Captain William Gooding was commander of theTewksbury Sweet, of Portland, Maine, and was lost in the South Pacific in the spring of 1889. This fine American bark sailed from New Castle, New South Wales, on the 17th of March, bound for Hong Kong. Everything went well until the 9th of the following month, when she encountered a severe gale. Despite all that skillful seamanship could do, and in the face of the most strenuous exertions, she struck the dangerous Susanne Reef, near Poseat Island, one of the Caroline group of the South Sea.
The wreck was a total one. The vessel broke up rapidly, and seeing that nothing could be done, the captain and crew, numbering ten men in all, took to one of the boats, carrying with them only a single chronometer belonging to the ship. Even after entering the small boat they were still in great danger, and only succeeded after the utmost difficulty in reaching a small islet some miles to the southward. The storm was still raging so violently that the shelter was a most welcome one, though as there were no animals or vegetation, or even water upon the island, their stay of necessity could be only temporary. They had saved nothing to eat or drink, and to remain where they were meant a lingering death.
After several hours waiting, the tempest abated somewhat, and launching their boat once more, they rowed toward the main island.
"The end is likely to be the same in either case," remarked the captain to the second mate, George W. Harrison, as they approached the land.
"And why?" inquired the latter: "we shall find food and water there."
"True enough; but there are no fiercer savages on the South Sea than those of this island, and I have never heard that they were particularly friendly toward the crews of shipwrecked vessels."
"They may not discover us until we can signal some passing ship."
"There is no possibility of any such good fortune as that."
"Stranger things have happened, and—"
"Does that look like it?" interrupted the captain in some excitement, pointing toward the island.
The sight that met the gaze of every one was startling. Fully thirty canoes, each filled with eight or ten natives, were putting off from shore and heading toward them. Several of the crew favored turning about, and putting to sea; but that would have been not only hopeless, but would have invited attack. Nothing is so encouraging to an enemy as flight on the part of his opponent. It impels him to greater exertions and gives him a bravery which otherwise he may not feel.
The savages, in their light, graceful craft, and with their great skill in manipulating them, would have overhauled the white men "hand over hand." There was a faint hope that by presenting a bold front, and acting as though they believed in the friendship of the savages that they might spare the unfortunates. At any rate, it was clear there was no choice but to go ahead, and the white men did so, rowing leisurely and calmly, though the chances in doing so were hastening their own doom.
There could be no mistaking the ardor of the ferocious natives. They paddled with might and main, and fully a dozen, in their eagerness, leaped into the sea and swam ahead of their canoes. They were magnificent swimmers, speeding through the water like so many dolphins. The Americans, even in their frightful peril, could not repress their admiration.
"Did you ever see anything like it?" asked first mate Watchman; "they are like so many sharks."
"They are indeed," was the significant response of Captain Gooding, "and I would like it better if they were real sharks."
"Here they are!"
Sure enough; they surrounded the boat in a twinkling, and shouting and screeching like so many demons, clambered over the gunwales until there was danger of swamping the craft.
Had our friends possessed firearms, they would have made a desperate resistance, and possibly might have beaten off their assailants; but, as it was, they acted the part of wisdom in offering no opposition to the presence or actions of their unwelcome visitors.
The latter proved that they meant business from the first, for hardly were they in the boat when they began stripping the officers and sailors of their property. When they ceased the men had nothing left but their undershirts, their despoilers flinging the garments into the canoes that now crowded around.
No more plunder being obtainable, the fleet headed for land, with their captives in anything but a cheerful frame of mind. The shore was lined with women and children, who answered the shouts of their friends in the boats by running back and forth, screeching and yelling and dancing, as if unable to restrain themselves until the arrival of their victims.
The sailors believed they would be speedily killed and eaten, the latter horror might have been escaped had they known, what they afterward learned, that the savages of those islands are not cannibals.
The poor fellows stepped from their boat upon the shore, where they were immediately environed by the fierce men, women and children, half naked, wild, boisterous, and seemingly impatient to rend them to pieces. The prisoners could do nothing but meekly await the next step in the tragedy.
