the sportsman cruising in the North Atlantic between the Cape Verde
Islands and the West Indies--a wide range, truly, but no part of
it barren of the highest possibilities for pleasure. A school of
sperm whales is sighted, the vessel is carefully manœuvred for the
weather-gage of them, and this being obtained, the boats are softly
lowered, sail is set, and, with the fresh trade-wind, away they go
leaping to leeward. The utmost precaution against noise must be
taken, because the natural susceptibility of the whale to sound
is as delicate as the receiver of a telephone. No amount of oral
instruction would here be of any avail without long experience,
which, since it can be hired, there is no need to waste time and
patience in acquiring. Assuming, therefore, that the preliminary
difficulty of approach to the sensitive monsters has been overcome,
and there remains but a few fathoms of rapidly lessening distance
between the boat and the unconscious whale, who could satisfactorily
describe the sensations crowded into those few remaining moments
of absolute quiet, the tension of expectation, the uncertainty of
the result of the approaching conflict? The object of attack is the
mightiest of living animals, he is in his own element, to which the
assailant is but a visitor on sufferance, and he may retaliate in so
fierce and tremendous a fashion that no amount of skill, courage,
or energy shall suffice to protect the aggressor from his fury. But
there is no thought of drawing back, the swift-gliding boat rushes
high up on to the broad bank of flesh, and with a long-pent-up yell
the harpoon is hurled. It enters the black mass noiselessly, the
weight of its pole bends the soft iron shaft over as the attached
line stretches out, and as the boat slowly, so slowly, backs away,
the leviathan, amazed and infuriated, thrashes the quiet sea into
masses of hissing foam, while the thunder of his blows resounds like
the uproar of a distant cannonade. At this time certain necessary
rearrangements, such as furling and stowing sail, make it impossible,
even if it were wise, to approach the indignant whale, and as a
general thing by the time these preparations are complete he has
sought the shelter of the depths beneath, taking out flake after
flake of the neatly coiled line. With ordinary care, especially
where only one boat is engaged, it would seldom happen that all the
line would run out, and the game be lost. Usually, after an interval
of about twenty minutes, during which the line is slacked away as
slowly and grudgingly as possible, it is felt to give, and the slack
must be hauled in with the utmost smartness, a sharp look-out being
kept meanwhile upon the surrounding surface for a sudden white glare
beneath--the cavity of the whale’s throat, as he comes bounding to
the surface with his vast jaws gaping wider than a barn-door. It is
at this time that the true excitement, the joy of battle, begins.
For in most cases the huge animal has come to fight, and being in
his turn the aggressor, his enemies must exert all their skill in
boatsmanship, preserve all their coolness and watchfulness, since a
mistake in tactics or loss of presence of mind may mean the instant
destruction of the boat, if not the sudden and violent death of
some of her crew. As a general rule, however, after a few savage
rushes avoided by wary manœuvring on the part of the hunters, the
whale starts off to windward at his best speed (from twelve to
fourteen knots an hour), towing the boat or boats after him with
the greatest ease. This is a most exhilarating experience. For the
mighty steed, ploughing his strenuous way through the waves, seems
the living embodiment of force, and yet he is, as it were, harnessed
to his exulting foes, compelled to take them with him in spite of
his evident desire to shake himself free. While he goes at his best
speed a near approach to him is manifestly impossible; but, vast as
his energies are, the enormous mass of his own body carried along
so rapidly soon tires him, and he slows down to five or six knots.
Then all hands, except the one in charge and the helmsman, “tail
on” to the line, and do their best to haul up alongside the whale.
The steersman sheers the boat clear of his labouring flukes as she
comes close to him, and then allows her to point inward towards his
broad flank, while the lance-wielder seeks a vulnerable spot wherein
to plunge his long, slender weapon. It is of little use to dart the
lance as the harpoon is flung; such an action is far more likely
to goad the whale into a new exhibition of energy than to do him
any disabling injury. Being at such close quarters, it is far more
sportsmanlike, as well as effectual, to thrust the lance calmly and
steadily into the huge mass of flesh so near at hand. If the aim has
been well taken--say, just abaft and below the pectoral fin--more
than one home-thrust will hardly be needed, even in a whale of the
largest size, and a careful watch must be kept upon the spout-hole
for the first sign of blood discolouring the monster’s breath. For
that is evidence unmistakable of the beginning of the end. It shows
that some vital part has been pierced, and although the whale-fishers
always continue their “pumping” with the lance up to the very verge
of disaster, once the whale has begun to spout blood it is quite
unnecessary to continue the assault. Still, at this stage of the
proceedings the primitive instincts are usually fully aroused, and
nothing seems to satisfy them but persistent fury of attack, until
the actual commencement of the tremendous death-agony or “flurry” of
the noble beast gives even the most excited hunter warning that it
is time to draw off and endeavour to keep clear of the last Titanic
convulsions of the expiring monster. No other created being ever
furnishes such a display of energy. Involuntarily one compares it
with the awful manifestations of the earthquake, the volcano, or the
cyclone. And when at last the great creature yields up the dregs of
his once amazing vitality, no one possessing a spark of imagination
can fail to be conscious of an under-current of compunction mingling
with the swelling triumph of such a victory.
