Towering in lonely majesty for two thousand feet above the blue waters of Foveaux Strait, the mighty mass of the Solander Rock seems to dominate that stormy region like some eternal sentinel set to hail the coming of the flying fleets of the northern hemisphere to the brave new world of New Zealand. To all appearance it is perfectly inaccessible, its bare weather-stained sides, buffeted by the tempests of ages, rising sheer from a depth of hundreds of fathoms without apparently a ledge or a crevice wherein even a goat could find precarious foothold. Not that landing would be practicable even were there any jutting shelves near the water’s edge; for exposed as the rock is to the full range of the Southern Ocean, it must perforce meet continually with the effects of all the storms that are raging right round the southern slopes of this planet of ours, since there is absolutely nothing to hinder their world-engirdling sweep in those latitudes. Even when, as happens at rare intervals, the unwearying west wind stays for a brief space its imperial march to meet the rising sun, and the truce of storm and sea broods over the deep in a hush like the peace of God, the glassy bosom of the ocean still undulates as if with the throbbing of earth’s heart, a pulse only to be timed by the horology of Creation. That almost imperceptible upheaval of the sea-surface, meeting in its gliding sweep with the Solander Rock, rises in wrathful protest, the thunders of its voice being audible for many miles; while torn into a thousand whirling eddies, its foaming crests chafe and grind around the steadfast base of the solitary mountain, in a series of overfalls that would immediately destroy any vessel of man’s building that became involved therein. And this in a stark calm. But in a gale, especially one that is howling from Antarctica to Kerguelen—from Tristan d’Acunha to the Snares—over the most tremendous waste of waters this earth can show, then is the time to see the Solander. Like a never-ending succession of mountain ranges with snowy summits and gloomy declivities streaked with white, the storm waves of the Southern Sea come rushing on. Wide opens the funnel of Foveaux Strait before them, fifty miles from shore to shore at its mouth, and in its centre, confronting them alone, stands the great Rock. They hurl themselves at its mass, their impact striking a deeper note than that of the storm; as if the foundations of the earth were jarred and sent upward through all her strata a reply to the impetuous ocean. Baffled, dashed into a myriad hissing fragments, the sea recoils until the very root-hold of the rock is revealed to the day, and its strange inhabitants blink glassily at the bright glare of the sun. Then are the broken masses of the beaten wave hurled aloft by the scourging wind until the topmost crag streams with the salt spray and all down the deeply-scored sides flows the foaming brine. So fierce and continuous is the assault that the Rock is often invisible, despite its huge mass, for hours together, or only dimly discernible through the spindrift like a sombre spectre, the gigantic spirit of the storm. Only the western face of the Solander is thus assaulted. For to the eastward the Straits narrow rapidly until at their outlet there is but two or three miles of open water. Therefore that side of the Rock is always comparatively peaceful above high-water mark. During the fiercest storm, the wind, meeting this solid obstruction, recoils from itself, making an invisible cushion of air all around the mountain, within the limits of which it is calm except on the side remote from the wind, where a gentle return breeze may be felt. But down below a different state of things prevails. The retreat of the mighty waves before that immovable bastion drags after them all the waters behind it, so that there is created a whirlpool that need fear no comparison with the MaelstrÖm. Its indraught may be felt at a great distance, and pieces of wreckage are collected by it until the tormented waters are bestrewn with dÉbris twirling in one mad dance about those polished cliffs.

It is therefore easy to understand why the Solander Rock is left lonely. Passing merchantmen give it a wide berth, wisely judging the vicinity none too safe. Fishermen in this region there are none. Only the whalers, who knew the western end of Foveaux Straits as one of the most favourite haunts of the sperm whale, cruised about and about it for weeks and months at a stretch, like shadowy squadrons of a bygone day irresistibly held in a certain orbit by the attraction of the great Rock and doomed to weave sea-patterns around it for ever. One by one they have disappeared until now there are none left, and the Solander alone keeps the gate.

Now at a certain period of a long voyage I once made as a seaman on board a South Sea “Spouter,” it befell that we descended from the balmy latitudes near the Line, where we had been cruising for many months with little success, to see whether better luck might await us on the stormy Solander “ground.” From the first day of our arrival there the old grey mountain seemed to exercise a strange fascination upon the usually prosaic mind of our elderly skipper. Of romance or poetic instinct he did not seem to possess a shade, yet for many an hour he would lean motionless over the weather rail, his keen eyes steadily fixed upon the sphinx-like mass around which we slowly cruised. He was usually silent as if dumb, but one morning when we were about ten miles to the westward of the Rock, I happened to be at the wheel as the sun was rising. The skipper was lolling over the quarter, pipe in mouth, his chin supported upon his left hand, apparently lost in thought. Suddenly the dark outlines of the Rock became illuminated, the abrupt angles of its crags took on a shimmering haze of tenderest glow, while from the jagged summits a lovely coronal of radiant colour shot forth delicate streamers into the clear morning sky. Towards us from the Rock’s black base crept a mighty sombre shadow whose edges were so dazzling in brilliance as to be painful to look upon. As this marvellous picture caught my dull eyes I held my breath, while a strange tightening of the skin over my head bore witness to the awe I felt. Then the skipper spoke, unconscious I believe that he was uttering his thoughts aloud—“Great God! haouw merv’llous air Thy works. The hull airth an’ the sea also ez full o’ Thy glory.” There was utter silence again while the glow deepened into blazing gold, crimson lances radiated from the central dark into the deep blue around until they mellowed off into emerald and violet, and then—the culminating point of the vision—the vast fervent disc of the sun crowned the mountain with a blaze of ineffable splendour.

