Читать книгу In the Andamans and Nicobars - C. Boden Kloss - Страница 12

Table of Contents

Shipboard Monotony—Edible Sharks—Calm Nights—Squalls—Barren Island—Appearance—Anchorage—Landing-place—Hot Spring—Goats—The Eruptive Cone—Lava—Paths—Interior of the Crater—Volcanic Activity—Fauna—Fish—The Archipelago—Kwang-tung Strait—Path-making—The Jungle—Birds—Coral Reefs—Parrots—Two New Rats—Inhabitants.

We were six days out from land before Barren Island hove in sight. Since New Year's Day,[5] when we got up anchor amongst the islands of the Mergui Archipelago, the schooner had been carried by the lightest of breezes towards the Andamans. The days slipped by, each one as monotonous as its predecessor; there was no change in the wind, save when it fell calm for a space, and the sun was so hot that we gladly sought shelter in the cabin, where occupation might be found with a book. Once we harpooned a porpoise, but he broke away from the iron, and now and again, on a line trailing astern, we caught a small shark, immediately claimed by the cook, to appear later on the table; for although the name seems instinctively to prejudice one against them, all sharks are edible, and the smaller species, which can scarcely include human material in their dietary scale, are by no means to be despised when fresh provisions are unobtainable, in spite of being often somewhat dry and flavourless.

But the nights were ample compensation for any possible discomfort by day. Around was the calm flat sea, and overhead a pale blue sky, across which swung the tropic moon, so bright that all but the larger stars were drowned in light. Then, when the heat of day was over, we would take our pillows on deck and—in a perfect silence but for the creaking booms and the water gurgling in the scupper-pipes—watch mast and stars swing slowly to and fro until sleep brought unconsciousness of the night and its beauty.

But it is not always so even in the tropics, and the contrary, and not infrequent, experience, without going to extremes, is the squall of a moonless night.

As the dense clouds rapidly advance from the horizon and blot out the stars, one is left in inky darkness broken only by the glimmer of the lamps in the binnacle. Soon the wind comes tearing down and whistles loudly in the rigging, while with lowered sail, the vessel seems to fly through the water—judging by the rolling wings of foam that stream from her shoulders and gleam weirdly in the green and red rays of the sidelights. Presently the rain falls in a stinging chilly torrent, killing the breeze and leaving the boat rolling uncomfortably on the surface; and when the furious downpour is over, and the night is quiet once more, all that remains to show the past disturbance is sodden canvas, stiffened cordage, and the uneasy heave of the wind-whipped sea.

So the squall passes—generally leaving a calm behind it—having in a little space squandered enough unavailing breeze to have helped the vessel on her course for hours to come.

At last, one evening, we saw Narkondam from the masthead, about sixty miles away; and next morning Barren Island had risen above the horizon. These two little islands, eastern outliers of the Andamans, and connecting links between the eruptive regions of Burma and Sumatra, are both of volcanic origin, though the former is now extinct.

Barren Island, about two miles in diameter, is merely the crater of a volcano rising abruptly from the sea, which, a quarter of a mile from shore, is nearly everywhere 150 fathoms or more in depth.

THE LANDING-PLACE, BARREN ISLAND.

Approaching from the east, we caught a glimpse, while still some distance off, of the black tip of an eruptive cone, showing above the rim of the crater, which at a nearer view proved to be of igneous basalt, clothed on the outer slopes with a growth of creepers, bushes, and of trees 50 to 60 feet high, frequented by numbers of fruit pigeons.

On the north-west side of the island the wall of the old crater has been broken down, and a large gap about a hundred yards wide at the base affords an easy means of access to the interior. It is through this opening that the best view of the cone is obtained from seawards.

As we sailed past the gap that afternoon the scene was one of striking beauty. Against a background of bright blue sky the little island rose from a sea of lapis-lazuli, which ceaselessly dashed white breakers on the rocky shores. The steep brown slopes, part clothed in brilliant green, framed in the cone—a black and solid mass, round which a pair of eagles circled slowly.

Fortunately for those vessels which may visit the island, there is one place off-shore where soundings can be obtained with the handline, and there we came to anchor in 15 fathoms, a little beach and clump of coconut palms bearing N.N.E., a quarter of a mile away.

Sails were soon stowed and we rowed off to reconnoitre the gap, which is the only practicable landing-place; everywhere else the land slopes steeply to the sea. To the south a heavy swell was breaking on the shore, but in the little cove formed here the sea was perfectly calm, and so clear that as we passed into shallower water the coral bottom, 10 fathoms down, was plainly visible.

A rough wall of lava about a dozen feet high stretches across the opening, and to the left of this, among the stones and boulders of the shore, we found, below high-water mark, a little stream of fresh water trickling to the sea; it is the only water on the island, and at that time was at a temperature of 97.5° F.[6]

The only inhabitants of any size that the island can boast of are a large herd of goats, whose well-worn tracks show plainly on every slope and cliff. A score of these animals, left in 1891 by the station steamer from Port Blair, have so thriven that their descendants must now be numbered in hundreds, and are so free from fear, and unsuspicious, that had we needed them we could have butchered any quantity.