But the seeker after big sea-game should attack the rorqual if he
would see sport indeed. For this agile monster has such a reputation
for almost supernatural cunning that even if he were as valuable
as he really is valueless commercially, it is highly doubtful if
he would ever be molested. As it is, all the tribe are chartered
libertines, since no whaleman is likely to risk the loss of a boat’s
gear for the barren honour of conquest. And not only so, but the
rorquals, whether “fin-back,” “sulphur-bottom,” or “blue-back,” as
well as the “hump-back” and grampus, make it a point of honour to
sink when dead, unlike the “cachalot” or “Bowhead,” who float awash
at first, but ever more buoyantly as the progress of decay within
the immense abdominal cavity generates an accumulating volume of
gas. Any old whaleman would evolve in the interests of sport no end
of dodges for dealing with the wily rorqual, such as a collection of
strongly attached bladders affixed to the line to stay his downward
rush, short but broad-barbed harpoons, to get a better hold upon the
thin coating of blubber, &c. In this kind of whaling there is quite
sufficient danger to make the sport exciting in the highest degree.
Not, however, from the attack of the animal hunted, but because his
evolutions in the effort to escape are so marvellously vivacious
that only the most expert and cool-headed boatsmanship can prevent a
sudden severance of the nexus between boat and crew. A splendid day’s
sport can be obtained with a school of blackfish. Although seldom
exceeding a ton and a half in weight, these small whales are quite
vigorous enough to make the chase of them as lively an episode as the
most enthusiastic hunter could wish, especially if two or even three
are harpooned one after the other on a single line, as the whalers’
custom is. The sensation of being harnessed as it were to a trio of
monsters, each about 25 feet long, and 8 feet in girth, every one
anxious to flee in a different direction at the highest speed he can
muster, and in their united gambols making the sea boil like a pot,
is one that, once experienced, is never likely to be forgotten. The
mere memory of that mad frolic over the heaving bosom of the bright
sea makes the blood leap to the face, makes the nerves twitch, and
the heart long to be away from the placid round of everyday life upon
the bright free wave again. Even a school of porpoises, in default
of nobler game, can furnish a lively hour or two, especially if
they be of a fair size, say up to three or four hundredweight each.
But of a truth there need be no fear of a lack of game. The swift
passage from port to port made by passenger vessels is apt to leave
the voyager with the impression that the sea is a barren waste, but
such an idea is wholly false. Even the sailing-ships, bound though
they may be to make the shortest possible time between ports, are
compelled by failure of wind to see enough of the everyday life of
the sea-population to know better than that, and whoso gives himself
up to the glamour of sea-study, making no haste to rush from place to
place, but leisurely loitering along the wide plains of ocean, shall
find each day a new world unfolding itself before his astonished
eyes, a world of marvels, infinitely small, as well as wondrous
great--from the thousand and one miracles that go to make up the
“Plankton” to the antediluvian whale.
Fishing in its more heroic phases is obtainable in deep-sea
cruising as nowhere else. The hungry sailor, perched upon the flying
jib-boom end, drops his line, baited with a fluttering fragment of
white rag, and watches it with eager eyes as it skips from crest to
crest of the foam-tipped wavelets, brushed aside by the advancing
hull of his ship. And although his ideas are wholly centred upon
dinner--something savoury, to replace the incessant round of salt
beef and rancid pork--he cannot help but feel the zest of sport when
upward to his clumsy lure come rushing eagerly dolphin, bonito, or
skipjack. But if--putting all lesser fish to flight--the mighty
albacore leaps majestically at his bait, prudence compels him to
withdraw from the unequal contest; he knows that he stands not the
remotest chance of hauling such a huge trophy up to his lofty perch,
or of holding him there, should he be able to get a grip of him. To
the scientific angler, however, equipped with the latest resources
of fishing-tackle experts, and able to devote all the manipulation
of his vessel to the capture of such a trophy, the fishing of the
albacore would be the acme of all angling experiences. Good sport can
be got out of a school of large dolphin or bonito, their vigorous
full-blooded strife being a revelation to those who only know the
lordly salmon or skittish trout, but the albacore is the supreme test
of the angler’s ability. Shark-fishing is very tame after it. For
the shark, though powerful, has none of the dash and energy which
characterise the albacore, and would soon be an object of scorn to a
fisherman who had succeeded in catching the monarch of the mackerel
tribe. But if the fisherman, cruising near the confines of the
Caribbean Sea, should come across one of those nightmares known as
alligator-guards or devil-fish, a species of ray often one hundred
and twenty feet in area, he would find a new sensation in its chase
and capture, besides being the possessor of such a marine specimen as
is at present lacking to any museum in the world.
