WHOSE WHALE WAS IT?
We arrived at the Okhotsk Sea in the early summer; and one has only
to visit that inlet to learn how extensive it is. The weather was
not so severe as that of the Arctic, and so far as we were concerned
we found the whaling equally good. Our captain followed the method
he had adopted in the Arctic of dropping a boat, sailing a long
distance and dropping another, and then taking a course between
them. The bowheads seemed a little more active than those in the
Arctic, but, if once struck, there was nothing to fear except their
terrible flukes. There was much conjecture as to some probable
creature who would yield more oil than the Gay Header’s whale, and
thus be the means of bestowing the watch on another. One whale, the
largest in the Okhotsk, yielded one hundred and fifty-eight barrels
and the Gay Header was safe.
In the whaling days there were quarrels over whales, and a few
lawsuits, too. Strange that these differences should arise at places
thousands of miles distant from Massachusetts, and that the cases
should be tried in the United States Court in that State. How could
there be any quarrel or lawsuit over a whale lying dead on the
surface of the ocean? And the question may be answered by asking
another question, “Whose whale was it?” That is, the question was
not always who killed the whale but who owned the whale after it was
killed.
There was a usage generally observed by whalemen that when a whale
was struck, and the harpoon, with the line attached, remained in the
whale, but the line did not remain fast to the boat, and a boat’s
crew from another ship continued the pursuit and captured the whale,
and the master of the first ship claimed the whale on the spot, the
whale belonged to the first ship. At last the matter was taken into
the United States Court, and the judge held that the usage was a
good one and that the whale belonged to the first ship.
Two lawsuits arose over whales captured in the Okhotsk Sea. One, as
follows: Having killed a bowhead, the first mate of the whaler
anchored the whale in five fathoms of water and attached a waif,
intending to return the next day. Early in the morning, boats of
another New Bedford whaler towed the whale to their ship, where it
was cut-in and boiled down. It turned out that the anchor didn’t
hold in the night, that the cable coiled around the whale’s body,
and that no waif irons were attached to it. The captain of the
vessel whose boat had originally killed the whale visited the other
ship and laid claim to the whale; for oil and bone worth five
thousand dollars or more were not to be given up without something
more than a protest. If the captain of the vessel which had the oil
and the bone had yielded, the bone could easily have been then
delivered, but to turn over great casks of oil from one vessel to
another, in a rough sea, was not so easy. But the captain wouldn’t
yield. The discussion between the two masters was bitter and
boisterous.
“I killed the whale,” said the captain of the first vessel.
“Your first mate says he killed it.”
“Now don’t be smart. You know when I said ‘I’, the reference was to
my ship.”
“Where’s the proof that anybody in your ship killed it?”
“Proof enough. Even if the waif was gone, the whale was dead, and I
can show that the warp coiled around the body was the warp of my
ship.”
The captain of the other vessel thundered back, “The whale belongs
to this ship, and the oil and bone from him will stay on this ship
until we get back to New Bedford, and what are you going to do about
it?”
“You’ll find out what we are going to do about it when we get back
to that port.”
And the visiting captain went to his boat. They did find out, for
when they returned, the United States Court held that the ship whose
first mate killed the whale was entitled to the value of the oil and
bone.
The subject of the second lawsuit was a bowhead in which we were
interested, and a big one, too. Both our vessel and another one laid
claim to it. When, on a very fair day for that part of the world,
bowheads were sighted, all our boats were lowered. As a rule the
captain of a whaler did not go in a boat, but remained on the ship
with the cooper, steward, cook, spare hands and so forth. But now
and then the captain would take a hand in whaling.
Twice before, during the voyage, Captain Gamans had commanded a
boat, and each time had been unsuccessful. There was a little fun
among the men over the captain’s failure—of course, with
themselves—and I happened to hear a remark one day from Silva which
made me believe that the officers had a little fun also, among
themselves, at the captain’s expense. I have the impression that the
captain wanted to make good, for on this day he decided to go in the
boat.
There were several bowheads in sight, and rather far off. Our men
pulled away lustily, but when we were pretty near a big fellow, shy
and sly, like all of his kind, down he went, and when he came up the
signal from the ship showed him so far away that we gave up the
chase. Two other boats were in pursuit of whales, and they, too,
were unsuccessful, while the fourth boat made fast to a bowhead.
