HONOLULU AGAIN, AND SEA TALES
And now for Honolulu! Every one was good-natured and happy. Few
vessels in the history of whaling could beat our record of fifteen
months. It was the opinion that if our good fortune continued, the
voyage would not exceed three years. There were no orders to shorten
sail nights. We were to make port in the shortest possible time in
order to ship all our oil for New Bedford, and prepare for our
cruise on the Coast of Japan. Lakeum said to me one day:
“You remember that when we stopped at Honolulu we had rather a
picked crew when we went ashore. That was more a happen-so than
anything else. I suppose you thought that men who were thought not
likely to desert were selected, and I remember that I said something
to you about Ohoo’s faithfulness. You see at that time we had four
hundred sperm and the ambergris. That was enough to keep the men
loyal. Now we have ten hundred and fifty whale and twelve thousand
pounds of bone more. Do you suppose men with a lot of money in view
are going to desert? I think not. We shall be at Honolulu some time,
but you may be sure that every man will turn up when we sail.”
We reached Honolulu in due season and discharged all our cargo,
except the ambergris. The foremast hands saw every nook and corner
of the beautiful town, which was peculiar in having both a tropical
and an American air. The bathing was delightful, and its charm was
only surpassed by watching from the shore the natives as they glided
on the surface of the sea like tiny seaboats or dove with the ease
and grace of the seafowl. Ohoo took me to his home, a rude little
cottage with few of the modern conveniences, but the home of kind
and pleasant people. His father was dead, but his mother, two
sisters and a brother were my entertainers. I ate their simple and
to me rather curious food, but was particularly pleased with the
fish which was cooked between heated stones. They danced and sang
their quaint songs, and I truly felt that I was in another world.
Ohoo acted as interpreter, and the funny work he made of it promoted
mirth and hilarity. I bade my new-made friends good-by, feeling that
this brief experience was one of the most delightful episodes of the
voyage.
Our cargo discharged, and recruits taken aboard, we started for the
coast of Japan on November 24, 1860. Whales were, and still are,
plentiful in those waters, the first vessels to visit which were the
_Syren_ and _Maro_ of Nantucket in 1820. Our cruise was to be a long
one, and then we were to go north again.
Of all the adventures of whalemen, none exceeds in daring and danger
that of Ronald MacDonald, all the more remarkable because the daring
was unnecessary and the danger voluntarily incurred. In 1826 the
ship _Lady Adams_ disappeared near the coast of Japan, and it was
surmised that she had struck a reef and that her crew, after
reaching shore, had been murdered. Another vessel, named the
_Lawrence_, was wrecked, and it was afterward learned that the
second mate and seven of the crew, after landing, had been cruelly
treated, one of the number having been tortured to death. It also
appeared that the crew of another vessel, which stranded on the
coast, received similar treatment, one of the men killing himself to
escape further torment.
While whalemen regarded the Japanese coast with terror, yet one day,
when a whaler was cruising near that coast, MacDonald, a seaman,
obtained his discharge, taking in lieu of his “lay” a boat equipped
for landing and supplied with sundry books and certain utensils, and
boldly made for shore. On his arrival he was stripped of everything,
but, as it appeared to his captors that his outfit indicated good
intentions, they did not torture him; so he began to teach them
English.
Some time afterward Commodore Biddle visited Yeddo for the purpose
of establishing trade relations with the Japanese. MacDonald and the
survivors of the two wrecked whale ships were committed to the
Commodore’s charge with the warning never to return. The stories
told by these whalemen, and the information gained by Biddle,
determined our government to send another expedition under Commodore
Perry, with results so well known to the world.
In the dogwatch the _Lady Adams_, the _Lawrence and_ Ronald
MacDonald were much talked about. A couple of our men had sailed in
vessels that had cruised within a few years off the coast of Japan,
but they said they had never known a boat to land on the coast, and
so far as they knew a few whalers only had recruited at Hakodate, a
port to which vessels might go. There was something mysterious about
the quarter of the world we were approaching, and the uncertainty
colored our conversation in the dogwatch. Shipwrecks and other
disasters at sea were also brought up, and the more terrible the
tales, the greater the interest.
