If I had not been writing these notes I would have harpooned a whale, I
believe, for a few minutes after getting on board the narwhals appeared
again, and by the time we were afloat and at the place they had appeared
at, we were too late. So, to be out of temptation and the cold, I turned
in at six A.M., after a long day of the unexpected. First, open sea! then
the narwhals’ appearance, then the bears, and narwhals again. Quite good
hunting if it were not for the persistent mist that worries all of us
more or less and prevents our getting ahead.
[Illustration]
I hear this morning that after I had turned in, the mate had a shot with
the harpoon at a narwhal and missed. I am sure our gun shoots short,
possibly the powder is faulty. I have known a man miss fifty shots
in succession in the Japanese seas, owing to this cause. He got more
suitable powder, and he killed sixty-nine whales without a miss. This is
the old style of gun and harpoon which we have on the Fonix. A is wire
strop or grummet running in slot in harpoon shaft. B is the “forego,”
a length of extra fine and strong line attached to harpoon. C shows
the line going into the bottom of the boat. D, crutch turning in; E, a
bollard or timber-head.
On the Balæna, a Dundee and Greenland whaler I was on for a long cruise,
we coiled down eighteen hundred yards of two-inch rope in each boat,
extremely carefully coiled down in three divisions, one in the bows, one
amidships, and another at the stern. After using the modern heavy Finner
tackle from a small steamer these old lines seem to be very light tackle
in contrast. Last year we coiled down five-inch ropes (_i.e._ five in
circumference) three hundred and sixty fathoms to port, three hundred
and sixty to starboard, each line filling a bulkhead of, say, eight feet
by eight, and each line weighing about a ton, and the harpoons weighed
nearly two hundredweights. To play a fish of, say, ninety tons that can
snap such a cable or tow your hundred-foot steamer at eight to fifteen
knots up wind, with the two-hundred-horse-power engine doing eight
knots astern, is some sport. But the thin lines we have here are quite
adequate for this Balean whale of the Arctic, for the Right whale as a
rule does not sprint and it floats when it is dead, and usually, on being
harpooned, dives deep and stays down till it exhausts itself from want
of air, and so the lancing is easy. The rorquals go off at great speed
nearer the surface.
Does the reader know about the great Svend Foyn, who invented the harpoon
for the great finners of modern whaling? He was a man of remarkable
determination and strength of character. Many yarns have I heard about
him.
This is one of them:
To show how his new harpoon worked, he took his wife on a trial
trip—great man as he was, he made mistakes, and had his limitations. He
soon made fast to a great finner with his new harpoon and line, and was
he not a proud man? But the harpoon struck the whale too far aft and did
not disable it. It took out the whole line and with a rush took their
little steamer in tow at a terrible speed out of the fiord for twelve
hours at fifteen knots against a gale, and they were steaming seven knots
astern with a sail up to help to stop the speed.
“Let go, let go,” prayed the wife, “I am seek, I am afraid.” “No, no,”
said Foyn, “I vill never let go. I vill show you veech is de strongest my
vill or de vill of de beasts,” and he held on and finally got the whale
lanced. But it was an awful fight. When they towed the whale ashore in
triumph his wife was nearly dead, and she said: “Now you have shown me
your vill ees stronger den de beasts’—now I vill leave you,” and she did.
And through his life his second wife was his right hand.
[Illustration: THE END OF THE TRAIL]
What a huge industry has sprung from that new harpoon first planned by Mr
Welsh in Dundee, but developed in Tönsberg by Svend Foyn, working with
Henriksen the engineer, that wonderful patriarch of Tönsberg. Gruff old
Svend Foyn died in 1895, a millionaire; but he preserved great simplicity
of life and dined off one tin plate, and despised luxuries; and only one
ailment did he ever suffer from, that was toothache; so if anyone had
toothache they got his sympathy, no other complaint got any. Only one man
in Norway could get to windward of him, and that was Yensen, his steward.
Once Foyn came on board at night and Yensen was lying on the cabin floor
very drunk, but with just enough sense left to clap his hand to his
cheek, and when Foyn roared out: “Halloo, what the hell’s the matter
with you?” he groaned: “Toothache, Captain, terrible toothache.” “Ho,
ho,” said Foyn, “I’ll soon put that right,” and he went to his cabin and
poured out a sou’-wester of whisky, which he ordered Yensen to swallow
neat, of course; he did so, and made a face, and had some difficulty in
getting forward. Foyn was as pleased as could be next morning, when he
visited Yensen and found he had only a headache. The steward was very
diplomatic and tactful. Once, with his Captain, he went up a high hill
somewhere about the Nord Cap to look out for whales in the offing and
there came such a clap of wind that it blew the great Foyn down and hurt
his person and his dignity. But on looking round he found Yensen slowly
getting to his feet, muttering: “That was a terrible blast, Captain.”
