HOMEWARD.--THE EPISODE OF GALWAY MIKE.--CAPE HORN.--THE LAST WHALE.
The inspiring cry of "There she blows!" greeted our ears the third
day after leaving Sydney, and two sixty-barrel bulls, tugging at the
fluke-chains that night, were the rich reward of our hard day's labor,
putting us all in high spirits, for another hundred barrels would
fill the ship, and this we hoped to get somewhere on the passage. Our
progress was somewhat delayed, of course, as we were obliged to lose
the fair wind while cutting. We had the last "junk" in the tackles,
when a sail was seen to windward running down across us, and, on
drawing nearer, was made out to be a small hermaphrodite brig. He
seemed to recognize us, for, instead of running down across us, he
rounded to windward and lowered his boat. As he came up to the wind,
exposing his broadside to view, we had no difficulty in recognizing a
little brigantine that lay a little inshore of us, while in Sydney.
"That's the Paramatta!" said a dozen voices at once, and no one knew
her better than our supernumerary shipmate. He said not a word to those
near him, but went aft to the captain. He stood respectfully on the
lee side of the quarter deck, waiting till the old man should be at
liberty to notice him. Nothing in his manner or appearance indicated
that he was at all disturbed or alarmed.
"Well, Mike," said the old man, as, shutting up his spyglass and
turning round, he, for the first time, perceived him. "What's the word?
You know that fellow, I suppose?"
"O, yes, sir. That's the Paramatta, bound to Auckland. I suppose it's
all up with me."
"How so?" asked the old man. "Do you mean to go on board and give
yourself up?"
"No, sir, not I; I shall never go unless I am carried by force; but I
thought perhaps you might give me up, as it would save you the trouble
and delay of landing me at New Zealand. Perhaps I did you injustice in
thinking so. I hope I did, sir."
"Of course you did, Mike," said the captain, severely. "I gave you
my word that I would land you, and I shall keep it. Perhaps you had
better keep out of sight for the present, as I don't care to have it
known that you are on board my ship, and some of the boat's crew might
recognize you."
"All right, sir," replied the convict. "I'll be all snug before they
get here. His crew wouldn't be likely to blow upon me any more than
yours would, but old Pickering himself would sell me at sight to get
the reward. He would like nothing better than to take me to Auckland.
You see he isn't a regular-built seaman, sir; he's a sort of 'long
shore trader."
"I see," said the old man. "Well, he won't be much the wiser for his
visit to me. But here he is, close under our quarter. You wont need
any instruction about hiding yourself, for you are qualified to teach
me," he added, with a laugh, as Mike passed forward and vanished below
the deck.
"It's very likely," said the old man, walking to the mainmast, and
raising his voice for the benefit of all who might be within hearing,
"that some inquiries will be made about that man who is not down by
name on the ship's articles. As for myself, I don't mean to know
anything about him. The rest of you, of course, are at liberty to turn
informers, if you wish to. I should be sorry to think any of my men
would do so, but I have no authority to dictate what subjects you shall
talk about."
He had said enough; Mike's secret was perfectly safe. Pickering, the
skipper of the brigantine, a "comfortable" looking Englishman, with
thin side whiskers, and a general roast-beef appearance, stepped on
deck and shook hands with Captain Upton.
"Ah! captain, you've got a good cut, I see."
"Yes," answered the old man. "We've had greasy luck, and got a couple
of nice whales. When did you leave Sydney?"
"The same day that you did, in the afternoon. Have you got a strange
man on board, captain?"
"I don't see any," said our conscientious skipper, glancing innocently
forward among the groups of men. "Your harbor police overhauled me
pretty severely before I tripped my anchor, and _they_ didn't see any,
either."
"Yes, I noticed they spent some time on board of you. But there was
a mighty stir among them within two hours after you left. The keeper
of that public near the landing was arrested for having harbored and
concealed him. Some one informed against him, and it was proved that
this Galway Mike had been seen near the house the evening before, and
so, instead of putting back into the bush, it was thought he had gone
on board some vessel."
"The Jolly Tar is fallen into melancholy, then, I suppose."