“Suppose anything happened to us off the coast of Japan. What should
we do?” said one of the men.
“It might be another case like the _Essex_,” replied Kreelman.
There was a demand for the tale of the _Essex_. While I had read all
about that ill-fated vessel, I was anxious to hear Kreelman’s
version.
“In the year 1820,” he began, “the ship _Essex_ of Nantucket,
Captain Pollard, was cruisin’ in this very Pacific Ocean when whales
was sighted. The first whale they struck stove the boat. Two other
boats was soon fast to another whale, and the ship headed towards
them. All of a sudden a big sperm bull breached nearby and bore down
on the ship at full speed and struck her with tremendous force and
she begun to sink. The whale moved off, and then he come back,
openin’ and closin’ his big jaws and poundin’ the sea with his
flukes and dashed into her again; and pretty soon she was on her
beam ends. Owen Chase, the mate of the _Essex_, writ a book in which
he said that there wasn’t no such thing as chance about it, that the
whale was mad because they had struck his companions and that he
meant revenge. In three boats captain, officers and crew made for
Peru, which was nearly three thousand miles away. They at first
reached an island where nobody lived, and three of them preferred to
die there rather than go through what the men would have to go
through who were to go on in the open boats. One boat was never
heard from. When one of them gave up and died the others ate his raw
flesh like wolves. At last they were rescued. Three in one boat was
picked up by one ship, and two in the other boat by another ship.
Captain Pollard was one of the men that was saved. Word got round to
Nantucket, before his return, of the awful time he and his shipmates
had had, and when he come back the streets was lined with people,
and not a word was said as he walked with bowed head to his home.”
Kreelman’s tale was correct. Some one said, “Fancy Chest, you are a
scholard and have read about such things. You can’t tell no tale
that can beat that.”
“I don’t want to,” I declared. “The story of the _Essex_ is all true
and I trust it may never be repeated; but I can tell a story of a
whale as savage as the one which sank the _Essex_. He too attacked a
whaler, but no lives were lost.”
“Go on,” they shouted.
“In 1850 the _Parker Cook_ of Provincetown, while cruising in the
Atlantic, lowered two boats for a bull sperm. The boat-steerer of
one of the boats made fast with two irons, and the whale capsized
her. The line fouled and nearly severed the boat-steerer’s leg from
the body. He fortunately was able to cut the line, and the other
boat picked up the men in the water and returned to the ship. But
the whale wasn’t satisfied. Like the destroyer of the _Essex_, he
made for the _Parker Cook_ and struck her with great force, throwing
the men to the deck and burying the cutwater and stem up to the
planking in his head. Then he repeated the performance but with
abated force. The captain lowered another boat, and, when they were
in close quarters, fired three bomb lances into the creature and so
wounded him that he spouted blood. Every time the whale made for the
boat, great skill was required in avoiding his charges. The whale
was at last killed, and when tried out yielded a little over a
hundred barrels. The vessel put into Fayal for medical treatment for
the boat-steerer and for repairs. Lucky it was that the attack was
directly on the stem. Had it been on any other part of the vessel
she would probably have shared the fate of the _Essex_.”
