By the next morning the skies had cleared, and there was bright sun,
with a light breeze from the southwest. It had begun to clear soon
after midnight, and the stars had come out one by one, with drifts
of ragged scud flying over. I had not seen it, but I was sleeping
soundly, after some miserable hours, for I was a very homesick boy.
Mother and father—even brothers—and home never seemed so dear or so
far away, and I seemed to be cut off from them completely. I had no
pangs of seasickness, either then or later, for which I suppose I
should be thankful; but I did not give that matter a single thought,
as far as I can remember. I suppose my mind was too thoroughly taken
up with its own wretchedness to worry about a possible wretchedness
of body. And a full realization of my wretched and miserable state
came upon me the instant I was fully awake, with a distinct stab at
my heart. A few tears trickled from my eyes, and my heart was like
lead until I stepped out upon deck and saw the sun and a quiet sea,
misty about the horizon, and the bark making her way through it under
easy sail, rolling a very little, lazily, and the men, barefooted,
scrubbing the decks as clean as might be of their coating of oil with
the water standing upon it in little separate drops, like dew. I know
the deck had a queer, greasy, frosty look, and fairly large drops had
gathered and stood up, little smooth hills, about two or three inches
apart. The water from the hose and the men with their swabs made
these hills disappear like magic, together with the frosty look of
the deck. Tarpaulins in irregular heaps still covered piles of stuff
here and there on the deck, which the men avoided as well as they
could. {29}
One of the men swabbing the deck was my old friend the old navy man,
whose name I found was Peter Bottom. The two very black men with
gold hoops in their ears were there too, the tall one as silent and
dignified as ever, but working well, and the shorter one gay and
garrulous, but seldom evoking from the other as much as a smile. What
these men’s real names were I never knew, and it does not matter what
they were. The tall one always went by the name of Tony, and the
shorter one by the name of Man’el.
Peter Bottom looked up at me, and smiled and winked, and worked
nearer with his swab. There was a quarterdeck on the old Clearchus,
and a break in the deck with one low step up to the part covered by
the after house. I was standing on that step and leaning against the
house, for I did not want to get into the water that was flowing so
freely. When Peter had worked near enough, he told me in low tones
that if I would hunt him up later he would impart some information
that might be useful and the beginning of my education.
The men were busy nearly all day getting the decks reasonably
clear, and the stuff stowed below, and it was not until late in the
afternoon that I found Peter Bottom standing by the windlass, gazing
out to the eastward. The wind was light, as it had been all day, and
it looked very quiet and peaceful out there, with a grayish haze
all along the horizon. The water toward the west, on the weather
side, was too bright to look at with comfort. There was still a very
slight heave of the sea left from the night before. Many of the crew
were standing about, or sitting on the forecastle, but they were not
saying much.
Peter looked up as I approached. He had a sort of permanent smile on
his face, a pleasant, humorous expression of perpetual amusement.
This deepened to a personal smile when he saw me.
“Here you are, my lad,” he said. “I was just thinking {30} about
you, and that I ’d have to go after you if I could contrive a way.
Now to begin at the beginning, what might your name be?”
“Tim,” I answered; “Tim Taycox.”
“A good name,” he said. “I had a shipmate named Tim once, but he
did no credit to the name. My name ’s Peter Bottom.” That was how I
found out his name, although I have used it already. “A queer name,
Bottom, but it ’s none of my responsibility, my name. You ’ll call me
Peter, and so we ’ll get rid of it. Now, tell me what you know about
whaling, so I ’ll know where to begin. There ’s no sense in telling
you what you know a’ready. And then you might tell what you know of
ships and of sailing, for I s’pose you ’ve knocked about some in
small boats, living in New Bedford.”
Now, what I really knew about whaling was nothing at all, although I
had always heard it talked about, and had absorbed as much in that
way as a boy can who has seen nothing but the shore end of it. So I
told Peter just that, and I told him of my experiences in boats.
“What ’s your lay?” asked Peter Bottom suddenly.
“My lay?” I stammered. “I—I don’t know.”
“Don’t you know what I mean?” he pursued. “Every man on board has a
part o’ the voyage—the catch—instead o’ wages.”
