WHALERS OF THE ARCTIC SEA
In the streets and hotels, or more often the smoking-room of the
custom-house of the beautiful old town of New Bedford, Massachusetts,
one meets in these latter times certain quiet, elderly men who, save for
their weather-beaten faces, an occasional scar, the deference shown
them, and the title of "captain," give no sign of the stormy and
adventurous lives they have led. These men belong to a most interesting
class, and one which promises to soon become extinct. They are the
whaling captains of the old days, when, with whaling still one of the
most prosperous and important of our national industries, the New
Bedford whalers carried the American flag to the most distant parts of
the globe, and yearly poured a golden stream into the strong-boxes of
their shrewd and venturesome owners. Cabin-boys at twelve, captains
before they were twenty-five, at fifty, stranded hulks--having often
made and lost great fortunes, made them for others, lost them for
themselves--in such quiet havens as chance or fortune affords, they now
peacefully and with perfect contentment await the end that sooner or
later comes to us all.
For more than a century, New Bedford has been the centre in this country
of the industry of which these old captains are pathetic reminders; but
in recent years it has made San Francisco the headquarters of its ships.
They all carry the name of New Bedford on their sterns, and are owned
and commanded by New Bedford men; but, as whaling is now mainly carried
on in Alaskan waters, San Francisco has become the principal point of
arrival and departure. Only the Atlantic whalers, dwindled now to less
than a dozen, still headquarter in the old capital of the trade. The
ships engaged in the whale trade are clumsy in appearance, and much
smaller than most people would imagine, being rarely as large as the
three-masted schooners used in the coasting trade. They are strongly
built, wide amidships, and as broad as Dutch galleons at the bow. They
are so treated with pitch and tar as to last for generations, and are
constantly repaired, a part at a time. Some of the stanchest vessels in
the trade are more than half a century old, and promise to do duty for
many years to come.
The fleet sailing from San Francisco numbers between forty and fifty
vessels. Some of the captains sail in November, and spend the winter in
sperm whaling, putting into Honolulu for fresh supplies at the approach
of spring, but the majority leave in March. The whales are fast being
driven from the Pacific, and every year the whalers are forced to go
farther and farther north for them. Only a few years ago, whales were
plentiful in the Northern Pacific and Behring and Okhotsk Seas, but now
the whalers have to push far into the Arctic to find their game. To
make a voyage profitable, a ship must often spend several seasons in the
north, and last year the San Francisco fleet sailed prepared for a three
years' cruise. Many of the captains took their wives and children with
them. They reached Herschel Island late in August, spending last winter
as they will the next two, in comfortable quarters at Pauline Cove,
returning to the United States in the fall of 1909. Pianos and pool and
billiard tables were taken along to help while away the long winters,
and the members of the fleet, when they return, are sure to have many an
interesting and stirring story to tell.
In order to complete the preparations for its Arctic work, each whaler,
after leaving San Francisco, cruises for a few weeks in the central
Pacific. During this cruise the crow's nest, or lookout, is put in
place, the boats are scrubbed, painted and fitted with sails,
steering-gear and oars and the whaling apparatus thoroughly overhauled.
Then the ship's rigging receives careful attention, weak spots being
made strong, and old sails patched or replaced, and finally, the hold is
restowed and put in shape for the long voyage. The crew of a whaler
includes, besides the captain, four mates, one boat-leader, four
boat-steerers, a steward, cook, carpenter, cooper, steerage and cabin
boys, and from twelve to twenty able seamen. The men instead of being
paid regular wages, receive a portion of the profits of the cruise. The
captain receives a twelfth, the first mate a twentieth, the second mate
and boat-leader each a twenty-fifth, the third mate a thirtieth, the
carpenter, cooper and steward each a fiftieth, and the sailors each a
hundred and seventy-fifth. The captain's portion ranges from nothing to
$7,000 or $8,000, according to the number of whales taken during a
cruise. If a ship secures twelve whales during a cruise, the captain
will receive about $3,000 and a sailor $200. The sailors usually receive
an advance of $60 each, and during a cruise are allowed to draw tobacco,
clothing and the like, from the ship's supplies, to the amount of $60 or
$80. Both officers and men keenly appreciate this co-operative system,
and toil with great zeal in the hope of extra reward. Formerly whales
were valued chiefly for the oil, but the discovery of petroleum worked a
change, and the whalebone is now the main thing sought. This product is
worth from $4 to $5 a pound, and the average whale contains a little
less than a ton of bone.
