THE FIRST CHASE
From early morn, when the men took their places in the hoops, to
look for whales, there followed the regular order of the day. If the
weather were good, the captain took his observations; the watches
changed at proper times, and the men at the wheel and the lookouts
were relieved every two hours. In the afternoon, usually at about
four, the pumps were tested and the decks scrubbed. There was no
noise in the ship save that occasioned by wind and wave and orders
to the men. However, in the second dogwatch, which was generally
about twilight, some fun was permitted. The men gathered, chatted
and smoked. Rude strains were drawn from a battered accordion, while
all the time the boat-steerers were at the bench aft the try-pot,
engaged in whetting harpoons.
We had, in our day, the old-fashioned log to determine the rapidity
of the ship’s motion, but it wasn’t used very much, as in cruising
for whales the speed of the vessel was of little consequence.
On the approach of a storm the merchantman sometimes failed to make
preparations in season. Not so with a whaler. Only a few days after
leaving Pico we encountered a storm. As the gale bore down upon us
from the windward blackness, and the long range of wave crests grew
larger and the situation became more serious, we were quick to
shorten sail and, under storm staysails, met the gale without any
fear. Higher blew the wind, heavier pounded the sea, our staunch
boat shipped little water, though tossed about like a shell.
A week or more passed, and the men in the hoops saw not a single
spout. Kreelman said to me, “Fancy Chest, the sperm whale, you know,
is a low spouter—just a little bushy spout forward—and it’s not easy
to see unless the whale’s near. The men with the sharpest eyes are
the Gay Head Indians, and we’ve got one of ’em on board, and he’s up
in the hoops now. He can see a sperm spout if any one can.”
Within half an hour came the gladdening cry from aloft, “B-l-o-w-s!
b-l-o-w-s! b-l-o-w-s! There he breaches! There he white-waters!” The
captain called out, “Where away?” “Two points on the lee bow.” “How
far off?” “Two miles, sir.” “Keep your eye on him. Sing out when we
head right.”
The captain gave orders to call all hands, get the boats ready,
square the mainyard, put the helm up, keep her off, stand by the
boats and lower away. Then he took his glasses and climbed to the
main crow’s nest. The braces, sheets, and halyards were thrown from
the pins, and then, while the men reached and hauled, the mates
slacked away, the yards swung and the vessel came about. The boats
quickly took to the water, and the crew swarmed down the falls and
dropped into their places. The boat-steerers went forward, the
officers aft. There was suppressed excitement, but no disorder. The
wind was favorable, the masts were stepped in all the boats, the
sails hoisted and peaked and the sheets paid out; and away we went.
Each boat, of course, carried six men. As it happened, we were
headed for a “pod” or “school” of sperm whales. All the boats were
in the chase, and the men left on the ship were the captain, the
four sparemen or shipkeepers, the cook, the steward and the
carpenter. The vessel fortunately was to windward and could easily
bear down on a boat if it made fast to a whale. Here I should say
that every whaling house had its private code of signals. As the
vessel was often a long distance from the boats engaged in the
chase, signals gave needed instructions. The signals were generally
about fifteen in number. They consisted of the position of colors
and of the sails. Thus the men were told of the location of whales
they could not see from the boats, of an accident to their
companions, such as a stove boat, or the need of their presence on
the ship.
We had not gone a quarter of a mile before the wind shifted and we
had to take in sail and resort to the oars. My feelings are so well
told by Captain Robbins, an old whaleman, in his book called the
“Gam” that I propose to quote his exact language. The captain says:
“I shall never forget the dazzling sensations of that first
moment—the tall ship, with her checkered sides and her huge white
davits; the two sharp-bowed clinker-built boats—five long oars in
each—two on one side, three on the other; the sun-glint upon the
oar-blades as they lifted above the surface, the white splash when
they dipped again; the rapid, nervous, brutal stroke; the pose of
the officers as they stood in the stern-sheets of the boats, each
with his lifted left hand holding the steering oar, and each with
his right hand pushing upon the stroke oar; and, yet more vivid, the
one figure I could see in our own boat. For the mate stood last,
steering with one hand and helping me row with the other.”
Just as Captain Robbins describes, Lakeum steered with his left hand
and pushed on the handle of my oar with his right. He was an
interesting figure as he urged the men on in a low tone, telling
them at the same time not to make any noise. “It’s a pretty good pod
and we ought to get a good-sized bull,” he declared. Of course,
Lakeum was the only one in the boat who could see ahead. The
rowlocks were thumbed with greased marline, to prevent any noise of
the oars. Soon came the order to take in the oars and use the
paddles. Then I knew that we were close to a whale. In a few minutes
we were told to take the oars again and await orders. I turned my
head and beheld just in front of the bow of the boat a low black
mass, and I saw the boat-steerer leaning forward as if awaiting the
mate’s order. The fateful moment had come and my feelings were
intense. The boat moved ahead very slowly, and, just as the bow
touched the monster, Lakeum shouted, “Up and let him have it.” The
boat-steerer rose in a moment and pushed his left leg into the
clumsy cleat in the forward thwart. Then he rested the top end of
the harpoon handle in the palm of his right hand, steadying it with
his left. He hurled the iron with all his force and saw it bury
itself in the blubber up to the hitches. Seizing the second harpoon,
he threw it with equal success.
