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Fire in the
coalbunker chutes. Jettisoning the coal. The race with sharks in the
Mozambique Channel.
We had passed Pembla on our way
back to Zanzibar when smoke was discovered issuing from one of the coalbunker
chutes. The sounding of the fire alarm brought every man to his station. On
investigation it was found that spontaneous combustion had ignited the 700 tons
of coal stored in the bunkers. The fire hose was turned on it and we pumped a
heavy stream of water into the bunker by hand power. The blaze continued to gain
headway, and the order went forth to jettison the coal. All night the fuel was
hoisted from the depths of the ship, and when the fire was found to be burning
into the wooden sides of the old frigate, all the boats were lowered,
provisioned, and towed at the stern. At one time it was proposed to open the sea
cocks of the vessel, which would have flooded the “Glasgow” and put her in
more danger from the water than the fire. With all hands working at the pumps
and hoisting coal, half being thrown overboard, the fire was at last subdued.
The water was pumped out again and repairs were started on the ship’s sides,
which were almost burned through. The crew had plenty to do until we anchored in
a cove or estuary of the Mozambique Channel.
The Mozambique Channel is a
shark-infested strip of water between the island of Madagascar and the mainland.
It literally swarms with these tigers of the sea. There are hammer-headed
sharks, blind sharks, ground sharks, shovel-nosed sharks, and many other breeds
of the beasts. The blind sharks are always accompanied by two pilot fish, about
the size of a grayling, whose function seems to be to lead them to the bait and
then leave them. I have fished for these sharks with a four pound piece of salt
pork as an enticer, and watched their movements in the clear still water as the
fish moved slowly towards the meat. When nearing the hook the two pilots, one on
each side of his nose, would move in closer and then each one would touch the
big fellow as if to kiss him goodbye and wheel away into the depths.
One day an American bark, the
“Susan” from Bangor, Maine, dropped her anchor in the same bay with us, and
it was not long before one of her boats came alongside and a mate and some of
her men came aboard. The bark had a cargo to jute for Cardiff, and in the run
from Chinese ports had been blown out of her course. She had run short of hard
tack and water, of which she hoped to obtain enough from us to carry her to
Aden.
While the mate was below
dickering with the steward, the rest of the crew were getting acquainted with
our men. The conversation drifted into an argument over the number of sharks in
those waters, and how long a man could survive should he fall among them. One
American sailor said no shark will touch a man so long as he is moving in the
water. Others said it depended on the breed, and the discussion was getting warm
when one of our men offered to bet a sack of flour, some sugar and raisins that
no one could swim around the ship three times without being attacked. The bet
was accepted by a tall, raw-boned Yankee, who was introduced as Pete Kendrick,
quartermaster of the “Susan.” Pete was a likable fellow, and his winning
smile told us he was popular with the bark’s crew. He looked seriously over
the ship’s side and guessed that he would take a chance. I explained the
condition to the commander and obtained permission to make the test.
The exhibition took place the
following evening when the sun was low, the sea smooth as a lake, and at a time
when the sharks gathered about the ship to fight for the garbage from the
cook’s galley. The entire crew of the “Susan” came over in two of their
boats to witness the show. Our men were out in full force, filling the hammock
nettings, the riggings, and the yardarms, and an international air was given the
occasion by both ships dressing their yards with strings of signal flags, the
Union Jack and Stars and Stripes flying from their mastheads. A whip had been
rigged on the main yard, well beyond the earring of the mainsail, one end of the
whip with a loop lowered to the water; the other being run through a block on
deck and manned by many volunteers, so that he could be snaked out of the water
quickly at the finish.
The Yankee seaman came on board
accompanied by the master of his ship. The latter was invited to the bridge,
where the officers of the “Glasgow” were gathered in an exciting discussion
of Pete’s chances of coming through alive. The master had an air of confidence
and made several bets, and it was evident that he would wager his ship and all
her cargo if he could have found a taker. Meanwhile the betting among the men
below had been fast and furious, so that by the time everything was in readiness
the excitement was shared by all men on board.
The gangway was then cleared, the
American sailor was stripped, and a belt harboring a wicked-looking sheaf knife
was buckled around his waist. He shook hands with those near him, and then with
a grin on his face he stepped to the gangway, glanced at the rope hanging from
the main yard, and dived into the sea. The water was so clear that we could see
every movement as he made his graceful curve just under the surface, while a
dozen sharks, darted from nowhere, closed in near the ship and like black demons
started the pursuit. Before Pete’s head returned to the surface, the commotion
occasioned by the rush of the sharks lashed the sea into foam, and the race was
on.
The Yankee struck out hand over
hand for the ship’s head and nothing had yet happened to him. He passed the
cable and churned up the water with the sharks as he made the rush to the
Glasgow’s stern on the first lap. Coming along the starboard side as he passed
the gangway he was cheered to the echo by six hundred throats, and had hardly
turned across the bow of the ship when a big hammerhead made a vicious rush at
the swimmer. Pete saw the brute coming, and shipping out his knife he missed a
stroke. For a moment the weapon flashed in the air, and as the shark turned over
to make his bite, it was buried to the hilt in his belly.
Without troubling to withdraw the
knife, Pete, who showed that he was at home in the water, quickly dashed away.
The hoard coming from behind closed in on the wounded monster and tore him to
pieces. For a few minutes the sailor was getting a respite as he easily swung
around the stern for the third lap. The feast was soon over, and the other
sharks, smelling blood from afar, were now coming, so that Bedlam reigned in the
water as the terrible pursuit was resumed. They climbed over one another,
bunched themselves against the side of the ship, and fought like devils to get
in front, and still did not touch their prey.
Pete, now having his second wind,
was coming up to the starting point on his last lap, but it seemed impossible
that he could escape the hundred of fangs that were reaching for him. He was
making his last spurt, and my heart stood still as he shot into the loop with a
yell and swung into the air. The sharks, seeing their quarry escaping, leaped
their lengths out of the water. Peter was laughing when he was pulled on to the
deck, and in that moment of rescue he was cheered until everybody was hoarse,
but I never heard of anybody offering to duplicate the act.
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