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THE BOY WHALEMAN
[Illustration: In less than a minute the bow just touched the big
fellow’s body.]
The Beacon Hill Bookshelf
THE BOY WHALEMAN
by
GEORGE F. TUCKER
With Illustrations in Color by George Avison
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1925
Copyright, 1924,
By George F. Tucker.
All rights reserved.
Published August, 1924.
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
I Preparing for the Voyage
II At Sea
III About Whales
IV The First Chase
V Capturing and Cutting-in
VI Trying-out and Rounding the Horn
VII Recruiting and Shore Leave
VIII The Prize Whale and the Rescued Boat
IX Honolulu and Off To the Arctic
X Experiences in the Arctic
XI Honolulu Again, and Sea Tales
XII The Coast of Japan and the Carolines
XIII Whose Whale was It?
XIV Pitcairn Island
XV The Visit to Pitcairn
XVI Homeward Bound
XVII Settling the Voyage
ILLUSTRATIONS
In less than a minute the bow just touched the big fellow’s body
Jake partly lost his balance, and the captain seized him
Out of the thicket sprang our shipmate
I shouted “B-l-o-w-s, b-l-o-w-s, b-l-o-w-s. There he breaches!”
The sea became more boisterous, and the captain gave orders to
throw the lead
THE BOY WHALEMAN
CHAPTER I
PREPARING FOR THE VOYAGE
When I was a boy, New Bedford was not, as it is now, a great
manufacturing city, but the best known and largest whaling port in
the world. The wharves were then busy places; there vessels were
“fitted”, as they used to say, and sent out on their long voyages;
other vessels returned and discharged their cargoes. Great casks of
oil were arranged in rows on the wharves; those that were sold were
carted off on curious old trucks called gears, and those that were
to await a better market were given a thick covering of seaweed.
Everybody talked ships and oil. One would hear people say, “The
_Janet_ is reported in the Indian Ocean, clean,” that is, had taken
no oil; “The _Adeline_ is heard from in the Pacific, having made a
‘good cut’,” that is, had taken a lot of oil; “There is news from
the _Marcella_ from the other side of land, having done well.” “The
other side of land” meant the other side of the world, as Australia
and New Zealand, in the waters round which many whalers used to
cruise.
My father, when a young man, went whaling for a single voyage which
lasted for more than three years. He was a sailor, or, to use the
regular phrase, a foremast hand, and at the end of two years he
became a boat-steerer or harpooner. When I was a little boy he used
to take me on his knee and tell me stories about the life of the
whalemen,—of chasing whales and harpooning them; of angry whales
smashing boats and chewing them to bits; of towing whales to the
ship and cutting them in and trying them out; of losing the ship and
remaining all night in the open boats; of encountering great storms
and riding them out in safety; of meeting after many months another
New Bedford vessel, and getting the latest news from home, and of
visiting in the Pacific Ocean islands inhabited by savages.
At an early age I made up my mind to go to sea. On Saturday
afternoons I used to roam about the wharves and sometimes ventured
into the ships, only to be ordered out. But one day a man, called a
shipkeeper, was very kind to me. The shipkeeper was the man who had
charge of the wharf and the ships moored to it. He was a kind of
general manager. They were taking out the cargo from a vessel.
“Haven’t I seen you around here before?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, many times. I’ve been down here on the wharves nearly
every Saturday afternoon for several years.”
“How old are you?”
“Twelve.”
“What is your name?”
“Homer Bleechly.”
“I suppose you would like to go to sea—wouldn’t you?”
“Indeed, I would.”
“As cabin boy?”
“Yes.”
Then he said thoughtfully, “Not yet, boy, not yet. It’s a hard life,
so you’d better wait awhile.”
“That was what my father said.”
The shipkeeper continued, “You go home and get a basket and a pail,
and I’ll take you up into the loft and give you something that will
make you happy.”
I did as he said, and on my return he took me to a building at the
head of the wharf, in the front part of which was the merchant’s
office, and in the story above, a great loft full of whaling gear
and a great many other things which the vessels had brought home
from far islands in the Pacific Ocean. There was a boat like a
canoe, only larger and better shaped. It was different from anything
I had ever seen, and was made by savages on distant shores. Then
there were paddles beautifully made, with carvings done, the
shipkeeper told me, with shark’s teeth and bits of sea shells. There
were lots of war clubs and spears and strange-looking tools and
utensils. I wanted to ship on a vessel at once and sail for the
Pacific Ocean.
“Here, boy,” said the shipkeeper, “give me your basket and pail.”
