EXPERIENCES IN THE ARCTIC
Business was now carried on both day and night, or, more properly
speaking, all the time, as there was no night. There was always some
one in the crow’s nest. To increase the chances of seeing and
capturing whales, the _Seabird_ would drop a boat at about seven
A.M., and sail about twenty miles and then drop another boat. Then
she would cruise between the two boats. There was little danger,
where it was light all the time, of losing a craft. The boats were
well provisioned, and the men wore their thickest clothing. On the
third day a whale was announced just as the captain gave orders to
lower. Our boat and Silva’s engaged in sharp competition. We took
water first and got the lead, but the movements of the whale favored
the other boat, and Silva’s man put two irons into him. We stood by
to help if we were needed, and I eagerly watched the proceedings,
for this was the first real live bowhead I had seen struck. He
pounded the sea with his terrible flukes and then sounded just like
a sperm whale. When the slack was taken in and the big fellow
appeared on the surface, we followed Silva’s boat and watched with
keen interest the last act in the tragedy. Silva handled the lance
well, driving it into the body as if he had a sperm whale to deal
with. When the bowhead was dead and the tow-line was attached to
him, Lakeum said to me:
“I hope Silva won’t have trouble. You know what so often happens in
the case of bowheads?”
“No,” I replied.
“Why, they sink.”
“I didn’t know that, Mr. Lakeum. None of our men ever told me.”
“Yes, they sink, just as so many right whales do. That monster there
is worth seven thousand dollars, good, and it would be a pity to
lose him.”
The words were hardly uttered when Lakeum shouted, “Don’t look
right, Silva; settling a little.” There was apprehension, indeed
consternation, in the boats. It was true that the whale was
settling. When men don’t know what to do, they often shout, and this
is what the men in Silva’s boat did, and when the order came to cut
the tow-line, they shouted still louder. Then, as the great whale
disappeared, the noise subsided, and as both boats pulled for the
vessel, Silva was the picture of despair. The captain had witnessed
the unfortunate accident from the ship and was inclined to blame
Silva.
“Well, I killed the whale, didn’t I, Captain?”
“Yes.”
“Am I to blame then, if he sunk?”
There was no answer to this question. The captain muttered, “I don’t
see why so many of these bowheads sink.”
Since passing Bering Strait we had seen several ships in the
distance, but they were not near enough to hail. And now a vessel
was bearing down on us—presumably not for a gam but for information.
She proved to be the _Awashonks_, a vessel with a remarkable
history. I was standing near the gangway when her captain boarded
us. The _Awashonks_ was three years from home, and the captain was
anxious for the latest news. There was little for Captain Gamans to
communicate, so the conversation, which was necessarily brief,
related to their respective voyages.
“We have just lost a whale,” said our captain. “He sank. I suppose
you’ve had bowheads sink, haven’t you?”
“Not on this voyage,” replied the visitor. “I learned the trick on
the last voyage. Every bowhead we kill we cut-in, try-out and stow
down, never lose one. If whalemen had learned the trick years ago,
there wouldn’t be so many bowheads at the bottom of the ocean.”
The visiting captain evidently had information to convey, but didn’t
want to give it voluntarily. It seemed to me that he wanted Captain
Gamans to ask for it. There was a pause. Then our captain said:
“I suppose sinking is due to the condition of the whale. I don’t
suppose lancing has anything to do with it.”
“Lancing has everything to do with it. That’s where the trick comes
in. You lance a bowhead or a right whale over the shoulder blade,
directing the lance downward, and it will kill him in the shortest
time, but he’ll be pretty sure to sink, because there’ll be a
rushing escape of air, shown in large bubbles rising through the
water. Lance him straight or a little upwards and it’ll take more
time to kill him and be more dangerous, but you’ll save your
property.”