From the landing-place the ground slopes gently upward to the floor of the crater, which is about 50 feet above sea level. In the centre of this rises the little cone of slightly truncated form. Symmetrical in outline, 1000 feet high and perhaps 2000 feet in diameter at the base, there is nothing it reminds one of more closely than a huge heap of purplish-black coal-dust, with patches and streaks of brown on the top.

To right and left of the base, and thence towards the sea, flows a broad black stream of clinkery lava, the masses of which it is composed varying in dimensions from rugged blocks of scoriæ a ton or more in weight to pieces the size of one's fist. The journey across it would be one of some difficulty, were it not that the goats, coming from all parts of the island in their need for water, by constantly travelling to and fro in the same line, have worn a smooth and deep path from side to side, some 200 yards distant from the sea.

THE ERUPTIVE CONE, BARREN ISLAND.

The level ground at the base of the cone, widest on the southern side, is covered with tall bamboo grass and various kinds of low bushes. On the inner slopes of the crater, the south and east sides, which are of rocky formation, support a certain amount of small forest, in which we quickly noticed the absence of such tropical forms as palms, rattans and lianas, and of trees more than 60 or 70 feet high and 4 or 5 feet in diameter;[7] the remaining sides, composed mainly of volcanic ash, afford foothold only to a coarse tussocky plant growing in clumps on the loose black dust. We found these latter slopes not at all an attractive scene of operations, for the feet sank and slipped at every step, and raised at the same time clouds of fine black dust.

During the day the heat in the interior was extreme, for the sun's rays beat down upon, and were reflected from, the dark slopes, while the wall of the crater completely cut off any sea breeze. We did not ascend the cone, for our stay was to be short, and we wished to investigate the fauna as fully as possible; but from reports of the visits paid to the island once every three or four years from Port Blair, it would seem that the slight signs of activity still existent consist of an issue of steam and the continued sublimation of sulphur; while of the two cones which form the top, one is cold, and already bamboo grass and ferns are beginning to clothe the entire summit. There is ample proof in those details which have been recorded of the island during the last century that the volcano is rapidly becoming quiescent, and is indeed, perhaps verging on a condition of extinction, as has long been the case with Narkondam.

Captain Blair, who passed near in 1795, writes of enormous volumes of smoke and frequent showers of red-hot stones. "Some were of a size to weigh three or four tons, and had been thrown some hundred yards past the foot of the cone. There were two or three eruptions while we were close to it; several of the red-hot stones rolled down the sides of the cone and bounded a considerable way beyond us.... Those parts of the island that are distant from the volcano are thinly covered with withered shrubs and blasted trees."

A few years later Horsburgh records an explosion every ten minutes, and a fire of considerable extent burning on the eastern side of the crater. In the next thirty years, the subterranean forces had considerably diminished in activity, and at the end of that period only volumes of white smoke with no flame were to be seen. Drs Mouat and Liebig, who visited the island within a few months of each other in 1857, write respectively of volumes of dark smoke, and clouds of hot, watery vapour. In 1866, a whitish vapour was emitted from several deep fissures, and about 1890, steam was seen to be issuing at the top from a sulphur-bed, which was liquid and pasty, and a new jet was coming from a lump on the sloping side of the cone; while the sole evidence of activity now to be observed is the deposition of sulphur, and an escape of steam that often condenses on the surface rocks.

Concerning the fauna of the island, birds—inside the crater—were not numerous: commonest were a little white-eye (Zosterops palpebrosa), and the Indian cuckoo, which swarmed everywhere, its loud cries, "ko-el, ko-el," resounding in all directions. The only mammals other than the goats were rats, which, while of one species (Mus atratus, sp. nov.), afford a rather curious example of range of colouring, for while many were of the usual brown shade, a great number were of a glossy coal-black, much resembling in tint the lava and volcanic dust in which they made their homes. The island is everywhere riddled with their holes, but though so numerous, the land-crabs may fairly claim to divide the place with them. Trapping for rats was a failure, for no sooner was one caught than it would be torn to pieces by the crabs, who in other instances would spring the trap long before the others were attracted by the bait.

Altogether we landed four times, but soon found that very little variety was to be obtained: the sea, however, swarmed with fish, and many fine catches of rock-cod, trigger-fish, and mullet, 20 to 70 lbs. in weight, were made by the crew.

Late one evening we left Barren Island, and with a fair though moderate breeze, which, however, soon drew round against us, covered the 36 miles to the Andamans proper, and anchored before noon next day in the Kwang-tung Juru.

From a distance, all the islands of the Archipelago appear to rise to about the same height,—between 500 and 600 feet—presenting a fairly level sky-line from north to south, and with the exception of East Island, which shows a white sandy beach, all seem fringed with thickets of mangroves.