Then there was a commotion in the boat, the men moving around
quickly as if something had happened. Lakeum said, “It’s the
captain’s boat. I hope he hasn’t had any more bad luck. It looks to
me as if they have cut the line. I hope nobody’s hurt. We’ll make
for her.” And so we did, while the two unsuccessful boats put back
to the ship.
When we came up, the captain told us that they had hardly struck
when there was a kink in the line, and they immediately cut the
warp. “But,” he exclaimed, “there are two irons in him, and there is
nothing to do but chase him up. The whale didn’t sound for a long
period and the direction he took was to wind’rd.” There was no
stepping the mast and setting the sail, so the men in the two boats
tugged away at the oars.
We pursuers were soon outdistanced. Our own ship had not been able
to work to windward, and so had to beat her way in the direction we
were taking. As Lakeum pushed on my oar, he said, “These bowheads
are so shy and cunning you are only sure of them when they are
cut-in and stowed down. It may be that fellow will hold up till we
reach him, but I should feel more satisfied if it was a sperm.”
We had been pulling for an hour or more, and we were tired and, I
think, pretty cross, when Lakeum said, “There’s a boat clear ahead,
and, as far as I can see, it’s fast to a whale.” This was
encouraging, if the whale were the one the captain’s boat had lost.
But what chance was there? I think if it had been put to vote, our
men would have voted that the chase was a foolish one. But it wasn’t
a foolish one. Even sailors are often mistaken as to things which
happen on the sea. Our boat was just a little ahead of the captain’s
and when we arrived the whale was in the last flurry and soon rolled
over. Captain Gamans was an assertive man, and was never much
troubled with modesty.
“That whale belongs to me,” he shouted.
It had seemed to me that the captain took some risk in his
assertion, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“Guess again,” said the mate of the other boat.
“You’ll find two fresh harpoons in him, with the cypher of my ship
on them,” insisted Gamans.
The mate of the boat merely ignored our captain and gave orders to
attach the tow-line. The men obeyed as if they were unaware that
there were claimants of the whale in the neighborhood.
Captain Gamans was exasperated and shouted, “My ship’s harpoons are
in that whale, and I claim the whole carcass, bone and all.”
“Keep on claiming,” replied the mate.
“I can see the line attached to the harpoon, and I’m going to keep
on claiming my ship’s property, and I’m going to have it, too.”
“How are you going to get it?” inquired the mate, who now looked
defiance, and kept changing the lance from one hand to the other, as
if he was about to use it for some other purpose than on the
bowhead’s body.
“I’m going to cut out them harpoons and examine them myself.”
“No, you’re not.”
“We’ll see about it. You know what the usage is—you see our vessel
there working up from the leeward. What does that mean? Here are our
two boats in the open sea. What does that mean? Here’s a whale with
fresh harpoons in him. What does that mean? And the whale killed by
the boat of another vessel, for there’s your vessel to the windward
bearing down on us. What does that mean?”
“What are you, a lawyer? You talk as if you was making an argument
to a jury, but there’s only six men in the boat and that’s only half
a jury.”
This produced a laugh, and our captain was now furious.
“Did you hear what I said?” he shrieked.
“No, I didn’t. I was calculatin’ how much this old fellow would stow
down and how much bone he would yield. Then I was figurin’ how much
the whole thing would bring in money. Then I was makin’ out what we
men in this boat would get on our lays. When a man’s usin’ his mind
on heavy matters, he ain’t got no time to attend to little things.”
Our boat was between the captain’s and that of the stranger. Captain
Gamans called out, “Lakeum, back water and give me a chance.”
I saw that Lakeum did not want to comply, but the command was from
his superior, and he was bound to obey. Lakeum gave the order in a
slow tone, and we oarsmen responded with more alacrity, for we
wanted to see what the outcome would be. As the captain’s boat
advanced, he exclaimed:
“Now I’m going to show you the harpoons of my ship in that whale.”
“No, you ain’t.”
“There they are,” declared the captain, “and the short warps
attached to them.”
“You can’t prove it,” roared the stranger.
“We’ll see if I can’t,” retorted the captain.
The bow of our boat touched the stranger’s on the port side, near
the stern. Each man brandished his lance, and it looked like a
battle, which might result perhaps in a tragedy, when a voice rang
out:
“Jessup, put up your lance. I’ll handle this matter.”
