Part 17 (1/2)

It began much as other busy days had begun for us of the Scarboro, since we got upon the whaling grounds; the fires under the trying-out kettles were scarcely quenched when, just at daybreak, came the hail of the man in the crowsnest:

”On deck, sir! Ah-h blows!”

”Where away?” bawled Captain Rogers, who seemed tireless himself and expected every man and boy aboard to catch the inspiration of a sight that had now become terribly commonplace to us--a spouting cachelot.

”Two p'ints on yer weather bow, sir.”

The captain started up the rigging and in a moment the lookout repeated:

”Thar she blo-o-ows!”

”I see her!” bawled the captain. Then turning, his roar penetrated to the fo'castle: ”All hands on deck! Tumble up here! Lively now! Sperm whale, ain't she, John?”

”Aye, sir, sir!” returned the lookout. ”There she breaches!” as one of the creatures up-ended. A dozen had suddenly come into sight--appearing like imps in a pantomime--”from the vasty deep.”

As Captain Hi came down Mr. Robbins reached the quarter.

”Seems a powerful sight of whales, Mr. Robbins,” the old man said, pa.s.sing the mate the gla.s.ses.

Mr. Robbins went up and took a good squint all around the horizon.

”Three hundred if there's one, Cap'n!” he declared with reverent enthusiasm.

”Does seem so, doesn't it?” admitted the captain.

The crew had tumbled up and were getting the boats ready. Only four were going out, but the skipper stayed us until we had had breakfast.

”We're going into a man's job this morning,” he grunted. ”We want to be prepared for it.”

It might be that some of the boat crews wouldn't be back at the s.h.i.+p for eighteen hours. It often happened, and pulling a heavy ash oar on an empty stomach is not an inspiring job.

Inside of five minutes after the first hail the whales spouting from one end of the skyline to the other. We had run into the biggest herd of sperms that the oldest whaleman on the Scarboro had ever seen. Maybe we didn't feel excited! At such times as this one forgets the ”grind.”

There was both money and excitement ahead of us. We actually sloughed off the weariness we had felt after a steady twenty-four hours' spell at the try-out kettles.

We lowered and spread out, fanwise, from the bark and made for the whales. No need of racing this morning. As Tom said, it looked as though a harpoon thrown into the air in almost any direction would hit a whale when it came down!

I was eager to throw an iron myself. I had the physique for it, being such a stocky fellow. And the hard life I had lived since being swept out to sea in my Wavecrest had agreed with me. My muscles were like wire cables, I was burned as black as a negro, and there was scarcely a man aboard the bark whom I could not have flung in a fair wrestle.

”Give Clint his chance, Tom,” said Mr. Gibson, as the boat-steerer came forward. ”If he misses, you can throw a second iron.”

I was tickled enough at this. Old Tom had given me plenty of advice before about the handling of the harpoon, and I tried to remember all of his teaching as I released my bow oar and took up the first iron.

Perhaps it would be interesting to my readers if I told them something about this weapon of the whaleman. The bomb-lance and gun are all very well; but the harpoon is the real weapon on which the whaleman must depend. This iron must be right and the line attached to it must be right, or the best of harpooners will make a poor tally.

The whale line is a fine manila rope 1-1/2 inches thick. It is stretched and coiled with the greatest care into tubs, some holding two hundred fathoms, some a hundred fathoms. The harpoons are fixed to poles of rough, heavy wood, every care being taken to make them as strong as possible. And their weight necessitates a harpooner being chosen from among the biggest and strongest men in the s.h.i.+p.

The harpoon blade is made like an arrow, but with only one barb, which turns on a steel pivot. The point of the harpoon blade is ground as sharp as a razor on one side and blunt on the other. The shaft is about thirty inches long and made of the best soft iron so that it is practically impossible to break it. Three irons were always placed in our boat, fitted one above the other in the starboard bow. If the harpooner missed with one iron, or if there was time to fling a second, he could reach and get it handily.