I am afraid I interrupted him rather indignantly. Of course I knew
that, but I had not the least idea what the share of each man was. He
enlightened me. First he told me that the share of the boy was one
two-hundredth. That would give me, if our take of whales amounted
to fifty thousand dollars, the princely sum of two hundred and
fifty dollars for four years’ work. That did not seem very much,
but Peter comforted me by saying that Captain Nelson was a good
master, and had the reputation of making good voyages, and it was
likely that I would get more than that. He told me that the owners
took two {31} thirds of the take for their share, and furnished the
vessel and fitted her, and fed the crew throughout the voyage, and
made whatever advances were necessary. If the ship made a “broken
voyage,” as an unprofitable voyage was called, it might easily result
in considerable loss to the owners, while the crew at least could
not lose on it. Such unprofitable voyages were few, however. It was
everything to get a lucky master. Captain Nelson had the reputation
of being a very lucky master, and the Clearchus had always been a
fairly lucky ship. Peter had satisfied himself on those points before
signing, and he supposed that all the best men of the crew had been
equally particular. It was easy to get a good crew for a ship and a
captain known to be lucky, and often very hard to get any kind of a
crew for a captain without that reputation.
He told me further that Captain Nelson’s lay was one tenth, which is
the largest that was given to a captain; the mate’s one twentieth,
for our mate, Jehoram Baker, was also a good man. A first mate’s lay
ranges from one eighteenth to one twenty-fifth. Our second mate,
Alonzo Wallet, was “nothin’ to brag on,” as Peter whispered, but he
got the regular second mate’s lay of one thirty-fourth. The third
mate, John Brown, had a lay of one forty-fifth; the fourth and fifth
mates got a little less than that; and the five boatsteerers got from
one one-hundred-and-eighteenth to one one-hundred-and-fiftieth. Five
mates may seem an excessive number. I know it seemed so to me, but
the Clearchus was a five-boat ship, and needed five boatheaders. How
Peter found out the amount of the captain’s and the mates’ lays I
never knew; possibly it was only gossip. Then he gave me the lays of
the rest of the crew.
The cooper got one sixty-third; the steward one ninetieth; the cook
one one-hundred-and-twentieth and half the slush; what the slush was
I did not know at the time, although anybody of any intelligence
ought to have been {32} able to guess that it was the refuse from
the galley. I became familiar enough with slush before I got home
again, and a bucket of slush will come nearer to turning my stomach
than anything else. It consists chiefly of grease, often turned
rancid. Many a bucket of it have I carried to the masthead, and have
applied it generously and rapidly to the mast all the way down, for
I was always anxious to get that job done and to get rid of my slush
bucket as soon as possible.
But to come back to Peter Bottom and the lays. The lays of
foremast hands varied according to their ability from one
one-hundred-and-fiftieth to one two-hundredth, but Peter’s own lay
was one one-hundred-and-twenty-fifth. This was without doubt in
recognition of his skill as a seaman, and his record. He was a better
man than our second mate. He had sailed all the seas over and over,
could navigate a vessel, and could easily have got a post in the
cabin but that his long years as seaman had unfitted him for the
command of men, and he was too old to begin that now. But his ability
was recognized—owners were always very ready to recognize ability—and
he was greatly trusted by Captain Nelson and Mr. Baker, the mate.
The second mate was not a great friend of Peter’s. It is not to be
supposed that Peter himself told me all this while we stood there by
the windlass. He was a modest man, and he knew better than to brag
about himself even if he had been inclined to. I did not add up the
fractions—the lays—to see if they came out right. Probably they did
not.
Our crew consisted of twenty-five seamen, including the
boat-steerers, ranging in ability from Peter down to the green hands,
of whom there were eight at starting on that voyage; the captain and
five mates; and the cooper, the sailmaker, who could act on a pinch
as cooper and as carpenter, the steward, the cook, and the boy,
who was myself; thirty-six all told, enough to man the five {33}
boats and to leave six on the ship to work her if necessary. The
boat-steerers are included among the seamen, but their standing on
the ship was more that of petty officers.
All this time the ship was slowly forging ahead in the light air,
and rising and falling lazily, and the light of the late afternoon
sun was making the water to windward of a dazzling brightness, while
I looked off to leeward over a quiet sea to the hazy horizon. There
was not wind enough to keep the sails full, and now and then one fell
against the mast and made a curious scraping sound until a puff of
air drew it away again.
Peter was beginning on the sails of the ship. Now, what I knew about
a square-rigged vessel was even less than I had known about the
matter of lays, and I was feeling ashamed of my ignorance and rather
hopeless. But as I looked off at the water, I saw, about two or three
miles off, a little feathery puff of vapor rise, like the drooping
white ostrich plume on Ann McKim’s hat. The feathery shaft of vapor
rose lazily, and the sun shone on it and glorified it for a brief
moment, and it drifted off slowly and vanished. And I watched it
stupidly, and just as I came to and grasped Peter Bottom’s arm, there
floated down to us from aloft a melodious cry.