The visitor assumed a triumphant air. I never saw Captain Gamans
play his part better. He expressed his thanks for the information
and then said, in an off-hand way:
“I suppose that the whale we lost was worth several thousand dollars
and that’s a good deal of money for any ship that has to depend
solely on whaling; but we are not worrying on the _Seabird_. We’ve
packed something away that’s worth at least seven bowheads like the
one we’ve lost.”
“And what’s that?”
“Why nothing but a seventy-thousand-dollar lump of perfectly made
ambergris.”
The tables were turned. The man who had rejoiced in his triumph was
now plainly annoyed. He manifested little interest in the ambergris
and soon took his departure.
To me the _Awashonks_ was a vessel of great interest. A number of
ships which cruised in early days in the Pacific Ocean were never
heard from, and one opinion was that they were captured by savages.
This was nearly the fate of this very _Awashonks_. In October, 1835,
she touched at Namovik Island, of the Marshall group, in the Pacific
Ocean. The natives who boarded the vessel appeared to be friendly.
Suddenly, however, they seized the spades used for cutting in
blubber, and attacked the crew. The captain was beheaded and the man
at the wheel and the second mate were killed. Before Jones, the
third mate, could use a spade he had snatched from a native, he was
compelled to flee down the forehatch, and the rest of the crew
either took to the rigging or found refuge in the hold. The men
aloft cut away the running rigging to prevent the progress of the
ship; those below worked aft and, with muskets found in the cabin,
opened fire, but with little effect, as the natives sought places
that were not within range. Some of them gathered above the
companionway, which they had closed; Jones placed an open cannister
of powder underneath and fired it. The explosion tore off the roof
of the cabin and scattered the natives. Jones and his men then drove
them overboard.
Twenty-five years had elapsed since this startling adventure; the
_Awashonks_ was still afloat and as a fact was to sail the seas for
nearly a dozen years more, only to be crushed by ice in the Arctic.
What was the age of whalers? Many a one was from time to time
repaired and practically made over. It is authentic that one vessel
was in commission for eighty-eight years and another for ninety-one.
The logbooks of whalers are of great value in preserving much of the
history of whaling which cannot be gleaned from any other source.
Logs kept on merchant ships recorded formal matters, such as the
weather, the direction of the wind, the location of the vessel, the
courses taken and the distances covered. The logs of the whalers
contained all these matters and, in addition, accounts of the whales
attacked and captured, the bone taken, the oil stowed down, strange
occurrences on the deep, such as battles with whales and
deliverances from death, the places visited, the happenings on ship
and on shore, items of a personal nature, sums in arithmetic,
attempts at poetry, pictures of the whales captured or lost,
pen-and-ink sketches and often colored drawings, and illustrations
representing scenes in the life of the whaleman.
The pictures of the whales alluded to were sometimes drawn with a
pen, but generally were impressed by means of a stamp, which in
early years was carved from wood by the men, and was later made of
rubber. The impression was made on the margin of the page, and, if
the whale were captured and boiled down, the number of barrels of
oil obtained was written on a little white spot purposely left at
about the middle of the picture. In running down the margins of the
pages, one could easily determine how many whales were taken, how
many escaped and the amount of oil each whale yielded. Black ink was
not always used. Occasionally the impression was in blue, and the
whale’s last agony was shown by a scarlet stream pouring from his
blowhole. Open the logbook of an old merchant ship and there is
nothing to interest, amuse or instruct, but the logs of the old
whalers, now in the possession of the New Bedford Public Library and
of the Dartmouth Historical Society, are as interesting as story
books, and are, indeed, story books themselves. If the log book of
the _Seabird_ was deposited in one of these repositories, one will
find this entry made by Lakeum after the capture of the cachalot
which yielded the ambergris—“This day we took a golden whale.”
One would think that it was the duty of the first mate to keep the
logbook, but on a whaler others were permitted to ventilate on its
pages their joys or woes. One of the most amusing entries was the
following, made by the steward of the _Mystic_, sent on a cruise for
sea-elephant oil in 1843.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of past days,
When fond recollection recalls them to mind,
The schooner so taut and so trim like a miss in her stays,
And her light rigging which swayed to the wind—
The old-fashioned galley, the try-works close by it,
The old blubber-boat with six oars to pull it.
