DEATH ON THE SEA
The whale which we had taken, as I have related in the last chapter,
was our largest fish of that season. It produced ninety barrels of
oil, and was worth about 500 pounds, so that we did not grieve much
over the loss of our boat.
But our next loss was of a kind that could not be made up for by oil or
money, for it was the loss of a human life. In the whale-fishery men
must, like soldiers, expect to risk their lives frequently, and they
have too often, alas! to mourn over the loss of a shipmate or friend.
Up to this time our voyage had gone prosperously. We had caught so
many fish that nearly half our cargo was already completed, and if we
should be as lucky the remainder of the voyage, we should be able to
return home to Old England much sooner than we had expected.
Of course, during all this time we had met with some disappointments,
for I am not describing everything that happened on that voyage. It
would require a much thicker volume than this to tell the half of our
adventures. We lost five or six fish by their sinking before we could
get them made fast to the ship, and one or two bolted so fast that they
broke loose and carried away a number of harpoons and many a fathom of
line. But such misfortunes were what we had to look for. Every whaler
meets with similar changes of luck, and we did not expect to fare
differently from our neighbours. These things did not cause us much
regret beyond the time of their occurrence. But it was far otherwise
with the loss that now befell us.
It happened on a Sunday forenoon. I was standing close to the
starboard gangway early that morning, looking over the side into the
calm water, for there was not a breath of wind, and talking to the
first mate, who was a gruff, surly man, but a good officer, and kind
enough in his way when everything went smooth with him. But things
don't go very smooth generally in whaling life, so the mate was oftener
gruff than sweet.
"Bob Ledbury," said he, "have you got your cutting-in gear in order?
I've got a notion that we'll 'raise the oil' this day."
"All right, sir," said I; "you might shave yourself with the
blubber-spades. That was a good fish we got last, sir, wasn't it?"
"Pretty good, though I've seen bigger."
"He gave us a deal of trouble too," said I.
"Not so much as I've seen others give," said he. "When I was fishing
in the Greenland Seas we made fast to a whale that cost us I don't know
how many hundred dollars." (You must know the first mate was a Yankee,
and he reckoned everything in dollars.)
"How was that, sir?" asked I.
"Well, it was something in this fashion. We were floating about in the
North Atlantic one calm, hot day, just something like this, only it was
the afternoon, not the morning. We were doing nothing, and whistling
for a breeze, when, all of a sudden, up comes five or six whales all
round the ship, as if they had spied her from the bottom of the sea,
and had come up to have a squint at her. Of course the boats were
manned at once, and in less than no time we were tearing after them
like all alive. But them whales were pretty wildish, I guess. They
kept us pullin' the best part of five hours before we got a chance at
them. My boat was out of sight of the ship before we made fast to a
regular snorer, a hundred-barreller at the least. The moment he felt
the iron, away he went like the shot out of a gun; but he didn't keep
it up long, for soon after another of our boats came up and made fast.
Well, for some two or three hours we held fast, but could not haul on
to him to use the lance, for the moment we came close up alongside of
his tail he peaked flukes and dived, then up again, and away as fast as
ever. It was about noon before we touched him again; but by that time
two more harpoons were made fast, and two other boats cast tow-lines
aboard of us, and were hauled along. That was four boats, and more
than sixteen hundred fathoms of line, besides four harpoons that was
fast to that whale, and yet, for all that, he went ahead as fast as we
could have rowed, takin' us along with him quite easy.
"A breeze having sprung up, our ship overhauled us in the course of the
afternoon, and towards evening we sent a line on board, to see if that
would stop the big fish, and the topsails were lowered, so as to throw
some of the ship's weight on him, but the irons drew out with the
strain. However, we determined to try it again. Another line was sent
aboard about eight o'clock, and the topsails were lowered, but the line
snapped immediately. Well, we held on to that whale the whole of that
night, and at four o'clock next morning, just thirty-six hours after he
was first struck, two fast lines were taken aboard the ship. The
breeze was fresh, and against us, so the top-gallant sails were taken
in, the courses hauled up, and the topsails clewed down, yet, I assure
you, that whale towed the ship dead against the wind for an hour and a
half at the rate of two miles an hour, and all the while beating the
water with his fins and tail, so that the sea was in a continual foam.
We did not kill that fish till after forty hours of the hardest work I
ever went through."