It was during these trying moments that the sailors were astounded to hear, amid the babel of voices, several words spoken in English. Staring about them to learn the meaning of such a strange thing, they saw a man attired as were the others, that is with only a piece of cloth about his hips, whose complexion and features showed that he belonged to the same race with themselves.
He advanced in a cheery, hearty way, and shaking hands with the new arrivals, said:
"I think you did not expect to find me here."
"Indeed we did not," was the reply; "you appear to be an Englishman."
"So I am, and I am anxious to give you all the help I can, for your situation is anything but a desirable one."
"There can be no doubt of that. But how is it that you are here? Were you shipwrecked like ourselves?"
"No; I may say I was deserted. My name is Charles Irons, and I was left at Poseat by a trading vessel four years ago."
"How came that?"
"I was to act as the agent of a company of traders on the Cocoanut Islands. Well, the vessel left me, as I first told you, and that was the last of it. They forgot all about me, or more likely, did not care to keep their promise, for I have never seen anything of the vessel since."
"What an outrage!"
"It was, and there couldn't have been a more wretched person than I was for several months. I looked longingly out to sea for the ship that never came, and chafed like a man who is bound hand and foot. But," added the Englishman with a smile, "there is nothing like making the best of things. You can accustom yourself almost to anything if you will only make up your mind to do so. I was among these people and there was no help for it, so I decided to adopt their ways and become one of them."
"You decided when in Rome to do as the Romans do," suggested the captain, who, like his companions, was greatly cheered, not only by the presence and friendship of the Englishman, but by the fact that the savages, who watched the interview with interest, showed no disposition to interfere.
"That's it. There are a great many worse people in this world than these. They are not cannibals, as are many of their neighbors, and they have never harmed me."
"But what about us?" was the anxious inquiry.
The Englishman looked grave.
"I cannot say what their intentions are, but I am afraid they are bad. They have been used ill by some of the vessels that have stopped here, and are naturally suspicious of all white people. Then, too, they are revengeful, and like all barbarians are satisfied, if aggrieved against our race, to get their satisfaction out of any member of it, whether he is the one who injured them, or is entirely innocent."
"You seem to be regarded with high favor here."
"I am. I stand next to the chief in authority, so you see I have reason to believe I may be of some service to you. You may be sure that I shall leave no stone unturned to help you."
The captain and his companions gave expression to their deep gratitude, and Irons continued in his bluff, pleasant manner:
"I guess I am about as much a savage as any of them. If I hadn't been I never would have obtained any control over them. I have seven native wives, and find I am forgetting a great many details of civilization, while my desire to return home is growing less every day. After all, what difference does it make where you are? A man has only a few years to live, and as long as he is contented, he is a fool to rebel."
There may have been good philosophy in all this, and the captain did not attempt to gainsay it, but, all the same, it was hard for him to understand how any one could be so placed as to lose his yearning for his home and his native land.
It was several days afterward, when the captives had become somewhat accustomed to their surroundings, that Captain Gooding found he and his men were mixed in their reckoning.
"It is a question among us whether this is Thursday or Friday," said he, addressing Irons; "can you settle it for us?"
The Englishman looked at the captain in an odd way and replied:
"I haven't the remotest idea of what day in the week it is, nor what is the month. It seems four years ago that I was left here, but I am not sure of it. Will you please give me the year and month?"
"This is April, 1889."
The Englishman bent his head for a few minutes in deep thought. He was recalling the past, with its singular incidents of his career. When he looked up he said:
"Yes; it is four years and more since I was abandoned, and if you stay that long you will be content to remain all your lives."
The captain shook his head, and his eyes were dimmed as he replied:
"I never could forget the loved ones at home, Irons; I would prefer death at once to a lingering imprisonment here."
"Well, I am going to help you all to leave just as soon as it can be done. I understand how you feel, and sympathize with you."
The Englishman proved himself the most valuable kind of a friend. The authority which he possessed over these savage South Sea Islanders was stretched to the utmost, but he never hesitated to employ it. But for his presence the Americans would have been put to death within a few hours at most of their arrival on the mainland, and without his aid it would have been impossible for them ever to have gotten away.
