The Crew of the Water Wagtail

So eager were they all to flit into this new region—this paradise of Garnet—that operations were commenced on the very next day at early morn. The boat was launched and manned, and as much of their property as it would hold was put on board.

“You call it paradise, Garnet,” said Grummidge, as the two carried a bundle of dried cod slung on a pole between them, “but if you, and the like of ye, don’t give up swearin’, an’ try to mend your manners, the place we pitch on will be more like hell than paradise, no matter how comfortable and pretty it may be.”

Garnet was not in a humour either to discuss this point or to accept a rebuke, so he only replied to the remark with a surly “Humph!”

Landing on the main island to the northward of the large bay, so as to secure a southern exposure, the boat-party proceeded to pitch their camp on a lovely spot, where cliff and coppice formed a luxuriant background. Ramparts of rock protected them from the nor’-west gales, and purling rivulets hummed their lullaby. Here they pitched their tents, and in a short space of time ran up several log huts, the material for which was supplied in abundance by the surrounding forest.

When the little settlement was sufficiently established, and all the goods and stores were removed from what now was known as Wreck Island, they once more launched the boat, and turned their attention to fishing—not on the Great Bank, about which at the time they were ignorant, but on the smaller banks nearer shore, where cod-fish were found in incredible numbers. Some of the party, however, had more of the hunter’s than the fisher’s spirit in them, and prepared to make raids on the homes of the great auk, or to ramble in the forests.

Squill was among the latter. One day, while rambling on the sea-shore looking for shellfish, he discovered a creature which not only caused him to fire off all the exclamations of his rich Irish vocabulary, but induced him to run back to camp with heaving chest and distended eyes—almost bursting from excitement.

“What is it, boy?” chorused his comrades.

“Och! musha! I’ve found it at long last!—the great say—sur—no, not exactly that, but the—the great, sprawlin’, long-legged—och! what shall I say? The great-grandfather of all the—the—words is wantin’, boys. Come an’ see for yourselves!”

Chapter Sixteen.

A Giant Discovered—New Home At Wagtail Bay—A Strange Addition to the Settlement

The creature which had so powerfully affected the feelings of the Irishman was dead; but dead and harmless though it was, it drew forth from his comrades a shout of intense surprise when they saw it, for it was no less than a cuttlefish of proportions so gigantic that they felt themselves in the presence of one of those terrible monsters of the deep, about which fabulous tales have been told, and exaggerated descriptions given since the beginning of historical time.

“Av he’s not the say-sarpint himself, boys,” panted Squill, as he pointed to him with looks of unmitigated admiration, “sure he must be his first cousin.”

And Squill was not far wrong, for it was found that the monstrous fish measured fifty-two feet between the extremities of its outspread arms. Its body was about eight feet long and four feet broad. Its great arms, of which it had ten radiating from its body, varied in length and thickness—the longest being about twenty-four feet, and the shortest about eight. The under sides of these arms were supplied with innumerable suckers, while from the body there projected a horny beak, like the beak of a parrot.

“It’s wishin’, I am, that I might see wan o’ yer family alive,” said Squill, as he turned over the dead arms; “but I’d rather not be embraced by ye. Och! what a hug ye could give—an’ as to howldin’ on—a thousand limpets would be nothin’ to ye.”

“A miser grippin’ his gold would be more like it,” suggested Grummidge.

“I don’t expect ever to see one alive,” said Little Stubbs, “an’ yet there must surely be more where that came from.”

The very next day Squill had his wish gratified, and Stubbs his unbelief rebuked, for, while they were out in the boat rowing towards one of the fishing-banks with several of their comrades, they discovered a living giant-cuttlefish.

“What’s that, boys?” cried the Irishman, pointing to the object which was floating in the water not far ahead of them.

“Seaweed,” growled Blazer.

Blazer always growled. His voice was naturally low and harsh—so was his spirit. Sometimes a grunt supplanted the growl, suggesting that he was porcine in nature—as not a few men are.

But it was not seaweed. The thing showed signs of life as the boat drew near.

“Starboard! starboard hard!” shouted Little Stubbs, starting up.