The bunk of my messmate, the wooden chest nigh it,
The old monkey jacket, the often-patched jacket,
The greasy old jacket which hung up beside it.
There are few logbooks which give accounts of mutinies for the
reason that, when the mutineers got possession of a vessel, the
logbook went overboard. An exception is that of the _Barclay_, which
sailed from New Bedford in 1843. The logbook records that trouble
began soon after sailing; that a fight for the third time occurred
at supper between one of the crew and the green hands; that the
fighter was put in the rigging and given a few stripes; that he
acknowledged the blame and was released; that he went forward,
making threats; that the blacksmith was very saucy, he being the
worse for rum; that for days the weather was so severe and the sea
so rough that no entries were made and no observations taken; that
after rounding the Horn the weather was much better; that on Monday,
April 29, 1845, at eight o’clock, the captain sent the steward
forward to call the men, or one of the men, aft, to see their meat
weighed; that they wouldn’t come; that the captain called them three
times and then took a broom to one of the blacks; that they refused,
one of them saying that one of their complaints was that a pound and
a quarter of meat was not enough; that they now went forward; that
the black was insolent and was told to go aft again, that he replied
that he would not and went to the forecastle, that in getting him up
one of the men interfered and struck the captain; that the captain
dropped his weapon and took hold of him; that the man seized the
weapon and attempted to strike the captain; that he was told to go
aft but refused, and went down into the forecastle, and, taking a
sheath knife, said he would kill the first man who came down there,
but that at last he delivered himself up to be put in irons. “Thus
ends in Peace.” The mutiny collapsed, otherwise the logbook would
have been delivered to the sea.
During the voyage I had made many entries in the logbook under the
direction of Lakeum, and now I was to be intrusted with further
authority. Lakeum observed:
“Bleechly, I’m going to let you keep the log now. You’d better first
tell me what entries you are going to make, and after you’ve made
them I’ll look them over in a general way to see that they are all
right. I don’t know as you are given to poetry and such things. If
you are I wouldn’t put any of your rhymes on the logbook. There is
too much scribbling on some of them.”
Lakeum laughed heartily, the first sign of merriment on his part I
had for a long time seen. However, I had a little artistic taste,
and I proposed to indulge it. In a few days I had my first entry to
make other than the usual formal matters, and here it is:
Remarks on Board of the _Seabird_, Captain Gamans.
In the Arctic Ocean.
Thursday, July 7, 1860.
First part light breezes from S. W. Middle part
much the same. At 2 p.m. saw whales and put off.
Boats among whales. One whale being towed to ship.
The imprints tell the story,—one whale making sixty barrels, and
underneath the words, No. 12; another whale without any accompanying
figures and the imprints of several flukes, above one of which was
the word “missed”, and under another the words, “Drew the Iron.”
Thus one whale was captured, the iron missed a second and drew out
of a third. Such a method of description reminds one of the
picture-writing of savages.
Of course there was surmise as to who would sight the largest
bowhead which was captured. I think there was a general feeling that
the gold watch ought to go to the Gay Head Indian. He had, so far,
sighted more whales than any man on the ship. It was generally
thought that the other prize would go to me, although it was
possible that a sperm whale larger than the one I had announced
might be captured. One of the men reasoned, “Fancy Chest didn’t
really sight the whale; the whale sighted him. He happened to come
up near the ship, and such luck might have happened to anyone. Now
the Gay Header has got the best eyes of any man on board. Those Gay
Head Indians have made the best mastheaders on the New Bedford
whalers for years. But just as likely as not luck will be against
the man, and some greenie will get the prize.”
I answered, “You forget that there are two more seasons yet—one
sperm whaling and another again north. As for myself, I wouldn’t
object to the watch, but I’m not catching unhatched chickens. I
don’t know as I would like anything better than for Ohoo to get the
watch.”