“Bl-o-o-ows! Bl-o-o-ows!”
It was most deliberately given, and was a quavering, musical cry,
running up and down the scale, much like a yodel. It was one of the
black men who gave it. These black men always gave the cry more
melodiously than a white man. They had had a man aloft all the
afternoon.
That cry was music to me, and all the men were interested, especially
the green hands, to whom it was as strange as it was to me.
Mr. Baker was waving his arms and beckoning, and the crews of the
first and second mate’s boats were running, Peter Bottom among the
best of them. The boats {34} were still lashed at the davits, but
it took only a few seconds to loose them and to begin to lower, two
or three of the men in each boat beginning to overhaul the harpoons
and lances and other gear. As soon as the boats struck the water, the
falls were unhooked, and they pushed off from the side of the ship
and lay there while the crew seemed to be busied with something on
the thwarts, I could not see what, and the ship was slowly leaving
them bobbing and drifting. I was just beginning to wonder about it
when I saw that it was the mast and sail they were busy with. The
second mate’s boat stepped her mast and spread the sail, but in Mr.
Baker’s boat they abandoned that intention, and began rowing, while
the ship kept off gradually on the same course as the boats.
By the time we had made our course Mr. Baker’s boat was well ahead
and going strong, the five long oars dipping slowly and with a fair
regularity, but with some splashing from the green hands. It occurs
to me to say something about a whaleboat for the benefit of those
who do not know the boats, and they must be many, for the whaleboat,
especially the boat fully equipped for chasing whales, has become a
very unfamiliar sight.
The whaleboat is sharp at both ends, and is built as lightly as is
consistent with great strength. Its length is thirty feet; beam, six
feet; depth at extreme ends, a trifle over three feet (thirty-seven
inches in the boats of the Clearchus); depth amidships, twenty-two
inches. It rides the seas like a cork, and the sense of buoyancy
is surprising to any one who is not used to the boat. It has a
centreboard, and is equipped with mast and sail, which can be set up
when wanted. For the purpose of stepping the mast quickly, it has a
sort of hinge to the thwart on the after side, and as it is raised,
the foot slides down to the step in a guide, or channel, until the
mast is erect, when the butt drops into the step. It is held in its
place {35} by stays, permanently fast to the mast near its head,
above the hoist of the sail, one on each side, which are then made
fast through eyes on the gunwales.
When the boat is going under sail it is steered by a rudder. This
rudder is always carried, when not in use, close under the gunwale at
the stern, outside the boat, of course. It is held in place by two
small lines permanently fast to it, one at the heel of the rudder,
the other up nearer its head, the inboard ends of the lines passing
through holes in the port gunwale to cleats on the little deck at
the stern. The rudder is always hung before the boat is lowered, as
it would be a difficult matter to hang it in a seaway, and might
consume much precious time. When fast to a whale, the mate hauls in
on the upper line, unshipping the rudder, and makes the line fast to
the starboard cleat; then he hauls in on the lower line, raising the
heel of the rudder to the gunwale, and makes fast to the port cleat.
This operation can be performed with a few turns of the hand, but
many mates preferred the steering oar, which is twenty-two feet long,
to the rudder, when at close quarters. A couple of sweeps with this
great oar will usually lay the boat around, but with the rudder it
is not easy. A whaleboat, because of its length and the comparative
flatness of its keel, and the slight purchase of the rudder, will not
come about easily under sail.
When going upon a whale, a boat always goes, if possible, under sail.
This is not for the purpose of saving the men trouble, although you
would think that a praiseworthy purpose. It is to avoid frightening
the whale, which hears the sound of oars at considerable distance,
the sound undoubtedly going through the water. When the sail cannot
be used, oars are used, or paddles. The paddles are used only when
it is necessary to go very quietly, and there is no wind. They are
usually stout and heavy, about four feet long; and when not in use
are {36} stuck along the sides, near the thwarts, and out of the way.