The officers of an Arctic whaler are generally Yankees, but all
countries are represented in the forecastle. Americans, Britons, Swedes,
Portuguese, Germans, Spaniards, Kanakas, a few stray cowboys, and three
or four 'Frisco hoodlums are often found in the same crew. Now and then
desperate criminals seek an Arctic cruise to escape punishment for their
misdeeds, and sometimes induce a crew to mutiny. Such an experience
befell Captain Edmund Kelly, now living in retirement in New Bedford,
when he was master of the Lucretia. His crew, prompted by three
ruffians, who had crept in among them, refused duty soon after the ship
entered Behring Sea, and retreated to the forecastle, but not before
the captain had emptied it of such food as it contained. When asked to
state their grievances they demanded the release of one of their
shipmates who had been put in irons for disobedience. This demand Kelly
refused to grant, and locked them in the forecastle, determined, if
possible, to starve them into submission.
On the third morning the crew, who were all armed with knives and
revolvers, broke out of this improvised prison and demanded "bread or
blood." The captain appealed to them to return to duty, but the three
ring-leaders threatened to shoot the first man who wavered, and none
responded. It was a critical moment, but Kelly, sprung from a race of
fighting men, proved equal to it. Picking up a rifle, he walked in among
the mutineers, and singling out the leader, ordered him to surrender.
The man refused, and the captain raised his rifle to his shoulder, but
before he could fire, the mutineer snapped a revolver twice in his face,
and then took refuge among his companions. Kelly tried to follow him,
but his progress was impeded by the crew, and the rascal he was seeking
now stole up behind him, took careful aim, and fired. The officers, who
were standing aft in a group, thinking their captain had been killed,
fired upon the mutineer, wounding him in the leg. Happily, however,
Kelly had only received a slight scalp wound. He regained his feet in an
instant, and facing the mutineer, who was now crawling towards him with
cocked revolver in hand, took aim and fired, whereat the man fell back
dead with a bullet in his heart. The others, begging for mercy, threw
down their arms, and the mutiny was at an end. During the rest of the
voyage they proved a most obedient and tractable crew. When Captain
Kelly returned to San Francisco, he reported the affair to the federal
courts. The judge who heard the evidence discharged him, and at the same
time reproved him for failing to shoot the other leaders of the mutiny.
When all is in readiness for the Arctic cruise, the captain of a whaler
changes the southwesterly course he has followed since leaving port,
and heads for the north. The passage through Behring Sea, on account of
the great fields of floating ice which fill that body at all seasons, is
always a trying and often a dangerous one, and the whaling masters must
of necessity be most skilful navigators. Pushing a ship in safety from
lead to lead, and among the threatening cakes of an ice-floe, calls for
the most consummate skill, and it is a lesson mastered by sailors only
after a long and hard experience. In addition to the highest skill, the
captain--or disaster surely awaits him--must possess a resolute will
that falters not, even in the face of death. For weeks his ship is
seldom out of peril, and he must be ready at all times to make his
escape from a threatening pack or an approaching floe.
Some years ago, the ship Hunter, Captain Cogan, when off St. Lawrence
Island, was caught in a whirlpool and seriously disabled. He patched up
his ship as best he could and made a fresh start. Off Icy Cape, bottom
ice was struck, causing a serious leak, and the captain was forced to
seek refuge in the nearest haven. Here every movable object was taken
out of the ship and carried on shore. Then the spars were unshipped and
converted into a raft, which was anchored at both ends and steadied with
water casks. Using the raft as a wharf, and in the face of a blinding
storm, the ship was hove down, the keel raised above the surface of the
water, and the leak repaired. Captain Cogan's cruise up to that time had
been a fruitless one, but three months later he sailed safely into port
with a valuable cargo. Similar experiences befall the whalers every
year.
During the long and toilsome passage through Behring Sea, a sharp
lookout is kept for whales, but few are now caught south of Cape
Navarin, and whaling does not commence in earnest until the ships are
well out into the Arctic. Each ship has five whaleboats, and when the
lookout in the crow's nest reports a whale in sight, the crews spring
into them and are off in an instant. The captain, however, remains on
the ship, and from the crow's nest directs the boats by a code of
signals.