He reached down into a great cask set on end and took out three
large objects, each about the size of a football. “These are
coconuts with the husks on. When you get home take a hatchet and cut
off the husks and you’ll find the coconut.”
Then he put a big dipper down into another cask and took up a lot of
pickled limes and poured them into the pail. This he repeated
several times. “There, boy,” he said, “now take them things home, if
you can carry them. But don’t you tell any other boys that you got
them things here, for, if you do, we’ll be pestered by all the boys
in town.”
When I reached home with my prizes and showed them to my mother, the
good woman looked troubled. I had often told her that I wanted to go
to sea and she had done all she could to discourage me. I now
renewed my desire, and, when my father came home, she took the
matter up with him, and they both told me how hard the sailor’s life
was and how little money there was in it.
“Yes, I know, father,” I said, “but haven’t you taken me on your
knee and told me all about your own voyage and the strange places
you went to?”
“Yes, my dear son, but I didn’t tell you about the unpleasant things
and the hardships a sailor has to put up with.”
My home was a happy one, and I was the only child. No one ever had a
better mother. My father was a good man and a model parent. He
earned fair wages and provided well for his little family. Why
should I be discontented? Because, like many a boy, I was
unreasonable. Yet, was I wholly to blame? Life in a seaport town
appeals to the fancy of a boy. Longfellow wrote,
I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea,
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”
I determined to hide on some vessel, and, when she was well out to
sea, show myself and apply for the position of cabin boy. As I look
back upon my foolish purpose, I deeply regret my ingratitude to my
parents and the pain I caused them. In one sense it was a simple
thing to run away, but quite another to succeed in it. Before
sailing, a whaler would drop about three miles down the harbor and
remain there at anchor for several days in charge of the shipkeeper.
Then captain, officers and crew would go down in boats, weigh
anchor, and off the ship would go on her long voyage.
Soon a vessel owned by the merchant who employed my friend the
shipkeeper was all ready for sea. In the late afternoon I made up a
bundle of clothes and went down on the wharf and walked aboard the
vessel in a free and easy way. No attention was paid to me, and
fortunately the shipkeeper was at the farther end of the wharf. I
went down into the cabin, and I recall how clean everything was with
the coating of fresh paint. I crawled into a berth, feeling sure
that at six o’clock the shipkeeper would lock the door without
coming into the cabin. By this time I was getting a little afraid
and almost wished that I was at home. At last I heard the town clock
ring out the hour of six, and then came a footstep nearer and
nearer, and lo! it was the shipkeeper. He was startled when he saw
me, and for a moment appeared angry. Then he said:
“I didn’t expect to see you here. Didn’t you know that I would have
to lock up the cabin every night until the vessel sails, and that
you would surely get caught?”
“Yes, but I want to go as cabin boy, and I thought that they
wouldn’t ship me in the office.”
“Does your mother know you are here?”
“No.”
“Don’t you see how foolish this all is? Now get out and I’ll take
you home.”
I objected and he insisted. I was ashamed and did not want to go
home—not that I feared punishment, but because I shrank from facing
my parents. The shipkeeper took me along with him and left me with
my mother. I am not going to dwell on what happened at home. I have
only to say that I had a long talk with my parents that evening, and
I promised that I would never attempt to run away again and that I
never would ship for a voyage without their consent.
But the sea continued to call me, and Saturdays I still visited the
wharves. I read every volume I could get on the life of the sailor,
and was particularly delighted with such books as Dana’s “Two Years
before the Mast”, and Melville’s “Moby Dick.” With the aid of my
friend, the shipkeeper, I collected all kinds of articles brought
home on the ships until I had a veritable little museum.
And here, let me say that my parents took the proper course. My
mother was apparently troubled, but she conferred with my father,
and it was agreed that when I was old enough I might go to sea.
“When I was old enough” was not very definite. I felt that I was old
enough then, but I knew that my parents thought otherwise. At
thirteen I entered the High School and at fifteen I felt that I had
sufficient education, at least for a sailor, and I implored my
parents to let me go.
“You aren’t old enough,” said my mother.
“But yesterday, mother, you said that I was large and strong for my
age—as large and strong as a man of eighteen.”
My mother made no reply, but there were tears in her eyes.
It was July and vacation. I was restless and impatient. Hitherto I
had worked during vacations for a cooper, doing odd jobs, but now
the cooper sent me home with the statement that I was of no use to
him. Years afterward my mother told me that she and my father
conferred and decided that it was the best course to let me ship,
provided my age was not against me.
In the fifties of the last century, whaling was at its height. In
the warm weather ships were constantly coming and going. There was
no lack of vessels, but would they ship a boy of fifteen who was as
large and strong as a man of eighteen? Of course my father’s consent
was necessary. I went to my old friend, the shipkeeper. One of his
employer’s vessels named the _Seabird_ was to sail in a few weeks,
and I was anxious to go in her.