Oars are the normal method of propulsion. There are five long oars,
three to starboard and two to port. From bow to stern, they are
called harpooner’s (generally called “harpoonier” on a whaler), bow,
midship, tub, and after oar. The harpooner’s and the after oar are
fourteen feet long, and the midship oar eighteen feet. Those three
are the starboard oars. The port oars, the bow and the tub, are
sixteen feet each. Under the tub oar, by the way, seems to be the
favorite place for a whale to strike a boat. By this inequality in
length of the oars a pretty good balance is reached, whether the
harpooner is rowing or not. Each of these long, heavy oars is handled
by one man, who sits far over on the thwart on the opposite end from
the thole-pins or rowlocks. When thole-pins are used the oar works on
a mat laid up of small line, placed between the pins, to muffle the
sound; rowlocks are matted with marline or other small stuff.
The steering oar, as I have mentioned, is twenty-two feet long.
It passes out astern over the gunwale on the port side of the
stern-post, through a bight of rope covered with leather, which rests
on a bracket. One end of the rope forming this bight is taken inboard
through an eye, and belayed on a cleat on the deck at the stern.
There is a projecting handle on the upper side of the steering oar,
and the steersman stands up to his work. When the steering oar is not
in use, it is drawn in clear of the water, and on the boats of the
Clearchus, at any rate, the handle was held in an eye spliced into a
rope, which was worked in above the gunwale on the port side. This
just fitted the handle, and held the oar out of everybody’s way and
ready for instant use.
The boat is decked over for three feet at the bow, and four feet at
the stern. The deck at the bow is sunk six inches below the gunwale,
and is called the “box.” {37} Directly aft of the box is the cleat,
or “clumsy cleat.” This is a wide, heavy plank, on a level with the
gunwale, in which—on the port side, unless made especially for a
left-handed man—a roughly semicircular piece is cut out, into the
place of which will fit a man’s left thigh, or upper leg. The edges
of this hole are thickly matted with yarn or other soft stuff. Into
this opening the harpooner fits his left thigh to steady him when
he is about to dart the harpoon, or the mate fits his when he is
about to use the lance. Various sheaths are on the forward edge of
the cleat, for knives, and along its top runs a loose piece of heavy
line, its ends knotted underneath at opposite ends of the cleat. This
is the “kicking-strap,” under which the whale line passes. There is
a hatchet in a frame on the side of the boat below the cleat, where
the mate can reach it easily, to cut the line; and a whaling-gun lies
on a board under the cleat, at his right, fast to the boat by a line
through its stock.
The deck at the stern is used for the cleats which I have mentioned,
for the lines from the rudder and the steering oar, and under it
is the cuddy or locker in which are carried the breaker of water
and the lantern-keg and the compass and other small things with
which a whaleboat is usually equipped. The lantern-keg contains
biscuit—hardtack—candles, flint and steel, or matches, pipes and
tobacco; all the necessaries of life. The main purpose of this after
deck, however, is to provide a convenient place for the loggerhead.
The loggerhead is a miniature mooring-pile projecting from this deck
on the starboard side, and continued downward through the cuddy into
the keel. Its top is six inches in diameter, and it is eight inches
high. The whale line passes around it on its way out, and one or more
turns can be taken around it, so that the line can be snubbed as much
as is wished, or can be held there. It is a frequent occurrence for
the loggerhead to get so hot {38} from the friction of the line that
it smokes, and is only prevented from bursting into flame by throwing
water upon the line by the bucketful or the hatful.
Whale line is a beautiful silky rope, usually seven eighths of an
inch in diameter, although I have seen whale line that I thought
was larger than this, perhaps one-inch rope. Old line, however, may
change its diameter, becoming either larger or smaller than when
new. It is of long fibre manila, flexible and soft, the best rope
that can be made. In 1872 it may have been of hemp—I do not remember
distinctly. It is made in a rope-walk, not on machines, and its
length is therefore limited to the length of the walk in which it is
made. The line has a longer lay than machine-made rope, is not so
tightly laid up, which may make it less attractive in appearance to
one who does not know its qualities, but not to a whaleman. I have
a passion for whale line. There is an old piece somewhere among my
dunnage now—about three fathoms of it. I have had it for years. I
have no use for it, but I like to handle it—almost fondle it.
The whale line, without knots or splices, is kept in tubs, usually
one for a length, sometimes two, near the stern. The tub oar gets its
name from this. It is most carefully coiled, so that it shall run out
freely, without kinks. A second length of line, coiled in its tubs,
is carried by each whaleboat, and can be bent on to the first in case
of need.
