Part 16

But, passing on to the actual conditions of conflict, let us suppose the sportsman cruising in the North Atlantic between the Cape Verde Islands and the West Indies--a wide range, truly, but no part of it barren of the highest possibilities for pleasure. A school of sperm whales is sighted, the vessel is carefully manœuvred for the weather-gage of them, and this being obtained, the boats are softly lowered, sail is set, and, with the fresh trade-wind, away they go leaping to leeward. The utmost precaution against noise must be taken, because the natural susceptibility of the whale to sound is as delicate as the receiver of a telephone. No amount of oral instruction would here be of any avail without long experience, which, since it can be hired, there is no need to waste time and patience in acquiring. Assuming, therefore, that the preliminary difficulty of approach to the sensitive monsters has been overcome, and there remains but a few fathoms of rapidly lessening distance between the boat and the unconscious whale, who could satisfactorily describe the sensations crowded into those few remaining moments of absolute quiet, the tension of expectation, the uncertainty of the result of the approaching conflict? The object of attack is the mightiest of living animals, he is in his own element, to which the assailant is but a visitor on sufferance, and he may retaliate in so fierce and tremendous a fashion that no amount of skill, courage, or energy shall suffice to protect the aggressor from his fury. But there is no thought of drawing back, the swift-gliding boat rushes high up on to the broad bank of flesh, and with a long-pent-up yell the harpoon is hurled. It enters the black mass noiselessly, the weight of its pole bends the soft iron shaft over as the attached line stretches out, and as the boat slowly, so slowly, backs away, the leviathan, amazed and infuriated, thrashes the quiet sea into masses of hissing foam, while the thunder of his blows resounds like the uproar of a distant cannonade. At this time certain necessary rearrangements, such as furling and stowing sail, make it impossible, even if it were wise, to approach the indignant whale, and as a general thing by the time these preparations are complete he has sought the shelter of the depths beneath, taking out flake after flake of the neatly coiled line. With ordinary care, especially where only one boat is engaged, it would seldom happen that all the line would run out, and the game be lost. Usually, after an interval of about twenty minutes, during which the line is slacked away as slowly and grudgingly as possible, it is felt to give, and the slack must be hauled in with the utmost smartness, a sharp look-out being kept meanwhile upon the surrounding surface for a sudden white glare beneath--the cavity of the whale’s throat, as he comes bounding to the surface with his vast jaws gaping wider than a barn-door. It is at this time that the true excitement, the joy of battle, begins. For in most cases the huge animal has come to fight, and being in his turn the aggressor, his enemies must exert all their skill in boatsmanship, preserve all their coolness and watchfulness, since a mistake in tactics or loss of presence of mind may mean the instant destruction of the boat, if not the sudden and violent death of some of her crew. As a general rule, however, after a few savage rushes avoided by wary manœuvring on the part of the hunters, the whale starts off to windward at his best speed (from twelve to fourteen knots an hour), towing the boat or boats after him with the greatest ease. This is a most exhilarating experience. For the mighty steed, ploughing his strenuous way through the waves, seems the living embodiment of force, and yet he is, as it were, harnessed to his exulting foes, compelled to take them with him in spite of his evident desire to shake himself free. While he goes at his best speed a near approach to him is manifestly impossible; but, vast as his energies are, the enormous mass of his own body carried along so rapidly soon tires him, and he slows down to five or six knots. Then all hands, except the one in charge and the helmsman, “tail on” to the line, and do their best to haul up alongside the whale. The steersman sheers the boat clear of his labouring flukes as she comes close to him, and then allows her to point inward towards his broad flank, while the lance-wielder seeks a vulnerable spot wherein to plunge his long, slender weapon. It is of little use to dart the lance as the harpoon is flung; such an action is far more likely to goad the whale into a new exhibition of energy than to do him any disabling injury. Being at such close quarters, it is far more sportsmanlike, as well as effectual, to thrust the lance calmly and steadily into the huge mass of flesh so near at hand. If the aim has been well taken--say, just abaft and below the pectoral fin--more than one home-thrust will hardly be needed, even in a whale of the largest size, and a careful watch must be kept upon the spout-hole for the first sign of blood discolouring the monster’s breath. For that is evidence unmistakable of the beginning of the end. It shows that some vital part has been pierced, and although the whale-fishers always continue their “pumping” with the lance up to the very verge of disaster, once the whale has begun to spout blood it is quite unnecessary to continue the assault. Still, at this stage of the proceedings the primitive instincts are usually fully aroused, and nothing seems to satisfy them but persistent fury of attack, until the actual commencement of the tremendous death-agony or “flurry” of the noble beast gives even the most excited hunter warning that it is time to draw off and endeavour to keep clear of the last Titanic convulsions of the expiring monster. No other created being ever furnishes such a display of energy. Involuntarily one compares it with the awful manifestations of the earthquake, the volcano, or the cyclone. And when at last the great creature yields up the dregs of his once amazing vitality, no one possessing a spark of imagination can fail to be conscious of an under-current of compunction mingling with the swelling triumph of such a victory.

