The Capture of the Big Shark

ON a bitter cold day in January last I was snugly ensconced in a ducking blind away down on the eastern shore of Virginia, mighty nigh, as my guide remarked, "de las' steppin' off place" on bleak Cape Charles. The wind was whistling out of the northwest with a sting and an occasional flurry of snow that made one long for the comfort of the old box stove in the ducking shanty a few miles away; but I was after the seductive but wary broadbill that frequent those lonely shores in the winter time and -- cold or no cold -- intented to have some.

Nibbling tenderly at my frozen luncheon, while keeping a sharp but watery eye out for a possible shot, I was rather surprised to hear Joe, my guide, in his soft Southern voice drawl out on the frosty air: "Yas, sah! I done tole yo' whar yo' kind hab good gunnin' down yere widout freezin' to death as dis yere is. Pack up dat ar ole gun ob yo's an' mosey long down dis yere way 'long 'bout, say, de fust week cum naixt August, an' tuk a whack at dem big jack curlew birds an' de yaller laigs and black bres' plover an' willets; right smart lot dem big birds yere. An' den, good lan', dat shark fishin'! Whoof! Dat's de time; dat's de sho' 'nuff time for all de wild 'citement you folks want. See that ar ole red buoy way ova yander? Yas, sah: dat's de one right on de aidge o' de channel. Dat's de place whar de ole he'debbils run on de flood tide. Lan' sakes! 'Long dis yere boat, I reckon; some a sight longer maybe, an' dey's shore 'nuff pizen-wicked; 'deed dey is -- Lordy! I done tackle many a one in ma day. I knows what dey is."

Well, thought I, blowing on my almost frozen fingers, that certainly sounds good to me. Later, finding that Joe had not exaggerated the prospects for really excellent sport, on my return home I sought out my old gunning chum, Dr. Charles C. Halgren, of New York, who eagerly agreed to take a chance, and we laid our plans accordingly. We also invited a devoted sportsman friend, Thomas O'Kane, Jr., to join our forces, and it was lucky we did so, since it was upon his own private hook that the great shark of which I am going to write, was eventually taken.

The evening of the second day of August found our trio boarding the midnight train for Cheriton, Va. About five the next morning we were told that "dis yere next stop, Cheriton, sah! Dere's whar you-all gets off," and off we got, thankful to climb into the waiting bus that was to convey us to the home of our guides at Oyster, Va. A jolly reunion and a jollier meal followed our arrival, after which a rush was made for Captain Will's fine power boat, and when guns and provisions had been stowed away we churned for our home destination, the ducking shanty, down the bay.

On arrival city clothes were exchanged for shooting rigs, and all hands were soon off for the curlew blinds. The day, however, was much too warm and the hour too advanced for good shooting, but I managed to kill enough jacks to convince me that so far at least Joe had told me no fairy tale that cold winter's day.

Poling back to the house at noon -- for dinner and to rest awhile -- I found the others enthusiastic over the prospects, and it was with a great sigh of contentment that I sat down in my old rocking chair. Ah, me, how good it seemed to be again under that hospitable roof after all that strenuous activity; to stretch one's aching limbs in solid comfort, and to recall the memories of the famous days spent on the bay -- days when the brant and geese and broadbills gave us sport that kings might envy and never enjoy, and I was rapidly falling into a delicious retrospection, oblivious of my immediate surroundings, when someone shouted, "Hey, there! Wake up! No snoozin'! All aboard for the batteau and the sharks."

With a start I collected my wandering wits and joined the boys as they poled their way down channel to the waiting batteau. Climbing over the rail I viewed with wonder many fierce looking hooks attached to chains and heavy sea lines strewn on the seats and flooring, ready, as it seemed to me, to jump and jab themselves into any and everything. I stepped gingerly around the nearest hook and settled myself down to enjoy every detail. The cheery voice of Joe, as he hoisted the sail, and the rattle and swish of canvas and gear were like music to my ears as the smart old boat got under way and heeled to the breeze. A spin of perhaps a mile, and up in the wind she came. Splash went the mud hook, and we were just abeam of "dat ar old red buoy 'way ova yander."

The big hooks were baited with splendid weakfish, two or more to each hook, dropped over in forty feet of swift-running tide water, and the big sharks were invited to come along and have some and welcome. For quite a while I really expected a tremendous yank at any moment, but nothing happened, and at length I sought the comfort offered by a pile of oilskins and canvas jackets next to the centerboard, and lazily stretching myself out I watched with sleepy eyes my old chums as, with pipes aglow, they fished and whispered of sharks and their savage ways.

I was suddenly and most violently awakened to the startling fact that my line was whizzing like a mad thing over the rail, firmly humming a song as it flew, and they tell me that for a man of my age I exhibited remarkable agility for two or three seconds' time, trying to catch that elusive line. Judging from the way my poor back ached the next morning they may have been right.

I finally seized the line and had a great time hauling and jerking and bracing, until at last I brought to the surface -- plunging and fighting mad -- a baby blue-fin shark, about four feet long, but 400 in ferocity, and then had to pose while the cameras clicked in happy unison. After such a good beginning it looked as though something in the way of a big one was due.

I was making my way back to the oilskin couch when crash, smash, bang, sounded in my startled ears, and down with an uproar of yells and confusion Tom fell from his stand on the seat in the stern, his arms stretched out, rigid as iron bars with the sudden strain, but game as a pebble. He held the line, burning its way through his fingers as with mad haste we jumped to his aid. "Doc" and Joe got to him, but I fell, mixed up in the oilskins gear or other tackle, but I grabbed the rifle, and kicking myself free sprang to the rail.

What a fight was on! At last the very hope and wish of all those days was really gratified, and the men, grim, with pale set faces and blazing eyes braced back on that line to do or die.

"Hold hard, boys! H-o-l-d him ha-rd! Steady, Doc; ste-a-dy, for heaven's sake! Give him no slack; hang to him." In perfect unison those men stood braced and solid, every muscle tense, swinging and lurching to the vast unseen power below that moved them, but gained not an inch. Slowly they drew the monster in until -- it seemed an age to me -- at last we saw the great shark's outline, dimly swaying upward, a ghostly fearsome shape, so big and long and startling in its appearance of awful strength that involuntarily the rifle came to my shoulder and my nerves cried out aloud. Breaking through the swirl of foaming water the great dorsal fin and huge spotted back gleamed in the sun. An instant more and crash against the boat's side struck the monstrous head, and its fang-like teeth snapped and ripped, and the awful jaws closed with sickening force. The sinewy arms held, and with horror, fear, glee, pluck and above all mad exultation on every grim face, I heard above the din, as in a dream, "Shoot, man!" The rifle in my shaking hands rang out. The waters churned with the last sweep of the powerful tail, the great head went slowly down, and the body rolled easily on its side to rise and fall as gently as the velvet sea weed in the tide. All that savage, fearful strength was gone; that wild ferocity gone in an instant with the pressure of a finger.

So calm and peaceful now that with wondering eyes we stood breathless, watching, unable for the moment to realize that the fight was won. But in a flash the reaction came; the relief, to be able to sit down, to yell our loudest, and to hug each other and slap game old Tom on the back, and to shake hands with modest Joe and to hear his soft voice:

"'Deed. I tole yo so. Des yere ole he debbils pizen savage; 'deed dey is."

It was joy enough for everyone. Who would not go fishing for such as he.

Sail was hoisted and our prize towed proudly home to be hauled ashore and gloated over and wondered at and pictured to our hearts' content, to show for years to come the victory we had won over the tiger of the seas.

JOSEPH E. JAMESON.