IN WHICH OUR CHAPTER OF BAD LUCK IS CONTINUED
That old bull was sure a fighting whale. The annals of whaling do not
lack records of such old rogues, as witness the sinking of the Kathleen,
of New Bedford on the "12-40 ground" east of the Barbadoes in 1901. A
bad whale can do a lot of damage besides smashing whaleboats. Thus far
we had suffered no loss from the monsters which the Scarboro was
hunting; but as this old bull shot like an arrow for the scarred side of
the bark, which was hove to less than half a mile away, it did look as
though she was due to get a bad bump.
We were on a short line, however, for the bull had not sounded deeply.
Ben Gibson sprang up with the bomb gun and tried to put a lance in the
beast at that distance. It only scratched him, I suppose, but it _did_
seem to swerve him from his course.
Instead of striking the Scarboro, he ran past her stern and circled
around her. We were snatched after the whale at racing speed and saw the
fellows aboard hanging over the rail grinning at us--like spectators at
a horse race.
"Them sculpins wouldn't grin so broad if the critter had bumped the
Scarboro," declared Tom Anderly.
The beast lay quiet for a bit and we pulled up on him. Before Gibson
could get him with the lance gun again, he sounded.
"Now, by gravy!" exclaimed old Tom, who had a wealth of expletives in
him when he was excited, "look out for squalls."
"He's been squally enough already, hasn't he?" demanded our young
officer.
"You ain't seen the end yet, sir," returned the old man.
"Well, I bet I _do_ see the end----"
He broke off with a sharp intake of breath. Then: "Stern all!" he
ejaculated.
Up through the green sea came a huge shadow. We could not shoot the boat
back in time to clear the monster. The whale had turned and shot up
under the boat!
The boat jarred as the prolonged lower jaw of the bull whale struck her
keel forward. There was a mighty rush of waters, like a cataract; the
whaleboat was flung aside, and Ben Gibson shot over the bow and fell
right into the open mouth of the whale!
I know I screamed something--I don't know what I said. The boat was
shooting back under the impetus of the oars, and we escaped overturning.
But I had seen Ben fall and saw him disappear into the cavern of the
creature's mouth. I saw, too, the jaws come together once, and I swear
our second mate was in the bull's mouth when it closed!
But the next moment the maw of the beast opened and in the swirl of foam
and blood-streaked water I caught sight of the senseless Gibson.
"Pull!" I yelled.
And although I had no business to give a command, the men obeyed me and
the boat shot forward again. I seized our second mate by his shirt
collar. In a moment I had lifted him into the boat.
At the same moment Tom Anderly got forward, seized the gun which poor
Gibson had dropped, and sent a bomb-lance into the whale at so short a
distance that it seemed as though we might have touched him by putting
out a hand.
But that fighting whale died hard. It leaped after the bomb exploded
and again we were almost overturned.
"Cut loose! Let the beast go!" cried some of the men.
But Tom Anderly would not lift the boat hatchet. To cut a whale free,
unless it becomes absolutely necessary, is "against the religion" of any
old whaler. As for myself, I was bending over the injured second mate,
trying to revive him.
Ben Gibson had been through a most awful experience. Old Cap'n Wood, of
Nantucket, had been in the mouth of a whale, and lived to tell the
story. I remembered of reading about his experience. But it was a most
awful accident and I feared indeed that the young officer was dead.
Therefore I was not really cognizant of what was going on until half the
crew of our boat began to shriek a multitude of commands and advice.
Then I looked up and saw that the bull whale for a second time was
charging the Scarboro.
It was plain the old fellow realized that the bark was his enemy. He
paid no attention to the boat that was tearing through the sea behind
him. And we was so near the bark now that nothing could be done to
swerve the the fighting whale!
Straight on dashed the big bull, at a speed that snubbed the
whaleboat's nose under water, for we were close up to the beast.
Straight on, with tremendous headway and a fearful, gathering momentum,
headed for the grimy, battle-scarred broadside of the old Scarboro.
Those aboard of the bark could do nothing. She was still hove to. The
fighting whale had missed her by a hand's breadth once before, but this
time he did not swerve.
"Cut loose, Tom!" I yelled, finally understanding--as did the other men
with us--the menacing disaster. In a few seconds we would smash into the
bark's hull, whether the whale dived or not.
But the bull didn't dive, and Tom swung the axe. His quick stroke
severed the line and every man in our boat was awake to the impending
catastrophe. Stroke sprang for the long steering oar. The rapid swing of
it barely swerved the heavy boat out of the course of sure disaster.
On went the released whale. Plumb his head smashed against the hull of
the big bark. The collision was a most awful shock. Consider a heavy
train pushing a mogul locomotive down grade ahead of it, and the whole
thing ramming another train--the result could have been no more awful.
The three-inch plank of which the vessel's side was made splintered like
the thinnest veneer. The ends of big timbers in her hull were ground to
pulp and matchwood. With a terrific splash of his tail, the fighting
whale rolled over, after rebounding from the bark, and lay, seemingly
stunned!
The bark, driven over almost on her beam ends, righted slowly. We knew
the whale must be as good as dead, but we had no thought for him then.
The smashing of the Scarboro might mean torture and death to every man
of her crew. We were out of the track of general steamship routes, and
far, far from land. If the bark sank, we were done for!