Part 2

‘Say nothing more until I give thee leave to speak,’ said Aunt Hessy with gentle firmness; but the tone was one which Madge knew was never heard save when the dame was most determined to be obeyed. ‘We have heard much since thou hast been away; and we have been in fright about thee, as it grew late. But though thou wert with friends, I knew that home was dear to thee, whether thou wast glad or sad. So I came up here, and found thee.’

‘But the ruin is not what I mind: it is his saying that we are to part.’

To her surprise, Aunt Hessy did not immediately lift her voice in comforting assurance of the impossibility of such a calamity. She only raised her hand, as if to remind her that silence had been enjoined. Seeing that this was not enough, or moved by compassion for the distress which shone through Madge’s amazement, she said:

‘We shall see about that, by-and-by.’

But Madge could not be so easily satisfied; for something in her aunt’s manner suggested that there might be truth in Philip’s assertion of the view her guardians would take of the position. He had said they would hold it as contrary to common-sense that a man who had been disinherited by his father and ruined by speculation should keep a girl bound to wait for him till he had retrieved his fortune, or to marry him and share—or rather increase his poverty. That was a cruel kind of practical reason which she could neither understand nor appreciate. If they really intended to insist upon such a monstrous interpretation of the engagement she had entered into with Philip, then she must try to explain how differently she regarded it. The moment of misfortune was the moment in which she ought to step forward and say: ‘Philip, I am ready to help you with all my strength—with all my love.’

Only Philip had the right to say: ‘No; you shall not do this.’

And there the poor heart sank again, for he had in effect said this: he had told her that he _wished_ the bond to be cancelled. That was a very bitter memory, even when she made allowance for his conviction that her guardians expected him in honour bound to make such a declaration. Now, however, she recognised self-sacrifice in his act; and feeling sure that it was love for her which prompted it, took comfort.

Her first idea, then, was to find out what her guardians were to do, and she was about to rise, with the intention of asking her aunt to go with her to the oak parlour, when she was interrupted.

There was first a banging of doors below; next there was a deep voice from the middle of the staircase:

‘I say, missus, art up there?’

Before any answer could be given, Uncle Dick presented himself with as near an approach to a frown as his broad honest face was capable of forming.

‘So you are here, Madge. Thought as much. I told the missus you could take care of yourself; but a rare fuss you have been making among us, running about here, there, and anyhow, when you know the day for Smithfield is nigh, and ever so many things to do that you ought to do for me. I say that ain’t like you, and I’m not pleased.’

While Crawshay was venting this bit of ill-humour, he stood in the doorway, and as Madge had risen, the lamp was below the level of her face, so that he could not see how ill she looked.

‘I hope I have not forgotten anything,’ she said hastily; ‘you remember the first papers were filled up by—by Philip.’

‘They’re right enough; but here’s a letter from the secretary you didn’t even open.’

‘It must have come after I went away.’

‘Like enough, like enough,’ he went on irritably, although the dame had now grasped his arm, and was endeavouring to stop him. ‘Away early and back late—that’s the shortest cut into a mess I know of.—Where have you been?’

It was evident that the unopened letter of the Smithfield secretary had less to do with his ill-humour than he was trying to make believe. The question with which he closed his grumble suggested the real cause of vexation.

‘Quiet thyself, Dick,’ his wife interposed. ‘Madge is not well to-night, and it makes her worse to find thee angry.’

‘Could a man help being angry?’ he said, becoming more angry because of his attention being called to the fact that he was so, as is the wont of quick tempers. ‘Have you told her about them blessed letters?’

‘I have told her that we received them: to-morrow, we can tell her what they are about.’

‘I would rather know at once, aunt,’ said Madge calmly, as she advanced to Crawshay, and only a slight tremor of the voice betrayed her agitation. ‘They concern Philip; and I should not be able to sleep if anything was kept back from me. He is in cruel trouble, Uncle Dick, and he says you want me to break off from him, and that has upset me a little, although I know that you would not ask me to do such a thing, when he is in misfortune.’

‘Dick Crawshay never left a friend in a ditch yet, and he had no business to say that of me,’ blurted out the yeoman indignantly. Then, checking himself, he added: ‘But there’s sense in it too. Maybe he wants to break off himself; and I shouldn’t wonder, either, if he has heard what that fellow Wrentham says about your goings-on with Beecham.’

‘Goings-on with Mr Beecham!’

‘Ay, that’s it.... Come now, lass, tell truth and shame the devil—was it Beecham you went off in such haste to see to-day?’

‘I went to see Mr Shield, and saw Mr Beecham at the same time.’

‘Then it is true, mother—you see she owns to it,’ said Uncle Dick, his passion again rising. ‘And you’ve been writing to Beecham and meeting him underhand.’