Yensen had really not felt it at all, so he saved Foyn’s feelings.
His new industry has been the making of Southern Norway and half of
Tönsberg. But the Tönsberg people remember him with mixed feelings.
They would not subscribe capital to their townsman’s new venture; not
only that, but they insisted on his doing all his whale factory work
outside the town. “All right,” he said, “if you won’t take a share in
the business I will give you the ‘smell,’” and he built his works to
windward and made many hundreds per cent. profit for years, and the
Tönsberg people only got the smell. Now, however, there are very few men
in Southern Norway who do not have shares in one modern whaling company
or another, and the island of Nottero, for example, in the south of
Norway, is dotted with pretty homesteads, owned by successful whaling
owners, captains and mates. There they call whaling an Industry. Here,
even though we tell of eighty per cent. dividends running for years, it
is called a Speculation.
[Illustration]
But to come back to our whales. Whilst enjoying the sun through the mist
and the intense stillness we heard a deep growl or groan, something like
a bear or a cow, a deep note which seemed to come from the floe across
the little bay I have mentioned. Peering into the sunlight track, on the
water we noticed forms moving and more groans came from these—Narwhals
they are!—and away we go, get the gun uncovered and two ·475 shells in
the breech of the big rifle, and just as we came to the place where
they were, there they are no more, only an oily swirl on the faint
ripples. So we lie on our oars and by-and-by they appear again down the
ice-edge—seven or eight. I practise laying the gun and harpoon on to them
and fondly hope I may get within range. Then comes the chief of the clan,
a glorious fellow; how I do desire to own the great horn which I see for
a moment. Next time he comes up. I feel sure I shall let go, and have the
gun ready, feet spread out and the line all clear. But they are gone! off
under the ice, and again we lie idly waiting. Then Archie whistles from
the ship and signals that he has seen them out seawards and away we go,
and as usual arrive at firing distance just as they “tail up” for their
long dive.
[Illustration: Sperm breaching]
[Illustration: Small Finner leaping]
Some whales “tail up” before a long dive; some more, some less; some
finners only do this A dive after showing several times and blasting
B. But these narwhals show their dumpy feeble tail, C, as also does
the sperm D, before the long dive. The rorquals’ tails are magnificent
appendages, and it is often thrown clear of the sea when such a whale
is “fast” or harpooned E. The sperm can make a big swipe with his tail;
it is apparently more elastic in the spine than the finner. To see a
sperm breaching is a fine sight; he runs fast along the surface, every
second leaping clear out, or at least going, as it were, on his tail,
and thumps down with a crash of spray. Though I have seen thousands of
Finners I have only seldom seen them leaping clear of the water, but
here is a jotting of one that rose several times within thirty yards of
us—close enough! leap after leap, its tail ten feet clear of the sea,
head first, straight up into the air and down again head first; what
stupendous strength and what delicate colour, its underside white as kid,
ribbed like corduroy, its back grey, glittering in the sun (see page 235).
* * * * *
We left our sheltered ice bay this morning, 19th July, because the mist
lifted and the sky hung in level lilac bands above the ice-floes, and we
got a few hours’ further steaming through the ice towards the coast. And
I am rather sorry. For we had got to know the biggest ice features of
that bay, and the fishing and shooting were worth quite a good rent—two
bears, one narwhal and lots of hunting for other bears in two days. I
would have stayed a week more there myself and so would Gisbert, as we
are both very keen about the narwhals, but the others were not, and
thought there wasn’t much chance of getting within shot.
I must say the narwhals were provoking, rising trout in a chalk stream
are not more wary, still there was always a chance. I’d have given a good
deal to land one of these splendid ivory horns. Time after time we got
almost within harpooning distance and the group of long spotted black and
white backs would signal to each other and quietly disappear and sink.
We stalked or rowed as quietly as possible to one lot, and I had half
a chance and let drive but the harpoon struck water just a foot short
of the nearest and biggest. What a flourish of tails and spray there
was as they plunged and left great quiet swirls in the rippling water;
our boat and hearts bobbing but no whale fast to a straining line. You
salmon-fishers don’t know the saltness of the tears for a missed or lost
whale.
