IN WHICH I FIND MYSELF BOUND FOR SOUTHERN SEAS
My little sloop pitched so abominably that I could not stand upright,
but fell into her sternsheets and there clung to the tiller as she swept
along in the wake of the tornado. The waves did not break about the
Wavecrest, for she was still within the charmed circle of oily
calmness supplied by the dead whale. At some distance, however, the
waves were tossed about most tempestuously.
I could see the bark from bow to stern, for she lay broadside to me.
When the draught from the south first struck her she went over slowly
almost upon her beam-ends; but righted majestically and her helm being
put over she slewed around so as to take the gale bow-on.
She mounted the first wave splendidly and I saw her crew gathered
forward in her bows. They seemed to be at work on something and there
was a vast amount of running back and forth upon her deck. Meanwhile
the waterspout, whirling like a dervish, bore down upon the bark.
The great column of water passed between me and the bark, then swung
around and rushed down upon the craft in a way to threaten its complete
extinction. I expected nothing more than to see the bark borne down and
sunk under the weight of the bursting waterspout.
But when it was still several cable-lengths from the bark I saw the
group upon her forward deck separate, and a long cannon was revealed.
Its muzzle was slewed a little over the port bow and the next instant it
spoke. The explosion sharply echoed across the sea, audible to my ears
despite the huge roaring of the waterspout.
The column of water, rushing down upon the bark, was cut in twain by the
ball from the gun. The connection 'twixt the whirling cloud and the
whirling water was actually severed by it. Had the spout swept aboard
the bark the great ship would have scarcely escaped complete wreck. As
it was, the revolving water poured down into the ocean with the noise of
a cascade, beating the sea to foam for yards and yards around, but
without doing the slightest damage either to the bark, or to my little
sloop.
The tornado tore into the north, smaller spouts leaping up and twirling
in their mad dance, but none forming the threatening aspect of that
which the bark's gun had burst. In half an hour the sun was out and I
dared spread a whisp of sail and ran down to hail the bark.
I saw the crew crowding to the rail. There was a large number for even a
sailing vessel of these times, and I more than half suspected the nature
of her business before a rope ladder was let down to me and I scrambled
up the tall side of the craft with the bight of my sloop's painter over
my shoulder and saw the "nests" of boats stowed amidships.
"I say, young fellow!" was the greeting I received from a smart looking
youngster--not much older than myself--who welcomed me at the rail "is
that your whale?"
"If 'findings is keepings' it is surely mine," I said. "But I didn't
kill it, and now I've got a leg over your rail I'll give you all my
title and share in the beast."
"Good luck, boys!" rumbled a bewhiskered old barnacle who stood behind
the young officer of the bark, "We've struck ile before we're a week
out o' Bedford."
As I say, without these words I could have been sure that the bark was a
whaler. She was the Scarboro Captain Hiram Rogers, and just beginning
her voyage for the South Seas. The Greenland, or right whale, is no
longer plentiful, but the cachelot and other species have become
wonderfully common of late years. This fact has drawn capital to the
business of whaling once more, and although steam has for the most part
supplanted sails, and the gun and explosive bullet serve the office
formerly held by the harpoon and the lance, more than a few of the old
whale-fishing fleet have come into their own again.
For the Scarboro was built in the thirties of the last century; but so
well did those old Yankee boat builders construct the barks meant for
the fishing trade--for they were expected to stand many a tight
_squeeze_ in the ice as well as a possible head-on collision with a mad
whale--that their length of life, and of usefulness, is phenomenal. At
least, the Scarboro looked to be a most staunch and seaworthy craft.
The young fellow who had hailed me was Second Mate Gibson, nephew of the
captain and, I very soon discovered, possessed of little more practical
knowledge of sea-going and seamanship than myself. But he was a brisk,
cheerful, educated fellow and being merely the captain's lieutenant over
the watch got along very well. He expected to study navigation with his
uncle and be turned off a full-fledged mate, with a certificate, on his
return from this whaling voyage.
However, these facts I learned later. Just now I was only anxious to
know what was to be done with me, and if there was a likelihood of the
captain of the Scarboro touching at any port from which I might make a
quick passage home. This last was the uppermost thought in my mind when
I followed Ben Gibson below to see the captain.
Captain Rogers was a lanky man with a sandy beard and a quiet blue eye.
He did not look as though he ever had, or ever could, be hurried or
disturbed. Had I been a Triton that had just come abroad I reckon he
would have eyed me quite as calmly and listened as tranquilly to my
story. But Gibson was so impatient (as I could easily see) that I made
the story brief. He burst out with:
"Captain Rogers! aren't we going to get that whale? She's delivered into
our hand, as ye might say. The men are eager for it, sir, but you
haven't given orders to change our course."
"And I'm not likely to, Bennie," returned his uncle.
"But it's a waste of oil!" exclaimed the young fellow.
"And it would be a waste of time for us to stop for one miserable whale
when we don't expect to break out our boats until we're well below the
equator. We'd just make a mess of the old hooker and have to clean her
up again."
Gibson was disappointed, and would have urged his desire further, but
Captain Rogers turned to me:
"If we meet a homeward bound sailing vessel in good weather I'll put you
aboard. Steamships won't stop for you. If you want to join my
crew--you're a husky looking youngster--I'll fit you out and lot you a
greenhorn's share. Best I can do for you. Is your sloop any good?"
"She's not started a plank, sir," I declared.
"Pass the word for the carpenter to take his gang and get the stick out
of her, and hoist her aboard," Captain Rogers said to Gibson. "Then take
this lad to breakfast and see that he gets a good one."
