A STRANGE RESCUE
Reluctantly, but of necessity, we return to the _Grampus_ getting under
weigh from her snug anchorage among the Cosmoledo reefs, and as smart
as cleanliness and a complete equipment can make her, emerging once
more upon her proper domain, the sea. Her ruler sat in awful state
upon the top of the little house aft, Priscilla by his side in a deck
chair made for her by the carpenter. She gazed with listless eyes upon
the wonderful panorama spread out before her, not daring to appear
interested lest her terrible husband should see in that some excuse for
ordering her below again. Full well she knew that it was only because
he feared that she would have another serious attack of illness that he
allowed her this sweet privilege of breathing the fresh air of heaven;
a privilege she had enjoyed all her stay ashore, and the deprivation
of which while on board had certainly led up to her illness. But in
pursuance of her resolve to endure unto the uttermost, she would have
died rather than ask any consideration at his hands, while taking with
calm thankfulness such crumbs as he chose to fling her contemptuously.
The late invalids, still pale from their recent close struggle
with death, were doing their best to ‘keep their ends up’ with the
Portuguese portion of the crew, who--trained fine, hard as nails, and
with that elevating sense of superiority which counts for so much in
human conflict--were, while working harmoniously side by side with the
white men, continually letting the latter see in what estimation they
were held. And no sooner was the ship clear of the reefs, and watches
set, than the white men were confronted with another degradation. All
sailors know that there are certain berths in the worst of forecastles
which are considered better than any others for who can explain what
sea-reasons. These berths are usually occupied by the best men in the
ship obviously, and especially on a whaling voyage. Now, when the
watch that was released went below, its members, who were of the now
despised race, were confronted with a state of things which had never
before occurred to them. They were ordered to shift and give up their
bunks to better men. For a few moments it looked as if there would be a
great fight. All the fighting blood of the Anglo-Saxon surged up, but
the odds were far too heavy: no anger could blind men to that, nor any
courage persuade them to hurl themselves headlong upon the knives and
pistols borne by the black Dagoes and ostentatiously displayed by them.
Therefore the white men accepted the inevitable and shifted, amid the
chuckling jeers of their triumphant watchmates, and another step in
Captain Da Silva’s carefully calculated revenge had been attained.
It may perhaps be thought from the way in which I have insisted upon
this sad tyranny of black over white that I have a serious bias against
the black man. That is not true. I love him generally as a man, and
because I do I am not blind to his limitations, and I say emphatically
that he is not so constituted that it is safe to trust him with the
rule over white men. He may retaliate with the opposite proposition,
which I do not care to defend for one moment. By all means let Black
rule Black, but do not ever let Black rule White, or you will see
Hayti reproduced wherever the shameful law is put in operation, and
what it means let my friend Hesketh Pritchard tell you. Moreover,
these rulers of the _Grampus_ were not negroes. I should no more wish
to be ruled by negroes than by a laughing bevy of children out of the
nursery, ready at any moment to become cruel apes tearing in pieces
their toys. But I might be able to keep my masters amused, should such
be my sad fate, and so escape disintegration. If, however, my negro
masters had been bred in and in with Portuguese or Spaniards, I ought
to seek death at once. When to the cold cruelty of the Latin is added
the irresponsibility of the negro, the blend should never be allowed to
exercise its power over men of Teutonic breed. Wherever it has done so,
the records of such rule are not for general reading lest readers go
mad with horror.
Aft the conditions were altered also. In every whaleship there is a
space (on the port side generally) abaft the main hatch, and of course
below deck, where the harpooners and petty officers are berthed. The
first, second, and third mates have their berths allotted to them in
the main cabin, offshoots from it of a grim and fearful stuffiness,
but possessing a peculiar desirability because of their contiguity to
the dwelling-place of the lord of all. Now Captain Da Silva calmly
intimated to his officers that he contemplated considerable changes in
the housing accommodation aft. He told them that he had ordered the
carpenter to knock up three extra berths in the ‘half-deck,’ as the
harpooners’ berth is called, and as soon as that was done, why, they
(the officers) would have to clear out, as he needed all the space aft
for his own accommodation. The insult was gross, palpable. Indeed,
it was hardly veiled, especially remembering the expression of face
and the tone of voice accompanying it. But Mr. Court and his brother
officer did not forget what they owed to themselves. They were under
no misapprehension as to why this line of conduct was being pursued
by the skipper, and although both of them felt that the time might
arrive when further endurance would be impossible, even at the cost of
death for rebellion, that time was not yet. So apparently not noticing
the triumphant glitter in the skipper’s eyes, or the exultant ring
in his voice, they acquiesced, serenely to all outward seeming, but
with hearts on fire, and by so doing riveted another link in the heavy
chains they were wearing. When does it become a sacred duty to rebel?
