Chapter 13

IN WHICH I FIND MYSELF BOUND FOR SOUTHERN SEAS

My little sloop pitched so abominably that I could not stand upright, but fell into her sternsheets and there clung to the tiller as she swept along in the wake of the tornado. The waves did not break about the Wavecrest, for she was still within the charmed circle of oily calmness supplied by the dead whale. At some distance, however, the waves were tossed about most tempestuously.

I could see the bark from bow to stern, for she lay broadside to me. When the draught from the south first struck her she went over slowly almost upon her beam-ends; but righted majestically and her helm being put over she slewed around so as to take the gale bow-on.

She mounted the first wave splendidly and I saw her crew gathered forward in her bows. They seemed to be at work on something and there was a vast amount of running back and forth upon her deck. Meanwhile the waterspout, whirling like a dervish, bore down upon the bark.

The great column of water passed between me and the bark, then swung around and rushed down upon the craft in a way to threaten its complete extinction. I expected nothing more than to see the bark borne down and sunk under the weight of the bursting waterspout.

But when it was still several cable-lengths from the bark I saw the group upon her forward deck separate, and a long cannon was revealed. Its muzzle was slewed a little over the port bow and the next instant it spoke. The explosion sharply echoed across the sea, audible to my ears despite the huge roaring of the waterspout.

The column of water, rushing down upon the bark, was cut in twain by the ball from the gun. The connection 'twixt the whirling cloud and the whirling water was actually severed by it. Had the spout swept aboard the bark the great ship would have scarcely escaped complete wreck. As it was, the revolving water poured down into the ocean with the noise of a cascade, beating the sea to foam for yards and yards around, but without doing the slightest damage either to the bark, or to my little sloop.

The tornado tore into the north, smaller spouts leaping up and twirling in their mad dance, but none forming the threatening aspect of that which the bark's gun had burst. In half an hour the sun was out and I dared spread a whisp of sail and ran down to hail the bark.

I saw the crew crowding to the rail. There was a large number for even a sailing vessel of these times, and I more than half suspected the nature of her business before a rope ladder was let down to me and I scrambled up the tall side of the craft with the bight of my sloop's painter over my shoulder and saw the "nests" of boats stowed amidships.

"I say, young fellow!" was the greeting I received from a smart looking youngster--not much older than myself--who welcomed me at the rail "is that your whale?"

"If 'findings is keepings' it is surely mine," I said. "But I didn't kill it, and now I've got a leg over your rail I'll give you all my title and share in the beast."

"Good luck, boys!" rumbled a bewhiskered old barnacle who stood behind the young officer of the bark, "We've struck ile before we're a week out o' Bedford."

As I say, without these words I could have been sure that the bark was a whaler. She was the Scarboro Captain Hiram Rogers, and just beginning her voyage for the South Seas. The Greenland, or right whale, is no longer plentiful, but the cachelot and other species have become wonderfully common of late years. This fact has drawn capital to the business of whaling once more, and although steam has for the most part supplanted sails, and the gun and explosive bullet serve the office formerly held by the harpoon and the lance, more than a few of the old whale-fishing fleet have come into their own again.

For the Scarboro was built in the thirties of the last century; but so well did those old Yankee boat builders construct the barks meant for the fishing trade--for they were expected to stand many a tight _squeeze_ in the ice as well as a possible head-on collision with a mad whale--that their length of life, and of usefulness, is phenomenal. At least, the Scarboro looked to be a most staunch and seaworthy craft.

The young fellow who had hailed me was Second Mate Gibson, nephew of the captain and, I very soon discovered, possessed of little more practical knowledge of sea-going and seamanship than myself. But he was a brisk, cheerful, educated fellow and being merely the captain's lieutenant over the watch got along very well. He expected to study navigation with his uncle and be turned off a full-fledged mate, with a certificate, on his return from this whaling voyage.

However, these facts I learned later. Just now I was only anxious to know what was to be done with me, and if there was a likelihood of the captain of the Scarboro touching at any port from which I might make a quick passage home. This last was the uppermost thought in my mind when I followed Ben Gibson below to see the captain.

Captain Rogers was a lanky man with a sandy beard and a quiet blue eye. He did not look as though he ever had, or ever could, be hurried or disturbed. Had I been a Triton that had just come abroad I reckon he would have eyed me quite as calmly and listened as tranquilly to my story. But Gibson was so impatient (as I could easily see) that I made the story brief. He burst out with:

"Captain Rogers! aren't we going to get that whale? She's delivered into our hand, as ye might say. The men are eager for it, sir, but you haven't given orders to change our course."

"And I'm not likely to, Bennie," returned his uncle.

"But it's a waste of oil!" exclaimed the young fellow.

"And it would be a waste of time for us to stop for one miserable whale when we don't expect to break out our boats until we're well below the equator. We'd just make a mess of the old hooker and have to clean her up again."

Gibson was disappointed, and would have urged his desire further, but Captain Rogers turned to me:

"If we meet a homeward bound sailing vessel in good weather I'll put you aboard. Steamships won't stop for you. If you want to join my crew--you're a husky looking youngster--I'll fit you out and lot you a greenhorn's share. Best I can do for you. Is your sloop any good?"

"She's not started a plank, sir," I declared.

"Pass the word for the carpenter to take his gang and get the stick out of her, and hoist her aboard," Captain Rogers said to Gibson. "Then take this lad to breakfast and see that he gets a good one."