The boats always approach their prey under sail, as the use of paddle or
oar would startle the whale and cause it to beat a hasty retreat. The
old method of whaling with harpoons and lances thrown by hand has been
superseded during the last twenty years by the whale-gun, and as a
consequence what was once a royal sport has now sadly degenerated. The
new weapon is a heavy metallic shoulder-gun fastened to a pole about six
feet long. As the boat nears its intended victim, a harpoon attached to
several hundred fathoms of line is shot from the gun, and having been
"made fast," a bomb, filled with an explosive equal to about ten pounds
of giant powder, is fired into the huge body near the head. The missile,
exploding as it buries itself in the flesh, blows a great hole almost in
the vitals of the monster, and death quickly follows. When the bomb
fails to cause instant death or inflict a mortal wound, a second harpoon
with a dynamite attachment is thrown, the needle point of the spear, as
it sinks into the flesh, exploding the bomb. The second wound nearly
always causes instant death; but if not, the harpoons cling to the
whale, and with lines attached, the whalers quietly await the
reappearance of the whale--which seeks relief by plunging beneath the
surface--for another shot at it from the gun, which has in the meantime
been reloaded. There is small chance for escape, and another bomb or
harpoon from the gun speedily ends the most desperate struggle for life.
The sperm whale, the favorite game of the old-time whalers, always puts
up a stout battle, but the bow-head whale, found in polar waters, is
timid, and dies meekly.
When the whale, its struggles ended, rolls over dead, the vessel gets up
sail and makes its way to the body, taking it on the starboard side, in
front of the gangway. A stage is rigged over the side and just above the
floating carcass, which is secured fore and aft by chains. Then the
process of taking the bone and blubber from the body commences. First a
cut is made through the deep layer of fat beginning at the nose, and, if
all the blubber is to be taken off, running back to the flukes or tail.
Next cross-incisions are made every four or five feet, and strips of the
fat encircling the whale are marked out. After this, tackle is attached
to one end of these strips, and men on the stage sever the strip of
blubber from the body, as it is then being hoisted on board. Each strip,
as it is taken off, rolls the whale around in the water.
The most difficult part of the operation I am describing is cutting off
the head, which contains all the whalebone. A single false move may
destroy hundreds of dollars' worth of bone, or perhaps entail the loss
of the entire head. Axes are used, and it takes a great deal of hard and
skilful chopping to pierce the mountain of flesh. When the backbone has
been chopped nearly through, a jerk of the tackle breaks the remainder,
and the head is then hauled on deck. As a large whale's head frequently
contains several thousand dollars worth of bone, the suspense and
anxiety of the whaler while it is being taken off can be readily
understood. When the head has been secured, the work of taking off the
remainder of the blubber is resumed. Some vessels save only the bone,
and cast the body adrift after the head has been cut off, but these are
usually ships without the needed apparatus for trying out the oil. When
the blubber has all been stripped from the carcass, it is cut up into
small pieces, and for several days thereafter the crew is briskly
employed "trying out" the oil and stowing it away in casks. A large cube
of bricks amidships contains two great iron kettles with fireplaces
beneath, and in these the oil is boiled from the blubber. Black smoke
and foul smell attend this operation, and only an old whaler will go to
the leeward of the great pots when it is in progress.
There is little to break the monotony of the whaler's life while at
work. Day after day the same routine is repeated, broken only by an
occasional storm, or visits in leisure hours to neighboring vessels. But
about the whaler there is always the glamor of the Arctic, which those
who have once felt its spell say can never be forgotten--by day its
marvellous mirages, weirdly reflecting distant ships, or the ice piled
in huge, fantastic masses; at night the sombre glory of the aurora
borealis, and always the cold, serene purity of ice and water and sky.
When winter approaches, if one or more ships are to spend a second
season in polar waters, quarters are built in some sheltered spot on
land, and there, early in October, all the vessels rendezvous. On each
ship the space between-decks is cleared, stoves set up, and bunks
arranged along the middle, away from the sides, so that the cold will
not so quickly reach the men through the vessel's timbers. When the ice
forms around the ship, high banks of snow are piled about it to break
the force of the piercing winds, and snow is also piled upon the roof
built over the decks. This snow soon freezes and will not drift with the
fiercest of gales. Thus prepared for, a winter in the Arctic has lost
many of its former terrors.