Who shall say? But one thing seems clear: that there does come a time
when, for the sake of others, it is imperative that one man (or it may
be woman) stand up and face the tyrant. He may, probably will, die, but
how can man die better? And no such death is in vain. However, this
high strain may seem unsuited to the present sordid recital--only a
little ship’s company being tyrannised over by one devil, and enduring
doggedly all that he chooses to load them with.
Once clear of the islands the ship’s course was made N.E., and under
easy sail the _Grampus_ bore away across the smiling Indian Ocean.
All went well. Apparently it could not do otherwise where Captain Da
Silva was. He never seemed to make a mistake. And when he suddenly
came on deck one beautiful afternoon and interrupted the busy tide of
work that never slacked off night or day by calling all hands to make
all possible sail, and altered the ship’s course to due east, no one
wondered. They obeyed briskly enough to a casual observer, but in the
heart of every white man what weariness of life! For two whole days the
_Grampus_ fled to the east as fast as her braced-up condition would
allow, the look-outs never once relaxing their careful watch around.
No one discussed the movement--the time for that had gone. Every white
man in the foc’s’le knew that should he speak one word capable of
being construed into something the skipper might be interested in, it
would, before many minutes had elapsed, be repeated with such fantastic
additions as the carrier of it was capable of making, into the
Captain’s greedy ear, with results the most unpleasant to the original
utterer of the remark.
As suddenly as the course had been altered and all sails set so was
another change made. Everything was furled but the fore and main lower
topsails, the ship was brought to the wind on the starboard tack, and
lay lazily wallowing in the gentle swell coming up from the south-east.
And then, to the surprise of no one on board (for by this time all
hands, including his own particular friends, if friends they could be
called, believed him to be in league with the devil), there appeared as
if from the bosom of the deep an enormous multitude of small whales.
Like sperm-whales arrested in their growth, and only about twice the
size of ‘black-fish.’ That is to say, each of them would not be more
than three to five tons in weight. It was early morning when they
were sighted, and immediately the whole ship was the scene of most
violent activity. All sorts of alterations were made, notably the
passing out of the boats of the big line-tubs, and only leaving the
small hundred-fathom ones behind. Extra harpoons, too, were placed in
each boat, and before they left the ship all hands were called aft and
thus harangued by the skipper: ‘Looky here,’ said he, ‘these ain’t
sperm-whales, an’ I doan’ want no foolin’ with ’em. Get fast t’ one or
two, an’ then as th’ others come roun’ lance ’em, an’ leave ’em. T’
the fust man ’at kills over ten, I’ll give fifty dollars in gold. Naow
mind, I’m tellin’ ye. Don’t waste line ’n’ irons on these fish: ef y’
du thar’ll be big trouble with me ’fore the day’s over.’ There was no
response but a sort of guttural murmur, succeeded by the quick splashes
as the boats took the water and sped away under the utmost pressure of
the oars to where the sea was all a foam by reason of the gambollings
of that great and joyous company of ‘kogia.’
Just as the skipper had forecasted, no sooner had a boat got fast to
one of these quaint, short-headed creatures than she became the centre
of a curious crowd of his unfortunate fellows, apparently bent upon
sharing his fate, and for that purpose thrusting one another aside in
their efforts to get as near as possible to the boat. Every man was
armed with a lance, and directed to use it with all his might upon
the whale nearest him. What an awful scene of slaying ensued, to be
sure! The sea became literally encumbered with dead. The men who had
felt that life was not worth living took new hold upon life in their
fierce desire of killing, and forgot for the time all their woes. It
seemed as if this great slaughter must be prolonged indefinitely, but
suddenly, like a trumpet blast, the voice of the skipper rang out:
‘’Vast killin’! All but th’ mate and second mate’s boats, pull for th’
ship’s quick ’s th’ devil ’ll let ye. Hurry, naow.’ And they did hurry.
