HOW CAP’N PEM LOST HIS LEG
“’Long ’bout forty-five years aback,” began the old man, as all gathered
about to hear his story, “I were secon’ mate o’ the _Greyhoun’_ bark,
out o’ New Bedford—Cap’n Ezra Clapham, master—an’ boun’ for the Pacific
arter sparm whales. Ev’rythin’ went fine an’ we rose whales mos’ from
the time we was out o’ soundin’s. Ne’er did see so pesky many in all o’
my life. By the time we was ’round Cape Horn we was that full up the Old
Man put in at Valp’raiso an’ transshipped the ’ile. Reckon thet must ’a
bust the luck, ’cause we cruised hither an’ yon fer nigh six weeks an’
ne’er raised a whale. Had a right smart crew too, an’ good as I e’er
seen. But I tell ye, it begun for to look as if we’d be a-cruisin’ fer
the res’ o’ our lives an’ rot at sea ’thout gettin’ ’nough ’ile ter
grease our boots. Aye, an’ ’twas fair hard work a-keepin’ that crew
busy, I tell ye. Ev’ry tooth aboard the bark’d been scrimshawed an’
ev’ry mite o’ bone made inter knick-knacks. There weren’t a mite o’ ol’
rope or canvas that hadn’t been made inter chafin’-gear an’ Chips
couldn’t fin’ a splinter o’ wood thet so much as needed a tenpenny nail
or a dab o’ paint. Men jes’ spent the time a-s’archin’ fer whale an’
many’s the day I’ve seed the riggin’ an’ mas’heads that full o’ men
a-lookin’ fer a blow thet ye’d swored the ol’ _Greyhoun’_ was a mannin’
o’ her yards fer show, like as does the ol’ frigates. Bimeby, ’long
erbout nine week out o’ Valp’raiso, we seen a sail, an’ runnin’ down to
her, we foun’ she was the _Mohawk_ out o’ Salem. Course we had a-gammin’
an’ the _Mohawk’s_ folk—they was purty nigh full up an’ home’ard
boun’—spun a yarn ’bout a mad whale what they’d riz a couple o’ week
afore. Tol’ how as the cap’n’s boat had struck an’ was fas’ when the
critter turned an’ run fer the boat, an’ grabbin’ it in his jaws chewed
it to smithereens. Then long comes the mate’s boat an’ picked up the men
an’ the secon’ and third mates’ boats went in an’ both boats got fas’.
Well, thet jes’ made the whale wusser an’ wusser, an’ a swingin’ o’ his
jaw to sta’board an’ port, he chawed both boats. Cordin’ to the yarn,
the ol’ bull now had six irons in him, but thet didn’t bother him a
mite, an’ no sooner was the nex’ boat fas’ than he stove thet. Meantime,
two spare boats was on han’, a-pickin’ up the other’s crews, when the
ol’ whale jes’ rushed ’em an’ sounded, a-leavin’ four stove boats an’
a-takin’ o’ seven irons an’ twelve hundred fathoms o’ line to Davy Jones
fer souv’neers. Aye, an’ ye can jes’ bet our men druv the barbs inter
the _Mohawk_ folk a-laffin’ at ’em fer a-losin’ o’ a bull whale, arter
they’d got seven irons in. One o’ our chaps—a young boat steerer—’lowed
he’d like ter see the whale he’d let get away with _his_ iron and lines,
an’ ev’ry one o’ the crew o’ the _Greyhoun’_ was that sore at not havin’
raised a whale fer so long thet they jus’ prayed fer a chanct ter run
athwart the hawse o’ the _Mohawk’s_ mad whale.
“An’ by gum, we did! Three days arter leavin’ the _Mohawk_, we raised a
whale ’bout four p’ints offen the sta’board bow and the cap’n an’ mate
lowered. But I’ll be blowed ef thet whale’d wait fer ’em to go on, but
jes’ as soon as he spied the boats he come arter ’em head up an’ tail
over the dasher, so to speak, a-roarin’ an’ a fumin’ with his jaws wide
open, an’ gettin’ the mate’s boat fust, he stove thet and turned fer the
cap’n’s. Jes’ took one nip and there weren’t ’nough lef’ o’ thet boat
fer to make toothpicks outen. Then a-droppin’ o’ the boat, the pesky
bull swung ’roun’ an’ grabbed the mate. Jes’ as luck’d hev it, the bark
weren’t far, an’ soon’s I see what was happ’nin’ I lowered an’ started
a-yellin’ ter the third mate ter foller an’ pick up the cap’n’s crew.