‘Not underhand, uncle,’ she exclaimed, drawing back in surprise and pain. The word ‘underhand’ assumed the significance of a revelation to her; but even now she did not see clearly the extent of the misconceptions to which her conduct was liable, if criticised by unfriendly eyes.

‘You say it ain’t underhand! I say it’s mortal like it. You never said a word about Beecham this morning, though you must have known that you were going to see him.... Come now, did you not?’

He added the question in a softer tone, as if hoping for a negative answer. But Madge evaded a direct reply.

‘What is in the letters to make you so vexed with me?’ she asked.

‘What’s in them?—Why, Shield says that Philip has been a fool, allowing himself to be cheated on all sides, and that there’s nothing for him but the Bankrupt Court. That’s a fine thing for a man to come to with such a fortune in such a short time. But I might have known it would end in this way—it’s the same thing always with them that set up for improving on the ways of Providence.’

Uncle Dick was in his excitement oblivious of the fact, that whilst he had cast some doubt on the success of Philip’s project, he had approved the spirit of it. Madge did not observe the inconsistency; she was so much astonished by what appeared to be the harsh language of Mr Shield, notwithstanding the assurances he had given to her. But she was presently set at rest on this point by Aunt Hessy.

‘Thou art forgetting, Dick, that Shield says he’ll see what can be done to put Philip right again.’

Madge was relieved; for in spite of its improbability, the thought had flashed upon her, that Austin Shield might have been deceiving her as to his ultimate purpose regarding Philip.

‘That may be,’ continued Uncle Dick in a tone of general discontent; ‘like enough, he’ll spend more money on the lad, if so be as that Beecham hasn’t got something against it; and blame me if ever I trust a man more, if Beecham be a knave.—Now you can settle all that, Madge. Seems you know more about him than any of us. Tell us what you know.’

There was no way of evading this request, or rather command; and yet she could not comply with it immediately. She had been told that Philip would be safe if she kept her promise.

‘What, will you not speak?’ thundered Uncle Dick, after he had waited a few seconds. ‘You know that Beecham has to do with Shield, and will say nought!’

‘There is nothing wrong about him,’ she pleaded.

‘Does Philip know you are in league with this stranger, and maybe helping to ruin him?’

‘I have not told Philip, but’——

‘I don’t want your buts—honest folk don’t need them. That scamp Wrentham is right; and it’s a bad business for Philip, and for you, and for all of us. Think on it, and when you do, you’ll be sorry for yourself.’

He wheeled about, and went downstairs with loud angry steps.

There was a long silence in the room; and then Madge turned with pleading eyes to the dame.

‘He is very angry with me, aunt,’ she faltered.

‘I am sorry that I cannot say he is wrong, child,’ was the gentle, but reproachful answer.

THE COMMERCIAL PRODUCTS OF THE WHALE.

Whales are more numerous than is usually supposed—that is to say, there is a greater variety of these giants of the deep than the two or three which are known to commerce; such animals being abundant in all seas, so far as they have been explored. It is not, however, our intention to enter into the natural history of these cetaceans farther than may be necessary to understand their commercial value. Nor do we intend to dwell on the dangers which are incidental to the pursuit of the whale, of which it would not be difficult to compile a melancholy catalogue. Terrible shipwrecks, vessels ‘crunched’ by the power of the ice without a moment’s warning, others run into and destroyed by the animal itself; pitiful boat-voyages, so prolonged as to cause deaths from hunger and thirst; ships ingulfed amid the roar of the tempest, and crews never heard of since the day they sailed—these are among the incidents which have from its beginning marked the progress of the whale-fishery; the mortality connected with which has often attracted attention, not only in the icy regions of the arctic seas, but also in those of the Pacific Ocean, in which, all the year round, men pursue the sperm-whale with unceasing activity, at a risk to life and limb only faintly realised by landsmen.

It is ‘for gold the merchant ploughs the main;’ and there are persons who say that the risks encountered by whale-ships are not greater than those common to most branches of the mercantile marine. ‘And if it pays,’ say the advocates of whaling, ‘why not carry on the enterprise?’ But no matter what defence may be offered, whale-fishing has always been much of a lottery, in which the few have drawn prizes, whilst the many have had to be content with the blanks.

The fortunes of ‘whaling’ are exceedingly varied: one ship may capture ten or twelve fish;[1] some vessels occasionally come home ‘clean;’ while others may each secure from two to half a dozen. We have before us several records of the financial results of whale-fishing, in which the profits and losses among Pacific whalers exhibit some striking differences. One ship, for instance, places at her credit during her voyage one hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars; but to the owners of the fleet of whalers fishing from New Bedford, United States, in 1858, there accrued a loss of more than a million dollars. Again, a Scottish whale-ship from Peterhead, in Aberdeenshire, was one season fortunate enough to capture forty-four whales, the largest number ever ‘fished’ by one vessel. The value of the cargo in oil and bone considerably exceeded ten thousand pounds sterling. One of the largest cargoes ever landed was brought home by the steamer _Arctic_ of Dundee, commanded by Captain Adams, one of the ablest arctic navigators. It consisted of the produce of thirty-seven whales, which, besides oil, included almost eighteen tons of whalebone.