The ship, having been kept close at hand, required no great amount of
manipulation to bring her into the midst of the stricken field, and
presently the amazing sight was to be seen of the great carcasses one
after another, as she (the ship) came alongside them, rising into the
air, a chain sling having been whipped round their tails and a tackle
hooked to it by means of which the whole body was hoisted on deck. By
five in the afternoon thirty of those huge masses encumbered the deck
of the _Grampus_, and she presented an even more gruesome sight than
she did when her decks were full of the spoils of the last great catch
of sperm-whales.
Now the skipper was in his element. No anxiety about the overside
business, everything on deck and snug, although the ship did tumble
about most dangerously from the great top weight. All hands were armed
with spades, and driven like slaves to use them. But N.B.: no two white
men were allowed to work together, lest they might, in desperation,
consider the time opportune for making a dash for freedom. No; Captain
Da Silva saw to that. He had such a head for detail! All that night and
all the next day, without a minute for rest, except just sufficient to
swallow the indispensable food, the fuel to keep these human engines
performing their allotted motions, the men laboured in silence for
the most part, save when the stern commands of the skipper broke the
stillness. Doggedly, desperately all hands toiled on, every plunge of
a great carcass denuded of spoil over the starboard covering-board
punctuating, as it were, the progress being made. And if the decks had
been foul before when the last great catch of sperm-whales was made, it
was trebly so now. Then, there was little besides the all-prevailing
grease, except an occasional block of flesh still left adhering to the
blubber: now, all the nameless foulnesses inseparable from cutting up
such huge bodies in tropical heat on deck were present in full volume,
and---- But this is not a subject to be pursued.
Wonderful to relate, the health of the recent invalids held out against
this tremendous strain upon it, and as soon as the last carcass plunged
overboard blubber watches were set, and it looked as though relief
had come. But not yet. Some attempt must be made to remove a portion
at least of the accumulated filth from the deck, and so for nearly
half of their first watch below the almost fainting men toiled with
water-buckets and brooms to that end. And as they did so they noticed,
in half-dazed, unappreciative fashion, how frequently the skipper
mounted his little deck aft and gazed earnestly at the lee quadrant of
the horizon. This happened so often that at last long dormant curiosity
was aroused also, and they looked earnestly in that direction too.
‘Thank God,’ all thought, ‘it isn’t whales he’s looking at.’ No, it
was not: it was an awful-looking Himalaya of blackest cloud, violet
edged, that reared its mighty head persistently in that quarter, but
did not seem to rise any higher than half-way to the zenith. No one on
board knew with what consummate skill and attention, in spite of the
many matters claiming his oversight, this wonderful man was manœuvring
his ship out of the path of what he knew to be a devastating cyclone.
He needed no sympathy, no help in his calculations; in fact, he took a
secret but colossal pride in standing alone. And reckoning to a nicety,
but with a dangerously narrow margin, he kept his crew going to clear
away their last great catch, at the same time making all preparations
to meet what he knew would soon be there--the frightful swell raised by
the hurricane and extending for thousands of miles on either side of
its track.
When it came all was ready for it. Double lashings on everything, the
tiers of casks below all carefully chocked and tom’d off to beams
above, preventer backstays on masts, &c. And as the great green hills
of water reaching from horizon to horizon came sweeping onward, tossing
the noble ship from summit to valley and back again as if she were just
a ball in the hands of gleeful children, the crew cast wistful glances
at their saturnine tyrant, wondering, ‘How did he know this was coming?
What kinder man _is_ he, anyhow?’ Well, had the answer been forthcoming
it would have been just this: That Captain Da Silva was one of those
men of native genius who first of all absorb knowledge as a sponge does
water, whose capacity for courage is as great as their capacity for
mercy or consideration is small, whose frames are more like automata
constructed of steel wire and rubber than sinews and flesh, and who,
given the opportunity, could juggle the globe in their hands as a
conjurer does his properties, and would do so, but for the wisdom of
God, who has ordained that such men shall never go too far. If this
sounds like fantastic eulogy as applied to the obscure master of a
whaleship, I do not feel at all inclined to argue the point: it is for
each one to study out for him or herself and see whether the theory be
reasonable or no.