He turned me off rather cavalierly I thought. Of course, my situation
appealed more strongly to me than it was likely to appeal to anybody
else. But Captain Rogers did not seem to consider my being carried away,
willy-nilly, into the Southern Seas, and on a voyage likely to last
anywhere from eighteen months to three years--for the Scarboro was just
out of New Bedford, as has been stated--the captain did not seem to
consider, I say, what my state of mind might be. Of course, I was
thankful that I had been picked up; yet if the weather settled I might
have safely made my way back home in the Wavecrest. And it was easy to
see that the skipper of the Scarboro considered the sloop his property
in return for taking me aboard.
The lanky captain of the whale ship was not a person to argue with. I
knew it would be useless to bandy words with him. Even his nephew
plainly showed that he considered it wise to drop the matter of the dead
whale right there and then--before the captain at least. He grumbled a
bit about the loss of this first chance for oil when we went to
breakfast, however. Apropos of which, and while we discussed the good
breakfast that was put before us, Ben Gibson repeated for my
delectation the famous whaling story--a classic in its way--wherein the
Yankee skipper and the Yankee mate differ as to the advisability of
chasing a cachelot. Some version of this tale is known to every whaler
and I preserve Ben's story, as he told it, imitating the Down East twang
as well as I may:
"Forty-two days aout, an' not a drop o' ile in the tanks. I went
for'ard. The lookaout he hailed. 'On deck, sir,' says he, 'thar she
blaows.'
"I went aft. 'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'thar she blaows; shall I lower?'
"Cap'n Symes he gin a look to wind'ard. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, ('Twas
cur'ous, his name was Cap'n Symes, an' my name was Mister Symes, but we
warn't neither kith nor kin), 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'it's a-bloawin'
right smart peart, an' I don't see fitten for to lower.'
"I went for'ard. The lookaout hailed again. 'On deck, sir,' says he,
'thar she blaows _an'_ spouts.'
"I went aft. 'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'thar she blaows _an'_ spouts. Shall
I lower?'
"Cap'n Symes he casts an eye aloft. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'it's a
bloawin' right smart peart, and I don't see fitten for to lower.'
"I went for'ard. The lookaout he hailed again. 'On deck, sir,' says he,
'thar she blaows, an' spouts, an' breaches.'
"I went aft. 'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'thar she bloaws, an' spouts, an'
breaches. Shall I lower?'
"Cap'n Symes he took a look at the clouds that was a-scuddin' acrosst.
'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'it's a-bloawin' right smart peart, an' I don't
see fitten for to lower.'
"I went for'ard. The lookaout he hailed again. 'On deck, sir,' says he,
'thar she blaows, an' spouts, an' breaches, an' it's a right smart
sperm, too.'
"I went aft. 'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'thar she bloaws, an' spouts, an'
breaches, _an'_ its a right smart sperm-whale, too. Shall I lower?'
"Cap'n Symes, he gin a last look at the weather. 'Mr. Symes,' says he,
'it's a-bloawin' right smart peart, and _I_ don't see fitten for to
lower, still--if you're so gol-darned sot on lowerin', you can lower and
be hanged to you.'
"I went for'ard and sings aout for volunteers, an' the boys jest tumbled
over each other into the boat. We got the whale, and as I was a-swarmin'
over the side, thar stood Cap'n Symes with tears in his eyes.
"'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'forty years,' says he, 'I've sailed the seas,'
says he, 'man an' boy, man _an'_ boy, an' in all that time I never see
no mate to compare with you,' says he. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'you're the
Jim Dandyest mate as ever I sailed shipmates with,' says he. 'Mr.
Symes,' says he, 'daown in my cabin in the starboard locker aft,' says
he, 'you'll find some prime Havana seegars, and the best o' Lawrence's
aould Medford New England rum,' says he. 'That best o' Lawrence's aould
Medford New England rum,' says he, 'an' them prime Havana seegars,' says
he, 'is yourn for the rest of the v'y'ge.'
"'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'you can take them prime Havana seegars an' that
best o' Lawrence's aould Medford New England rum,' says I, 'an' stick
'em overboard as fur as I'm consarned. All I asks is common sea-vility;
an' that o' the gol-darndest commonest kind!'"
Ben told me this story while he ate. He was the liveliest kind of a
companion. I liked him immensely from the start, and the longer I knew
him the better I liked him. This was his first deep sea voyage, but he
had been looking forward to it ever since he was in petticoats--unlike
myself, who had only longed for the sea but knew I probably would never
be allowed to follow my bent.
Now, it seemed, Fate had flung me right into the life I had so longed
for. Had it not been for mother and the fears I felt for her in the mesh
of Chester Downes' web, I should have welcomed this chance that had put
me aboard the whaling bark Scarboro.
"And she's a fine old craft," declared the young second mate. "Maybe
she's a bit tender in her bends, but she's sailed in every quarter of
the globe and has brought home many a cargo of oil. We all own shares in
her--in the bark herself, I mean--we Rogerses and Gibsons. I've a
twentieth part myself in pickle against the time I'm twenty-one," and he
laughed, meaning that his guardian held that investment for him--and a
very good slice of fortune his holdings in the old Scarboro proved to
be, at the end of the voyage.
But now we were at the beginning of it--all the romance and adventure
was ahead of us. Before noon I was not sorry to be aboard of the bigger
craft and looked with equanimity upon my own bonny sloop stowed
amidships. The wind had wheeled again and coming abaft, the bark shot on
into the southward, trying to outrun the gale. Had I not been picked up
as I was I might have been swamped in the Wavecrest.
For a week, or more, we ran steadily toward the tropics, and in all that
time we passed--and that distantly--but two steam vessels and only one
sailing craft. There was no chance for me to get home. I had to possess
my soul with such patience as I could, while the old Scarboro bore me
swiftly away toward the Southern Seas.