The only whales of commerce were at one time the great sperm-whale of southern latitudes, and ‘the right’ or Greenland whale, both of which are animals of gigantic size and great power, the latter being undoubtedly the larger. No British vessels take part in the sperm-fishery, their operations being confined to the arctic regions. Dundee is now the chief whaling port, sending out annually sixteen ships to Greenland. The Greenland whale, which our British whalemen endure such dangers to procure, seldom exceeds sixty feet in length, and is about half that number in circumference. An average-sized specimen will weigh some seventy tons or more, and forms a mass of matter equal to about two hundred fat oxen. One individual caught by a Scotch whaler was seventy-two feet in length, with a girth of forty-five feet, the total weight being reckoned at upwards of one hundred tons. The chief product of the sperm and ‘the right’ whale—their oil—is of course common to both animals, and is obtained by boiling their fat, or ‘blubber’ as the substance is technically called.

It is somewhat curious that in both of these whales the head is the portion, size being considered, which is the most valuable. In the sperm-whale, ‘the case,’ situated in the head, is filled with a substance which is known as spermaceti, and brings a high price. One of these giants of the deep will sometimes yield a ton of this valuable substance, which is found, when the whale is killed, as an oily fluid, that when prepared, gradually concretes into a granulated mass. In the Greenland whale the great prize is ‘the bone’ with which its head is furnished, and which at the present time is quoted as being of the enormous value of two thousand two hundred and fifty pounds per ton! The price in America is even higher, the last sales in that country bringing two thousand five hundred pounds. It is only the Greenland fish which yield this valuable commodity. The whale of the Pacific is furnished with teeth; but ‘the right’ whale has in lieu thereof a series of plates, or laminæ, on the upper jaw, which are in reality the whalebone of commerce. The uses to which ‘bone’ is applied vary according to the demands of fashion, so that within the last hundred years the price has fluctuated exceedingly, and has been quoted from almost a nominal price per ton up to the sum mentioned. At one period, we are told in an American account of the fishery, the rates for whalebone were so low that few whalemen would bring any of it home, their space being of much greater value when packed with oil. Threepence a pound-weight was at one time all that could be obtained for it; now the price of bone is twenty shillings per pound-weight. It may be explained that the yield of bone is as eight or ten pounds to each barrel of oil. A vessel which brings home one hundred tuns of oil will, in all probability, have on board six tons of whalebone.

There is a special product of the sperm-whale which is of greater value than either spermaceti or whalebone; it is known as ambergris. For a series of years there raged a hot controversy as to what this valuable substance really was, the most extraordinary opinions being offered regarding its origin, composition, and uses. One statement, dated so far back as 1762, says that ambergris issues from a tree, which manages to shoot its roots into the water, seeking the warmth therefrom in order to deposit therein the fat gum of which it is the source. ‘When that fat gum is shot into the sea, it is so tough that it is not easily broken from the root unless by the strength of its own weight. If you plant such trees where the stream sets to the shore, then the stream will cast it up to great advantage.’ Another authority, Dr Thomas Brown, in a work published in 1686, shows that an idea then entertained was, that ambergris was only found in such whales as had come upon the substance floating in the sea and swallowed it. In course of time it was found that this precious commodity was generated in the whale itself. An American doctor residing in Boston made it public in 1724, that some Nantucket whalemen, in cutting up a spermaceti whale, had found about twenty pounds of the valuable substance, which, they said, was contained in a cyst or bag without either outlet or inlet. As a matter of fact, ambergris, which is an important drug, is a morbid secretion in the intestines of the sperm-whale. Captain Coffin, in a statement he made at the bar of the House of Commons, said that he had lately brought home three hundred and sixty-two ounces of that costly substance, which he had found in a sperm-whale captured off the coast of New Guinea. At the time of Coffin’s examination, ambergris was of the value of twenty-five shillings an ounce. The Pacific whalers search keenly for this commodity, and large finds of it sometimes bring them a rich reward.

