Until the extraordinary affair at
Sidmouth, the peculiar species Haploteuthis ferox
was known to science only generically, on the strength
of a half-digested tentacle obtained near the Azores,
and a decaying body pecked by birds and nibbled by
fish, found early in 1896 by Mr. Jennings, near Land’s
End.
In no department of zoological science,
indeed, are we quite so much in the dark as with regard
to the deep-sea cephalopods. A mere accident,
for instance, it was that led to the Prince of Monaco’s
discovery of nearly a dozen new forms in the summer
of 1895, a discovery in which the before-mentioned
tentacle was included. It chanced that a cachalot
was killed off Terceira by some sperm whalers, and
in its last struggles charged almost to the Prince’s
yacht, missed it, rolled under, and died within twenty
yards of his rudder. And in its agony it threw
up a number of large objects, which the Prince, dimly
perceiving they were strange and important, was, by
a happy expedient, able to secure before they sank.
He set his screws in motion, and kept them circling
in the vortices thus created until a boat could be
lowered. And these specimens were whole cephalopods
and fragments of cephalopods, some of gigantic proportions,
and almost all of them unknown to science!
It would seem, indeed, that these
large and agile creatures, living in the middle depths
of the sea, must, to a large extent, for ever remain
unknown to us, since under water they are too nimble
for nets, and it is only by such rare, unlooked-for
accidents that specimens can be obtained. In the
case of Haploteuthis ferox, for instance, we
are still altogether ignorant of its habitat, as ignorant
as we are of the breeding-ground of the herring or
the sea-ways of the salmon. And zoologists are
altogether at a loss to account for its sudden appearance
on our coast. Possibly it was the stress of a
hunger migration that drove it hither out of the deep.
But it will be, perhaps, better to avoid necessarily
inconclusive discussion, and to proceed at once with
our narrative.
The first human being to set eyes
upon a living Haploteuthis—the first
human being to survive, that is, for there can be little
doubt now that the wave of bathing fatalities and
boating accidents that travelled along the coast of
Cornwall and Devon in early May was due to this cause—was
a retired tea-dealer of the name of Fison, who was
stopping at a Sidmouth boarding-house. It was
in the afternoon, and he was walking along the cliff
path between Sidmouth and Ladram Bay. The cliffs
in this direction are very high, but down the red
face of them in one place a kind of ladder staircase
has been made. He was near this when his attention
was attracted by what at first he thought to be a
cluster of birds struggling over a fragment of food
that caught the sunlight, and glistened pinkish-white.
The tide was right out, and this object was not only
far below him, but remote across a broad waste of
rock reefs covered with dark seaweed and interspersed
with silvery shining tidal pools. And he was,
moreover, dazzled by the brightness of the further
water.
In a minute, regarding this again,
he perceived that his judgment was in fault, for over
this struggle circled a number of birds, jackdaws and
gulls for the most part, the latter gleaming blindingly
when the sunlight smote their wings, and they seemed
minute in comparison with it. And his curiosity
was, perhaps, aroused all the more strongly because
of his first insufficient explanations.
As he had nothing better to do than
amuse himself, he decided to make this object, whatever
it was, the goal of his afternoon walk, instead of
Ladram Bay, conceiving it might perhaps be a great
fish of some sort, stranded by some chance, and flapping
about in its distress. And so he hurried down
the long steep ladder, stopping at intervals of thirty
feet or so to take breath and scan the mysterious
movement.
At the foot of the cliff he was, of
course, nearer his object than he had been; but, on
the other hand, it now came up against the incandescent
sky, beneath the sun, so as to seem dark and indistinct.
Whatever was pinkish of it was now hidden by a skerry
of weedy boulders. But he perceived that it was
made up of seven rounded bodies distinct or connected,
and that the birds kept up a constant croaking and
screaming, but seemed afraid to approach it too closely.
Mr. Fison, torn by curiosity, began
picking his way across the wave-worn rocks, and finding
the wet seaweed that covered them thickly rendered
them extremely slippery, he stopped, removed his shoes
and socks, and rolled his trousers above his knees.
His object was, of course, merely to avoid stumbling
into the rocky pools about him, and perhaps he was
rather glad, as all men are, of an excuse to resume,
even for a moment, the sensations of his boyhood.
At any rate, it is to this, no doubt, that he owes
his life.
He approached his mark with all the
assurance which the absolute security of this country
against all forms of animal life gives its inhabitants.
The round bodies moved to and fro, but it was only
when he surmounted the skerry of boulders I have mentioned
that he realised the horrible nature of the discovery.
It came upon him with some suddenness.
The rounded bodies fell apart as he
came into sight over the ridge, and displayed the
pinkish object to be the partially devoured body of
a human being, but whether of a man or woman he was
unable to say. And the rounded bodies were new
and ghastly-looking creatures, in shape somewhat resembling
an octopus, with huge and very long and flexible tentacles,
coiled copiously on the ground. The skin had a
glistening texture, unpleasant to see, like shiny
leather. The downward bend of the tentacle-surrounded
mouth, the curious excrescence at the bend, the tentacles,
and the large intelligent eyes, gave the creatures
a grotesque suggestion of a face. They were the
size of a fair-sized swine about the body, and the
tentacles seemed to him to be many feet in length.
There were, he thinks, seven or eight at least of
the creatures. Twenty yards beyond them, amid
the surf of the now returning tide, two others were
emerging from the sea.
Their bodies lay flatly on the rocks,
and their eyes regarded him with evil interest; but
it does not appear that Mr. Fison was afraid, or that
he realised that he was in any danger. Possibly
his confidence is to be ascribed to the limpness of
their attitudes. But he was horrified, of course,
and intensely excited and indignant, at such revolting
creatures preying upon human flesh. He thought
they had chanced upon a drowned body. He shouted
to them, with the idea of driving them off, and finding
they did not budge, cast about him, picked up a big
rounded lump of rock, and flung it at one.
And then, slowly uncoiling their tentacles,
they all began moving towards him—creeping
at first deliberately, and making a soft purring sound
to each other.
In a moment Mr. Fison realised that
he was in danger. He shouted again, threw both
his boots, and started off, with a leap, forthwith.
Twenty yards off he stopped and faced about, judging
them slow, and behold! the tentacles of their leader
were already pouring over the rocky ridge on which
he had just been standing!
At that he shouted again, but this
time not threatening, but a cry of dismay, and began
jumping, striding, slipping, wading across the uneven
expanse between him and the beach. The tall red
cliffs seemed suddenly at a vast distance, and he
saw, as though they were creatures in another world,
two minute workmen engaged in the repair of the ladder-way,
and little suspecting the race for life that was beginning
below them. At one time he could hear the creatures
splashing in the pools not a dozen feet behind him,
and once he slipped and almost fell.
They chased him to the very foot of
the cliffs, and desisted only when he had been joined
by the workmen at the foot of the ladder-way up the
cliff. All three of the men pelted them with
stones for a time, and then hurried to the cliff top
and along the path towards Sidmouth, to secure assistance
and a boat, and to rescue the desecrated body from
the clutches of these abominable creatures.