In our excitement we were not aware that a boat had been
approaching, and now, as we heard the sharp command and turned to
look at the craft, we rightly inferred that it belonged to the
vessel bearing down on us from the windward.
Our captain fixed his gaze on the stranger; the expression of anger
left his face; his lips just parted; his eyes sparkled. Then he
muttered, “I can hardly believe it.” But he did seem to believe it,
for he called out, “Is that you, Gates? I thought you was in New
Bedford.”
“Well, Gamans, I knew you wasn’t there, but I didn’t expect to see
you here. I thought you was in the Arctic this season.”
“I was last year, but where did you come from, Gates?”
“I’m master of the _Oriole_, the old ship you and I were
boat-steerers in some years ago. And there she is, bearing down on
us. But what’s this row about?”
“Your mate is laying claim to my whale. We struck him a while ago
and the lines parted. Then we followed him up with all speed and
when we got here we found that your mate’s boat had put irons in
him, and the whale didn’t turn over until after we arrived.”
“Can you show your irons in him?”
“I can, if I have a chance.”
There was a laugh all around, and the mate of the _Oriole_ seemed to
assent to the merriment, for a faint smile lighted his countenance.
“I’ll give you the chance,” Gates responded.
The two captains examined the leviathan, and, sure enough, there
were two fresh irons in the whale with a short piece of warp
attached to each. We laid on our oars, awaiting the result. Captain
Gamans examined the harpoons carefully and then, turning to Captain
Gates, said, “There’s our cypher stamped in each of them.”
Captain Gamans maintained that the case came within the usage
acknowledged and followed by whalemen. Captain Gates replied, “I
don’t know but it does, Gamans, but I can’t give up that whale for
old friendship’s sake. I have my owners to look out for as well as
officers and crew. It seems as if our men did some of the killing.
Be that as it may, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You take the whale
and then we’ll gam this evening and draw up some kind of an
agreement which shall state all the facts to satisfy our owners, and
which may be evidence in court, if the case can’t be settled in any
other way. I want to see your ship, for I’ve never been in her
before. But you know the _Oriole_ of old, so I’m going to invite
myself aboard of your vessel.”
“Good,” said Captain Gamans. Then he continued earnestly, “What’s
the news from home?”
“The chief news is the war.”
“What war?”
“The Civil War.”
“I didn’t know that war could be civil. I thought it was pretty
uncivil.”
“Don’t you know there’s war between the North and the South?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why, the southern States have left the country—that is, they
haven’t cleared out, but have left the government and set up one of
their own. Each side has armies, and there’s fighting going on.”
“I declare,” said Captain Gamans. “This is the first time we’ve
heard of it. We learned that a man named Lincoln was elected
President, but the war’s a surprise.”
We were all excited, and as we pulled for our ship there was general
regret that we knew so little of the great conflict, and that it
would be many months before we should know more.
The vessels kept near each other that night—what night there was. At
about six bells Captain Gates came aboard, and some of us were
anticipating a nice gam with the men who brought him in the boat,
when Lakeum came to me and said, “The captain wants you in the
cabin.”
What did it mean? I had no right in that part of the ship unless
summoned; and, indeed, I had not been in the cabin since the voyage
began. Was I supposed to be guilty of some offense, and was I to
appear before the captain as a criminal appears before a judge?
I entered with mingled fear and anticipation, and received from
Captain Gamans the curt statement, “I sent for you because you’re a
good penman, as I’ve seen from your handwriting in the logbook. And
you’ve had a better education than most of us, even if you are a
boy. We shall want you in a few minutes. Sit down there until we are
ready, and keep quiet.”
I complied, but my heart was with the visitors on deck, and I
listened listlessly to the rambling conversation of the captains.
The only subject of any interest to me was the reference to their
going in the boats, and this ended the colloquy.
“How many times have you been in the boat, Gates?” asked our
captain.
“Three times.”
“What luck?”
“None, twice—third time, uncertain. And you, Gamans?”
“Three times.”
“What luck?”
“None, twice—third time, uncertain.”
Both men saw the joke and laughed heartily.