When everything was in shape, Irons hired a canoe of the natives for the use of his friends. The craft was not large enough to contain all the party, and since all real peril had passed, there was no fear in following the course that had been agreed upon.
Captain Gooding, second mate Harrison; and one of the sailors left Poseat in the canoe, first mate Watchman and his six companions remaining on the island. This was ten days after the loss of theTewksbury Sweet.
Captain Gooding and all the sailors were in the best of spirits, for they were confident that their wearisome captivity was substantially over. The three made their way from island to island, stopping at eight different points, sometimes for days, and even weeks. Finally they arrived at Ruk, where they found a missionary station, and received the most hospitable treatment.
The good men owned a boat abundantly large enough to carry twenty persons, and the captain asked its use with which to bring the rest of his crew from Poseat. This was asking more than would be supposed, for the missionaries told them that they were surrounded by hostile natives, who were liable to an outbreak at any hour, in which event the only means of escape the white men possessed was the boat.
The missionaries, however, gave their consent, and Captain Gooding, hoisting sail in the staunch centre-boarder, set sail for Poseat, where he safely arrived, without unnecessary delay. He found the first mate and his sailors well and in high spirits, though they were beginning to wonder whether their captain, like the friends of Irons, had not forgotten, and concluded to leave them to themselves.
No objection was offered to their departure, and bidding an affectionate good-by to the Englishman, who had proven the best kind of a friend, they returned to the missionary island. Two months later the missionary vessel, theMorning Star, arrived, and carried them all to Honolulu, which was reached in November. Thence Captain Gooding and a part of the crew were brought by the steamerAustraliato San Francisco, from which point the captain made his way to his home in Yarmouth, where his family and friends welcomed him back as one risen from the dead, for they had long given up hope of ever seeing him again.
"Say, Jack, the shellbarks are droppin' thick down in Big Woods. What a chance for a fellow to lay up a bushel or two before the crowd gets down there in the morning."
"Wouldn't it, though, Ned!" I replied wistfully, for if there was anything I had a fondness for, it was shellbarks.
We were trudging home to our dinner, for Ned and I lived close to the schoolhouse, much to the envy of some less fortunate pupils who brought their noonday meal with them in tin pails. It was a late September Friday, and a soft golden haze lay on hillside and woodland, and the quail were whistling in the furrows; and, as Ned spoke, I could see in my mind's eye just how Big Woods would look that afternoon with the soft sunlight slanting through the trees, and glimmering on the quiet waters of the creek.
"Well, Jack, will you go?" said Ned abruptly.
"You mean will I play truant?" I asked, a little startled.
"Yes; there's no danger, Jack; we'll tell the teacher we had to stay home to cut corn."
At first, I resisted Ned's appeal. I had played truant once before, a long time ago, and the memory of the punishment that I received in the woodshed at home was still strongly impressed on my memory.
But this, I thought, was an exceptional case, I badly wanted a bushel or two of shellbarks, and I knew full well that, unless they were gathered that afternoon, they wouldn't be gathered at all; for bright and early the next morning all the boys in the neighborhood would be down in Big Woods, armed with clubs and baskets and sacks, and even the squirrels would stand a poor show after that invasion.
In our selfishness, we never thought that other people might have a fondness for shellbarks as well as ourselves. So, after a little more pleading on Ned's part, I gave in, and we agreed to meet down at the foot of our orchard, as soon as dinner was over, for Ned lived right across, on the next farm. In a corner of the barn, I found my old chestnut club, a hickory stave, well coiled with lead at the top. Shoving this under my jacket, so no prying eyes could see it, I joined Ned at the meeting-place, and off we went in high spirits for the Yellow-breeches.
It was a good mile to Big Woods, for we had to circle away down to Hake's Mill to get across the creek, but we felt well repaid for our trouble when we arrived there. The fallen nuts lay thick amid the dead leaves, and up on the half-naked trees the splitting hulls hung in clusters, willing to drop their burden at the least rustle of the breeze.