The shipkeeper said, “You are big for your years and as strong as a
man, but a sailor’s life is a hard one. But, if your folks are
willing you should go, I’ll see the old gentleman and find out what
he says about your going in the _Seabird_. Sailors are shipped
through the outfitters, sometimes called ‘sharks.’ The outfitters
provide the men with their clothes and various articles, and the
owners pay the outfitters and, at the end of the voyage, the owners
take the amount out of the sailor’s shares. If the old gentleman is
willing to take you, don’t have anything to do with an outfitter,
but have your mother provide the outfit, and I’ll give her a list of
the things you’ll have to take with you.”
In a few days the shipkeeper said that his employer would see me
with my father, and in the late afternoon we appeared at his office.
The merchant was a Quaker, and he appeared at first a little stern.
He declared that it was unusual for one so young to be taken on a
whaler as a foremast hand, but my size seemed to justify an
exception; that I could ship only with my father’s consent; that my
parents must see to it that I had a good outfit; and that my share
or lay would be 1/180. On whalers captain, officers and crew shipped
on shares or lays, and my share or lay was to be one barrel of oil
for every one hundred and eighty barrels stowed down, and one pound
of whalebone for every one hundred and eighty pounds taken.
And now my parents were busy fitting me out. The whaleman, who was
to be away for several years, required clothing suited to about
every climate, and an abundance of it. I was provided with needles,
linen thread, spools of sewing cotton, a shaving outfit, several
knives and forks with wooden handles, several combs, two pairs of
scissors, lots of buttons, plenty of soap, a couple of tin plates
and a large dipper, a sheath knife and belt, three thick blankets, a
bedtick and pillow filled with feathers, a dozen shirts and
undershirts, three suits for light weather and a heavy suit with a
large overcoat for the Arctic, two pairs of thick mittens, four
pairs of brogans, one light and one heavy cap, two so’westers, two
large straw hats and two oilcloth suits. My father added a roll of
cotton cloth which he said might come handy for trade with the
natives. Did ever a whaleman have so good an outfit?
The shipkeeper told me that he would give me some points before
sailing, so, on the last Saturday afternoon, he pointed to the bow
of the _Seabird_ and said:
“You see that heavy oak on the bow, and the iron shoe on the fore
foot? When you see them things you may be sure a ship’s bound to the
Arctic, for you have to put her in good shape to battle with the
ice. Now you stand off a few feet and look at the _Seabird_. She
ain’t as sharp and slick as a merchantman, but she ain’t bad
looking. Ain’t she nice and clean? She’s been well painted, the
boats are hanging at the davits, the rigging’s been tarred and
slushed, topmast spar and yard put in place and sails bent on. But,
say, she’ll look different from this in a few years when she comes
home with the paint scratched off, the sails black and patched and
the old hull greasy from stem to stern. Now you come on board.”
He showed me the spare spars lashed to the deck and told me of the
extra cables stowed away. Then he took me to the hatchway, and told
me to look down into the hold. I could see that it was packed with a
lot of things. The shipkeeper said:
“On a whaler you live together for a long time and you have to carry
loads of things with you—stores, trade, slop chest, sails and duck,
sundries, hardware, copper ware, crockery, provisions, casks,
staves, lumber, wood, etc. Some of the casks are filled with water,
and others are packed with provisions, clothing, and so forth. As
the provisions are used up and the clothing and other articles are
called for, the casks are ready for the oil. The greatest things on
the ship are the whaleboats. There are no such boats anywhere in the
world. You’ll find that’s so before you come back. Now I’ll show you
the little house you are to live in for many long months.”
He took me into the forecastle. I went down the little steep
stairway into a gloomy space largely filled with bunks. I wasn’t so
cheerful when I came up, and, as I walked home, I thought of the
nice little room in which I had slept from infancy.
I have said that this was Saturday. In the evening my schoolmates
came in. I did not betray my feelings. One of them said, “You look
as happy as if you had just returned from a voyage.” On the
following day my parents and I attended service as usual, in the
Bethel. This little church was founded especially for sailors and
was located on what was named “Johnny Cake Hill.” It still stands,
looking just as it did sixty years ago. On the walls of the interior
are cenotaphs erected to those who lost their lives on the deep.