The men called for another, and I responded:
“Of course, what I have just told I read out of a book, and, as you
ask for another, I’ll give you this which I also read out of a book,
but it’s true nevertheless. While near the Azores in 1832, the
mate’s boat of the _Barclay_ of Nantucket struck a whale with both
irons, and, when the mate went forward to use the lance, the whale
turned and killed him and then escaped. A few days after, the
_Hector_ of New Bedford fell in with the same whale, and several
boats were lowered. The whale made for the mate’s boat. This
officer, by a quick move, avoided the encounter, and the
boat-steerer threw his harpoon successfully, but the whale turned
and smashed the bow of the boat. He then demolished the captain’s
boat. While the crew were picked up, the whale proceeded to bite up
the pieces of the broken craft, and succeeded with a single
exception. This was a keg. As the keg bobbed up and down on the
waves, the whale tried to capture it with his teeth, but
unsuccessfully, and he seemed very angry. After the men had reached
the ship, the whale and the keg were still in evidence. The mate now
picked a crew and lowered again. The whale then lost interest in the
keg and made for the boat. Its occupants, terror-stricken, pulled
for the ship. Several times they barely escaped from the whale’s
jaws, and they were becoming exhausted when the whale, which had
been fighting of course with his belly up, turned over to lift his
head out of water and take in some fresh air. The boat was so near
that the mate was able to drive his lance into the creature’s
vitals, killing him almost instantly. The harpoons of the _Barclay_
were found in his body.”
The men were very attentive and thoughtful. One of them said, “If a
boat’s crew should lose the ship in these waters we’re goin’ to, it
wouldn’t do to land, and I don’t know what would become of ’em.”
Kreelman turned to me and said, “Fancy Chest, that reminds me of the
bark _Janet_. I’ve heard the story, but you’ve read about it, I
suppose. So go on and tell it.”
“Yes, I have read about it. In 1849 a boat’s crew succeeded in
killing a whale, and soon after the boat was capsized. All the
contents except the oars were lost. The men were able to right the
craft, but she was water-filled, and the sea was so rough that to
prevent the boat from foundering the oars were lashed across her.
Night was coming on and, unfortunately, they were not seen from the
vessel. Working their way to the dead whale, they made fast to him
and endeavored to empty the water from the boat, but the sea was so
rough that they were forced to cut loose. After a night of great
suffering they looked in vain for the bark. They could make little
headway, and they were all exhausted, so they put the boat before
the wind. On the second day the sea subsided, and they were
encouraged to throw over the boat and empty the water. One man was
lost in the unsuccessful endeavor, and two of the men soon went mad.
The nearest land was an island off the coast of Peru, a thousand
miles away. The weak and discouraged crew summoned all their
strength and tore the ceiling from the boat, with which to rig a
wooden sail. They steered their course at night by the stars, and by
day suffered great agony from the heat. There was neither food nor
water for seven days, and then they drew lots, and one of their
number was killed and eaten. A shower fell, but too late. On the
eighth day another man died and on the ninth another shower
furnished water. Then a dolphin leaped into the boat. For several
days birds came so near that the men were able to kill them. Twenty
days after the boat capsized they reached the island off Peru. There
they killed a wild pig and two days later were taken off by the
_Leonidas_ of New Bedford.”
“Well,” observed one of the men, repeating the previous remark, “if
a boat gets lost from a ship on the ground we are goin’ to, they’d
have a hard time of it. It wouldn’t do to land there, and where
could they land?”
This observation gave rise to discussion, and the expression of
views showed a woful ignorance of geography. Kreelman seemed to have
the best grasp of the situation.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “this coast of Japan ground, as they call it,
stretches over an awful distance. It runs clear down pretty near to
the Caroline Islands. That’s south, and I shouldn’t be surprised if
we touched there for supplies before we go north again. A man who
cruised in this ocean and was once on this ground told me all about
it.”
“There ain’t no danger from savages round here, is there?” asked one
of the men.
“No danger in these days,” replied Kreelman. “In old days
occasionally a whaler in this ocean was never heard from. Some
thought shipwreck, some thought cuttlefish and some thought savages.
I don’t know. I don’t believe there will ever be again such a case
as the _Sharon’s_. That was twenty years ago. One of the men who was
on board told me about it years ago.”
The sea was quite tranquil, we were sailing freely and there was
silence. I knew that all Kreelman wanted was encouragement.
“I have heard of that case,” I observed. “It was in 1842.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, I’ve read about it.”
“Well, readin’ ain’t always knowin’. When you hear a thing from a
man who’s been there it’s first hand, and, when you get it out of a
book, it’s second hand.”
“Well,” I observed, “you had no objection, not long ago, to listen
to stories I took from books.”