Meanwhile we were steadily nearing the Rock, and as the wind freed a point or two we headed straight for its centre, the vessel being close-hauled on the starboard tack. The bright day came full circle, the ordinary everyday duties of the ship began, but still the skipper moved not, still I steered directly for the mountain’s broad base. I noted several curious glances cast by the two busy officers, first at the Rock and then at the motionless skipper, but they offered no remarks. Nearer and nearer we drew until a great black space opened up in the centre of the huge cliffs, looking like some enormous cave extending far into the heart of the mountain as we rapidly lessened our distance from it, and what was at first only a supposition became a certainty—that enormous mass of rock was hollow. At last when we were within a mile of it the skipper ordered me to keep her away a couple of points, and had the yards checked in a little. Then, binocular in hand, he mounted to the main-top and gazed long and earnestly into the gloom of that tremendous cavern, whose floor was at least fifty feet above high-water mark. In and out of it flew a busy company of sea-birds, their snow-white wings gleaming brightly against the dark background. We were so close now that we could hear the sullen murmur of the restless waters about the base of those wall-like cliffs, and even with the unassisted eye could see a considerable distance within. Much anxiety began to be manifested by all except the skipper, for everybody knew well how strong an inset is always experienced in such positions. And as we got dead to leeward of the rock we lost the wind—it was shut off from us by that immense barrier. All hands were now on deck, and as “eight bells” was struck the crisp notes came back to us with startling distinctness from the innermost recesses of the great cavern. It was undoubtedly a trying moment for us all, for we did not know what was going to happen. But the old man descended leisurely, saying to the mate as his foot touched the deck, “I’d give five hundred dollars to be able to look round that ther hole. Ef thar ain’t suthin’ on-common to it I’m a hoss.” “Wall, Cap’n,” answered Mr. Peck, “I guess one o’ these yer Kanakas ’d hev’n all-fired hard dig at it fur a darn sight less ’n that. But doan’ ye think we mout so well be gittin’ a bit ov’n offin’? I’m er soshibul man m’self, ’n thet’s a fack, but I’ll be gol durned ef I wouldn’t jest ’s lieve be a few mile further away ’s not.” As he spoke the reflex eddy of the wind round the other side of the rock filled our head sails and we paid off to leeward smartly enough. A sensation of relief rippled through all hands as the good old tub churned up the water again and slipped away from that terribly dangerous vicinity.

The old man’s words having been plainly heard by several of us, there was much animated discussion of them during that forenoon watch below to the exclusion of every other topic. As many different surmises were set afloat as to what the mystery of that gloomy abyss might be as there were men in our watch, but finally we all agreed that whatever it was the old man would find a way to unravel it if it was within the range of human possibility. A week passed away, during which the weather remained wonderfully fine, a most unusual occurrence in that place. A big whale was caught, and the subsequent proceedings effectually banished all thoughts of the mystery from our minds for the time; but when the ship had regained her normal neatness and the last traces of our greasy occupation had been cleared away, back with a swing came the enthralling interest in that cave. Again we headed up for the rock with a failing air of wind that finally left us when we were a scant two miles from it. Then two sturdy little Kanakas, who had lately been holding interminable consultations with each other, crept aft and somehow made the old man understand that they were willing to attempt the scaling of that grim ocean fortress. Their plan of campaign was simple. A boat was to take them in as close as was prudent, carrying three whale lines, or over 5000 feet. Each of them would have a “Black fish poke” or bladder which is about as big as a four-gallon cask, and when fully inflated is capable of floating three men easily. They would also take with them a big coil of stout fishing-line which when they took the water they would pay out behind them, one end being secured to the boat. Thus equipped, they felt confident of being able to effect a landing. Without hesitation, such was his burning desire to know more about that strange place, he accepted the brave little men’s offer. No time was lost. In less than a quarter of an hour all was ready, and away went the boat, manned by five of our best men and steered by the skipper himself. She was soon on the very margin of safety, and without a moment’s hesitation away went the daring darkies. Like seals they dodged the roaring eddies, as if amphibious, they slacked off their bladders and dived beneath the ugly combers that now and then threatened to hurl them against the frowning face of the rock. Suddenly one of them disappeared entirely. We thought he had been dashed to pieces and had sunk, but almost immediately the other one vanished also. Hardly a breath was drawn among us, our hearts stood still. The skipper’s face was a study in mental agony. Silently he signed to us to pull a stroke or two although already we were in a highly dangerous position. What we felt none of us could describe when, sending all the blood rushing to our heads, we heard an eldritch yell multiplied indefinitely by a whole series of echoes. And there high above our heads on the brink of the cave stood the two gallant fellows apparently frantic with delight. A big tear wandered reluctantly down each of the skipper’s rugged cheeks as he muttered “Starn all,” and in obedience to his order the boat shot seaward a few lengths into safety. Thus we waited for fully an hour, while the two Kanakas were invisible, apparently busy with their explorations. At last they appeared again, holding up their hands as if to show us something. Then they shouted some indistinct words which by the gestures that accompanied them we took to mean that they would now return. Again they disappeared, but in less than five minutes we saw them battling with the seething surf once more. Now we could help them, and by hauling steadily on the fishing-lines we soon had them in the boat and were patting their smooth brown backs. They said that they had found a sort of vertical tunnel whose opening was beneath the water, which they had entered by diving. It led right up into the cave, which was of tremendous extent, so large, in fact, that they had not explored a tenth of it. But not far from its entrance they had found the bones of a man! By his side lay a sheath-knife and a brass belt buckle. Nothing more. And the mystery of the Solander was deeper than ever. We never again attempted its solution.