By noon, feeling somewhat strengthened and refreshed, we again renewed our attempt at getting up provisions, Peters and myself going down alternately, and always with more or less success, until sundown. During this interval we had the good fortune to bring up, altogether, four more small jars of olives, another ham, a carboy containing nearly three gallons of excellent Cape Madeira wine, and, what gave us still more delight, a small tortoise of the Gallipago breed, several of which had been taken on board by Captain Barnard, as the Grampus was leaving port, from the schooner Mary Pitts, just returned from a sealing voyage in the Pacific.
In a subsequent portion of this narrative I shall have frequent occasion to mention this species of tortoise. It is found principally, as most of my readers may know, in the group of islands called the Gallipagos, which, indeed, derive their name from the animal-the Spanish word Gallipago meaning a fresh-water terrapin. From the peculiarity of their shape and action they have been sometimes called the elephant tortoise. They are frequently found of an enormous size. I have myself seen several which would weigh from twelve to fifteen hundred pounds, although I do not remember that any navigator speaks of having seen them weighing more than eight hundred. Their appearance is singular, and even disgusting. Their steps are very slow, measured, and heavy, their bodies being carried about a foot from the ground. Their neck is long, and exceedingly slender; from eighteen inches to two feet is a very common length, and I killed one, where the distance from the shoulder to the extremity of the head was no less than three feet ten inches. The head has a striking resemblance to that of a serpent. They can exist without food for an almost incredible length of time, instances having been known where they have been thrown into the hold of a vessel and lain two years without nourishment of any kind-being as fat, and, in every respect, in as good order at the expiration of the time as when they were first put in. In one particular these extraordinary animals bear a resemblance to the dromedary, or camel of the desert. In a bag at the root of the neck they carry with them a constant supply of water. In some instances, upon killing them after a full year’s deprivation of all nourishment, as much as three gallons of perfectly sweet and fresh water have been found in their bags. Their food is chiefly wild parsley and celery, with purslain, sea-kelp, and prickly pears, upon which latter vegetable they thrive wonderfully, a great quantity of it being usually found on the hillsides near the shore wherever the animal itself is discovered. They are excellent and highly nutritious food, and have, no doubt, been the means of preserving the lives of thousands of seamen employed in the whale-fishery and other pursuits in the Pacific.
The one which we had the good fortune to bring up from the storeroom was not of a large size, weighing probably sixty-five or seventy pounds. It was a female, and in excellent condition, being exceedingly fat, and having more than a quart of limpid and sweet water in its bag. This was indeed a treasure; and, falling on our knees with one accord, we returned fervent thanks to God for so seasonable a relief.
We had great difficulty in getting the animal up through the opening, as its struggles were fierce and its strength prodigious. It was upon the point of making its escape from Peter’s grasp, and slipping back into the water, when Augustus, throwing a rope with a slipknot around its throat, held it up in this manner until I jumped into the hole by the side of Peters, and assisted him in lifting it out.
The water we drew carefully from the bag into the jug; which, it will be remembered, had been brought up before from the cabin. Having done this, we broke off the neck of a bottle so as to form, with the cork, a kind of glass, holding not quite half a gill. We then each drank one of these measures full, and resolved to limit ourselves to this quantity per day as long as it should hold out.
During the last two or three days, the weather having been dry and pleasant, the bedding we had obtained from the cabin, as well as our clothing, had become thoroughly dry, so that we passed this night (that of the twenty-third) in comparative comfort, enjoying a tranquil repose, after having supped plentifully on olives and ham, with a small allowance of the wine. Being afraid of losing some of our stores overboard during the night, in the event of a breeze springing up, we secured them as well as possible with cordage to the fragments of the windlass. Our tortoise, which we were anxious to preserve alive as long as we could, we threw on its back, and otherwise carefully fastened.
How I Became an Edgar Allan Poe Convert BY SUE GRAFTON
I hadn’t had occasion to read Edgar Allan Poe since high school, so when Michael Connelly asked me to contribute a few laudatory words to this anthology commemorating Poe’s two hundredth birthday, I said I’d consider his request. Please note: I didn’t actually commit myself, but I did experience a mild surge of interest and told Michael Connelly I’d do what I could. After all, why not? This was late October 2007, and my comments wouldn’t be due until the end of February 2008-a lead time of three months during which I might very well be killed.
Aside from the fact that I seldom agree to write anything “offgrid,” my reservations were twofold:
1. I’m not a scholar by any stretch, and I generally refuse to hold forth on any subject except, possibly, cats.
2. I’d recently started work on “U” Is for… , and I knew I needed to focus on the task at hand.
Nonetheless, being a fan of Michael Connelly’s (especially since, heretofore, he’d never asked me for anything), I bought a paperback edition of Great Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe to refresh my memory. I sailed through the introduction and the section called “Chronology of Edgar Allan Poe’s Life and Work.” So far, so good. I did question the wisdom of his marrying his thirteen-year-old tubercular cousin, but boys will be boys, and poor Poe was known as a falling-down drunk.
In rapid succession, I read “The Pit and the Pendulum,” “The Purloined Letter,” “Manuscript Found in a Bottle,” and “The Murders in the Rue Morgue.” Oh, dear. That “Ourang-Outang” business really didn’t fly as far as I was concerned. Let’s not even talk about “The Gold-Bug,” which left me cranky and out of sorts. I found Poe profligate with his exclamation points, and his overheated prose was larded with inexplicable French phrases. Not only that, he was much too fond of adverbs, and his dialogue fairly cried out for the stern admonitions of a good editor. Mon Dieu!! These are all writerly habits of which I thoroughly disapprove!!! Further reading of his work did nothing to soften my views. What was I to do? I had nothing nice to say about the man and no hope of faking it.
I wrote to Michael Connelly, begging to be relieved of my responsibilities. He wrote back and most graciously excused me. Quel joie!! I returned to “U…” and thought no more about the Poe anthology. Then, two months later, just when my guilt was beginning to subside, Michael wrote again on “the long shot of all long shots” that I might relent. In the unlikely event that I’d say yes, he cautioned that my term paper would be due, not the middle of February as originally thought, but closer to February 1.
I felt myself waver and wondered if there was any way I might be of help. I decided to renew my efforts before closing the door on him once and for all. Given the accelerated deadline, I took the only sensible action that crossed my mind. I turned to the Internet and Googled Edgar Allan Poe in hopes of cribbing an academic paper I could pass off as my own.