Part 15 (1/2)
”Those are all great tales,” quoth Tom Anderly, when we had marveled over these lucky voyages. ”But how about the brig Emeline of New Bedford? She sailed on July 11, 1841 and in twenty-six months she returned home with how much ile d'you suppose?”
Ben and I gave it up. Some enormous sum, we supposed, was realized.
”Yah!” said Tom. ”A fat lot. Twenty-six months and ten barrels of ile, and her skipper killed by a whale.”
”Oh, now that you're on the hard luck tack,” quoth Ben, ”there was the Junior, of New Bedford. I've heard my uncle tell of her. Out a year and two months and put back to port _clean_--and the crew plumb disgusted.
Could you blame 'em?”
This conversation went on between our watches while the three sperm whales were being butchered. There was a peculiarity about these cachelots that I failed to mention. We butchered them in a different manner than we did the Greenland, or right, whale. The cachelot has no baleen but it furnishes spermaceti. A large, nearly triangular cavity in the right side of the head, called the ”case” (sometimes spermaceti is called ”case oil”) is lined with a beautiful, silver-like membrane, and covered by a thick layer of muscular fibres. This cavity contains a secretion of an oily fluid which, after the death of the animal, congeals into a granulated yellowish-hued substance. Our whale, the first of the school killed by the second mate's boat--had in its case a tun, or ten barrels, of spermaceti!
While the trying-out operations were under way we lost, of course, that school of sperms; but we drifted some miles into the south, and as soon as Captain Rogers could get canvas on her, we made a splendid run for two days west of south and so caught up either with that same school, or with another herd of cachelots.
I had thus far seen some of the sport, a good deal of the hard work, and some of the uncertainties of the whaleman's life; now I came upon a streak of peril the remembrance of which is not likely to be sponged from my mind as long as I possess any memory at all.
It was at daybreak the lookout hailed the deck with ”Ah-h blows! And spouts! All about us, sir!”
It was true. We had run into the midst of the school of whales. Captain Rogers being called by Mr. Robbins, took a look around the sea-line, cast a shrewd look at the heavens, went and squinted at the gla.s.s, and then ordered the canvas reefed down and all hands to breakfast. The prospect, of both weather and whales, was for a good kill.
The healthy rivalry between the boats was now manifest. Captain Rogers ordered all six out, leaving but two men aboard the bark. They could just manage to steer her under the riding sail. Our boat was off as soon as any and we pulled steadily for the whale we had chosen as our prize.
We had brought in the biggest one before and we hoped to do as well on this occasion.
But we couldn't pick the biggest this time, for as we shot through the rippling waves, aiming for a huge bull that rolled on the surface, up popped a young female, with a calf, right in our course.
”Look out for her!” quoth old Tom Anderly. ”She'll be ugly, sir--with that kid beside her. Better think twice of it, Mr. Gibson.”
”Think we're going to have the other boats give us the yah-yah because we pa.s.s up a fifty-foot she whale, eh?” demanded the young second officer. ”Just step forward here, old timer, and see if you can stick your fork into her.”
After all, the mate's word was law even to the old boat-steerer. They quickly changed places and Tom took up the iron. The calf was playing on the far side of its mother, and so we could easily come up upon the nigh side without being observed.
In a few moments Tom had her pinned. Then there was the Old Harry to pay and no pitch hot, as the sailors say!
The other two whales I had seen killed merely thought of running away from the thing that had hurt them. But the one we now were fast in had her baby to care for. She set off running, but would not swim faster than the calf could travel. We did not put out the full length of one line.
”Haul in! haul in!” cried Ben Gibson, excitedly. ”I'll get a lance in her.”
”You be careful, sir,” whispered old Tom, from the stern again, to which he had gone after throwing the iron. ”There ain't nothing wickeder than a she whale with a sucking calf, when she's roused.”
We had drawn in rather close and could see that the calf was falling behind. The mother noticed it as well. She feared the thing that had stung her; but, mother-like, she clung to her little one. She swerved around and the line fell slack.
”Look out, now, sir!” cried Tom Anderly again. ”She's mad, and she's scared, and she's looking for us. If she once gits her tail under our bottom its good-bye Jo for all hands--and the water's mighty wet today.”
Almost as he ceased speaking the wicked eye of the great creature blinked at the boat, and she came rus.h.i.+ng down upon it. Tom threw himself upon the great steering oar, while Ben shouted:
”Pull! Pull, you lubbers! Do you want to be swamped by the critter?”
We bent our backs to the struggle and the whaleboat shot ahead; but the maddened cow-whale came on, as big as a brick warehouse, and bent on running us under!
CHAPTER XVII
IN WHICH I COME VERY NEAR GOING OUT OF THE STORY