As Uncle Thatcher ran, so ran his neighbors. Bounding across fields,
leaping fences, rolling down the sandy face of the bluff, they arrived
breathlessly before a small wooden hut at the foot of a sand dune, a
little distance up from the edge of the beach--the boat-house of the
whaling company. Their captain, having good legs and wind, timely
notice and the shortest distance to travel, was, as usual, first to
reach the goal, and by the time the crew arrived, had already thrown
open the large double doors which constituted the entire front of the
hut, revealing within a completely fitted whale-boat that stood
chocked upon ways that ran down into the surf. There was too much
excitement, and too little breath among the eager men who joined him,
for waste of words. Each knew his place and busied himself with the
duties pertaining to it. One looked to the harpoons. Another saw that
the lance was in its place, and the lashing of its wooden cap thrown
off. A third was careful to see that the long line, nicely coiled in
its tub, was free from loops or kinks in the coil. By this time all
the crew were assembled, and grasping the thwarts of the boat, from
beneath which the chocks were kicked out, ran her swiftly down to the
water's edge and launched her, springing in over her sides as she rode
out upon a receding wave. Uncle Thatcher sat in the stern. The bow oar
was held by Lem Pawlett, a sturdy young fellow who had earned by his
strength, skill, and courage the envied post of harpooner.
Once launched, the men rested on their oars a few moments, and looked
up inquiringly to the man on horseback, as if awaiting a signal from
him. During this brief period of inaction, a little good-natured
chaffing passed between the younger men in the boat and their
disappointed neighbors who came too late to take places at the oars.
All belonged to the same company, but only the first comers were, by
their rules, allowed to man the boat. The crew would have fatigue,
peril, possibly death to encounter, but they would also have the
excitement of the chase and a somewhat greater share of the profits,
in the event of success, than those who remained behind; so there was
always a great effort made by every man to be first to catch the
signal of the mounted lookout, who was on the bluffs all day long--and
first, if possible, to reach the boat-house.
"Aha! There's Dan!" exclaimed one in the boat. "This is the third
time, hand-running, that he has missed going out. It looks as if he
was afraid since we tackled that finback."
"If you couldn't run any better than you can row, I'd beat you here
every time," retorted Dan.
"I dreamed last night of rolling a bar'l of oil," remarked a
middle-aged man in the crew, "and I'd a swore this morning that I'd be
after a whale before the day was over. I never knowed it to fail."
"And then," answered one on shore, "you came down and sat on the beach
all day, waiting for the signal. It isn't fair to play dreams on the
rest of us that way, is it boys?"
"No. We've got to pull him out of bed at daylight hereafter, and swear
him on what he dreamed the night before."
"You'd better not try it. I keep a gun."
"But you don't know how to load it. You want to come right out of that
boat now, and start fair, Billy."
"I'll run you fifty yards on the beach for your place, Billy."
"That wasn't what the dream meant, Billy."
"What did it mean then?"
"Why, that you were going to find a bar'l of rum in the Napeague sedge
next light of the moon."
There was a general laugh, for Billy's operations against the peace
and dignity of the customs authorities were, like those of Uncle
Thatcher, an open secret among his neighbors.
Suddenly Uncle Thatcher raised his hand, and all were silent, turning
their eyes to the man on the bluff, who was looking through a glass
out upon the sea, while holding his little red flag extended at arm's
length and still. After a few moments he raised the bit of bunting
twice above his head, held it motionless for an instant, pointing
toward the east, then waved it once.
"She blows and breaches two points south of east, and a mile away,"
exclaimed Uncle Thatcher, translating the language of the flag. "Pull,
boys! Pull away!"
With arrow-like swiftness the boat darted from the shore; but hardly a
sound, as the oars plied rapidly in the rowlocks and the ashen blades
bent in the heaving billows, could have been heard a half-dozen yards
away. Nearer and nearer they drew to the whale, and by this time the
rowers were panting with their exertions; but not a man lost his
stroke, and not a word was uttered save the captain's low and earnest
caution: "Harder a port." Although so close to the monster that they
could hear it blow, not one of the crew turned his head.
"Up bow!" commanded the captain.
In an instant Lem Pawlett, throwing his oar into the boat, was upon
his feet, with a harpoon poised in both hands above his head, his face
toward the bow. He was within four or five fathoms of the whale.
Another stroke of the oars reduced the distance to two; and then, with
a mighty effort, he launched the keen-pointed iron into the huge,
black, shining mass that lay before him. Quick as thought the
harpooner was in his seat, oar in hand, ready to respond to the
instantaneously given order, "Back all!" And the boat seemed to spring
away from its dangerous proximity to the whale, almost as if its
motion was a recoil from Lem's powerful stroke. The huge creature,
thus rudely startled, leaped clear of the water, in sudden fright and
pain; then darted straight downward toward the bottom. And now ensued
the most anxious moments of the chase. The line attached to the
harpoon ran out from its coil in the tub abaft of 'midships, around
the logger-head astern, and thence forward, between the men as they
sat at their oars, and over a roller in the bow, following the fleeing
whale so fast that it fairly hissed. Lem sat ready with a hatchet in
his hand to cut it, if necessary, as it might at any moment be, to
save a man's life. For, should a kink or loop occur in that swift
speeding rope, and catch one of the crew by arm, or leg, or neck, it
would either kill him at once or hurl him, like a stone from a sling,
into the sea, were it not quickly severed.
Fortunately for his hunters, nature has placed the whale under two
serious disadvantages. His field of vision is so limited, owing to the
position of his eyes, that it is not difficult to approach him closely
if his pursuers are cautious to keep back of his flukes; and he must,
from time to time, come to the surface to breathe. However deep and
far he may plough his way beneath the waves, his enemies know that it
is only a question of time when he will have to come up and subject
himself to another attack; and however mighty his energies, he must
eventually succumb, if the harpoon holds and the line is not cut.
Down, down went the tortured animal, until the men began to cast
anxious glances at the supply of line remaining in the tub. But
presently the speed slackened. The whale was coming up again. Having
once more taken breath, and made a violent but vain effort to shake
himself free by beating the waves with his huge flukes and tail, the
leviathan started off at his highest speed, swimming near the surface.
The boat, following in his wake, dragged along with such velocity that
great sheets of water and crests of foam leaped from her bows, and the
crew were drenched with spray. Suddenly he again "sounded," as his
diving toward the bottom is technically termed by whalers. But this
time his stay beneath the surface was less prolonged. He was becoming
exhausted. Still he continued to make prodigious struggles to escape.
At length he lay quivering upon the surface, resting. Swiftly, once
more, the boat approached him, and Uncle Thatcher, jumping from his
place at the stern, stepped lightly forward upon the seats, carrying
the lance, a long, keen-edged and pointed blade of steel. It is the
post of honor, which belongs of right to the officer in command of a
whale-boat, to give the _coup-de-grace_ to the whale, to launch this
steel "into his life." With strong and practiced arms Uncle Thatcher
drove the weapon deep into the monster's vitals, and so quick was he
that he was enabled to strike with effect a second time before the
"flurry," or death-struggle, began, and the boat again backed away. As
if mad with agony and despair, the dying mountain of flesh beat the
water about him into foam; rushed frantically to and fro, seeming to
seek his enemies; rolled over and over; all the while, whenever he
spouted, throwing crimson torrents of his life-blood into the air.
Gradually he became weaker and weaker; at last was still. The victory
was won.
Slowly and laboriously the crew towed the enormous carcass to the
beach, followed closely by the back fins of several large sharks,
attracted to the place by the scent of the whale's blood.