Captain Gamans fumbled about and brought out some letter paper, a
small bottle of ink, which had not been opened, and an aged
penholder to which was attached a rusty pen. I dug out the cork of
the bottle with a knife, and then the two captains began their
dictation. There was little difference in their view of the
situation and in their respective claims to the whale. The trouble
seemed to be their inability to express themselves in proper
English, and I was quite proud when they relied on me, occasionally,
to supply a word and straighten out their sentences, although, by
their manner, they seemed to regard me, all the time, as an
inferior. To shorten the story, the agreement, in its final form was
as follows:
It is agreed by the captains of the _Oriole_ and
_Seabird_ as follows: The captain’s boat of the
_Seabird_ struck a bowhead in the Okhotsk sea. The
harpoons held, but the lines parted, and the bowhead
made off. Two _Seabird’s_ boats followed the whale in
the direction he took. It was a long pull, for the whale
was out of sight. At last the two boats came up to where
a boat of the _Oriole_ had struck and was killing a
bowhead. The mate of the _Oriole_ used the lance and the
bowhead rolled over after the Seabird’s boats had
arrived on the spot. The captain of the Seabird claimed
the whale as belonging to his ship, and the mate of the
_Oriole_ denied the claim. While a discussion was going
on, the captain of the _Oriole_ came up in his boat and
interfered, and it was agreed between the captains that
they should examine the whale to see if there were fresh
harpoons in him. Pretty soon they found two with a small
end of line attached in each case. On washing the irons,
they found in them the cypher which showed that the
irons belonged to the _Seabird_. Both captains lay claim
to the whale. They have drawn up this agreement for the
benefit of their owners, and, if their owners cannot
agree as to who owns the whale, then this statement may
be used in court as a true statement of the facts, if
the court agrees to its being used. Both of us have
signed our names hereto.
When I had made a good copy of the above stipulation, that is, as
good a copy as I could make with the worthless pen, I passed the
paper over to my superiors for them to sign.
“You sign first, Gates.”
“No, you sign first, Gamans.”
“I’ve got a little rheumatism in my hand, Gates.”
“I’ve got a kink in my forefinger, Gamans.”
I wanted to say, “What is the use of making all this fuss? Neither
of you can hardly more than sign his name, but that’s no disgrace.
Some of the ablest captains have little education and, if they had
been educated, they probably never would have risen to be captains.
And here you two men are acting like old women who, when they sign
their names, give all manner of excuses because their handwriting is
so poor.”
“Give me the pen, then,” said our captain.
It took a mighty effort for him to write his name. He twisted his
body and cramped his fingers, and, when the task was over, handed me
the pen with a gesture of impatience.
I said, in a very respectful tone, “Don’t you think you had better
write underneath the words, ‘Captain of the _Seabird?_’”
“Look here, young fellow, do you suppose I am going to write a
book?” he replied, sharply.
“The boy’s right, Gamans.”
“I think it will do no harm if I do it for you, as you have written
your name in full,” I suggested.
“Go ahead, then.”
Then Captain Gates repeated our captain’s performance, and the
last-named deliberately folded up the paper and put it in his
pocket. “Where do I come in, Gamans? How can you keep that paper
when I ain’t got none?”
“I’ll keep it for you; I’m honest.”
The two men had been very friendly that evening, and a bottle and
two empty glasses in sight justified at least the inference of
conviviality. It looked for the first time like a clash, when I
modestly intimated that a copy might be made and executed like the
original. Consent was given, and the copy was made and signed with
the same fuss which attended the execution of the original.
Serenity restored, Captain Gates said, “I’ll tell you where I’ve got
you, Gamans. It’s in the long distance you rowed from the time you
struck the whale and lost him until you reached our boat.”
“And I’ll tell you where I’ve got you, Gates. When our boats got up
to the whale, your mate hadn’t used the lance, and the whale hadn’t
yet rolled over.”
A glance from Captain Gamans told me that I was dismissed. I was
glad to get forward where the visiting crew were. They were giving
our men the news from home.
When one of them caught sight of me, he blurted out, “Hullo, Tom
Haggass, the last time I saw you, you were raidin’ my father’s
orchard.”
“Well,” I rejoined, “the last time I saw you was three years ago,
when you cut a caper and were threatened with the State Reform
School. Besides, I’m not Tom Haggass. My name is Homer Bleechly.”
A roar greeted the rejoinder. The captains appeared. As the boat
pulled away we gave them a hearty parting. A quarrel had been
averted and a good time enjoyed.
Now as to the whale. The usage was on our side and, when we reached
home, we learned that it had been affirmed by the court in a case
whose facts were almost identical with ours. The oil and bone of
that bowhead brought forty-five hundred dollars.