Kreelman made no reply and on his own invitation told the story in
his quaint way.
“Well, you see, this _Sharon_ touched at an island where a number of
the crew deserted, and she put to sea with only seventeen men all
told. One day two boats were lowered for whales, and the captain, a
Portuguese boy and three natives of the Kingsmill group of islands
was left on board. They took a whale and the ship bore down and took
him alongside, and then they trimmed the sails to prevent her
forgin’ ahead. The boats were now after other whales.
“Soon the signal flag of the ship at half-mast informed those in the
boats that there was trouble on board and they put for the ship.
When within hailin’ distance the boy, who was in the riggin’, called
out that the natives had killed the captain and had control of the
ship. One of the natives shook a cuttin’-spade at the men in the
boats. Then he said somethin’ in his own language to the fourth
native who was in one of the boats. They thought that he asked him
to jump overboard and swim to the ship, but the man in the boat
shook his head. Then the fellow on deck threw the cook’s axe and he
aimed so good that the man in the boat only saved himself by dodgin’
it.
“The mate was afraid that the savages would swing the yards and that
the sails would catch the wind, so he called to the boy in the
riggin’, ‘Cut the halyards of the upper sails on the mainmast and
then go forward on a stay and cut ’em on the foremast.’ The boy done
it, and then the boats got close together and the mates talked over
what they’d better do. One said one thing, and another another.
“Benjamin Clough, only nineteen years old, was third mate of the
ship. Clough stood up in the bow of the first mate’s boat, picked up
a lance and hurled it at a savage standin’ on the ship’s rail, but
the warp was too short and the savage laughed at him. Then Clough
said that, if the boy would cut loose the foreroyal stay and let it
drop into the water from the end of the jib boom, he would swim to
the ship with the warp of the lance in his mouth and fight the
savages single-handed. The mate said, ‘All right,’ and they called
to the boy, but he was weak from bein’ afraid and tired out, and
couldn’t do it. The ship didn’t drift much, and they stayed in the
boats till night come on.
“Now this Clough was an awful smart fellow and he said once more
that he would swim to the ship, and the first mate told him to go
ahead. He took off every rag he had on, then he took a boat knife in
his teeth, and he didn’t care if the sea was full of sharks; he swam
straight to the stern of the vessel, climbed up the rudder and got
into the cabin through a window. He found, in the dark, two
cutlasses and two muskets, which he loaded. A native come down the
steps and Clough attacked him with a cutlass and cut out one of his
eyes, but in the struggle Clough’s right hand was badly cut. The
native was as good as killed.
“One of the other two savages come to the head of the stairs with a
cuttin’ spade in his hand. Clough pointed a musket with his left
hand and right forearm and fired it and killed the fellow. As his
body come down stairs, bringin’ the spade with him, it struck
Clough’s left arm and cut it badly. And now see what a smart fellow
the first mate was. Through the cabin window Clough told him what he
had done, and how badly he was hurt, and called for help and said
that only one savage was alive. But the brave mate replied that, as
he had only heard one shot, he believed that only one savage was
dead, so he wouldn’t help Clough. The poor fellow stretched out on
the cabin floor helpless. In half an hour the boat come under the
stern, and the men climbed in through the windows. The native who
hadn’t been hurt jumped overboard but come on board again during the
night and was put in irons. Clough’s wounds healed and, when he got
back, his owners made him captain of the _Sharon_ and then built a
new ship for him.”
The men were greatly pleased with Kreelman’s story; they were loud
in their praises of Clough; and, as foremast hands have generally a
pretty low estimate of the upper officers, they expressed their
opinion of the first mate in uncomplimentary language. This
conference during the dogwatch was the most interesting of any in
the whole voyage. Most of my companions had looked forward to this
long cruise with some forebodings, and the stories narrated
pertained to experiences and incidents which some of them probably
felt they might themselves encounter before the season was over. But
Kreelman’s tale had thrilled them. What gloom there had been was
dissipated, and the men went to the watch below that night all ready
for their labors in the months before them.