The strait, which is about a mile wide, separates the islands of John and Henry Lawrence, and with its smooth water and low banks, on which the veil of mangrove and jungle, extending to the water's edge, is broken at short intervals by small bluffs of pale clay shale, might easily, but for its brilliant blue colour, be mistaken for a quiet river.

We landed in the afternoon on the eastern shore, and at once set to work cutting a path, for here was the densest kind of Andaman jungle, and although within it one comes across little patches where the bush is fairly open, it is, on the whole, a wild tangled mass of trunks and branches, bound together by countless ropes of creeping bamboo and thorny rattan.

Cutting right and left, avoiding a thick bush here and a hanging screen of creepers there, perspiring at every step, we forced a sinuous way in from the beach, until, coming upon a well-trodden pig-track, we found progress so much easier, that, with a little chopping now and again, we were able to move about with some degree of freedom, and along the path so slowly made, a long line of traps was set and baited in readiness for night.

Such a performance is one that regularly occurs during the first visit to each fresh locality in which one collects, and on these occasions the noise caused by chopping away branches and crashing through the bushes very naturally makes the denizens of the jungle conspicuous by their absence.

Afterwards, however, as you move quietly along the path, with all the faculties freely given to the detection of those various objects to the desire for possession of which your presence is due, the jungle seems a much less lonely place, and after days spent in wandering in its shade, during which a bit more path has been cut here, and a few more yards of open space added there, you find that you can take quite a long walk, entirely uninterrupted by use of the parang hanging at your side.

Among the few birds shot that first afternoon were the beautiful Andamanese oriole, with gorgeous plumage of black and yellow, and a peculiar cuckoo—Centropus andamanensis—soberly clad in brown and grey. This bird was a source of much disappointment on one occasion. There are no squirrels known to the Andamans, and seeing what I took for one, without waiting, in the momentary excitement of an apparently fresh discovery, to look more closely, I made a rapid snap-shot, and down tumbled a cuckoo; my consequent disgust may be imagined. The bird, however, can easily be mistaken for a small mammal, for besides resembling one, with its dark brown plumage and fairly long tail, its habit is to spring from bough to bough and creep along the branches in a very rodent-like manner.

Warned by the fading daylight, we returned to the shore, and found a quarter of a mile of dry coral between ourselves and the water, with the dinghy high and dry, so, after making it fast to the mangroves, we picked a way across the reef and hailed the schooner for another boat.

These coral-reefs, although their beauty of form and colour—an endless change of myriad shapes and tints—when seen through the clear water from a boat above is quite beyond description, awaken far less admiration when they have to be crossed on foot while the tide is low. It is impossible for even natives to cross them barefooted. Nearest the shore comes first a belt of mud and coral débris that is easily traversed; next lies a broad strip of sharp and brittle madrepores which break and crumble beneath one's weight; while, seaward, rise from deep water the Astræas—great solid masses of which the reefs are mostly built; and as one jumps from mound to mound, one vaguely wonders at which of those in front a slip may occur, and as the least result plunge one head over heels into the pools around. With a small boat, however, shallow and quick-turning, it is generally possible to pass through these latter and reach a point, where, protected by boots, the shore may be attained at the slight expense of a wetting below the knees.

To escape this unpleasant little journey, we moved a day or two later farther up the strait to where the shore was free from coral, and therefore more accessible, although having reached it, we were confronted by a precipitous cliff of crumbling earth, but when the top was gained, after a zigzag climb, we moved on level ground covered with heavy jungle.

The smaller species of birds were very rare here, but we got almost immediately the first specimen of the island parrots—the brilliant green Palæornis magnirostris. This bird is the local representative of a continental form, from which it differs only in the enormous size of the bill, which in the male is of bright scarlet.

It is a somewhat callous thing to attempt to do, but should one succeed in only severely wounding a parrot, others of the species are sure to be obtained. The cries of the injured bird so attract its companions that they will gather near from all parts within hearing, and seem so possessed with curiosity to know what is wrong, as to be, for the time, perfectly oblivious of the collector and his gun, while they sit around or fly nearer and nearer to their wounded companion and answer its loud croaking notes with others equally harsh.

Parrots of three species were very numerous, and perhaps the most frequent noise in the jungle was their shrill scream, uttered as they flew from tree to tree. Many big black crows, too, flopped—a word which exactly describes their movement—noisily about, and, when hidden by a screen of leaves, we mimicked their cawing notes, more bewildered birds it would be difficult to find. In these woods the larger birds were fairly common, and the traps obtained for us numerous rats of two varieties, one of which squealed pitifully when approached (Mus stoicus, sp. nov., and M. flebilis, sp. nov.).

The Archipelago is inhabited by a tribe known as Aka-Balawa, now on the verge of extinction, as it numbers only twenty individuals; but the sole traces of occupation we came across were the decayed remains of a canoe, lying up one of the mangrove creeks that branch off from the strait.

We remained here three days, all that could be spared from the time given to the cruise, and early on January 11th left for Port Blair.