"Yes," replied Pickering; "the landlord had his 'ticket' revoked, for
he was a lag himself. He was lugged up to Hyde Park Barracks and put
into uniform. He will have to serve out his time in the stone quarry."
"But don't you think," asked the old man, "that if that convict had
been on board the ship, he would have shown himself before this time?"
"Yes, he would," said the Englishman, "unless some of your men are
parties to his concealment, and furnish him with food. In that case he
might be concealed for some time."
"So he might," said our captain, dryly. "That's true."
"He may be hid somewhere on board at this moment," observed Pickering,
in a low and mysterious tone.
"I shouldn't wonder," answered Captain Upton, in the same manner. "Or
he may be on board the Paramatta."
"He wouldn't be likely to run from New South Wales to New Zealand, if
he could get any other voyage. There's thirty pound reward offered for
his apprehension," said Pickering.
"Is there, indeed? That's quite an object. But, come, let's go below
and take something. I'm too busy to hunt for the man now, but if I
should find him on board before I get to New Zealand, I'll land him
there."
They reappeared in a few minutes, and Pickering manned his boat and
left us. The brigantine was soon running off on her course, and the
convict was again at work among the rest.
"His fingers are itching for that thirty pounds, Mr. Grafton," said
the old man. "He didn't make anything by coming here. I didn't tell
him any lies though--or, at least, nothing but Quaker lies," said
he, compromising with his conscience. The mate laughed, evidently
understanding what he meant; but Mr. Dunham inquired his meaning.
"Well," said the captain, in explanation, "you don't remember Uncle
Reuben the shoemaker, but Mr. Grafton does. I went there to be measured
for a pair of boots, and, of course, I asked him when they would be
done? 'Well,' said he, 'thee may come in seventh-day night.' So at the
appointed time, I went for my boots, and he hadn't begun on them yet. I
was much disappointed, for I expected to have worn them on Sunday, and
I said to him, indignantly: 'You told me they would be done Saturday
night.' 'O, no!' said Uncle Reuben, in his mild way; 'I didn't tell
thee so. I told thee, _thee might come_ seventh-day night, and that
was just what I meant. If they were done, thee could have them; if not,
I would tell thee when to come again.' Now that was as near a lie as
anything that I said to Captain Pickering."
We finished boiling and stowing down our oil, and again cracked sail
on the ship. On the twelfth day after leaving our port we made the
North Cape of New Zealand, and the islands named, by Tasman, "The Three
Kings." We stood in near the coast, looking for an eligible place to
set our man ashore, and the old man said to him:
"I suppose, Mike, you wouldn't want to be landed very near the Bay of
Islands?"
"No," said the convict, "I would rather not. Put me among the Maories,
and that is all I want. There is a headland here not far off. I'll
tell you when we come to it. There, I can see it now," said Mike,
who appeared to be better acquainted with the coast than any one on
board. "There is the entrance to a snug, land-locked bay called by
the natives, Wangaroa. It's not generally known to whalers yet, but
will be visited more, by and by. Put me on the rocks, anywhere within
the entrance, and I'll give you no more trouble. I am known among
that tribe there. The English authorities will not find me, there.
The Maories are in a state of war with the English, and they are not
to be despised when they fight in their own way, among their native
mountains."
We hove to off the place indicated, and lowered our boat, taking the
convict himself as our pilot. He shook hands heartily with everybody,
seeming neither elated nor despondent, but self-collected and
impassible as he always was. He took with him nothing but an old musket
and some ammunition which the old man had given him. We rounded a point
of rocks and pulled a short distance into the bay, when two Maories,
on an elevation a short distance from us, hailed us, at the same time
bringing their muskets up to the shoulder. We ceased pulling and lay
on our oars. The convict rose and answered them in their own dialect,
seeming to speak it quite fluently. They answered again, and a short
conference seemed to produce satisfactory results, for they lowered
their guns and descended the hill towards us, after giving a louder
shout than any before, to which we could hear a responsive yell from
voices further up the bay.