We heaped the shellbarks in great piles, ready to stow away in Ned's big wheat bag; and, when the ground was cleaned up pretty well, and the leaves had been thoroughly raked, we turned our attention to a close cluster of trees that stood close by the creek. These nuts were unusually large, and thin-shelled. The hulls were cracked apart, but very few nuts lay on the ground, so I hauled out my club, and drove it fairly into the heart of the tree. A shower of nuts came down, with a merry clatter that gladdened our hearts; but the club, striking the trunk of the tree, bounded sideways and lodged in the crotch of a limb overhanging the creek, some twenty or thirty feet above the water.
Here was a dilemma. I didn't want to lose that club, for it had done good service in past autumns, and had gone through a great many hairbreadth escapes.
If we tried to dislodge it by hurling sticks or stones, it would fall into the water, and just at that point the creek was very deep, and moreover, as popular tradition held, a treacherous undertow existed which would render the recovery of the club impossible.
"Climb the tree, Jack," said Ned; "that's your only chance."
I was always considered a pretty good climber, so, after a little hesitation (for this was an unusually difficult tree), I started up the slippery trunk, and, with Ned's friendly aid, pulled myself among the lower limbs.
It was an easy matter to reach the particular bough that I wanted, but then came the tug. I was half-inclined to give up the whole thing and go down to the ground, but Ned kept egging me on so confidently that I determined to go through with it.
Straddling the limb, I took a firm hold with both hands in front of me, for no other boughs were close enough to be grasped, and thus inch by inch I moved cautiously forward.
The branch creaked and groaned, and at last began to bend in such an alarming fashion that I stopped short.
There was the club, not four feet away now, and far below I could see the quiet waters of the creek, wrinkling the reflected foliage as a dropping nut or stray leaf rippled the surface.
"You're nearly there, now," cried Ned, with hearty encouragement; "just a little more, Jack, and you'll have it.
"But the limb will break," I called down.
"No, it won't," he insisted, "don't be afraid."
That settled it. I wasn't afraid, and Ned should know it.
I took a firmer grip on the bough, and slid forward half a foot.
Crack, crack,—the big branch slowly began to split, and as I made a frantic effort to crawl back, a strange noise from the bushy part of the tree overhead turned my gaze upward.
It's a wonder my hair didn't turn white that very instant, for what I saw was a big, tawny wild-cat, with blazing eyes and quivering claws, crouched on a narrow limb. I knew the animal was going to spring, and I tried to shout as loudly as I could, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and the only sound I made was an odd cry that caused Ned to laugh, for he couldn't see what was the matter from where he stood.
Then like a streak the brute plumped down on my back, and with a tremendous splash, limb, wildcat, and myself went into the creek.
I heard Ned shout, as the water closed over me, and then everything became dark.
I rose to the surface terribly frightened, for, sad to relate, I had never learned to swim, and Ned could do very little in that direction. Instead of clutching at the empty air, as most drowning persons do, I caught hold of something substantial; and when the water was out of my eyes and out of my stomach, for I had swallowed about a pint, I saw that I was hanging to the bushy end of the broken limb. That was all very well, but the next thing I observed was not so pleasant, for six feet distant, on the thick part of the branch, sat the wild-cat, apparently none the worse for his fall. His sharp claws were driven into the bark, and he was calmly licking his dripping fur. Meanwhile the current was sweeping us down stream, and Ned was running along the bank in a sad state of fright and excitement. My back began to hurt pretty badly, and I discovered that my face was torn and bleeding in one or two places, though whether this was caused by the fall or by the wild-cat I did not know.
"Swim, Jack, let go and swim," shouted Ned, and then, remembering perhaps that I was unable to follow his instructions, he suddenly turned and ran back through the woods at the top of his speed, instead of making any effort to help me.
I was badly scared before, and now, when I saw, as I supposed, my last hope vanish, I began to shout for help as loudly as I could.
