HUNTING WHITE WHALES IN THE ST. LAWRENCE RIVER
The porpoises and dolphins which form the family Delphinidse are in all
essential respects toothed whales.[16]
Footnote 16:
A glance at the classification in the Appendix will explain their
relationship to other cetaceans.
The name “porpoise” is usually applied to the round-headed members of
the family, while “dolphin” distinguishes those which have pointed
snouts or beaks.
The fish (_Coryphæna_), properly called dolphin, which passes through
brilliant changes of color when dying, is often confused with the
cetacean because of its name, although, of course, they are not related
in the remotest degree. Because of this confusion I seldom use the name
dolphin but speak of all members of the group as porpoises.
There are so many species of porpoises that it would not be possible in
a book of this character to describe them all; therefore, as with the
whales, only those of commercial importance will be considered. Most of
the members of this family are small, only the killer whale (see Chapter
XVIII) and the blackfish exceeding twenty feet in length.
[Illustration:
The white whale, or white porpoise. The skin of this species furnishes
much of the “porpoise hide” leather of commerce.
]
The white porpoise, or white whale as it is more usually called, is not
only the most beautiful but also one of the most important members of
the family, for it is this animal which furnishes much of the porpoise
hide and porpoise oil of commerce.
Like its nearest relative, the narwhal, it is a northern species, seldom
being found where the water is far above the freezing point; but during
the spring the animals come into the St. Lawrence River by thousands and
some remain throughout the summer.
In early June of 1909 I left New York for the little French town of
Tadoussac at the mouth of the Saguenay River to study these interesting
cetaceans and secure skeletons and plaster casts for exhibition in the
Museum.
There are a number of French dwellers along the St. Lawrence River who
live by selling the skins and oil of the _Marsouin blanc_, and
arrangements were made to hunt with one of them. The day before, I had
driven twenty-five miles from Tadoussac to the porpoise hunter’s cabin
and in the morning, shortly after five o’clock, my cameras were loaded
into one of the canoes and we paddled around the rocky headland into the
little cove where the yawl from which we were to hunt lay at anchor.
A run of four hours took us across the St. Lawrence and we began beating
up the south shore against a strong head wind. It was slow work and not
until three o’clock in the afternoon did we drop anchor in a shallow
cove at Apple Island, our destination. There is a strong tide rip about
the eastern end of this little point of land, and in it the whales play
back and forth, feeding on the small fish which drift in with the
current. After stowing the sail, one of the canoes with two of the men
put out from the harbor while the three of us who remained climbed over
the rocks to the highest point of the island.
The wind had changed and blew strongly from the southwest, topping the
long swells with white and churning the waves into foam as they broke
along the ragged shore line. Three or four whales could be seen some
distance away and the canoe headed for them, as it swung around the
point, in spite of the rough water. With my glasses, I watched the
little craft bobbing about among the whitecaps, slowly nearing the
specter-like forms which rose every few seconds and sank, only to appear
again a few feet farther on.
When they were about one hundred yards away, the men became motionless
and the boat drifted onward with the wind. The porpoises paid not the
slightest attention to the canoe and went down only a few feet ahead. As
they left the water the man in the bow suddenly leaned forward and with
gun ready waited the reappearance of the animals. They came up not
twenty feet away and hardly had their snowy heads appeared above the
surface when a thin white line of smoke shot from the gun and the
nearest whale threw itself high in the air, falling back in a cloud of
spray. Instantly the canoe leaped forward, the man in the bow balancing
the harpoon, but the whale straightened out and sank before he could
throw the iron. With disappointed faces the men returned and climbed the
rock where we were sitting.
We watched until six o’clock but no more porpoises appeared, and I was
glad when we reached the boat for the wind cut like a knife as it drove
across the hilltop. The cabin was so small that we could not sit upright
and it was next to impossible to move when we were all there together;
however, it was warm and that was something. After our dinner of stew,
made from potatoes and onions, we packed ourselves away for the night,
each on a narrow board which served as a bunk.
[Illustration:
The posterior part of a white whale. The entire animal is snow white
except for a narrow edging of brown on the flukes and flippers. The
young of this species are entirely brown.
]
Next morning I was awakened by the regular lap, lap, lap of the water
against the bows, and knew that the boat was already under way. Crawling
down from my narrow shelf I wriggled through the hatchway to the deck
above. It was a perfect morning, the sun already an hour high and a
fresh breeze coming from the west. We were headed down the river for an
island four miles distant, about the lower end of which, with the glass,
a large school of whales could be seen playing back and forth in the
tide rips. I stretched out on top of the cabin drinking in the fresh
salt air and enjoying the warm sunshine which was doubly welcome after
the raw wind of the day before.
As we neared the upper end of the island, I heard a confused murmur of
sounds, and with a question turned to the porpoise hunter. “_Myack_,” he
said, and I saw that the shore was lined with a great flock of eider
ducks. He threw the tiller over and as we drew in toward the land one or
two stragglers rose and then, with a perfect roar of wings, the whole
flock launched itself into the air. It was a magnificent sight as the
great birds whirled past us, the black and white plumage of the males
flashing in the sunlight. I watched them through my glasses until, with
a sudden graceful curve, they swung down clear to the water and were
lost in the blue wisps of fog which still hung in the air.
We sailed along abreast of the island and dropped anchor in a perfect
rock-walled harbor at its lower end. Not far away in the tide rip a
school of white whales were darting back and forth after the fleeing
capelan.