The decks were quite clear, three-fourths of the blubber had been
boiled out and the resultant oil run below, when a very strange thing
happened. The weather was beautifully fine, the air serene, and a
little breeze wafted the _Grampus_ at a gentle rate over the sunlit
sea. Captain Da Silva, fully contented with himself, was lolling in
his wife’s chair abaft the wheel smoking a peculiarly rank, oily, and
foul-smelling cigar, one of a large quantity which, just suiting his
taste, he had bought at Brava. I think it may safely be said that
he was just then in the full enjoyment of _dolce far niente_, that
peculiarly delightful frame of mind and body conjoined of which ‘sweet
doing nothing’ seems so poor a description--when into the midst of it
came Priscilla. Lest it should be thought that I have neglected her of
late, I feel bound to say that she had been leading a sort of comatose
existence, in this busy little cosmos but not of it, alive but hardly
conscious of her surroundings. What could I have said of her but that
she awoke, ate a little, lived alone through the day, and slept again?
If perfect life be, as Herbert Spencer says, perfect correspondence
with a perfect environment, then was Priscilla only just dwelling on
the fringes of life, and might truly be said to be nine-tenths dead.
Her placid demeanour and speechless endurance of all things as they
came had become so regular an experience with her husband that it
was with something very like alarm that he saw her standing before
him on deck and heard her sweet, low voice saying distinctly, ‘May I
speak to you, Ramon?’ With a gasp of surprise he rose to his feet and,
stepping to the wheel, said to the shrinking helmsman: ‘Git t’ ’ell
forrard outa this,’ and the man was gone. Then, turning his lowering
eye upon Priscilla, yet not without a certain noticeable twitching of
his facial muscles, he muttered, ‘Wall, what is it naow? Spit it eout.’
She answered timidly, but as if she must speak: ‘Ramon, please forgive
me, but I know there’s a boat with some dying men in it over there.’
And she pointed to the north. ‘It’s a whaleboat, and there’s six men,
all alive, but going fast. Will you try and save them?’ He burst into a
very storm of curses upon her for daring to interfere with the working
of his ship and for her unmentionable folly in supposing that he, of
all men in the world, would be likely to take any notice of such a
baby-tale as that. But even as he raved and hissed his foul language
at his wife, she could see that in his fierce eyes there was a latent
look of awe--that he was only trying by noise and bluster to persuade
himself that he was asserting his power in the surest way. Priscilla
appeared to be entirely deaf to his awful words. And when, breathless,
he paused, she resumed quietly, ‘You will find the boat before evening
if you alter the course now, but I am afraid some of the men are
already dying.’ And with that she turned and went away, leaving her
husband like a man just about to have an epileptic fit. However, he
managed to restrain himself, and presently his voice was heard roaring
for the man whom he had sent from the wheel. Having given up the wheel,
he took a few short, undecided turns about the quarter-deck, and then,
like one acting upon some entirely irresistible impulse, he growled to
the helmsman, ‘Keep her away!’ ‘Keep her away, sir,’ replied the man,
immediately putting the helm up. As she swung off the wind the skipper
shouted, ‘Square the mainyard!’ and as the watch flew to the braces and
trimmed sail he steadied the course at north, which brought the wind a
little on the starboard quarter and made the speed about four knots.
This being done he went below as if, disgusted beyond measure at
having to do such a thing, he must needs use more opprobrious language
to his wife for thus in some mysterious way imposing her will upon
his. But when he saw her sitting in their little cabin looking with
preternaturally bright eyes into vacancy as if she were seeing
something with other than mortal vision, he could say nothing to her
at all, but with a muttered curse upon himself for this unheard-of
folly he fled on deck, not daring to look behind him. As if he must
do something, he slung his binoculars about his neck and mounted to
the fore crow’s-nest, from which the occupant had to depart suddenly
upon the skipper’s appearance. He searched the horizon with most
jealous care, but nothing could be seen, nothing but sea and sky and
an occasional bird. So after half an hour up there he descended again
and solaced his excited feelings by harrying the men, who, as usual,
were kept at work upon perfectly needless jobs as if their very lives
depended upon getting the work done in record time. And so congenial
did he find this occupation that he had almost forgotten why, contrary
to his own plans, he was running his ship almost dead before the wind
up the middle of the Indian Ocean instead of getting away across to
the Straits of Sunda as he had intended, when ‘What’s that?’ shouted
the mate. ‘Somethin’ right ahead, sir; looks like dead whale ’r a boat
’r a big log.’ Ah! Trembling in every limb, Captain Da Silva snatched
his glasses and sprang aloft. Panting with his speed he reached the
crow’s-nest. He did not need to ask where the object was. It stood up
with remarkable distinctness against that wide, clear blue, a little
ungainly black patch. He focussed his glasses upon it and stared
through the double tubes so earnestly that his eyeballs burnt in their
sockets. A cold shudder, in that tropical day, possessed him, ran
through him, and made the hair of his flesh stand up. It was a boat and
nothing else. What manner of woman could his wife be, and was it safe
for him to treat her as he had been doing? Superstitious fears seized
upon him, for ever it will be found that gross cruelty and superstition
go hand in hand, and at that moment he registered a mental vow that in
future there should be a great change in his treatment of Priscilla.