And this brings the reflection, which may fittingly draw this
article to a close, that not the least of the delights which such a
cruise must bring to one fortunate enough to enjoy it would be the
incalculable service rendered to marine natural history. This branch
of science offers an almost illimitable field to the student. It is
nearly a new world awaiting its Columbus, and it is not difficult to
foresee that before very long it will have found its votaries among
men of wealth, leisure, and energy, delighted to enter into the joy
of a happy hunting-ground of boundless extent and inexhaustible
fecundity.
A SEA CHANGE
Night was unfolding her wings over the quiet sea. Purple, dark and
smooth, the circling expanse of glassy stillness met the sky rim
all round in an unbroken line, like the edge of some cloud-towering
plateau, inaccessible to all the rest of the world. A few lingering
streaks of fading glory laced the western verge, reflecting splashes
of subdued colour half-way across the circle, and occasionally
catching with splendid but momentary effect the rounded shoulder
of an almost imperceptible swell. Their departure was being noted
with wistful eyes by a little company of men and one woman, who,
without haste and a hushed solemnity as of mourners at the burial
of a dear one, were leaving their vessel and bestowing themselves
in a small boat which lay almost motionless alongside. There was
no need for haste, for the situation had been long developing.
The brig was an old one, whose owner was poor and unable to spare
sufficient from her scanty earnings for her proper upkeep. So she
had been gradually going from bad to worse, not having been strongly
built of hard wood at first, but pinned together hastily by some
farmer-shipbuilder-fisherman up the Bay of Fundy, mortgaged strake by
strake, like a suburban villa, and finally sold by auction for the
price of the timber in her. Still, being a smart model and newly
painted, she looked rather attractive when Captain South first saw
her lying in lonely dignity at an otherwise deserted quay in the St.
Katharine’s Docks. Poor man, the command of her meant so much to him.
Long out of employment, friendless and poor, he had invested a tiny
legacy, just fallen to his wife, in the vessel as the only means
whereby he could obtain command of even such a poor specimen of a
vessel as the _Dorothea_. And the shrewd old man who owned her drove
a hard bargain. For the small privilege of the skipper carrying his
wife with him 50s. per month was deducted from the scanty wage at
first agreed upon. But in spite of these drawbacks the anxious master
felt a pleasant glow of satisfaction thrill him as he thought that
soon he would be once more afloat, the monarch of his tiny realm, and
free for several peaceful months from the harassing uncertainties of
shore-life.
In order to avoid expense he lived on board while in dock, and made
himself happily busy rigging up all sorts of cunning additions to
the little cuddy, with an eye to the comfort of his wife. While
thus engaged came a thunderclap, the first piece of bad news. The
_Dorothea_ was chartered to carry a cargo of railway iron and
machinery to Buenos Ayres. Had he been going alone the thing would
have annoyed him, but he would have got over that with a good
old-fashioned British growl or so. But with Mary on board--the
thought was paralysing. For there is only one cargo that tries a ship
more than railway metal, copper ore badly stowed. Its effect upon a
staunch steel-built ship is to make her motion abominable--to take
all the sea-kindness out of her. A wooden vessel, even of the best
build, burdened with those rigid lengths of solid metal, is like a
living creature on the rack, in spite of the most careful stowage.
Every timber in her complains, every bend and strake is wrenched and
strained, so that, be her record for “tightness” never so good, one
ordinary gale will make frequent exercise at the pump an established
institution. And Captain South already knew that the _Dorothea_
was far from being staunch and well-built, although, happily for
his small remaining peace of mind, he did not know how walty and
unseaworthy she really was. A few minutes’ bitter meditation,
over this latest crook in his lot, and the man in him rose to the
occasion, determined to make the best of it and hope steadily for
a fine run into the trades. He superintended her stowing himself,
much to the disgust of the stevedores, who are never over particular
unless closely watched, although so much depends upon the way their
work is done. At any rate, he had the satisfaction of knowing that
the ugly stuff was as handsomely bestowed as experience could
suggest, and, with a sigh of relief, he saw the main hatches put on
and battened down for a full due.