From the tubs, then, the line passes around the loggerhead, where the
boatsteerer handles it, and snubs it as much as he wishes. It may
be running out so fast as to burn his hands; and a swiftly running
line not only burns the hands, but can take the very flesh off the
bones, as I know to my sorrow. To guard against this, hand-cloths
or “nippers” are provided, much like those worn by bricklayers, and
often forgotten. The “nipper” is a patch of canvas, eight inches
square, to be held in the {39} hand without fastening, as it might
take a man overboard if fast to him. From the loggerhead the line
passes forward along the length of the boat, in its middle line,
lying, when slack, on the looms of the oars. As each man sits well
over to one side of his thwart, the middle line of the boat is left
clear for it. It then passes under the kicking strap, and through a
groove—the “chocks”—in the head of the stem, in which it is held by
a small wooden peg or pin. This pin is purposely small and frail so
that if there is any obstruction, such as a kink in the line, the pin
will break instead of carrying the boat under. In the bottom of the
chocks there is a small metal roller which does not always work.
The whale line, after passing out of the boat through the chocks,
is taken in again, and a considerable length of it coiled up on the
box—the little sunken deck at the bow. This is called the “box line.”
The first harpoon is attached to the free end of the box line, the
second iron to an extra piece of line, the “short warp,” fast to the
box line a little way from its free end. These two harpoons rest
with their points projecting over the bow and their sapling hardwood
handles in the crotch. The crotch is a sort of double Y-shaped
contraption, which is set into a socket in the starboard gunwale, and
projects about sixteen inches above it.
The boatsteerer or harpooner rows the oar nearest the bow. When near
enough to the whale, at the command, “Stand up, Jack,” or “Stand
up, you!” from the mate or boatheader, he takes in and secures his
oar, turns around, stands up, takes the first harpoon, which is
immediately ready to his hand in the crotch, fits his leg firmly in
the opening in the cleat, and makes ready to dart. At the further
command from the boatheader, “Give it to him!” he darts the harpoon
with all the force left in him after rowing for miles, perhaps with
all his strength. The harpoon is heavy, and both hands are used {40}
in throwing it, the right hand around the upper part of the wooden
handle or haft, and giving it its forward impetus, and the left hand
supporting the haft toward its lower end. Then, as quickly as he can,
he grabs the second harpoon from its rest in the crotch, and darts
that. This is in the hope of getting two irons fast, but the second
harpoon must be thrown out of the boat in any case.
Lances and spare harpoons are stowed between the thwarts and the
gunwale, the iron shanks held in a little brass frame—at least, on
the boats of the Clearchus—with a sliding wire to lock them in,
and the wooden hafts held in marline. Lances are to starboard, and
harpoons to port; and on each, whether lance or harpoon, is a wooden
sheath covering the sharp edge. It is one of the duties of the bow
oar to remove the sheath, and to get out the lance. He has certain
other duties which are important, and which make the bow oar next in
line of promotion to the harpooner or boatsteerer.
When fast to the whale, the boatsteerer makes his way aft, and takes
the steering oar, changing places with the boatheader, who is usually
one of the mates, while the mate takes his position in the bow, a
lance in his hand, ready to lance the whale and finish the business.
A harpoon or a lance is a poor bedfellow in a seaway, for they are
kept very sharp. In fact, they are often a source of danger even when
out of the boat. The second harpoon has to be thrown out of the boat
in any case, whether there is a chance of getting it into the whale
or not, for it is fast to the whale line, and if it were not thrown
out there would be trouble. This second iron, when not in the whale,
where it belongs, goes jumping and skittering over the waves after
the fleeing whale, ahead of the boat or even abreast of it when the
boat is hauled up close, or afoul of it.
The placing of the loggerhead at the stem accomplishes three things:
it gives the boat-steerer easy control {41} of the line, which the
mate, in the bow, would have no time to attend to when they were at
close quarters; incidentally it avoids the possibility of pulling the
boat to pieces by a towing whale in which the harpoon is fast; but
the controlling reason for it is that the men can heave on the line
without leaving their places, which they must be able to do to get
the boat up to the whale, so that the mate can lance.
But to come back to the boats, which had been making progress
according to the natures of the men in charge of them. They were no
nearer than they had been at first, and we drifted on, Mr. Wallet’s
boat just abeam of us. The farther we went, the farther we were
behind the whales, which were wandering directly away from us. The
sun was near setting, and after an hour of a losing chase, signals
were made for the boats to come aboard again.
I cast another look about the horizon, and ran aft. There was nothing
to be seen of whales—from the deck, at any rate—only a beautiful
pearl-gray softness on the water. My dreams that night were a queer
mixture of whales and home, and of my father working on a staging
beside a whale in a dock, and removing several of his ribs.
{42}