These had never interested me, but this morning, surrounded by
sailors and realizing that this was my last Sunday at home, I
thought of the perils in store for me as I read the following:—
In Memory of
Capt. William Swain
Associate Master
of the Christopher Mitchell of Nantucket
This Worthy Man after Fastening to a whale
Was Carried Overboard by the Line and Drowned
May 19th 1844
In the 49th Yr. of his Age
Be Ye Also Ready, for in Such an Hour as Ye
Think Not the Son of Man Cometh
The ship was at her anchorage in the lower harbor. In a few days
came the hour of departure. Hitherto I had thought little about
parting with my mother. Now the thought of it was distressing and
the actual leave-taking heart-breaking.
My parents had provided me with a sea chest which was better looking
and more costly than that of the average sailor. My father
accompanied me to the wharf, where we found a large gathering,
composed of sailors and their friends, who had come to bid them
good-by. My father showed much feeling in his parting words, and
like most fathers, he enjoined obedience, faithful discharge of duty
and exemplary habits. The realization of the life upon which I was
about to enter came upon me with full force. My chest and I were
taken aboard of a large catboat, and, as we slipped away, I saw my
father standing on the wharf and was not conscious of the presence
of any one else. An incident added to my discomfiture. Among all the
chests mine was the most noticeable, and this fact elicited unkind
remarks from some of my companions.
“It’s a boy’s box,” said one.
“Full of baby’s things,” observed another.
“Call it a fancy chest,” remarked a third.
“Call the young chap himself, ‘Fancy Chest,’” cried a fourth.
“So we will,” they exclaimed.
Then one of the men scraped his feet along the chest as if to remove
the paint.
Immediately a large, powerfully built man thundered, “Take your feet
off that box, and all of you let the young fellow alone.”
They obeyed, and my heart went out to my new friend. I didn’t know
who he was, but I soon found out. It was three miles to the ship,
and as we approached her she did look fine, and her appearance
cheered up my rather faint heart. When we were aboard we were told
to get our chests into the forecastle, which I had visited before
with the shipkeeper. The forecastle was supposed to accommodate
eighteen, and the bunks were arranged around the sides in a double
tier. The gloom seemed to deepen and, as I was told to take a bunk
forward, which was one of the poorest, I thought of my mother and
wished that I was at home. In a short time came the cry, “All hands
on deck.”
When we emerged some one told me to go forward and help work the
windlass.
“It’s time to weigh anchor,” he said.
A “greenie” remarked, “I don’t see how they are going to weigh the
anchor; they ain’t got no scales.”
A general laugh followed. We set to work and one of the men started
a rude chantey, and the old hands joined in. Chanteys are the songs
sailors sing when at work, and the mere singing seems to make labor
lighter.
At last the anchor came up. In the meantime men had been sent aloft
to shake out the sails, and the vessel started on her long voyage.
As I caught a glimpse of land and historic land, too, often spoken
of by the early voyagers, I felt as if I had sundered the last tie
with home, and I found it difficult to keep back the tears.
Just then the shipkeeper came to me and said, “I’m going out in the
vessel and coming back in the pilot boat. Now let me tell you
something. Even if things don’t go right, keep a civil tongue in
your head. Do what you’re told to do, and be respectful to those
over you, and never try to be familiar with them. If you do, you’ll
find it won’t pay. Now let me tell you something more. The first
mate’s name is Coster Lakeum. He sailed in this very vessel on the
former voyage as third mate. He’s a man who doesn’t talk much, but
he’s a fine seaman. I’ve told him that while you look to be eighteen
you’re only fifteen. Don’t ever try to be familiar with him, and he
may prove your best friend in the ship. You’ll be a lucky boy if he
should take you for stroke oar in his boat.”
We had to beat out to sea as there was a head wind. As the vessel
tacked I was bewildered and wondered how any one could learn the
names of all the ropes and how to handle them.
“Get out of my way and get to work,” said a hard-looking, burly
fellow, jostling me as he said it. He was an American of almost
repulsive countenance, and a man for whom then and there I conceived
a strong dislike. Well, I couldn’t work, for I didn’t know how to,
and I noticed that all the greenies seemed stupid, like myself, and
were at a loss what to do. The old sailors were handling the ship,
and in a couple of hours we reached the offing, the pilot boat came
up, and my good friend, the shipkeeper, shook me by the hand, and he
and the pilot stepped aboard the little craft and were soon far
astern. On our port were the islands, on one of which Gosnold made a
temporary settlement eighteen years before the _Mayflower_ anchored
in Provincetown Harbor. While the islands bear the name of Gosnold’s
Queen, their individual Indian names are still retained, and furnish
a curious and interesting rhyme:
Naushon, Nonamesset,
Onkatonka and Wepecket,
Nashawena, Pasquinese,
Cuttyhunk and Penikese.