Lakeum shouted, “Stern—stern—all, and get out of the suds!” He and
the boat-steerer changed places,—he to enter into a fight with the
whale, and the boat-steerer to become the boat-steerer in fact. The
whale threw up his flukes and brought them down with terrific force.
The sea was white with suds, but we got out of them safely. Down
went the whale and out went the line with a whizzing sound which
soon became a regular roar. The line went out so fast that it set
fire to the loggerhead, and I put out the fire by pouring water on
it.
“I never saw a whale get away so fast,” said Lakeum. “This boat’s
nose may be under water any moment.”
The bow was then pretty close to the surface. In a moment Lakeum
shouted, “All hands scramble aft!” This was to save us from disaster
by balancing the boat.
I was somewhat alarmed and instinctively took the knife from the
cleat on the thwart. The men rushed aft in disorder, due to the
pitching of the boat, when a voice rang out, “Man caught; cut the
warp!” I didn’t have to hack twice; the knife was as sharp as a
razor, and one motion severed the line. A sharp cry came from the
man who was apparently caught, and overboard he went. Despite my
excitement and fright, I was foolish enough to think myself a hero,
but I wasn’t. The whale was gone for good, but we were temporarily
happy in the thought that we had saved the man from a terrible
death. The supposed averted tragedy, however, was more of a comedy.
My severing the line hadn’t helped the man any, for it happened that
his foot had pressed on the warp and he had been merely thrown into
the water, and, as he had hit a man on the way and knocked him over,
the order was given by some one to cut the warp. The man in the
water struck out for the boat and we soon pulled him aboard.
Lakeum’s face changed color. He looked daggers at me. There were no
whales now in sight, and he gave orders to pull for the ship. As he
pushed on my oar our countenances were close together. For a time
nothing was said. As we neared the vessel, the expression of anger
and disappointment passed from his face. Lowering his voice he said:
“I don’t think you are to blame or the man who gave the order to
cut, either. You have to work quick at such times. I’ll tell the
captain about it and make it all right with him. On some boats there
would have been a blast of profanity, and men who had done as you
and the other man did would have got bread and water for a week, but
such treatment is wrong.” He paused and then resumed, “That was
easily a hundred-barrel bull, and he was worth pretty close to five
thousand dollars.”
Our boat was the only one which had made fast to a whale and the
rest of the day on ship was a dreary one, despite the fact that the
sea was quite calm and the sky without a cloud. In the second
dogwatch the men gathered and talked over the misfortune of the
morning. A few deplored the loss of the whale; the others made light
of it and made me the target of ridicule and joke.
“Well, Fancy Chest, you cut the right line at the wrong time. You’ll
make a whaleman,” said one.
“He’s so smart that he’ll be harpooning a whale with a knife, next
time,” said another.
“I guess they’ll take that five thousand dollar whale out of Fancy
Chest’s lay,” observed a third.
There was a loud laugh. Then Kreelman interfered:
“Let Fancy Chest alone. Put yourself in his place, you smarties. For
a boy fifteen years old he did well, and a man fifty couldn’t have
done better. Any old sailor would have cut the line as Fancy Chest
did.”
Kreelman was in a pleasant mood so far as his relations with me were
involved, and ignoring the others, he observed:
“I think you are goin’ to make a whaleman, Fancy Chest, and there
are some things I can tell you about whales and whalin’ that you
don’t know, although you’ve learned two things to-day from bein’ in
the boat. One of the things you learned is that the boat-steerer
don’t throw the iron with his arm raised but gives it a kind of
thrust, and the other thing you’ve learned is that, after he’s
thrown the iron, he and the mate change places.”
“And why is that?” I asked. “I can’t see the sense to it.”
“There ain’t no sense to it, but it’s been done since whalin’ begun.
People do things because their fathers did ’em before ’em. Many a
whale’s been lost because the boat-steerer, after a long chase, was
all tired out from havin’ to pull an oar. The boat-steerer ought to
sit up in the bow and do nothin’ until the whale’s reached so that
he can be in good condition to strike. And after he’s struck he
ought to stay in the bow and kill the whale, and the mate remain in
the stern. There are many things you ought to know. After a sperm’s
struck and goes down, he throws out a kind of oil called ‘glip.’ If
the boat passes through this glip or crosses the line between it and
the whale, he knows it and puts on more speed. Sometimes the sperm
is cunning, for while soundin’ with his head in one direction, he
will turn and swim just opposite. Now as to the right whale—never
follow his wake, for the moment the boat runs into his suds he knows
it and makes off in great haste.”