Jes’ got ter the mate in the nick o’ time an’ hauled him in purty well
chawed an’ mussed up, when the whale breached ’bout quarter o’ a mile
ahead. My boat steerer was the cock-sure cuss I told ye of an’ ’fore I
could say a word the crew was a-pullin’ like mad an’ we was a-goin’ on.
’Course I didn’t stop on ’em—didn’t want no boat steerer or crew a
tellin’ me I was scart o’ any bull whale—an’ purty soon the boat steerer
puts down his oar and pulls offen his jacket and takes up the iron, fer
we was close on an’ the ol’ bull didn’t seem fer to see us.
“Nex’ minute the young chap struck, an’ by gum, afore ye could say Holy
Mac’rel thet dumb-gasted boat steerer had another iron inter the
critter! Dunno whether ’twas the s’prise o’ bein’ struck ’twict ter onct
or what, but the fight all seemed ter go clean out o’ the whale and he
jes’ sounded like a lump o’ lead. Jes’ as soon as he’d put the secon’
iron in, the boat steerer tumbled aft an’ I jumped fo’ward an’ o’ course
the two lines was a-whirrin’ out o’ the bow-chock like steam an’ a
jumpin’ like livin’ snakes o’ steel outen their tubs. Jes’ as I passes
the tub-oar, I hear a sort o’ yell and a groan an’ I swings ’roun’ in
time to see the boat steerer a-floppin’ roun’ an’ a-flyin’ forrard with
a kink o’ the secon’ line ’roun’ his leg. Nex’ secon’ there was a flash
o’ steel an’ a dull thud an’, think I, some one’s cut the line, an’ I
see what I took ter be a ol’ boot splash overboard. ’Course ’twas all
over in the shake o’ a lamb’s tail, an’ jes’ then the whale was a comin’
up to breach an’ I didn’t give no heed ter it. ’Spected the whale fer to
turn on us, but he’d got ernough o’ fightin’, I reckon, and started off
to the west’ard as if he’d a forgotten sumpthin’. Didn’t steer no
straight course, though, an’ milled an’ twisted an’ turned; an’ thet
there boat steerer _was_ a wonder. Swung the boat quicker’n the whale
an’ never shipped a drop till ’bout fifteen minutes arter gettin’ fas’,
we drew in an’ druv home the lance an’ without a flurry the ol’ bull
spouted blood an’ went fin-up. An’ jes’ as he done it I heerd a rattle
an’ thud, an’ lookin’ ’roun’ I seed the boat steerer all a heap in the
starn. When I got to him I jes’ give one almighty yell an’ drapped down
an’ couldn’t believe my own eyes. Thet there youngster had chopped off
his own leg an’d been a-steerin’ o’ the boat with a bleedin’ stump fer
fifteen mortal minutes! When he cum to, the fust thing he says was, ‘Did
ye git that there mad whale?’ An’ when we told him he jes’ grinned an’,
sez he, ‘Told them _Mohawk_ lan’ lubbers I’d git him or lose a leg, an’
I did.’ An’ thet’s how Pem come fer to lose his leg.”
Cap’n Pem flushed purple to his grizzled hair. “Lem, ye ol’ lyin’
shellback!” he burst out. “’Twant me what kilt the bull an’ ye know
blamed well ’twas jes’ fer to save my life I done it. Anyhow, what’s the
use a-talkin’ ’bout things what was done forty year ago?”
But the boys and the assembled company would not listen to his
protestations or denials and vowed he was a real hero.
Now that the subject of whaling adventures had been started, various
stories of marvelous escapes and incredible heroism were told, for
several of the islanders who had gathered at the Potter cottage, were
old whalemen who had left their perilous calling to settle down for the
rest of their lives on Tristan da Cunha. They told of ships sunk by
infuriated whales which blindly rushed at the vessels and stove them in.
They related tales of being locked in the Arctic ice floes and of the
awful loss of the whaling fleet in 1871, when thirty-two ships were
crushed and destroyed and over twelve hundred people made their way in
open boats through freezing, stormy seas for eight hundred miles in
order to seek safety in the vessels which awaited them. They spun many a
yarn of weird, uncanny happenings at sea, of premonitions, St. Elmo’s
fire and derelicts; of mutinies and acts of violence, and all were true;
for the whalemen, unlike his merchant sailor brother, has plenty of
facts to draw from without the need of weaving tales from imagination.
“Aye, an’ that ’minds me o’ the cap’n o’ the _Pole Star_,” mused one
gray-bearded old islander after one of the others had told a story.