But the seeker after big sea-game should attack the rorqual if he would see sport indeed. For this agile monster has such a reputation for almost supernatural cunning that even if he were as valuable as he really is valueless commercially, it is highly doubtful if he would ever be molested. As it is, all the tribe are chartered libertines, since no whaleman is likely to risk the loss of a boat’s gear for the barren honour of conquest. And not only so, but the rorquals, whether “fin-back,” “sulphur-bottom,” or “blue-back,” as well as the “hump-back” and grampus, make it a point of honour to sink when dead, unlike the “cachalot” or “Bowhead,” who float awash at first, but ever more buoyantly as the progress of decay within the immense abdominal cavity generates an accumulating volume of gas. Any old whaleman would evolve in the interests of sport no end of dodges for dealing with the wily rorqual, such as a collection of strongly attached bladders affixed to the line to stay his downward rush, short but broad-barbed harpoons, to get a better hold upon the thin coating of blubber, &c. In this kind of whaling there is quite sufficient danger to make the sport exciting in the highest degree. Not, however, from the attack of the animal hunted, but because his evolutions in the effort to escape are so marvellously vivacious that only the most expert and cool-headed boatsmanship can prevent a sudden severance of the nexus between boat and crew. A splendid day’s sport can be obtained with a school of blackfish. Although seldom exceeding a ton and a half in weight, these small whales are quite vigorous enough to make the chase of them as lively an episode as the most enthusiastic hunter could wish, especially if two or even three are harpooned one after the other on a single line, as the whalers’ custom is. The sensation of being harnessed as it were to a trio of monsters, each about 25 feet long, and 8 feet in girth, every one anxious to flee in a different direction at the highest speed he can muster, and in their united gambols making the sea boil like a pot, is one that, once experienced, is never likely to be forgotten. The mere memory of that mad frolic over the heaving bosom of the bright sea makes the blood leap to the face, makes the nerves twitch, and the heart long to be away from the placid round of everyday life upon the bright free wave again. Even a school of porpoises, in default of nobler game, can furnish a lively hour or two, especially if they be of a fair size, say up to three or four hundredweight each. But of a truth there need be no fear of a lack of game. The swift passage from port to port made by passenger vessels is apt to leave the voyager with the impression that the sea is a barren waste, but such an idea is wholly false. Even the sailing-ships, bound though they may be to make the shortest possible time between ports, are compelled by failure of wind to see enough of the everyday life of the sea-population to know better than that, and whoso gives himself up to the glamour of sea-study, making no haste to rush from place to place, but leisurely loitering along the wide plains of ocean, shall find each day a new world unfolding itself before his astonished eyes, a world of marvels, infinitely small, as well as wondrous great--from the thousand and one miracles that go to make up the “Plankton” to the antediluvian whale.