He turned me off rather cavalierly I thought. Of course, my situation appealed more strongly to me than it was likely to appeal to anybody else. But Captain Rogers did not seem to consider my being carried away, willy-nilly, into the Southern Seas, and on a voyage likely to last anywhere from eighteen months to three years--for the Scarboro was just out of New Bedford, as has been stated--the captain did not seem to consider, I say, what my state of mind might be. Of course, I was thankful that I had been picked up; yet if the weather settled I might have safely made my way back home in the Wavecrest. And it was easy to see that the skipper of the Scarboro considered the sloop his property in return for taking me aboard.

The lanky captain of the whale ship was not a person to argue with. I knew it would be useless to bandy words with him. Even his nephew plainly showed that he considered it wise to drop the matter of the dead whale right there and then--before the captain at least. He grumbled a bit about the loss of this first chance for oil when we went to breakfast, however. Apropos of which, and while we discussed the good breakfast that was put before us, Ben Gibson repeated for my delectation the famous whaling story--a classic in its way--wherein the Yankee skipper and the Yankee mate differ as to the advisability of chasing a cachelot. Some version of this tale is known to every whaler and I preserve Ben's story, as he told it, imitating the Down East twang as well as I may:

"Forty-two days aout, an' not a drop o' ile in the tanks. I went for'ard. The lookaout he hailed. 'On deck, sir,' says he, 'thar she blaows.'

"I went aft. 'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'thar she blaows; shall I lower?'

"Cap'n Symes he gin a look to wind'ard. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, ('Twas cur'ous, his name was Cap'n Symes, an' my name was Mister Symes, but we warn't neither kith nor kin), 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'it's a-bloawin' right smart peart, an' I don't see fitten for to lower.'

"I went for'ard. The lookaout hailed again. 'On deck, sir,' says he, 'thar she blaows _an'_ spouts.'

"I went aft. 'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'thar she blaows _an'_ spouts. Shall I lower?'

"Cap'n Symes he casts an eye aloft. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'it's a bloawin' right smart peart, and I don't see fitten for to lower.'

"I went for'ard. The lookaout he hailed again. 'On deck, sir,' says he, 'thar she blaows, an' spouts, an' breaches.'

"I went aft. 'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'thar she bloaws, an' spouts, an' breaches. Shall I lower?'

"Cap'n Symes he took a look at the clouds that was a-scuddin' acrosst. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'it's a-bloawin' right smart peart, an' I don't see fitten for to lower.'

"I went for'ard. The lookaout he hailed again. 'On deck, sir,' says he, 'thar she blaows, an' spouts, an' breaches, an' it's a right smart sperm, too.'

"I went aft. 'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'thar she bloaws, an' spouts, an' breaches, _an'_ its a right smart sperm-whale, too. Shall I lower?'

"Cap'n Symes, he gin a last look at the weather. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'it's a-bloawin' right smart peart, and _I_ don't see fitten for to lower, still--if you're so gol-darned sot on lowerin', you can lower and be hanged to you.'

"I went for'ard and sings aout for volunteers, an' the boys jest tumbled over each other into the boat. We got the whale, and as I was a-swarmin' over the side, thar stood Cap'n Symes with tears in his eyes.

"'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'forty years,' says he, 'I've sailed the seas,' says he, 'man an' boy, man _an'_ boy, an' in all that time I never see no mate to compare with you,' says he. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'you're the Jim Dandyest mate as ever I sailed shipmates with,' says he. 'Mr. Symes,' says he, 'daown in my cabin in the starboard locker aft,' says he, 'you'll find some prime Havana seegars, and the best o' Lawrence's aould Medford New England rum,' says he. 'That best o' Lawrence's aould Medford New England rum,' says he, 'an' them prime Havana seegars,' says he, 'is yourn for the rest of the v'y'ge.'

"'Cap'n Symes,' says I, 'you can take them prime Havana seegars an' that best o' Lawrence's aould Medford New England rum,' says I, 'an' stick 'em overboard as fur as I'm consarned. All I asks is common sea-vility; an' that o' the gol-darndest commonest kind!'"

Ben told me this story while he ate. He was the liveliest kind of a companion. I liked him immensely from the start, and the longer I knew him the better I liked him. This was his first deep sea voyage, but he had been looking forward to it ever since he was in petticoats--unlike myself, who had only longed for the sea but knew I probably would never be allowed to follow my bent.

Now, it seemed, Fate had flung me right into the life I had so longed for. Had it not been for mother and the fears I felt for her in the mesh of Chester Downes' web, I should have welcomed this chance that had put me aboard the whaling bark Scarboro.

"And she's a fine old craft," declared the young second mate. "Maybe she's a bit tender in her bends, but she's sailed in every quarter of the globe and has brought home many a cargo of oil. We all own shares in her--in the bark herself, I mean--we Rogerses and Gibsons. I've a twentieth part myself in pickle against the time I'm twenty-one," and he laughed, meaning that his guardian held that investment for him--and a very good slice of fortune his holdings in the old Scarboro proved to be, at the end of the voyage.

But now we were at the beginning of it--all the romance and adventure was ahead of us. Before noon I was not sorry to be aboard of the bigger craft and looked with equanimity upon my own bonny sloop stowed amidships. The wind had wheeled again and coming abaft, the bark shot on into the southward, trying to outrun the gale. Had I not been picked up as I was I might have been swamped in the Wavecrest.

For a week, or more, we ran steadily toward the tropics, and in all that time we passed--and that distantly--but two steam vessels and only one sailing craft. There was no chance for me to get home. I had to possess my soul with such patience as I could, while the old Scarboro bore me swiftly away toward the Southern Seas.