“Ye’ll mind she was a-whalin’ in the Ar’tic. The cap’n struck a right
whale an’ was fas’ when his boat were stove an’ the whale tackled the
cap’n. I was boat steerer i’ the mate’s boat an’ seen the whole thing.
The Ol’ Man were a pow’ful fine swimmer an’ used fer to boast on it, an’
’twere sure lucky fer him he were, b’gosh! Fust time the whale started
fer him, he dove under an’ come up t’other side o’ the whale. Us
couldn’t get in near, the whale was a kickin’ up of sech a rumpus, fust
striking wi’ its flukes an’ then a risin’ of its head an’ a slammin’ of
it down like er capsized mountain, an’ all the time the skipper a-divin’
an’ a dodgin’ an’ a swimmin’ fer his life. Two or three times I seen the
whale’s flukes lift the cap’n clean out o’ water an’ time an ag’in I
seed the head come down an’ druv him clean out o sight. Each time us
thought ’twas all over, but somehow or tother the skipper didn’t get hit
square an’ kep’ a-fightin’. ’Course us didn’t know it at the time, but
all the while the skipper was a-tryin’ to git his sheath-knife into the
whale’s nose to tarn him—ye mind a right whale’s nose’s so plumb tender
he’ll turn tail an’ run if ye so much as touches of it—but the knife got
stuck an’ he had a mortal time a drawin’ on it, what betwix’ swimmin’
an’ a dodgin’ o’ flukes an’ head. Bimeby, though, he got it out, an’
edgin’ roun’—ye mind a right whale can’t see ahead—he swum in front o’
the whale and druv the knife home. Jumpin’ Jehosephat! Ye’d oughter a
seed that there whale skihoot off! Bet he ain’t stopped a-goin’ yit, an’
thet was back in seventy-three. An’ us picked up skipper nary the wusser
fer his fight.”
“An’ did ye ever hear o’ the whaleman what was act_oo_ally grabbed by a
sparm bull an’ taken down to the bottom an’ spit up ag’in?” asked
another ex-whaleman. “I disrecollec’ his ship, but he was a chap name o’
Jenkins. Got fas’ to a sparm whale back in ’70. Whale turned an’ bit the
boat in two and then made a rush and grabbed Jenkins an’ sounded. The
boat weren’t smashed up, jes’ cut clean amidships, an’ the crew was a
holdin’ on ter the two pieces a-waitin’ to be picked up an’ a sorryin’
fer their los’ mate, when the whale breaches close alongside, an’
openin’ his mouth, spits Jenkins out and tosses of him into the forrard
part o’ his boat. Warn’t much hurt neither—bruised up a bit an’ mauled,
but less’n a fortni’t later was back ter work again.”
“That _is_ a tall yarn,” laughed Tom. “Is it true?”
“True as I’m a settin’ here,” maintained the story teller.
“Aye, I’ve heerd of it afore,” supplemented old Lem.
“Seed about it in the ship’s log-book, myself,” Cap’n Pem assured them.
“Ye can read it yersel’s when ye go back. It’s over to the Mus’um in New
Bedford.”
“Well, I can believe anything after what I’ve seen and heard,” admitted
Tom.
“Reckon we’d better be gittin’ ’long back ter the ship,” observed Cap’n
Pem. “Skipper’ll think we’ve decided for to settle down here.”
With hearty handshakes and thanks for the islanders’ hospitality, the
two boys invited Paul and Getty to visit the _Hector_ when their
grandfather came off next day, and accompanied by a group of their
new-found friends, they made their way to the landing place. Already, a
large amount of provisions had been brought down and the boats were just
returning from taking a load aboard the _Hector_. Captain Edwards was
already on the bark and he laughed heartily and was much interested at
the boys’ accounts of their experiences on the island.
The following day, the islanders visited the ship and after the midday
meal, when all the supplies had been loaded, the captain had the decks
cleared and the men spent the afternoon skylarking with their visitors.
Early the next morning, the boys were aroused by the clank of the anchor
chain and the rousing capstan chantey, as the men, walking the
handspikes around, sang lustily:
“Oh, a ship she was rigged and ready for sea,
Windy weather! Stormy weather!
And all of her sailors were fishes to be,
Blow ye winds, westerly, gentle sou’ westerly,
Blow ye winds westerly, steady she goes.”
Hurrying on deck, the boys found the bark already slipping through the
water, while on the shore and resting on their oars in the boats, the
islanders were waving farewells and shouting good wishes for a quick
voyage and a full cargo.
An hour later, the island’s slopes were indistinct in the mist astern
and as the boys took their last look at the towering, volcanic cone they
felt a pang of regret at having left the island and the simple, pleasant
folk that dwelt upon it.