But at the very first cry the wild-cat lifted his head, and emitted a vicious snarl. As I howled louder than ever, he advanced a foot or two along the limb, ripping off the bark, and fixing his big glaring eyes savagely on my face.
I was terrified into silence, and, as soon as I ceased shouting, the brute stopped and coolly proceeded to lick his fur again.
Apparently, he did not object to my presence so long as I remained quiet. The worst of it was that my end of the branch was pretty far down in the water, and threatened every moment to carry me entirely under the surface.
In this precarious situation, I drifted down the creek, until the bend drew near that sweeps round to Hake's Mill. Here the country was a little more open, and a farmhouse came into sight over the brow of a hill.
There was a chance of rescue, and in spite of my previous experience, I decided to try it, for my limbs were becoming chilled, and I knew I could not hold on much longer.
"Help! Help!" I cried with might and main. No answer came back, but before I could shout a third time the wild-cat uttered a snarl, and began creeping toward me, inch by inch, and lashing the water fiercely with his tail. Lower and lower sank the branch, until my shoulders were submerged, and still the beast kept advancing.
I continued to shout, but no welcome voice responded, only empty echoes floating back from the hills.
Then I must have given up all hope, for I remember wondering vaguely what had become of Ned, and what they were doing in school, and whether my absence was noticed or not.
The cold water was rippling about my neck now, and the wild-cat was so close that I could note the horrible colors of the glaring eyes, and feel the hot breath in my face. I wondered how it would feel when those two rows of needle-like teeth met in my flesh; and then, before I could think any more, a deafening report filled my ears, and, through the cloud of smoke that rolled over the creek, the wild-cat bounded high in air, and fell into the water with a loud splash. That was all I remembered then. The next thing I knew, I was lying in a grassy hollow, alongside the creek, while Ned and an old farmer bent over me, and threw water in my face. Ned's desertion was explained. He had cut off the bend in the creek by running over the hill, and, accompanied by the farmer, who happened to be down in the woods hunting rabbits, they had arrived just in time to shoot the wild-cat and drag me out of the water. That was the last time I played truant. I didn't lose my share of the shellbarks, for Ned went down early the next morning and got them, but I did lose the chestnut club, and what was worse, in spite of my sore back, I spent a very unpleasant quarter of an hour out in the woodshed, just two days later, and Ned, I am happy to say, passed through the same edifying experience.
India is the home of the deadliest serpents and fiercest wild beasts on the globe. When it is stated that more than twenty thousand persons are killed annually by the snakes and animals of that country, some idea may be formed of its attractions in the way of a residence. To this should be added the fact that, during certain seasons, the climate is like that of Sahara itself. For days and nights the thermometer stands above one hundred degrees in the shade and in the city of Madras, unacclimated persons have died at midnight in their beds from apoplexy caused by the appalling temperature.
Among the venomous serpents of India, thecobra di capelloholds foremost rank, though it is claimed that a still more deadly reptile has been found in the interior, and I believe the British Museum has one of these terrible creatures, whose bite brings death with the suddenness of the lightning stroke. However, the cobra has been known to strike two persons in instant succession, proving fatal to both within ten minutes of each other. It is hard to conceive of any serpent more venomously destructive than this.
On one of the flaming Sunday mornings, when there was not a cloud in the brazen skies, a well known missionary came home from early service and seated himself at the breakfast-table with his family. The door of the dining-room was open and the Teluga school-teacher was outside, when he became interested in a novel sight. A frog was hopping along the front veranda, with an immense cobra chasing it. The serpent struck at it repeatedly, but the fugitive, in its desperation, eluded each blow, giving utterance to pitiful cries, as a frog will do when pursued by a snake.
The end of the veranda reached, the frog leaped off, and the cobra dropped to the ground in hot pursuit, but a box, standing near, offered shelter. The creature scrambled beneath, just in time to avoid another swift blow of the reptile, which was unable to follow it. The cobra glided around the box, seeking some avenue by which to reach his victim, but, finding none, moved off in the grass and disappeared.
The teacher hurried into the dining-room, with the announcement of what he had seen. The missionary listened gravely and then inquired:
"Where is the cobra now?"
