_The Mate of the Fin-Back Whale Rises for the Last Time,
With a Blood-Red Sunset Beyond, and Billy Topsail
Says, "Too bad!"_
HALF a mile ahead the whales rose. The _Viking_ crept near without
giving alarm, and waited for them to dive and rise again. The warning
swish and _hon-g-k_ sounded next from off the port bow. There was a
shout from the crew. The school lay close in, headed away; they were
splashing and blissfully _hon-g-king_--and the _Viking_ not fifty yards
distant. She was upon them from behind before they had well drawn
breath. Steam was shut off. The captain's eye was at the butt of the
gun, and his hand was on the trigger. The boat crept nearer--so near
that Billy Topsail could have leaped from the bow to the back of the
young whale; and she was fast losing way.
But it was not the young whale that the captain wanted. He held his
fire. Down went the young one. Down went the bull whale. But had he
arched his back? The old female wallowed a moment longer and dived
with arched back. She barely escaped the _Viking's_ bows and might
have been mortally harpooned with ease. But it was not the female that
the captain wanted. It was the big male. There was not a whale in
sight. Still the captain kept his eye at the butt of the gun and his
hand on the trigger.
A moment later--the steamer was slipping along very slowly--the water
ahead was disturbed. The back of the bull whale appeared. A stream of
water shot into the air and broke like a fountain. The _Viking_ kept
pace--gained; momentarily creeping nearer, until the range was but ten
yards. Then the whale, as though taking alarm, arched his back; and----
Bang!
The puff of smoke drifted away. Billy Topsail caught sight of the
harpoon, sunk to the hilt in the whale's side. Then the waters closed
over the wounded beast.
"Ha!" cried the captain, jumping from the platform, and strutting about
with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat. "Did you see me? Ha!
It is over!"
A cheer broke from the crew. The men ran forward to their stations at
the winch.
"Ha!" the captain repeated with intense satisfaction, his ruddy face
wreathed in smiles. "Did you see me? Ha-a-a-a! It is a dead w'ale."
[Illustration: "IT IS A DEAD W'ALE!"]
The harpoon line was paying out slowly, controlled by a big steam
winch--a gigantic fishing reel. The engines were stopped; but the
_Viking_ was going forward at a lively rate as the catch plunged down
and on. Minute after minute slipped away--five minutes; then the rope
slackened somewhat, and, a moment later, the big whale came to the
surface and spouted streams of blood--streams as red as the streak of
sunset light in the gray sky beyond him. He floundered there in agony,
blowing and _hon-g-king_ and beating the sea with his tail: turning the
water crimson with his blood.
It took him a long, long time to die, frightfully torn by the bomb
though he was. He dived and rose and coughed; and at last he sank
slowly down, down, and still down; drawing out a hundred and forty
fathom of line: straight down to the bottom of the sea in that place.
From time to time the captain touched the rope with his fingers;
and when the tremour of life had passed from it he gave the signal
to haul away. Half an hour later the carcass of the monster was
inflated with gas, lying belly up at the surface of the water, and
lashed by the tail to the port bow of the steamer.
Off the starboard quarter--far away where the dusk had gathered--the
mate of the dead whale rose, _hon-g-ked_, dived and was seen no more.
"Too bad!" muttered Billy Topsail.