Fishing in its more heroic phases is obtainable in deep-sea cruising as nowhere else. The hungry sailor, perched upon the flying jib-boom end, drops his line, baited with a fluttering fragment of white rag, and watches it with eager eyes as it skips from crest to crest of the foam-tipped wavelets, brushed aside by the advancing hull of his ship. And although his ideas are wholly centred upon dinner--something savoury, to replace the incessant round of salt beef and rancid pork--he cannot help but feel the zest of sport when upward to his clumsy lure come rushing eagerly dolphin, bonito, or skipjack. But if--putting all lesser fish to flight--the mighty albacore leaps majestically at his bait, prudence compels him to withdraw from the unequal contest; he knows that he stands not the remotest chance of hauling such a huge trophy up to his lofty perch, or of holding him there, should he be able to get a grip of him. To the scientific angler, however, equipped with the latest resources of fishing-tackle experts, and able to devote all the manipulation of his vessel to the capture of such a trophy, the fishing of the albacore would be the acme of all angling experiences. Good sport can be got out of a school of large dolphin or bonito, their vigorous full-blooded strife being a revelation to those who only know the lordly salmon or skittish trout, but the albacore is the supreme test of the angler’s ability. Shark-fishing is very tame after it. For the shark, though powerful, has none of the dash and energy which characterise the albacore, and would soon be an object of scorn to a fisherman who had succeeded in catching the monarch of the mackerel tribe. But if the fisherman, cruising near the confines of the Caribbean Sea, should come across one of those nightmares known as alligator-guards or devil-fish, a species of ray often one hundred and twenty feet in area, he would find a new sensation in its chase and capture, besides being the possessor of such a marine specimen as is at present lacking to any museum in the world.

And this brings the reflection, which may fittingly draw this article to a close, that not the least of the delights which such a cruise must bring to one fortunate enough to enjoy it would be the incalculable service rendered to marine natural history. This branch of science offers an almost illimitable field to the student. It is nearly a new world awaiting its Columbus, and it is not difficult to foresee that before very long it will have found its votaries among men of wealth, leisure, and energy, delighted to enter into the joy of a happy hunting-ground of boundless extent and inexhaustible fecundity.

A SEA CHANGE

Night was unfolding her wings over the quiet sea. Purple, dark and smooth, the circling expanse of glassy stillness met the sky rim all round in an unbroken line, like the edge of some cloud-towering plateau, inaccessible to all the rest of the world. A few lingering streaks of fading glory laced the western verge, reflecting splashes of subdued colour half-way across the circle, and occasionally catching with splendid but momentary effect the rounded shoulder of an almost imperceptible swell. Their departure was being noted with wistful eyes by a little company of men and one woman, who, without haste and a hushed solemnity as of mourners at the burial of a dear one, were leaving their vessel and bestowing themselves in a small boat which lay almost motionless alongside. There was no need for haste, for the situation had been long developing. The brig was an old one, whose owner was poor and unable to spare sufficient from her scanty earnings for her proper upkeep. So she had been gradually going from bad to worse, not having been strongly built of hard wood at first, but pinned together hastily by some farmer-shipbuilder-fisherman up the Bay of Fundy, mortgaged strake by strake, like a suburban villa, and finally sold by auction for the price of the timber in her. Still, being a smart model and newly painted, she looked rather attractive when Captain South first saw her lying in lonely dignity at an otherwise deserted quay in the St. Katharine’s Docks. Poor man, the command of her meant so much to him. Long out of employment, friendless and poor, he had invested a tiny legacy, just fallen to his wife, in the vessel as the only means whereby he could obtain command of even such a poor specimen of a vessel as the _Dorothea_. And the shrewd old man who owned her drove a hard bargain. For the small privilege of the skipper carrying his wife with him 50s. per month was deducted from the scanty wage at first agreed upon. But in spite of these drawbacks the anxious master felt a pleasant glow of satisfaction thrill him as he thought that soon he would be once more afloat, the monarch of his tiny realm, and free for several peaceful months from the harassing uncertainties of shore-life.