The whaler's homeward passage through Behring Sea is often more
difficult and dangerous than the outward voyage. With sudden gales,
treacherous currents, blinding snowstorms, and long, dark nights, each
master must literally feel his way with the lead, getting such aid as he
can from log and lookout. Every captain breathes a sigh of relief when
he has passed the Straits and is once more in the Pacific, southward
bound. There is plenty of work on the return passage. The crow's nest
must be taken down and stowed away for another cruise; the masts scraped
and varnished; the ship scoured and cleaned above and below; and
finally, if it is a steam vessel, the sails unbent and stowed away. Just
before entering port, the crew discard their skin clothing. A few hours
later the voyage is at an end, and the men are tasting, perhaps for the
first time in years, the delights and comforts of life on shore, and
spending with open hand the money they have worked so long and so hard
to earn.
Whaling in the Arctic saw its best days in 1852, when the fleet
numbered 250 vessels and the value of the catch exceeded $14,000,000.
Its gradual decline began a little later, but it received its first
serious set-back in June, 1865, when the Confederate cruiser Shenandoah,
making its way without warning into the Arctic, burned thirty and
captured four other whalers. New Bedford's loss alone was twenty-three
vessels, which, with their outfits, were valued at more than a million
dollars. Since then, wind and ice, the ever-present perils of the
whaler, have caused two appalling disasters, and further hastened the
decline of the trade. The first of these disasters occurred in 1871.
Between August 11th and 29th of that year, the ice closed in upon the
whaling fleet at work near Wainright Inlet, and at the end of the month
thirty-three vessels were helpless prisoners. During the next week three
vessels were crushed or carried off by the ice, the crew in each
instance narrowly escaping with their lives. Each day the ice packed
closer and it became apparent to the captains, who held daily meetings
to discuss the situation, that for their ships at least, escape was
hopeless. There was not the time nor material to build winter quarters
on land, and even had this been possible, the scanty stock of provisions
could only postpone certain starvation, or death by scurvy and disease,
during the eleven months that must elapse before they could hope for
relief to reach them from the outer world. And so it became clear that
the crews must be got away before winter came or all would perish.
Captain David Frazer, who, with two whaleboats, had been sent to the
south to see what could be done, returned on September 12th and reported
that he had found the rest of the fleet, seven ships, off Icy Cape,
ninety miles to the south. They were also, he said, fast in the ice, but
would be able to work their way out and would lie by to aid their
distressed companions. On the receipt of this news, the captains, some
of whom were accompanied by their wives and children, met to decide upon
a final course of action. Three million dollars' worth of property and
1,200 lives were at stake, and to save the latter all else must be
sacrificed. It was then resolved, unless the weather moderated, to
abandon the fleet next day. Morning brought no change and the most
daring were convinced that nothing but flight remained. The 200
whaleboats of the fleet were manned by their crews and the southward
journey begun. There was a narrow strip of water between the ice and
shore, and through this the sad procession made its way.
At night a camp was made on shore, and on the second day the boats
reached Blossom Shoals, and came in sight of the refuge vessels. They
were lying five miles out from shore and behind a tongue of ice which
stretched ten miles farther down the coast. Around this obstruction the
crews were forced to make their way before they could get on board. On
the outer side of this icy peninsula a fearful gale was encountered and
the boats were tossed about like corks; but by four in the afternoon all
dangers were safely passed and the 1,200 refugees distributed among the
several vessels of the fleet. Sail was made at once, and on October 24th
the first of the ships reached Honolulu, the others following speedily.
Of the splendid fleet of forty vessels that had sailed northward less
than a year before, only these seven returned; but not a life was lost.
When in the following year some of the captains visited the locality
where the ships were lost, they found that with one or two exceptions
they had all been carried away by the ice, ground to pieces, or burned
by the people of a near-by Eskimo village. The value of the wrecked
vessels sailing from New Bedford exceeded, with their cargoes, a million
dollars. Some of the city's wealthiest whaling-masters were ruined and
many more badly crippled by the disaster.
Compared with the disaster of 1871, that of 1876 was much less
destructive to property, but vastly more appalling by reason of the
great loss of life with which it was attended. The whaling fleet reached
Point Barrow early in August, 1876, and began whaling. Strong currents
and constantly moving ice made work difficult from the first, and in the
end the pack suddenly closed in upon the fleet. Four vessels made their
escape, but the rest were carried slowly away towards the northward,
great jams at the same time choking up every avenue leading to the
south. With cold weather fast approaching, it was plainly impossible to
release the ships from their icy prison. A majority of the masters
resolved to take to the boats as the only chance for escape, but five of
the captains, with their crews, hoping against hope, refused to leave
their ships. Progress over the ice was slow and painful. With infinite
labor the boats would be hauled for a mile or so over the ice and then
the men would return for the provisions and clothing they had taken from
the ships. At night they crawled under the upturned boats and slept as
best they could on the ice. Late in the evening of the third day land
was reached, and after resting and drying their clothes the captains
decided to push on at once to the ships lying below Point Barrow.