Indeed, he blamed himself bitterly for having allowed himself to behave
to her as he had done. But he took refuge in the mental coward’s lying
plea by muttering, ‘How was I to know?’
Go down from aloft he dared not. Slow, exasperatingly slow, as his
ship’s progress was, he felt that he must remain at his lofty perch
until the last moment, when he would go himself and see what this
strange business meant. It was a weary business, for under such
circumstances a ship’s progress seems to be so deliberate, one’s
impatience is so futile and yet so impossible to avoid showing, that
it tries men more than any words can say. It was nearly sunset when at
last the waif was near enough for a boat to be lowered for the purpose
of bringing her alongside. Long before that time arrived Captain Da
Silva had devoured every detail of her--had seen that to all appearance
the six men in her were dead, that she was a whaleboat, but, of course,
could not read her name, since it was not the practice for whaleboats
to carry the name of their ship painted on them, as is done in the
merchant service. The same haughty disregard of any other person’s
curiosity is usually shown in the Navy, where scarcely any of the
smaller boats give the ship’s name--you can read it on the men’s caps
if you want to know it.
Leaping into the boat he had ordered to be lowered, the skipper gave
the order to ‘give way’ in such a tone that the men fairly lifted the
boat through the water. None of them dared to steal a glance at him;
if they had they would have marvelled. He was in a piteous state of
nervous excitement. He felt as if his wife’s eyes were penetrating
through the massive sides of the ship, that she was cognisant of his
very thoughts; and the idea made great beads of cold sweat stand out
upon his swarthy skin. He fought with his fears as a man fights with
death, now devising strange punishments for Priscilla for having thus
obtained a strange power of frightening him, and now vowing to himself
that he would devote the rest of his time with her to making amends for
his previous treatment of her. Not that he was conscious of having done
anything he should not do--men of that class seldom are--but because
she did not seem to be happy under the discipline which he felt was his
prerogative to mete out to all under his command. And then they reached
the boat.
Are those bundles of rags and bones men? By night the dews and by day
the pitiless sun have alternately soaked and scorched them. They have
endured such agonies as men do not care to think of. The boat herself
is so bleached with sun and dew and wind that it seems wonderful she
still holds together. And there is a faint smell as of death. Round to
windward, quick. Look closely. Is there any life at all? Yes, there is
a slight movement. A bight of tow-line is flung on board and secured
to the bow thwart, a curt order is given, and the waif is being towed
to the ship. Arriving alongside, she is hoisted level with the rail
so that the hapless ones may be lifted out, as they are, so gently,
so tenderly, by those rude, much-persecuted men, while the skipper
looks on loweringly. One is dead. He is a little Italian apparently so
reduced by his sufferings that he looks more like an Egyptian mummy
uncased than anything else. But in all the rest there is some spark of
life, notably in one big-framed--alas, every bone is awfully visible,
and his eyes are away in the back of his head somewhere at the bottom
of two long tunnels--fair-haired man, whose broken lips part and whose
blackened tongue tries pitifully to frame a word.
The skipper goes away and leaves willing, eager hands to attend
mercifully upon these castaways. He has said no word forbidding
anything to be done, and so the group around the bodies give such aid
as they know how, while the rest of the crew trim yards again for
Anjer. And by the time she is settled upon her old course and the
Captain has carelessly strolled forward again, he is humbly informed
that five of the men he has rescued are not only still alive, but
likely to go on living.