Svendsen, who has only done bottle-nose harpooning, was put on for next
chance and did exactly as I had done, only he got his hand cut through
the butt of the harpoon-gun being a bit loose. Truth is, our gear, guns
and line on the Fonix are rotten. He told me a curious thing that
happened with him a year or two ago; whilst bottle-nosing his mate had
made miss after miss at whales with the harpoon, and coming alongside he
said: “_By G⸺_, if I can’t hit a whale I’ll hit a gull” (fulmar petrels
were, as usual, round the vessel), so he blew at one and the harpoon cut
it in two! But a bottle-nose is an easier mark, to my mind, than the
narwhal. Narwhals are apt to show so little above water—only about four
to ten inches, and that only for a second as a rule.
Almost at every watch we heard their groanings and went after them.
Sometimes we thought we heard the sound coming from under the water. I am
sure we did.
Our biggest disappointment came at night—two in the morning rather. A
bear was spotted—a bear on the far side of our loch, and Gisbert went off
with some men in the whale-boat and we watched in our night clothes (much
the same as day clothes in the Arctic) and saw the captain do a record
sprint over the floe to turn the bear towards the gun, but the bear that
at first seemed inclined to come and pass the time of day changed his
mind and went ambling away, giving us a stern view till only its black
nose and mouth were visible, as it looked round occasionally, and then
it vanished in the lilac distance amongst the snow hummocks, and the
writer turned in, thinking the play was over. But this morning, I am
told, the real disappointment came. They gave up the bear, for a large
black-and-white narwhal, with a magnificent horn, appeared round the ice
point and they rowed round for it. It was lying leisurely on the surface,
only going below occasionally. Gisbert was to take the harpoon. They made
a splendid approach, breathlessly still, oars not making a sound, and got
within five yards! And the whale rose high out of the water and Gisbert
pulled the trigger, and the gun missed fire. The cap that explodes the
powder had been withdrawn for safety, when they began the bear-chase, and
not replaced! You can imagine the disappointment. I can assure the reader
that such an approach, the approach and hunting of any whale, in fact, is
far more exciting than one’s first stag or bear. There is more risk than
in bear-hunting. But a danger of the narwhal is that if you make fast to
a young one the rest of the family, parents and relatives, are down on
you and you have a chance of getting the great ivory spear through your
boat. There is all the possibility of lines and legs getting mixed, boat
upset, or dragged under floes, and lots more, if you care to tot them up.
Curiously, there have been far more lives lost at bottle-nose whaling
than at that of the larger kinds (the bottle-nose and narwhal are about
the same size). A bottle-nose is not larger than the narwhal, but it goes
off with such a dash that I have known several men to have been carried
overboard—Captain Larsen for one. He told me he went over with coil round
his leg, and another man in front; he got loose but the other man never
came up again.
The great Svend Foyn was once taken overboard—that was with a five-inch
rope, after a finner whale, which is seldom or never known to check its
first rush. This one did, slacked the line and Svend Foyn came to the
surface and struck out and clambered on board, where the mate stood white
with horror, and all the welcome he could muster was: “I—I—I am afraid
you are wet, Captain!” and Foyn laughed himself dry....
Then Fortune gave a belated smile on our adventurers. The foolish bear
left the immense floe, on which it was perfectly safe, and took a swim
to a small one lying on the far side. Our boat having gone round after
this narwhal, was therefore able to spot something moving across the calm
water, and when the object got to the floe and crawled out on to the
ice, great was their rejoicing to find their bear again. So they pursued
it again and killed it with one head shot, one in the neck, and three
in the body. It was a small bear, a female about three metres, thirty
centimetres—that is, seven feet six inches—and had bad teeth and looked
old! My last, about the same length, had splendid teeth and looked young.
This accepted measurement, which we take from nose to tail, does not give
a true impression of the size of a bear, for this bear standing up would
be about nine feet in height. I do not see why we should not measure a
bear standing up as we measure man, from top of his head to his heel. We
never think of giving a man’s height in feet and inches from top of head
to the seat of his trousers. And, besides, what is the _end_ of a bear’s
tail? Is it the flesh and bone or longest hair? I’ve seen a hair about
five inches long on a bear’s tail, and including the water dripping from
that you would have thought, by the measurements, it beat the record.