"They'll pass the word all the way over those mountains," said our cool
and ready companion. "There's a chain of sentinels and pickets on every
hill. It's all right; these fellows know me well. Lay right in for that
flat rock, and I'll land there."
We did so; he jumped out on the ledge of rock, and with a single
"good-by" to us, he rushed up to meet the two natives half-way. They
seemed to greet each other as former acquaintances might, and the three
disappeared over the brow of the hill together, as we pulled out at the
mouth of the bay. This was the last that any one of us ever saw of our
"government man;" but some two years afterwards, I read, by accident,
in a Sydney newspaper, an account of a smart and bloody skirmish
between the English troops and the Maori tribes, and among the slain
had been found the body of a white man, tattooed in the face like a
chief of rank, and it was recognized as that of a desperado long known
in the colonial settlements as Galway Mike. Thus read the statement in
the Gazette, and this is all I know of his history.
The passage across the South Pacific Ocean is monotonous and barren
of incident. From New Zealand to Cape Horn we had rugged weather and
strong winds, for the most part fair for running on our course, at
times blowing, day after day, with the regularity of trades, again
hauling a few points so as to trim for it on the other quarter, and in
one or two instances increasing to a gale, so violent as to compel us
to heave to for the safety of the ship. As we approached Cape Horn we
again encountered the cutting hail squalls which seem almost peculiar
to this part of the world, but with the wind aft, we did not mind them
so much as when outward bound. Rolling off before the westerly gales
with sufficient press of canvas on the ship to keep her well clear of
the mountainous seas in chase of her, with everything well secured, and
careful men at the wheel, we laughed at the weather now, and wondered
at our own progress, as we counted off five, six, or seven degrees of
longitude each day, and reckoned how many more days at this rate of
sailing ere we should have room to edge away to the northward and begin
to steal towards a milder climate. Degrees of longitude are short ones
in this latitude, and we seem to be "putting a girdle round about the
earth," if not, like Puck, "in forty minutes," yet still at a rate that
appears to us marvellous, as we find our clock nearly half an hour
behind the sun each day at meridian, and push her ahead to keep her up
to our flying rate of progress.
Land ho! most welcome to our eager eyes, rough, barren and
uninhabitable though it be, the storm-beaten rock of Diego Ramirez, for
it tells us where we are, better than the whole slateful of figures.
"Shake out another reef!" she'll bear it! another day's run, and we can
shove her off north-east on the "home side of the land"--the towering
seas gather and roll on after us--but keep the canvas on her and she
will keep ahead of them--every one of them shoots her on towards "Home,
sweet home"--Diego Ramirez fades into the dark squall astern, and if
the wind stands where it is, we shall catch Cape Horn asleep. That
squall has passed--it is not so heavy as it promised to be--"Give her
the mainto'gallantsail!" We must make the most of the breeze while we
have it, for we're homeward bound! The sun rises brightly this morning,
and the wind is fresh yet, and canting to the southward--"Never mind!
let her slide off two points, east-north-east now!" for we've plenty of
sea room--we're in the Atlantic!
We passed to the eastward of the Falklands, and were nearly on the
ground where we lost our third mate, when outward-bound. Of course the
melancholy circumstance was recalled, and talked over, and the captain
mentioned that some twelve years previous, when mate of the Colossus,
he had struck a whale in this vicinity, and lost him in consequence of
his iron breaking.
"I hope," said he, "to see whales yet in crossing this ground. It bids
fair to be a good day to-morrow, and I think we will shorten sail at
night and let her jog easy, so as to take a good look along here. One
large whale would be all we want to chock us off, and we would go home
with flying colors."
The next morning we had hardly got the reefs shaken out, when whales
were raised. There were several of them, but they did not appear to run
together, but were seen here and there in different directions, and
were also irregular in their time of rising and going down.
"These whales have been gallied," said the old man, "and have not
got regular yet. Some ship has been whaling here yesterday, I think.
But here is one off the lee quarter that I think can be struck, Mr.
Grafton. You and Mr. Dunham lower away and go down there and try him,
and I will wait a while and take the ship's chance. If you get fast,
I'll come down there to you."