My excitement was at fever heat, for since the water was fairly smooth I
was to try my luck at shooting. When the canoe was lifted over the side,
we slid away from the yawl, out of the harbor, and into the upper end of
the tide rip, with hardly a sound save the drip of water from the paddle
blades. On the gunwale in front rested the end of the heavy shotgun
loaded with a lead ball, and at the right lay the slender harpoon, the
line neatly coiled and fastened to a bulky cedar float.
[Illustration:
“A big white fellow slipped under only a hundred feet away, headed
directly for us.”
]
We had hardly three hundred yards to paddle and in a few moments were in
the midst of the whales, the short, metallic puffs as they spouted
sounding on every side. There were many young animals in the school,
their brownish bodies showing in striking contrast to the snowy backs of
the old ones, and we drifted quietly among them, waiting to pick our
specimen. It was a sore temptation as whale after whale passed close
beside us, and time and again I sighted along the rusty barrel of the
gun at a swirling patch of water, only to drop the muzzle as a brown
back appeared at the surface. The old whales seemed to know that danger
lay in the silent gray object which had appeared so suddenly near them,
and with the nicest accuracy gauged the shooting distance, keeping just
within the safety zone.
We floated along on the current, passing most of the school, and headed
for a little group of white animals which were feeding a short distance
away from the others. They did not seem to be disturbed as we neared
them, and we hardly dared to breathe when a big white fellow slipped
under only a hundred feet away, headed directly for us.
Up he came with a rush and down again, so close that we could see the
water run in little ripples off his snow-white back. My fingers trembled
on the trigger of the gun but he was still coming toward us and in a few
seconds the telltale patch of green water began to smooth out right
ahead. I fired at the instant there was a glint of the snowy head over
the long brown gun barrel.
The shock of the heavy charge whirled me half around in the canoe and
there was barely time to snatch the harpoon before we were at the spot
where the porpoise was thrashing about on the surface of the water. At a
side thrust from the iron the whale threw itself high into the air,
falling back in a cloud of spray. A mad rush to one side and again the
ghostly form shot from the water, the white body writhing as it fell
back.
The whale fought desperately to free itself, rushing from side to side
and lashing the water into foam with its flukes. We had thrown the float
overboard at the first leap and were waiting a short distance away for a
second shot. The animal’s struggles finally became less violent and as
it lay on the surface trying hard to keep upright I fired a second ball
into its neck; with a last convulsive twist the beautiful creature
slowly sank. We paddled for the buoy which was bobbing about near us and
checked the carcass before it had gone far down, raising it to the
surface by forcing the canoe ahead.
The two men in the other boat had been watching from near the shore and
when they saw that the whale was dead paddled out to help us tow it
around the headland into the harbor near the yawl. We beached it in a
sandy cove where the gray rock wall rose in a jagged mass, making a
perfect background for the white body, its purity intensified by the
bright red streaks of blood which dripped from the bullet holes. There
was something almost uncanny about the picture, the beautiful,
ghost-like animal, a very Spirit of the North, seeming strangely out of
place away from its ice-bound home.
Its body was unmarked by the slightest tinge of color except at the
outer margin of the tail which was bordered with grayish-brown. Also the
short broad fins or flippers, strongly upcurved at their ends, were
edged with brown, becoming darker at the tips. The small head, which,
unlike most cetaceans, joined the body by a distinct neck, ended in a
short stubby snout, or “lip,” and seemed remarkably out of proportion to
the animal’s size. Each jaw was armed with nine, rather weak,
cylindrical teeth, the well-worn tips showing that our specimen was
fully adult, although not old.
[Illustration:
“We beached it in a sandy cove, where the gray rock wall rose in a
jagged mass, making a perfect background for the white body, its
purity intensified by the bright red streaks of blood which dripped
from the bullet holes.”
]
Because the vertebræ of the neck are not joined together as in other
porpoises, the white whale and narwhal are placed in a separate
division, or subfamily of the group; their relationship is also shown in
other ways, one of which is the absence in both of a dorsal fin.
While I measured and photographed the porpoise I had killed, the other
men climbed the rocks to see if they could discover where the school had
gone. In about an hour they hurried back to the cove and reported that
the whales were near the upper end of the island following a tide rip
which swung in close to shore. The wind, however, had begun to freshen
and blew a perfect gale directly toward the island.
I was anxious to get some pictures of the white porpoises, but it would
have been useless to think of photographing in all that rush of wind and
spray, so the four men put off in the canoes while I continued work upon
the dead whale. In about three hours they returned, each towing a
full-grown porpoise and almost exhausted. It had been hard and dangerous
work to kill the whales and bring them in, for the wind drove with
tremendous force across the clear stretch of river, catching the tops of
the waves and whirling the spray like snow. We stayed at the island for
three days, killing two more porpoises and taking the skin, oil, and
skeletons. After the blubber had been scraped from the skins they had a
value, in the raw state, of about seven dollars, and a considerable
amount of oil was obtained from the fat. The skeletons were what I was
particularly interested in, and with four in the hold of the yawl and a
freshly killed porpoise towing behind, we sailed down the river, past
the rocky entrance to the Saguenay, and into the beautiful harbor where
three hundred years before the hardy French explorers had dropped anchor
and on its shores built the quaint little town of Tadoussac.