But the warning came too late. Next moment the boat ran with a thud into a monster cuttlefish. Grummidge seized a boat-hook, shouted, “Stern all!” and hit the creature with all his might, while Stubbs made a wild grasp at a hatchet which lay under one of the thwarts.

Instantly the horny parrot-like beak, the size of a man’s fist, reared itself from among the folds of the body and struck the boat a violent blow, while a pair of saucer-like eyes, fully four inches in diameter, opened and glared ferociously. This was terrifying enough, but when, a moment later, two tremendous arms shot out from the body near the eyes, flung themselves around the boat and held on tight, a yell of fear escaped from several of the men, and with good reason, for if the innumerable suckers on those slimy arms once fairly attached themselves to the boat there seemed to be no chance of escape from the deadly embrace. In that moment of danger Little Stubbs proved himself equal to the occasion. With the hatchet he deftly severed the two limbs as they lay over the gunwale of the boat, and the monster, without cry or sign of pain, fell back into the sea, and moved off, ejecting such a quantity of inky fluid as it went that the water was darkened for two or three hundred yards around.

“Well done, Little Stubbs!” cried Grummidge, as he watched the creature disappearing. “You’ve often worried our lives in time past, but this time you’ve saved ’em. Coil away the limbs, boys. We’ll measure ’em and enter ’em in the log when we go ashore.”

It may interest the reader to know that the measurements were as follows:—

The longer and thinner arm was nineteen feet in length; about three and a half inches in circumference; of a pale pinkish colour, and exceedingly strong and tough. As all the men agreed that more than ten feet of the arm were left attached to the monster’s body, the total length must have been little short of thirty feet. Towards the extremity it broadened out like an oar, and then tapered to a fine tongue-like point. This part was covered with about two hundred suckers, having horny-toothed edges, the largest of the suckers being more than an inch in diameter, the smallest about the size of a pea. The short arm was eleven feet long, and ten inches in circumference. It was covered on the under side throughout its entire length with a double row of suckers. Grummidge, who was prone to observe closely, counted them that night with minute care, and came to the conclusion that the creature must have possessed about eleven hundred suckers altogether. There was also a tail to the fish—which Squill called a “divil-fish”—shaped like a fin. It was two feet in width.

Lest any reader should imagine that we are romancing here, we turn aside to refer him to a volume entitled Newfoundland, the oldest British Colony, written by Joseph Hatton and the Reverend M. Harvey, in which (pages 238 to 242) he will find an account of a giant-cuttlefish, devil-fish, or squid, very similar to that which we have now described, and in which it is also stated that Mr Harvey, in 1873, obtained possession of one cuttlefish arm nineteen feet long, which he measured and photographed, and described in various newspapers and periodicals, and, finally, sent to the Geological Museum in St. John’s, where it now lies. The same gentleman afterwards obtained an uninjured specimen of the fish, and it is well known that complete specimens, as well as fragments, of the giant cephalopod now exist in several other museums.

Can any one wonder that marvellous tales of the sea were told that night round the fires at supper-time? that Little Stubbs became eloquently fabulous, and that Squill, drawing on his imagination, described with graphic power a monster before whose bristling horrors the great sea-serpent himself would hide his diminished head, and went into particulars so minute and complex that his comrades set him down as “one o’ the biggest liars” that ever lived, until he explained that the monster in question had only appeared to him “wance in wan of his owld grandmother’s dreams!”

In fishing, and hunting with bows and arrows made by themselves, as well as with ingenious traps and weirs and snares of their own invention, the crew spent their time pleasantly, and the summer passed rapidly away. During this period the rude tents of spars and sailcloth were supplanted by ruder huts of round logs, caulked with hay and plastered with mud. Holes in the walls thereof did service as windows during the day, and bits of old sails or bundles of hay stuffed into them formed shutters at night. Sheds were also put up to guard provisions and stores from the weather, and stages were erected on which to dry the cod-fish after being split and cleaned; so that our shipwrecked crew, in their new home, which they named Wagtail Bay, had thus unwittingly begun that great industry for which Newfoundland has since become celebrated all the world over.