Formerly, it was the oil which rendered the whaling voyages remunerative, and made or marred the fortune of the venture, but the case is now altered, owing to the enormous prices realised for bone. The head of the sperm-whale is equal to about a third of its whole size, and ‘the case’ yields spermaceti, which commands a high price; but in the case of the Greenland whale, as we have shown, only a comparatively small weight of whalebone is contained in the mouths of each of them; but small as it is, the quantity tends to swell the account and increase the dividends. Whaling ventures are usually made by Companies, and nearly everybody engaged in the hazardous work has a share in the venture—the men being partially paid by a share of the oil-money. Whalers earn their wages hardly. The work—not to speak of the dangers incurred—is always carried on at a high-pressure rate, and is anything but agreeable. The pursuit and capture of a whale are usually very exciting, some of these animals being difficult to kill, even when the boats, after a long chase, come within such a distance of them as admits of striking with the harpoon. Many are the adventures which take place on the occasions of whale-killing; though most of the animals attacked finally succumb. Then begins the labour of securing the prize, and converting the products which it yields into matter bearing a commercial value. The dead whale must be brought either close to the ship, or the ship must be brought close to the whale, which, in the icy waters of the high arctic latitudes, involves a great deal of fatigue, the animal being sometimes killed at a considerable distance from the ship. On some occasions a day will elapse before it can be known that the whale will without doubt become the prey of those who have found it, and several boats may require to take part in the process of killing. As many as four boats may at one time be ‘fast,’ as it is called, to the same animal—in other words, they have all succeeded in planting their harpoons in the whale. But the harpoon, even when shot from a gun into the fish, does not kill it; the putting of the animal to death is accomplished by means of what are called ‘lances,’ instruments which are used after the animal has been harpooned. After that process has been successfully achieved, the labour of capture, which may have taken from two to ten hours to accomplish, is over. Instances are known where boats have been ‘fast’ for upwards of fifty hours before the whale was finally despatched.

The whale is usually dragged to the ship by the boats engaged in its capture. Holes are cut in its tail, and ropes being then attached, the laborious process of towing the gigantic carcass commences. Once alongside of the ship, the work of flensing, or cutting-up of the whale, is speedily in operation, all engaged being in a state of ferment, and eager for further work of the same sort. The crew may be likened to those animals which, having tasted blood, long for more. The operation of removing the bone from the head of the whale is first entered upon; this is superintended by an officer known as the ‘spectioneer,’ and who is responsible for this part of the process. After the bone has been carefully dealt with, the blubber is cut off the body in long strips, which are hauled on board by means of a block-and-tackle. It is first cut into large squares, in which condition it is allowed to remain till the salt water drains out of it, a few hours, or even a day or two, being allowed, according to the work on hand. The skin is then peeled off, and the mass of fatty matter is further dealt with by being chopped into little pieces, which are stowed away in barrels or tanks, to be brought home to the boileries, in order to be, as we may say, distilled into a commercial product. When the fish has yielded up its valuable products, the flensed carcass is cut adrift. Sometimes the ponderous jawbones are preserved; when that is the case, they are cut out of the head and lifted on board. The strips of blubber vary in thickness from ten to sixteen inches, or even more, according to the size and fatness of the fish. In general, it averages twelve inches all over the body, the thickest portion being at the neck, where twenty-two inches of blubber are sometimes found. The yield of oil is of course in proportion to the size and condition of the animal, and will run from five to twenty tuns. A whale caught many years ago by the crew of the _Princess Charlotte_ of Dundee yielded thirty-two tuns of oil. An examination of some old records of the fishery shows fifteen hundred tuns of oil to the one hundred and thirty-five fish of the Aberdeen fleet of eleven vessels; twelve hundred and forty-three tuns to the Peterhead fleet of eleven ships (three vessels had been lost), which captured eighty-eight whales and three thousand seals.

In sperm-whale fishing, the process of flensing and disposing of the carcass is much the same as in the Davis Straits’ fishery. When the body has been stripped of the blubber, it is thrown loose, and is permitted to float away, to become the prey of sharks and sea-birds which are usually in attendance. In the process of dissecting the great whale of the southern seas, the head is usually the last portion dealt with. It is cut off and kept afloat till required, being carefully secured to the vessel. The valuable contents of ‘the case’ are brought on board by means of buckets, and are very carefully preserved, being known as ‘head-matter.’ A large whale of the Pacific seas will yield from seventy to ninety, or even on occasion a hundred barrels of oil. Sperm oil is more valuable than train oil, the produce of the Greenland fish. In a trade circular, we find as we write, ‘crude sperm’ quoted at sixty-four pounds ten shillings per tun, the other sort being set down as ranging from twenty-seven to thirty-two pounds. But the prices are ever varying according to supply and demand. Spermaceti is offered at about a shilling per pound-weight.

The ships which go whale-fishing from Scotland to the arctic regions make an annual voyage, which lasts from five to nine months; but sperm-whalers often remain at sea for a period of three years. They boil out their oil as they cruise about in search of their prey; or when blubber has so accumulated as to warrant the action, the ship will put in at some convenient island, where the process of melting the fat can be conveniently carried on.