Some of my shipmates seemed to doubt the truth of this story; but, for
my part, I believed it, because the mate was a grave, truthful man,
though he was gruff, and never told lies, as far as I knew. Moreover,
a case of the same kind happened some years afterwards, to a messmate
of mine, while he was serving aboard the _Royal Bounty_, on the 28th of
May, 1817.
I know that some of the stories which I now tell must seem very wild
and unlikely to landsmen; but those who have been to the whale-fishery
will admit that I tell nothing but the truth, and if there are any of
my readers who are still doubtful, I would say, go and read the works
of Captain Scoresby. It is well known that this whaling captain was a
truly religious man, who gave up the fishing, though it turned him in
plenty of money, and became a minister of the gospel with a small
income, so it is not likely that he would have told what was untrue.
Well, in his works we find stories that are quite as remarkable as the
one I have just told, some of them more so.
For instance, he tells us of one whale, in the Greenland Seas, which
was not killed till it had drawn out ten thousand four hundred and
forty yards, or about _six miles_ of line, fastened to fifteen
harpoons, besides taking one of the boats entirely under water, which
boat was never seen again.
The mate told us two or three more stories, and a lot of us were
gathered round him, listening eagerly, for there is nothing Jack likes
so much as a _good yarn_, when all of a sudden, the man at the
mast-head sang out that a large sperm whale was spouting away two
points off the lee-bow. Of course we were at our posts in a moment.
"There she blows! there she breaches!" sung the look-out.
"Lower away!" roared the captain.
The boats were in the water, and the men on their seats in a moment.
The whale we were after was a very large one, we could see that, for
after two hours' hard pulling we got near enough to throw a harpoon,
and after it was fixed he jumped clean out of the water. Then there
was the usual battle. It was fierce and long; so long that I began to
fear we would have to return empty-handed to the ship. We put ten
harpoons into him, one after another, and had a stiff run between the
fixing of each.
It is astonishing the difference between the fish. One will give you
no trouble at all. I have often seen a good big fellow killed in half
an hour. Another will take you half a day, and perhaps you may lose
him after all. The whale we were now after at last took to showing
fight. He made two or three runs at the boat, but the mate, who was in
command, pricked him off with the lance cleverly. At last we gave him
a severe wound, and immediately he dived.
"That was into his life," remarked Tom Lokins, as we sat waiting for
him to come up again. The captain's boat was close to ours, about ten
yards off. We had not to wait long. The sudden stoppage and slacking
off of all the lines showed that the whale was coming up. All at once
I saw a dark object rising directly under the captain's boat. Before I
could make out what it was, almost before I could think, the boat flew
up into the air, as if a powder magazine had exploded beneath it. The
whale had come up, and hit it with his head right on the keel, so that
it was knocked into pieces, and the men, oars, harpoons, lances, and
tackle shot up in confusion into the air.
Immediately after that the whale went into his flurry, but we paid no
attention to him, in our anxiety to pick up our companions. They all
came to the surface quickly enough, but while some made for the boats
vigorously, others swam slowly and with pain, showing that they were
hurt, while one or two floated, as if dead, upon the water.
Most of the men had escaped with only a few cuts and bruises, but one
poor fellow was hauled out of the water with a leg broken, and another
was so badly knocked about the head that it was a long time before he
was again fit for duty. The worst case, however, was that of poor Fred
Borders. He had a leg broken, and a severe wound in the side from a
harpoon which had been forced into the flesh over the barbs, so that we
could hardly get it drawn out. We laid him in the stern of the boat,
where he lay for some time insensible; but in a short time he revived,
and spoke to us in a faint voice. His first words were:
"I'm dying, messmates. It is into my life, too."
"Don't say that, Fred," said I, while my heart sank within me. "Cheer
up, my boy, you'll live to be the death of many a whale yet. See, put
your lips to this can--it will do you good."
He shook his head gently, being too weak to reply.
We had killed a big fish that day, and we knew that when he was "tried
in" we should have completed our cargo; but there was no cheer given
when the monster turned over on his side, and the pull to the ship that
evening seemed to us the longest and heaviest we ever had, for our
hearts were very sad.
Next day Fred was worse, and we all saw that his words would come
true--he was dying; and before the sun had again set poor Fred had left
us for ever.
We buried our shipmate in the usual sailor fashion. We wrapped him in
his hammock, with a cannon-ball at his feet to sink him. The captain
read the burial-service at the gangway, and then, in deep silence, we
committed his corpse to the deep.