"I cannot tell, sir; he moved off among the flower-pots, but I do not know whither he went."
"It is not my practice to go shooting on Sunday," remarked the minister, "but it won't do to have that serpent where it is liable to bite one of us. He must have a hole somewhere near the flower-pots; please keep watch while I get my pistol."
The missionary always kept a loaded revolver for use when traveling through the jungle at night, and he speedily stepped out on the veranda, with the weapon in hand, and started to find the cobra.
Two large native flower-pots stood within a couple of yards of the veranda. Each contained a fragrant rose, of which the good man's wife was very fond. Every day she spent some time sprinkling them with water or removing the dead leaves, never suspecting what proved to be the fact that while thus employed, she continually moved about a spot where an immense cobra lay coiled.
An opening was discovered directly between the flower pots, partly concealed by the grass. It was about as thick as a man's wrist, and descended perpendicularly, expanding into a small chamber.
The minister called for a hand-mirror, and with little trouble threw the bright reflection of the sun into the hole, a little more than a foot deep, fully lighting up the interior.
The cobra was there! It lay motionless in a glistening coil, as if resting from its fruitless pursuit of the frog and brooding over its disappointment. It was an alarming sight, but the good man kept cool, and meant business from the start.
Taking a piece of broken wagon tire, he thrust it slantingly into the hole, to hold the serpent a prisoner, and shoving the muzzle of his revolver forward, he let fly.
Not the slightest motion followed. He had missed. He now gently turned the tire edgewise and fired again. A furious writhing followed, proving that the snake had been hit hard. The tire was instantly turned over flat to prevent its coming out. It struck fiercely at the iron, which in a minute was shifted on its edge again, and the missionary emptied the remaining chambers of his revolver down the hole. Then he turned up the tire once more, and allowed the hideous head to dart forth.
The minister had brought with him a pair of large hedge shears, with which he seized the protruding neck, drew out the snake and gave it a flirt toward the compound. He was so absorbed with his task that he had not noticed the crowd of men, women and children that had gathered to watch the results of his hunt. When they saw a huge cobra flying through the air toward them, there was a scampering and screaming, which might have been less had they known that the grip of the shears had dislocated the serpent's neck.
The good man did not forget that whenever you find one deadly serpent, another is quite certain to be close at hand. He had passed the wagon tire to the teacher, when he began pulling out the wounded cobra, and asked him to insert it again without an instant's delay. This was done, and returning with the hand-glass, the missionary once more conveyed the rays into the underground chamber.
Sure enough a second cobra was there, wriggling and squirming in a way to show that he had received some of the bullets intended for his companion. The revolver was reloaded and a fusillade opened, standing off a few paces, the marksman waited for the head to come forth that he might seize and draw it out as he had done with the other.
The wounded reptile continued its furious squirming and striking, but its head did not appear, until shot after shot had been fired. At last it showed itself, and was immediately gripped with the shears. Dropping the pistol, the missionary employed both hands in the effort, and running backward a few steps, the whole frightful length of the serpent was drawn out upon the ground.
Remembering their former experience, the crowd moved away, but the missionary spared them a second fright.
Both cobras being helpless, an examination was made of them. The second one showed the marks of fourteen pistol balls through his body, any three of which would have proved fatal, but he was still full of fight, and died while trying to strike the persons near him.
The serpents were now stretched out on the veranda and measured one of them five feet eleven inches long, and the other six feet two inches. The last is an extraordinary size, rarely seen even in the favorite haunts of the reptile. An investigation of their home left no doubt that they had been living for months right among the flower pots that were attended to daily, and within six feet of the veranda and twelve feet of the door of the missionary's study.
As for the frog that crawled under the box just in time to save himself, he was well and flourishing at the last accounts.
Science as yet has not been able to grasp the laws that govern cyclones. They seem to be the result of some intensely electric condition of the elements, which finds an expression in that form. Cyclones, until within a few years, meant those circular tempests encountered in the Pacific and Indian oceans. They are the most destructive of all storms, being far more deadly than monsoons and tornadoes.