Kreelman continued, “Now, Fancy Chest, them that has book larnin’
write about whales, but we old tars knows more than all of them
fellows put together. Sperm whales talk to each other just as folks
do.”
“You don’t mean that, do you?” I broke in.
“Talkin’ ain’t always with words. There’s another way of talkin’,
especially among animals, and whales is animals. Whales can pass the
news from one school to another, so can one whale to another. The
moment a whale is struck, other whales in the neighborhood know it
and either make off or, if the struck whale is a cow, draw near as
if to give help. Can you explain it? I can’t. Men in the hoops often
notice that when their own boats is attackin’ whales, a school
several miles to wind’ard will appear to be frightened and
disappear. Can you explain it? I can’t. Sometimes there’ll be a
school of whales spread out over a long distance, and as if by
signal they’ll all go under at the same time. Can you explain it? I
can’t.
“But there are lots of things whales do that remind you a good deal
of human folks. Sometimes you see a lot of sperm whales together,
and that’s what you call a big school. Then sometimes you see a
little school. Now both them schools may be all bulls, or they may
be all cows, with just one bull to take care of ’em. In such case
this one bull is a good deal of a gentleman, for, if there’s
anything from behind to cause fright, he seems to tell the ladies to
make tracks, and he stays behind to look out for the enemy—whether
it’s a whaleboat or whatever it is. So this bull, with his caravan,
goes travelin’ all over the ocean. Now you let any other bull come
near and there’s sure to be a fight. In one of my voyages we saw a
fight in the Pacific Ocean. It was a fine day and a smooth sea. The
lookout called out whales, and we lowered. It seems it was a school
of cow sperms, and there was a big bull with ’em. As we were gettin’
pretty near, another big bull, that had been soundin’, come up not
far off, and the two went for each other. Their heads come together
with terrible force, and, believe me, you could hear the noise a
mile away. Then they drew back and seemed to rest for a minute and
then they went at it again. This time they locked jaws. But there
was somethin’ clumsy about it. They didn’t seem to show the spunk
they did when they first come together. The ladies all disappeared,
and we men in the boats laid on our oars and watched the battle,
pretty sure we’d get both fellows in the end, and we did. They tried
to twist their jaws round without doin’ very much, except that in
wigglin’ their bodies and rollin’ round they made lots of suds. It
was pretty certain that both of ’em was badly hurt. Our boat and
another stole up quietly and we got both of them. And what do you
think we found out? Why, one of ’em had his jaw twisted and a number
of his teeth torn out, while the jaw of the other was broken off, so
that it hung only by the flesh. It’s no uncommon thing to capture a
whale whose jaw was long ago shattered and his head battered, and
who’s had an awful hard time to get food to eat because he couldn’t
fight the cuttlefish. We call them whales ‘dry-skins’ because the
blubber makes so little oil.”
“Did you ever see a cuttlefish?” I asked eagerly.
Kreelman was silent for some time. Then he replied:
“I’ve seen big pieces of ’em which come out of the stomachs of sperm
whales, but I never see a live one, and I don’t know any one who
ever did. When you talk of them great things at the bottom of the
ocean it kind of makes you creep. Some folks say that they’ve come
up to the surface and run their big arms all over vessels and taken
the crew under water and eaten ’em up. I never seen it. Whalemen
don’t like to talk much about the cuttlefish, but some do say that
the whaleship which sees a cuttlefish never returns to port.”
I saw that Kreelman was not disposed to continue the conversation.
Just then Lakeum passed. Kreelman waited until he was well aft and
then said:
“That’s a strange man. He seems out of place on this vessel. He’s a
good sailor and all that, but there’s somethin’ about his life that
we don’t know. He’s been edicated and he comes of well-to-do folks.
He’s got a will of his own, but he treats the men fair, and you
never hear no swearin’. The men in your boat say that if you hadn’t
’a been a greenie, you never would have cut the warp to-day, and
that you would have got it straight in the face if any one but
Lakeum had been mate of the boat. But he treated you well, and no
doubt he’s made it all right with the captain by this time. Fancy
Chest, that man’s name ain’t Coster Lakeum. Nobody never had such a
name. No one knows his given name. Now you keep to yourself what
I’ve said.”
I went to my bunk in a more cheerful mood, and that night I dreamt
that I was boat-steerer and that I made fast to a sperm that stowed
down oil worth five thousand dollars.