In the selection of his crew he had been unusually careful. Five
A.B.’s were all that he was allowed, the vessel being only 500 tons
burden, two officers besides himself, and one man for the double
function of cook and steward. Therefore, he sought to secure the best
possible according to his judgment, and really succeeded in getting
together a sturdy little band. His chief comfort, however, was in his
second mate, who was a Finn--one of that phlegmatic race from the
eastern shore of the Baltic who seem to inherit not only a natural
aptitude for a sea life, but also the ability to build ships, make
sails and rigging, do blacksmithing, &c.--all, in fact, that there is
to a ship, as our cousins say. Slow, but reliable to the core, and a
perfect godsend in a small ship. In Olaf Svensen, then, the skipper
felt he had a tower of strength. The mate was a young Londoner, smart
and trustworthy--not too independent to thrust his arms into the
tarpot when necessary, and amiable withal. The other six members of
the crew--two Englishmen and three Scandinavians--were good seamen,
all sailors--there wasn’t a steamboat man among them--and, from the
first day when in the dock they all arrived sober and ready for work,
matters went smoothly and salt-water fashion.
It was late in October when they sailed, and they had no sooner
been cast adrift by the grimy little “jackal” that towed them down
to the Nore than they were greeted by a bitter nor’-wester that
gave them a sorry time of it getting round the Foreland. The short,
vicious Channel sea made the loosely-knit frame of the brig sing a
mournful song as she jumped at it, braced sharp up, and many were
the ominous remarks exchanged in the close, wedge-shaped fo’c’s’le
on her behaviour in these comparatively smooth waters, coupled with
gloomy speculations as to what sort of a fist she would make of the
Western Ocean waves presently. Clinkety-clank, bang, bang went the
pumps for fifteen minutes out of every two hours, the water rising
clear, as though drawn from overside, and a deeper shade settled on
the skipper’s brow. For a merry fourteen days they fought their way
inch by inch down Channel, getting their first slant between Ushant
and Scilly in the shape of a hard nor’-easter, that drove them clear
of the land and 300 miles out into the Atlantic. Then it fell a calm,
with a golden haze all round the horizon by day, and a sweet, balmy
feel in the air--a touch of Indian summer on the sea. Three days it
lasted--days that brought no comfort to the skipper, who could hardly
hold his patience when his wife blessed the lovely weather, in her
happy ignorance of what might be expected as the price presently
to be paid for it. Then one evening there began to rise in the
west the familiar sign so dear to homeward-bounders, so dreaded by
outward-going ships--the dense dome of cloud uplifted to receive the
setting sun. The skipper watched its growth as if fascinated by the
sight, watched it until at midnight it had risen to be a vast convex
screen, hiding one-half of the deep blue sky. At the changing of
the watch he had her shortened down to the two lower topsails and
fore-topmast staysail, and having thus snugged her, went below to
snatch, fully dressed, a few minutes’ sleep. The first moaning breath
of the coming gale roused him almost as soon as it reached the ship,
and as the watchful Svensen gave his first order, “Lee fore brace!”
the skipper appeared at the companion hatch, peering anxiously to
windward, where the centre of that gloomy veil seemed to be worn
thin. The only light left was just a little segment of blue low down
on the eastern horizon, to which, in spite of themselves, the eyes
of the travailing watch turned wistfully. But whatever shape the
surging thoughts may take in the minds of seamen, the exertion of the
moment effectually prevents any development of them into despair in
the case of our own countrymen. So, in obedience to the hoarse cries
of Mr. Svensen, they strove to get the _Dorothea_ into that position
where she would be best able to stem the rising sea, and fore-reach
over the hissing sullenness of the long, creaming rollers, that as
they came surging past swept her, a mile at a blow, sideways to
leeward, leaving a whirling, broadside wake of curling eddies. Silent
and anxious, Captain South hung with one elbow over the edge of the
companion, his keen hearing taking note of every complaint made
by the trembling timbers beneath his feet, whose querulous voices
permeated the deeper note of the storm.