At the end of a week, exhausted, half-frozen and starving, they reached
this refuge, and were kindly received by their fellow captains. The men
were divided among the several ships, and as soon as the wind opened the
ice the return voyage began. When the Golden Gate was reached, the last
piece of meat was in the copper and the last loaf of bread in the oven.
Out of a fleet of twenty vessels, twelve had been sunk or abandoned,
with a loss of over $800,000. On the southward journey over the ice, two
of the captains bethought them of some valuable furs they had left
behind, and decided to return for them. They made the trip in safety and
had a warm welcome from those who had remained on the ships, but the
latter turned a deaf ear to their earnest appeals to return with them,
and the two captains again pushed southward alone. Since that hour
nothing has been seen or heard of the ships or of the 150 men who
refused to leave them. In the silence and darkness of the long Arctic
winter they perished and gave no sign. How passed their final hours? A
grisly and gruesome story which all whalers tell offers a partial answer
to this question. Many years ago Captain Warrens, of the whaler
Greenland, while lying becalmed among icebergs, sighted a dismantled and
apparently deserted vessel. The boat's crew sent off to the stranger
found the deck deserted; but seated at a table in the cabin was the
corpse of a man covered with green, damp mould. A pen was still clutched
in the stiffened hand, and on the table lay a log-book containing this
last entry:
"We have now been enclosed in the ice seventeen days. The fire went out
yesterday and our master has been trying ever since to kindle it again,
without success. His wife died this morning. There is no relief."
The corpse of another man was found on the floor, and in one of the
cabin berths lay the dead body of a woman. The corpse of the cabin-boy
crouched at the foot of the gangway. Scattered about the forecastle lay
the dead bodies of the crew. The ship was barren of fuel or food. It had
been frozen in the ice thirteen years. Perhaps in similar manner this
later Arctic mystery may yet find startling solution.
There have been few whalers lost during the last twenty years. This has
been due to the gradual introduction, since 1880, of steam-whalers,
which act as tugs to the sailing ships when in danger, and to the
constant presence in the Arctic of one or more revenue cutters, which
render efficient aid every season, and convey to San Francisco the crews
of such vessels as are lost--the Corwin on one of its cruises saving an
entire fleet from destruction. With these extra safeguards, the trade
would doubtless have speedily recovered from the disasters I have
described, but for the gradual disappearance of the whale itself. Each
year, the whales, to escape pursuit, push still farther into the polar
ice-caps, and each year the number caught decreases. The annual product
of bone and oil has now fallen to less than a million and a half of
dollars, and new whaling grounds must soon be found or a great industry
abandoned. Already the British whalers are turning their attention to
the south polar region. Should whales prove plentiful there, the Yankees
will be sure to follow in the footsteps of the English, and the energy
and capital long expended in the far north will be diverted, for a term
of years at least, to the other end of the world.
THE END
ADVERTISEMENT
A NOBLE COMPANY
OF
ADVENTURERS
_BY RUFUS ROCKWELL WILSON_
UNDER THE ABOVE TITLE IS BEING
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"THE SEA ROVERS." THE OPENING
CHAPTER HAS TO DO WITH THE ANCIENT
AND PICTURESQUE HUDSON BAY
FUR COMPANY, AND OTHER ROMANTIC
AND PERILOUS PURSUITS DEALT WITH
IN SUBSEQUENT CHAPTERS ARE THOSE
OF THE GOLD HUNTER, THE COWBOY,
THE OILMAN, THE LUMBERMAN, THE
MAKER OF STEEL, THE COAL MINER,
THE RAILROAD BUILDER, THE CANADIAN
MOUNTED POLICE, AND THE TEXAS
RANGER. THE NEW VOLUME PROMISES,
LIKE ITS COMPANION, TO GIVE
DELIGHT TO BOYS OF ALL AGES. IT
WILL BE ISSUED IN THE FALL OF 1907, BY
B. W. DODGE & CO.