All navigators, when caught in a cyclone know how to get out of it. They have only to sail at right angles to the wind, when they will either pass beyond the outer rim of the circular sweep, or reach the center, where the ocean is calm.
The diameters of the ocean cyclones range from fifty to five hundred or a thousand miles. Professor Douglas, of Ann Arbor University, entertains his friends now and then by manufacturing miniature cyclones. He first suspends a large copper plate by silken cords. The plate is heavily charged with electricity, which hangs below in a bag-like mass. He uses arsenious acid gas, which gives the electricity a greenish tint. That mass of electricity becomes a perfect little cyclone. It is funnel-shaped and spins around like a top. When he moves the plate over a table, his cyclone catches up pennies, pens, pith balls and other small articles, and scatters them in every direction.
Cyclones never touch the equator, though the ocean ones are rare outside the torrid one. They are caused by the meeting of contrary currents of winds, and are known under the names of hurricanes, typhoons, whirlwinds or tornadoes. Those terrifying outbursts which now and then cause so much destruction in our own country seem to be the concentration of the prodigious force of an immense ocean cyclone within a small space, which renders them resistless.
A writer in theN. Y. Heraldgives some interesting facts regarding these scourges of the air. While the cyclone, as we have shown, may have a diameter of hundreds of miles, the track of a tornado is often limited to a few hundred feet, and rarely has the width of half a mile.
The cyclone carries with it a velocity of as much as 100 to 140 miles an hour. It sends a certain amount of warning ahead of its track, and the acceleration of the wind's speed at any given point, is gradual.
The tornado falls almost without notice, or rather the indications are often so similar to those of an ordinary thunderstorm that only a skilled and careful observer can detect the difference.
The phenomena and effects of cyclones in the West Indies have long been subjects of study and observation. As the center approaches a ship she is assaulted by wind of a terrible force and a sea that is almost indescribable. The water no longer runs in waves of regular onward motion, but leaps up in pyramids and peaks. The wind swirls and strikes until wherever there is a chance for vibration or flutter, even in tightly furled sails, the fabric soon gives way. I once saw a brig go drifting past us in a West Indies cyclone with everything furled and closely lashed with sea gaskets. We were in company nearly at the height of the storm, when the center was only a few miles away. There was a spot in the bunt of the foretopsail where the sail was not tightly stowed, and for several hours it had doubtless been fluttering under tremendous pressure. As I watched her a little white puff went out of the bunt of the topsail, and then the destruction of the sail was rapid. Long ribbons of canvas went slithering off as if a huge file had rasped the yard arm, and in a short time there was nothing left on the yard except the bolt ropes and the reef tackles. We could do nothing to help the crew, for it was doubtful whether we could keep off the reefs ourselves, and the brig passed out of sight to her certain doom.
The local tornado that so frequently plays havoc with property and life in the West is, like the cyclone, a revolving force, but it carries with it a variety of phenomena wholly distinct from those that accompany the larger storm. Many of the effects of one tornado are wholly absent in others, and the indications that in one case have been followed by a terrible disaster are not infrequently found at other times to presage merely a heavy thunder shower.
The freaks of a tornado are wholly unaccountable. In some cases not an object in its track will fail to feel its power for long distances; in other instances it will seem to act like a cannon-ball that plows up the earth on striking, then rises and strikes again, leaving the space between untouched. Sometimes it will go through a forest leveling the trees as though a gang of axemen had plied their tools on lines laid out by surveyors, nothing outside the track being touched; but again in similar windfalls there will be found occasional pockets scored in the forest growth jutting off the right line, like small lagoons opening into a flowing stream. These seem to have been caused by a sort of attendant whirlwind—a baby offspring from the main monster, which, having sprung away from the chief disturbance, scoops a hole in the woods and then expires or rejoins the original movement.
I have seen one of the most violent and, so to speak, compressed of these storms, cut a road through thick woods so that at a distance the edges stood out clear and sharp against the sky as would those of a railway cutting through earth. Trees standing at the edge of the track had their branches clean swept one side while on the other there was no perceptible disturbance of the foliage.