It is not to be supposed that among such men in such circumstances everything went harmoniously. At first, indeed, what with having plenty to do in fishing, hunting, building, splitting and drying fish, etcetera, all day, and being pretty well tired out at nights, the peace was kept pretty easily; all the more that Big Swinton had been quelled and apparently quite subdued. But as the stores became full of food and the days shortened, while the nights proportionately lengthened, time began to hang heavy on their hands, and gradually the camp became resolved into the two classes which are to be found everywhere—the energetically industrious and the lazily idle. Perhaps we should say that those two extreme phases of human nature began to show themselves, for between them there existed all shades and degrees, so that it was difficult to tell, in some cases, to which class the men belonged.

The proverbial mischief, of course, was soon found, for the latter class to do, and Grummidge began to discover that the ruling of his subjects, which sat lightly enough on his shoulders during the summer, became a matter of some trouble and anxiety in autumn. He also found, somewhat to his surprise, that legislation was by no means the easy—we might say free-and-easy—business which he had supposed it to be. In short, the camp presented the interesting spectacle of a human society undergoing the process of mushroom growth from a condition of chaotic irresponsibility to that of civilised order.

The chaotic condition had been growing worse and worse for some time before Grummidge was forced to take action, for Grummidge was a man of long-suffering patience. One night, however, he lost all patience, and, like most patient people when forced out of their natural groove, he exploded with surprising violence and vigour.

It happened thus:—

The crew had built for themselves a hut of specially large dimensions, in which they nightly assembled all together round the fires, of which there were two—one at either end. Some of the men told stories, some sang songs, others played at draughts of amateur construction, and a good many played the easy but essential part of audience.

The noise, of course, was tremendous, but they were used to that, and minded it not. When, however, two of the men began to quarrel over their game, with so much anger as to interrupt all the others, and draw general attention to themselves, the thing became unbearable, and when one called the other “a liar,” and the other shouted with an oath, “You’re another,” the matter reached a climax.

“Come, come, Dick Swan and Bob Crow,” cried Grummidge, in a stern voice; “you stop that. Two liars are too much in this here ship. One is one too many. If you can’t keep civil tongues in your heads, we’ll pitch you overboard.”

“You mind your own business,” gruffly replied Dick Swan, who was an irascible man and the aggressor.

“That’s just what I’ll do,” returned Grummidge, striding up to Swan, seizing him by the collar, and hurling him to the other end of the room, where he lay still, under the impression, apparently, that he had had enough. “My business,” said Grummidge, “is to keep order, and I mean to attend to it. Isn’t that so, boys?”

“No—yes—no,” replied several voices.

“Who said ‘No’?” demanded Grummidge.

Every one expected to see Big Swinton step forward, but he did not. His revenge was not to be gratified by mere insubordination. The man who did at last step forward was an insignificant fellow, who had been nicknamed Spitfire, and whose chief characteristics were self-will and ill-nature. He did not lack courage, however, for he boldly faced the angry ruler and defied him. Every one expected to see Spitfire follow Dick Swan, and in similar fashion, but they were mistaken. They did not yet understand Grummidge.

“Well, Spitfire, what’s your objection to my keeping order?” he said, in a voice so gentle that the other took heart.

“My objection,” he said, “is that when you was appinted capting there was no vote taken. You was stuck up by your own friends, an’ that ain’t fair, an’ I, for one, refuse to knuckle under to ’ee. You may knock me down if you like, for I ain’t your match by a long way, but you’ll not prove wrong to be right by doin’ that.”

“Well spoken, Master Spitfire!” exclaimed a voice from the midst of the crowd that encircled the speakers.

“Well spoken, indeed,” echoed Grummidge, “and I thank you, Master Spitfire, for bringin’ this here matter to a head. Now, lads,” he added, turning to the crowd, “you have bin wrong an’ informal, so to speak, in your proceedin’s when you appinted me governor o’ this here colony. There’s a right and a wrong in everything, an’ I do believe, from the bottom of my soul, that it’s—that it’s—that—well, I ain’t much of a dab at preaching as you know, but what I would say is this—it’s right to do right, an’ it ain’t right for to do wrong, so we’ll krect this little mistake at once, for I have no wish to rule, bless you! Now then, all what’s in favour o’ my bein’ gov’nor, walk to the end o’ the room on my right hand, an’ all who wants somebody else to be—Spitfire, for instance—walk over to where Dick Swan is a-sittin’ enjo’in’ of hisself.”