Away we went off to leeward, but it soon appeared that his whaleship
was too shy for us, and was playing a dodge game with us. In vain we
tried to "prick for him;" we spread our chances, and used our best
judgment, but all to no purpose. He always rose in some unexpected
quarter, and spouting but a few times, was down again before we could
get near enough to "stand up." At length he took a start and went off
to leeward at a round pace, and led on by our ardor in the chase we
pursued it until we were full three miles from the ship, when it became
evident that he was moving faster and faster at each rising, and we
abandoned the chase, especially as the ship showed no signs of running
off, but still lay aback in the same position as when we lowered. We
laid round the heads of our boats towards the ship, and pulled to
windward, wondering why the old man still kept his luff, when up went
the ensign at the peak, and the small signal at the main was run up and
down several times in rapid succession.
"Give way hard, boys!" said the mate. "We are wanted in a hurry. The
old man must have lowered and struck a whale to windward, and wants
help. Perhaps he's stove! spring hard and shoot her up there!"
We put our strength to the oars with a will, the second mate keeping
way with us, and, though doing our best, it seemed in our anxiety
and impatience, that he did not make any headway. The signal was now
and then run up and down again hurriedly, speaking the most urgent
language of which it was capable. We saw men on the bearers, apparently
trying to clear away the lashings of the spare boat which was turned
up overhead, but soon this seemed to be abandoned. We could make
out now, as we drew nearer, that the cooper was on the hurricane
house, waving with all his might to us and thus stimulated to greater
exertion, we toiled away at our oars, the boats jumping into the head
sea, and sending the spray all over us. We could hear them hailing us
from the ship, long before we could make out the words. We could see
them pointing to windward, as if to tell us we were needed there. Up
across the stern we held our long and strong stroke, receiving the
information as we passed, that the old man had struck a whale off the
weather bow, and he had run him into the "sun-glaze," so that they
could not see him from the ship, and they thought he must be stoven. He
could not be far off, however, as he was not more than a mile from the
ship when last seen.
"Give way hard, boys!" said the mate again. "Brace forward, Cooper,
and down tacks!" but he was already mustering his small force for this
purpose. We "laid back" on our oars, the mates heaving at the stroke
oars, and keeping a sharp look out, not pulling directly at the glare
of the sun, but in a direction abaft it so as to look broad off the bow
and beam of the boat. Soon the mate's countenance lighted, and he threw
her head suddenly off with the steering oar.
"Here they are!" said he, "and not far from us, either! Spring hard,
men! They're all on the wreck--two, four, five, six--all safe yet!"
They were, indeed, all safe as yet; but we were none too soon, for
they were nearly exhausted, as there was a smart sea on, washing over
them, and they had all they could do to keep their positions, the
strongest assisting and encouraging the others. My friend Ashton was
almost gone when I dragged him into our boat; a few minutes more would
have finished him. The whole bottom of their boat was crushed, she had
filled and rolled over with them, and they had all clung to the bottom.
"Never mind the boat," said the old man, "she isn't worth picking up.
Set a waif for the cooper to tack and stand towards us. Let's get on
board, some of us and get the spare boat out. I think we shall see the
whale again if we work up to windward a tack or two."
The ship went about, and soon hove to again close to us. We shot
alongside, put the half-drowned men on board, and had hardly done so
when the whale came up in the ship's wake, distance less that half a
mile. "Shove off!" was the word, and we were after him again with two
boats, while the captain with his force were already rousing the third
one off the bearers. The second mate got the lead this time and was
fast a few minutes after pushing astern of the ship. The whale rounded
to, and "showed good play," and we were quickly on hand to let more
blood from him. He was already weakened from his wounds, and a few
touches of the lance made him our prize. The spare boat was not called
into service; but another short tack with the ship, and with shouts
of triumph that rang loud and clear over the sea, we hauled alongside
our last whale, that was to "chock off" the between decks and fill
all our spare casks. Our perils in the attack of these monsters were
over, for this voyage. No more hard pulls to windward--no involuntary
sea-bathing--no more tedious "mastheads" to be stood. Well might we
shout over this "last but not least" of our hard-earned prizes.