack, until the actual commencement of the tremendous death-agony or “flurry” of the noble beast gives even the most excited hunter warning that it is time to draw off and endeavour to keep clear of the last Titanic convulsions of the expiring monster. No other created being ever furnishes such a display of energy. Involuntarily one compares it with the awful manifestations of the earthquake, the volcano, or the cyclone. And when at last the great creature yields up the dregs of his once amazing vitality, no one possessing a spark of imagination can fail to be conscious of an under-current of compunction mingling with the swelling triumph of such a victory.