Immediately three-fourths of the crew stepped with alacrity to the right. The remainder went rather slowly to the left. “The Grummidges has won!” cried Squill, amid hearty laughter.

The ruler himself made no remark whatever, but, seating himself in a corner of the hut, resumed the game which had been interrupted, quite assured that the game of insubordination was finally finished.

The day following that on which the reign of King Grummidge was established, a new member of considerable interest was added to the colony. Blaze, Stubbs, and Squill chanced to be out that day along the shore. Squill, being in a meditative mood, had fallen behind his comrades. They had travelled further than usual, when the attention of the two in front was attracted by what seemed to them the melancholy howling of a wolf. Getting their bows ready, they advanced with caution, and soon came upon a sad sight—the dead body of a native, beside which crouched a large black dog. At first they thought the dog had killed the man, and were about to shoot it, when Stubbs exclaimed, “Hold on! don’t you see he must have tumbled over the cliff?”

A brief examination satisfied them that the Indian, in passing along the top of the cliffs, had fallen over, and that the accident must have been recent, for the body was still fresh. The dog, which appeared to be starving, showed all its formidable teeth when they attempted to go near its dead master. Presently Squill came up.

“Ah, boys,” he said, “ye don’t onderstand the natur’ o’ the baste—see here.”

Taking a piece of dried fish from his pocket, he went boldly forward and presented it. The dog snapped it greedily and gulped it down. Squill gave him another and another piece; as the fourth offering was presented he patted the animal quietly on its head. The victory was gained. The dog suffered them to bury its master, but for four days it refused to leave his grave. During that time Squill fed it regularly. Then he coaxed it to follow him, and at last it became, under the name of Blackboy, a general favourite, and a loving member of the community.

Chapter Seventeen.

Has Reference to Food and a Great Fight

There is always a certain amount of pleasure to be derived from the tracing of any subject of interest back to its origin. We have already seen how—like a noble river, which has its fountain-head in some mountain lakelet that would scarcely serve as a washing-basin for a Cyclops—the grand cod-fishing industry, which has enriched the world, and found employment for thousands of men for centuries, had its commencement in the crew of the Water Wagtail! we shall now show that another great industry, namely, the Newfoundland seal-fishery, had its origin in the same insignificant source.

King Grummidge was walking one morning along the shore of Wagtail Bay, with hands in pockets, hat on back of head, and that easy roll of gait so characteristic of nautical men and royalty. He was evidently troubled in mind, for a frown rested on his brow, and his lips were compressed. It might have been supposed that the cares of state were beginning to tell upon him, but such was not the case: food was the cause of his trouble.

“Fish, fish, fish,” he growled, to Little Stubbs, who was his companion in the walk. “I’m sick tired o’ fish. It’s my opinion that if we go on eatin’ fish like we’ve bin doin’ since we was cast away here, we will turn into fish, or mermaids, if not somethin’ worse. What are ye laughin’ at?”

“At the notion o’ you turnin’ into a maid of any sort,” replied Stubbs.

“That’s got nothin’ to do wi’ the argiment,” returned Grummidge sternly, for his anxieties were too serious to permit of his indulging in levity at the time. “What we’ve got to do is to find meat, for them auks are nigh as dry as the fish. Meat, lad, meat, wi’ plenty o’ fat, that’s the question o’ the hour.”

“Yes, it’s our question, no doubt,” rejoined Stubbs.

He might as well have bestowed his bad pun on a rabbit, for Grummidge was essentially dense and sober-minded.

“But we’ve had a few rabbits of late, an’ ducks an’ partridges,” he added.

“Rabbits! ducks! partridges!” repeated his companion, with contempt. “How many of them delicacies have we had? That’s what I wants to know.”

“Not many, I admit for there’s none of us got much to boast of as shots.”

“Shots!” echoed Grummidge. “You’re right, Stubbs. Of all the blind bats and helpless boys with the bow, there’s not I believe, in the whole world such a lot as the popilation of Wagtail Bay. Why, there’s not two of ye who could hit the big shed at sixty paces, an’ all the fresh meat as you’ve brought in yet has bin the result o’ chance. Now look ’ee here, Stubbs, a notion has entered my head, an’ when a notion does that, I usually grab that notion an’ hold ’im a fast prisoner until I’ve made somethin’ useful an’ ship-shape of ’im. If it works properly we’ll soon have somethin’ better to eat than fish, an’ more substantial than rabbits, ducks, partridges, or auks.”