In order to avoid expense he lived on board while in dock, and made himself happily busy rigging up all sorts of cunning additions to the little cuddy, with an eye to the comfort of his wife. While thus engaged came a thunderclap, the first piece of bad news. The _Dorothea_ was chartered to carry a cargo of railway iron and machinery to Buenos Ayres. Had he been going alone the thing would have annoyed him, but he would have got over that with a good old-fashioned British growl or so. But with Mary on board--the thought was paralysing. For there is only one cargo that tries a ship more than railway metal, copper ore badly stowed. Its effect upon a staunch steel-built ship is to make her motion abominable--to take all the sea-kindness out of her. A wooden vessel, even of the best build, burdened with those rigid lengths of solid metal, is like a living creature on the rack, in spite of the most careful stowage. Every timber in her complains, every bend and strake is wrenched and strained, so that, be her record for “tightness” never so good, one ordinary gale will make frequent exercise at the pump an established institution. And Captain South already knew that the _Dorothea_ was far from being staunch and well-built, although, happily for his small remaining peace of mind, he did not know how walty and unseaworthy she really was. A few minutes’ bitter meditation, over this latest crook in his lot, and the man in him rose to the occasion, determined to make the best of it and hope steadily for a fine run into the trades. He superintended her stowing himself, much to the disgust of the stevedores, who are never over particular unless closely watched, although so much depends upon the way their work is done. At any rate, he had the satisfaction of knowing that the ugly stuff was as handsomely bestowed as experience could suggest, and, with a sigh of relief, he saw the main hatches put on and battened down for a full due.

In the selection of his crew he had been unusually careful. Five A.B.’s were all that he was allowed, the vessel being only 500 tons burden, two officers besides himself, and one man for the double function of cook and steward. Therefore, he sought to secure the best possible according to his judgment, and really succeeded in getting together a sturdy little band. His chief comfort, however, was in his second mate, who was a Finn--one of that phlegmatic race from the eastern shore of the Baltic who seem to inherit not only a natural aptitude for a sea life, but also the ability to build ships, make sails and rigging, do blacksmithing, &c.--all, in fact, that there is to a ship, as our cousins say. Slow, but reliable to the core, and a perfect godsend in a small ship. In Olaf Svensen, then, the skipper felt he had a tower of strength. The mate was a young Londoner, smart and trustworthy--not too independent to thrust his arms into the tarpot when necessary, and amiable withal. The other six members of the crew--two Englishmen and three Scandinavians--were good seamen, all sailors--there wasn’t a steamboat man among them--and, from the first day when in the dock they all arrived sober and ready for work, matters went smoothly and salt-water fashion.