Our life in the Arctic was not so bad. Not compelled to cruise far
north, as vessels were in later years, we encountered little ice and
the weather was generally fair. We were successful, and the
hardships we had to endure were not so severe as we had anticipated.
One day from the lips of the Gay Header came the happy call. The
boats were lowered and in a few hours the largest bowhead yet was
fast to the _Seabird_. The Gay Header was well liked, and his
supposed good fortune gave great satisfaction. During the cutting-in
and trying-out there was much conjecture as to the monster’s yield,
and it was remarkable how accurate were the estimates of the men who
for years had followed the sea.
Here is the entry which I made in the log book:
Remarks on Board the _Seabird_. In the Arctic Ocean.
Tuesday, August 17, 1860.
These twenty-four hours commenced with a light air. Cloudy
from the southward and westward. At 3 p.m. Gay Header
sighted whale and boats lowered, and at 7 fast to whale,
3 miles from ship. Took whale alongside at 11. All hands
sent below. At 7 called all hands and commenced cutting-in.
And what were the imprints in the white spot in the black whale on
the margin?
“L. B. B. 163 barrels No. 16.”
Four days later one of the men sighted another whale and when he was
alongside it was noted that he was of great size. Would he prove
larger than the Gay Header’s whale? That was the question. Comment
and guessing went on for several days while the toilful labor was
pursued. Towards the last of the trying-out and stowing down the
excitement rose to a high pitch, and the announcements were eagerly
received. As we were nearing the end 161 barrels was called out,
then fifteen gallons more. The amount was increased ten gallons,
then the last of it made six gallons more. A shout went up, “A half
a gallon short of 162, but call it 162”, and the Gay Header was one
barrel ahead. We had now, besides the sperm oil, ten hundred and
fifty barrels of whale oil in the hold and twelve thousand pounds of
whalebone, not to mention the ambergris.
I had written at school very modest verses, lauded by my schoolmates
as very fine poetry, and I now composed a crude stanza which I
wanted to put in the logbook. With some hesitation and diffidence, I
went to Lakeum and stated my request.
“I thought I told you, Bleechly, that we didn’t want any scribbling
on the log.”
“Well,” I replied, “they’ve made some fun of me because they say
that my sighting the big sperm was only a matter of luck, and I want
to show to whom I would like to have the watch go, if a still larger
whale than mine is captured.”
“Well, show me the lines.”
I have spoken of Lakeum laughing heartily. He repeated the exercise.
“Put it in if you want to. I think, however, you’ll make more money
whaling than you will writing poetry.”
I made the following entry:
They call me simply Fancy Chest,
And say within my grasp
The prize that every tar desires
It may be mine to clasp.
But, if a man of keener sight
A greater whale may claim,
I choose a man of royal worth
And Ohoo is his name.
Some of the crew asked me to repeat the lines. I noticed that they
seemed to make an impression only upon Ohoo. He wanted to know if I
was writing about something good to eat.
During our stay in the Arctic we did not once make a landing.
Several times, in running in near the shore of Alaska, the Esquimos
came out to us in their boats and we hove to for a few minutes to
allow them to come on board. I noticed how skilfully they handled
their canoes, which were made of the skin of some animal, probably
the seal. The paddles were double-bladed, and very gracefully the
oarsmen shifted the blades, sending the boats ahead with remarkable
speed. The Esquimos had picked up a little English and their patois
was curious and not always intelligible. For bits of rope, old hoops
and so forth they traded knickknacks of their own making. For an old
shirt, I purchased several of these articles which I proposed to
carry home as mementos. About the middle of September, just as we
were about to sail for Honolulu, we ran near shore for the last
time, and just as we tacked several of their boats appeared. The
season was over and they seemed to know that they would see us no
more, for as we bore away, the occupants called out in cheery tones,
“Goo’by—goo’by.”