All that his long experience could suggest for the safety of his
vessel was put into practice. One by one the scanty show of sail
was taken in and secured with extra gasket turns, lest any of them
should, showing a loose corner, be ripped adrift by the snarling
tempest. By eight bells (4 A.M.) the brig showed nothing to the
bleak darkness above but the two gaunt masts, with their ten bare
yards tightly braced up against the lee backstays, and the long
peaked forefinger of the jibboom reaching out over the pale foam. A
tiny weather-cloth of canvas only a yard square was stopped in the
weather main rigging, its small area amply sufficing to keep the
brig’s head up in the wind except when, momentarily becalmed by a
hill of black water rearing its head to windward, it relaxed its
steadfast thrust and suffered the vessel to fall off helplessly into
the trough between two huge waves. Now commenced the long unequal
struggle between a weakly-constructed hull, unfairly handicapped by
the wrench of a dead mass of iron within that met every natural scend
of her frame with unyielding brutality of resistance, and the wise
old sea, kindly indeed to ships whose construction and cargo enable
them to meet its masses with the easy grace of its own inhabitants,
but pitiless destroyer of all vessels that do not greet its curving
assault with yielding grace, its mighty stride with sinuous deference
of retreat. The useless wheel, held almost hard down, thumped slowly
under the hands of the listless helmsman with the regularity of a
nearly worn-out clock, while the oakum began to bulge upward from the
deck seams. As if weary even unto death, the brig cowered before the
untiring onslaught of the waves, allowing them to rise high above the
weather rail, and break apart with terrible uproar, filling the decks
rail-high from poop to forecastle. Pumping was incessant, yet Svensen
found each time he dropped the slender sounding-rod down the tube a
longer wetness upon it, until its two feet became insufficient, and
the mark of doom crept up the line. And besides the ever-increasing
inlet of the sea, men stayed by the pumps only at imminent risk
of being dashed to pieces, for they were, as always, situated in
the middle of the main deck, where the heaviest seas usually break
aboard. There was little said, and but few looks exchanged. The
skipper had, indeed, to meet the wan face of his wife, but she dared
not put her fear into words, or he bring himself to tell her that
except for a miracle their case was hopeless. He seldom left the
deck, as if the wide grey hopelessness around had an irresistible
fascination for him, and he watched with unspeculative eyes the
pretty gambols of those tiny elves of the sea, the Mother Carey’s
chickens, as they fluttered incessantly to and fro across the wake of
his groaning vessel.
So passed a night and a day of such length that the ceaseless tumult
of wind and wave had become normal, and slighter sounds could be
easily distinguished because the ear had become attuned to the
elemental din. Unobtrusively the impassive Svensen had been preparing
their only serviceable boat by stocking her with food, water, &c.
The skipper had watched him with a dull eye, as if his proceedings
were devoid of interest, but felt a glimmer of satisfaction at the
evidence of his second mate’s forethought. For all hope of the
_Dorothea’s_ weathering the gale was now completely gone. Even the
blue patches breaking through the heavy cloud-pall to leeward could
not revive it. For she was now only wallowing, with a muffled roar
of turbid water within as it sullenly swept from side to side with
the sinking vessel’s heavy roll. The gale died away peacefully, the
sea smoothed its wrinkled plain, and the grave stars peered out one
by one, as if to reassure the anxious watchers. Midnight brought a
calm, as deep as if wind had not yet been made, but the old swell
still came marching on, making the doomed brig heave clumsily as it
passed her. The day broke in perfect splendour, cloudless and pure,
the wide heavens bared their solemn emptiness, and the glowing sun in
lonely glory showered such radiance on the sea that it blazed with a
myriad dazzling hues. But into that solitary circle, whereof the brig
was the pathetic centre, came no friendly glint of sails, no welcome
stain of trailing smoke across the clear blue. But the benevolent
calm gave opportunity for a careful launching of the boat, and as
she lay quietly alongside the few finishing touches were given to
her equipment. As the sun went down the vessel’s motion ceased--she
was now nearly level with the smooth surface of the ocean, which
impassively awaited her farewell to the light. Hardly a word was
spoken as the little company left her side and entered the boat. When
all were safely bestowed the skipper said, “Cut that painter forrard
there,” and his voice sounded hollowly across the burdening silence.
A few faint splashes were heard as the oars rose and fell, and the
boat glided away. At a cable’s length they ceased pulling, and with
every eye turned upon the brig they waited. In a painful, strained
hush, they saw her bow as if in stately adieu, and as if with an
embrace the placid sea enfolded her. Silently she disappeared, the
dim outlines of her spars lingering, as if loth to leave, against the
deepening violet of the night.