It was late in October when they sailed, and they had no sooner been cast adrift by the grimy little “jackal” that towed them down to the Nore than they were greeted by a bitter nor’-wester that gave them a sorry time of it getting round the Foreland. The short, vicious Channel sea made the loosely-knit frame of the brig sing a mournful song as she jumped at it, braced sharp up, and many were the ominous remarks exchanged in the close, wedge-shaped fo’c’s’le on her behaviour in these comparatively smooth waters, coupled with gloomy speculations as to what sort of a fist she would make of the Western Ocean waves presently. Clinkety-clank, bang, bang went the pumps for fifteen minutes out of every two hours, the water rising clear, as though drawn from overside, and a deeper shade settled on the skipper’s brow. For a merry fourteen days they fought their way inch by inch down Channel, getting their first slant between Ushant and Scilly in the shape of a hard nor’-easter, that drove them clear of the land and 300 miles out into the Atlantic. Then it fell a calm, with a golden haze all round the horizon by day, and a sweet, balmy feel in the air--a touch of Indian summer on the sea. Three days it lasted--days that brought no comfort to the skipper, who could hardly hold his patience when his wife blessed the lovely weather, in her happy ignorance of what might be expected as the price presently to be paid for it. Then one evening there began to rise in the west the familiar sign so dear to homeward-bounders, so dreaded by outward-going ships--the dense dome of cloud uplifted to receive the setting sun. The skipper watched its growth as if fascinated by the sight, watched it until at midnight it had risen to be a vast convex screen, hiding one-half of the deep blue sky. At the changing of the watch he had her shortened down to the two lower topsails and fore-topmast staysail, and having thus snugged her, went below to snatch, fully dressed, a few minutes’ sleep. The first moaning breath of the coming gale roused him almost as soon as it reached the ship, and as the watchful Svensen gave his first order, “Lee fore brace!” the skipper appeared at the companion hatch, peering anxiously to windward, where the centre of that gloomy veil seemed to be worn thin. The only light left was just a little segment of blue low down on the eastern horizon, to which, in spite of themselves, the eyes of the travailing watch turned wistfully. But whatever shape the surging thoughts may take in the minds of seamen, the exertion of the moment effectually prevents any development of them into despair in the case of our own countrymen. So, in obedience to the hoarse cries of Mr. Svensen, they strove to get the _Dorothea_ into that position where she would be best able to stem the rising sea, and fore-reach over the hissing sullenness of the long, creaming rollers, that as they came surging past swept her, a mile at a blow, sideways to leeward, leaving a whirling, broadside wake of curling eddies. Silent and anxious, Captain South hung with one elbow over the edge of the companion, his keen hearing taking note of every complaint made by the trembling timbers beneath his feet, whose querulous voices permeated the deeper note of the storm.

All that his long experience could suggest for the safety of his vessel was put into practice. One by one the scanty show of sail was taken in and secured with extra gasket turns, lest any of them should, showing a loose corner, be ripped adrift by the snarling tempest. By eight bells (4 A.M.) the brig showed nothing to the bleak darkness above but the two gaunt masts, with their ten bare yards tightly braced up against the lee backstays, and the long peaked forefinger of the jibboom reaching out over the pale foam. A tiny weather-cloth of canvas only a yard square was stopped in the weather main rigging, its small area amply sufficing to keep the brig’s head up in the wind except when, momentarily becalmed by a hill of black water rearing its head to windward, it relaxed its steadfast thrust and suffered the vessel to fall off helplessly into the trough between two huge waves. Now commenced the long unequal struggle between a weakly-constructed hull, unfairly handicapped by the wrench of a dead mass of iron within that met every natural scend of her frame with unyielding brutality of resistance, and the wise old sea, kindly indeed to ships whose construction and cargo enable them to meet its masses with the easy grace of its own inhabitants, but pitiless destroyer of all vessels that do not greet its curving assault with yielding grace, its mighty stride with sinuous deference of retreat. The useless wheel, held almost hard down, thumped slowly under the hands of the listless helmsman with the regularity of a nearly worn-out clock, while the oakum began to bulge upward from the deck seams. As if weary even unto death, the brig cowered before the untiring onslaught of the waves, allowing them to rise high above the weather rail, and break apart with terrible uproar, filling the decks rail-high from poop to forecastle. Pumping was incessant, yet Svensen found each time he dropped the slender sounding-rod down the tube a longer wetness upon it, until its two feet became insufficient, and the mark of doom crept up the line. And besides the ever-increasing inlet of the sea, men stayed by the pumps only at imminent risk of being dashed to pieces, for they were, as always, situated in the middle of the main deck, where the heaviest seas usually break aboard. There was little said, and but few looks exchanged. The skipper had, indeed, to meet the wan face of his wife, but she dared not put her fear into words, or he bring himself to tell her that except for a miracle their case was hopeless. He seldom left the deck, as if the wide grey hopelessness around had an irresistible fascination for him, and he watched with unspeculative eyes the pretty gambols of those tiny elves of the sea, the Mother Carey’s chickens, as they fluttered incessantly to and fro across the wake of his groaning vessel.