Sometimes the tornado acts like an enormous scoop, catching up every movable thing and sweeping it miles away: and again it becomes a depositor, as if, tired of carrying so much dead weight, it dumped it upon the earth preparatory to grabbing up a new cargo. These effects are particularly noticeable in the tornado that goes by jumps. When it strikes and absorbs a mass of debris it seems to spring up again like a projectile that grazes the surface. For a space there will be a very high wind and some damage, but no such disaster as the tornado has previously wrought. Out of the clouds will come occasional heavy missiles and deluges of water. Then down goes the tornado again crashing and scattering by its own force and adding to its destructive power by a battery of timbers and other objects brought along from the previous impact. Relieved of these masses, it again gathers up miscellaneous movables and repeats its previous operation.
The force with which these objects strike is best seen when they fall outside of the tornado's path, since the work done by the missile is not then disturbed by the general destructive force of the storm. Thus, near Racine, Wis., I have known an ordinary fence rail, slightly sharpened on one end, to be driven against a young tree like a spear and pierce it several feet. The velocity of the rail must have been something enormous, or otherwise the rail would have glanced from such a round and elastic object.
Many of the settlers in the tornado districts of Southern Minnesota, Iowa, Kansas, and Nebraska excavate a deep cellar beneath their houses and cover it with heavy timbers as a place of refuge for their families when a tornado threatens to strike them. While these dugouts are usually effective, they are not always so. There have been instances where families having only time to descend and not time enough to close the trap door have been exposed to the storm's full fury by the tornado getting into the opening and lifting off the whole roof after having first swept away the house above. Another pathetic case resulted in the death of a whole family by an extraordinary freak of the tornado. The storm first struck a large pond and swept up all the water in it. Its next plunge deposited this water on one of these dugouts, and the family were drowned like chipmunks in a hole.
Some of the western tornadoes are accompanied by electrical manifestations to an extent that has originated a belief in electricity as their cause. These disturbances are very marked in some cases, while in others they have not been noticed. In one tornado in Central Illinois electricity played very peculiar antics not only in the tornado's track, but also at some distance from it. In the ruined houses all the iron work was found to have been strongly magnetized, so that pokers, flatirons and other metal objects were found adhering to each other. Just off the tornado's track the same effects were noticed, and several persons experienced sharp electric shocks during the passage of the storm. Afterward it was found that the magnetic influence was so strong that clocks and watches were stopped and rendered wholly useless.
The scooping action of the tornado sometimes makes considerable changes in the topography of the country, as when it gathers up the water of a large pond or water course and makes a new pond or opens a new channel. At Wallingford the water in a pond of very large size was taken bodily from its bed, carried up a hill and dropped nearly in one mass, so that gullies and ravines were cut in every direction.
There is a divide in Northeastern Illinois between streams flowing into Lake Michigan and those running to the Mississippi. So level is a portion of the land on the summit, and so slight the elevation above the lake, that in wet seasons the surface-water seems almost as willing to go one way as the other; and on one occasion the upper streams of the Desplaines River were nearly permanently diverted toward the lake by a tornado that gathered up the water and scored the surface in its track toward the east.
Many are the stories told of the way in which objects are carried away by the wind and left in strange places. In one Illinois tornado two children and an infant were caught up. The dead bodies of the children were found only a few hundred feet distant, but the infant was picked up alive more than a mile away from the spot where the tornado swept the children up. An accordion that must have come a long distance—for it was never claimed—was found so entangled in the branches of a tree that it was alternately pulled apart and pressed together by the wind, thus creating such weird and uncanny music during a whole night that an already sufficiently scared settlement of negroes were kept in a state of frantic dismay until daylight revealed the cause.
In another case a farmer who followed the tornado's track in search of missing cattle was astonished to discover one of his cows lodged about twenty feet above the ground in the branches of a half-stripped maple.
"I allers knew that was an active heifer," he remarked, as he came in sight of her hanging over the slanting limb, "but I never allowed she could climb a tree."