We may remark in passing that the animals which those wrecked sailors called rabbits were in reality hares. Moreover, the men took an easy, perhaps unscientific, method of classifying feathered game. Nearly everything with wings that dwelt chiefly on lake, river, or sea they called ducks, and all the feathered creatures of the forest they styled partridges. From this simple classification, however, were excepted swans, geese, eagles, and hawks.

“Well, Grummidge, what may be your notion?” asked Stubbs.

“My notion is—seals! For all our hard rowin’ and wastin’ of arrows we’ve failed to catch or kill a single seal, though there’s such swarms of ’em all about. Now this is a great misfortin’, for it’s well known that seals make first-rate beef—leastwise to them as ain’t partic’lar—so we’ll set about catchin’ of ’em at once.”

“But how?” asked Stubbs, becoming interested under the influence of his comrade’s earnest enthusiasm.

“This is how. Look there, d’ye see that small island lyin’ close to the shore with several seals’ heads appearin’ in the channel between?”

“Yes—what then?”

“Well, then, what I mean to do is to have nets made with big meshes, an’ set ’em between that island an’ the shore, and see what comes of it.”

“But where’s the twine to come from?” objected Stubbs.

“Twine! Ain’t there no end o’ cordage swashin’ about the Water Wagtail ever since she went ashore? An’ haven’t we got fingers? Can’t we undo the strands an’ make small cord? Surely some of ye have picked oakum enough to understand what that means!”

Stubbs was convinced. Moreover, the rest of the men were so convinced that the plan promised well, when it was explained to them, that they set to work with alacrity, and, in a brief space of time, made a strong net several fathoms in length, and with meshes large enough to permit of a seal’s head squeezing through.

No sooner was it ready than the whole community went down to see it set. Then, with difficulty, they were prevented from waiting on the shore to watch the result. In the afternoon, when Grummidge gave permission, they ran down again with all the eagerness of children, and were rewarded by finding six fat seals entangled in the net and inflated almost to bursting with the water that had drowned them.

Thus they were supplied with “beef,” and, what was of almost equal importance, with oil, which enabled them to fry the leanest food, besides affording them the means of making a steadier and stronger light than that of the log fires to which they had hitherto been accustomed.

It may be here remarked by captious readers, if such there be, that this cannot appropriately be styled the beginning of that grand sealing, or, as it is now styled, “swile huntin’,” industry, which calls into action every year hundreds of steam and other vessels, and thousands of men, who slaughter hundreds of thousands of seals; which produces mints of money, and in the prosecutions of which men dare the terrible dangers of ice-drift and pack, in order that they may bludgeon the young seals upon the floes.

As well might it be objected that a tiny rivulet on the mountain-top is not the fountain-head of a mighty river, because its course is not marked by broad expanses and thundering cataracts. Grummidge’s net was undoubtedly the beginning, the tiny rill, of the Newfoundland seal-fishery, and even the bludgeoning was initiated by one of his party. It happened thus:—

Big Swinton went out one morning to try his fortune with the bow and arrow in the neighbourhood of a range of cliffs that extended far away to the northward. Swinton usually chose to hunt in solitude. Having few sympathies with the crew he shut up his feelings within his own breast and brooded in silence on the revenge he was still resolved to take when a safe opportunity offered, for the man’s nature was singularly resolute and, at the same time, unforgiving.

Now it chanced that Grummidge, in utter ignorance of where his foe had gone, took the same direction that morning, but started some time later, intending to explore the neighbourhood of the cliffs in search of sea-fowls’ eggs.

On reaching the locality, Swinton found that a large ice-floe had come down from the Arctic regions, and stranded on the shore of the island. On the ice lay a black object which he rightly judged to be a seal. At first, he supposed it to be a dead one, but just as he was about to advance to examine it the animal raised its head and moved its tail. Love of the chase was powerful in Swinton’s breast. He instantly crouched behind a boulder, and waited patiently till the seal again laid its head on the ice as if to continue its nap.