A WHALE-HUNT IN THE VARANGER FJORD.
BY A NORWEGIAN.
There seems, indeed, to be no limit to the part science is destined to play in the pursuits of man of late; but that it should lend a hand in killing the leviathans of the sea, would hardly have been credited a few years ago. This is, however, now a fact. Along the shores of Arctic Norway, in latitudes seventy to seventy-one degrees north, whale-hunting takes place annually by means of steamers and a cleverly contrived piece of ordnance. The steamers are seventy or eighty feet long, with very powerful engines, the number of vessels at present engaged in this pursuit being about thirty, most of which belong to the indefatigable hunter, Sven Foyn, of Tönsberg, the inventor of the gun, and originator of this important industry. The gun, which plays the leading part in the pursuit, is mounted on a platform in the prow of the vessel, so as to have an all-round range. A shaft is passed into the muzzle, leaving a small portion outside the nozzle, carrying four movable hooks pointing to the gun, and placed crosswise, each of the hooks being about eight inches long. In front of these, a large iron ball, or shell, with a steel point, is affixed, filled with an explosive substance. On the shaft runs an iron ring, to which a cable is attached about the thickness of a man’s arm, which, when the shaft is inserted in the gun, is run up to the nozzle, and secured by a cord. When this terrible projectile is launched into the animal, the jerk of the rope is diminished by the cord holding the ring breaking, which latter thereby runs up to the top of the shaft. As soon as the animal feels the wound, it makes a sudden bound, whereby the hooks on the shaft spring into a horizontal position; by which action, again, through an ingenious piece of mechanism, the explosive in the shell is fired, and the latter bursts with such a force that death is almost instantaneous. This is Foyn’s invention, on which he has spent large sums of money and many years of his life. It need hardly be said that the gun was, when first invented, not so perfect as at present; but Sven Foyn has gradually improved it.
The kinds of whales hunted in Finmarken belong to the family of ‘fin’-whales, the largest of them all being the ‘blue’-whale. The colour is bluish gray, lighter on the under side, with long white furrows or folds, the use of which to the animal, zoologists have not yet discovered. This whale lives, as far as we know, solely on ‘krill,’ a tiny crustacean, which also serves as food for the cod. It comes inshore in Finmarken towards the end of May, and again goes to sea in the latter half of August, whence it is also called ‘summer’-whale. It is generally this kind of whale which is seen by travellers to the North Cape. The next variety is the common fin-whale, which attains a length of sixty to seventy feet, is more slender in build than the other, black on the back, and light below. It moves very swiftly, and is probably found off the Norwegian coast all the year round. Its food is tiny fish and ‘krill.’ There are, besides these, two other varieties in the same seas, of which the largest is caught. Finally, there is the ‘trold’-whale or ‘humpback,’ forty to fifty feet in length. It is exceedingly lively, and, when hotly pursued, shrieks and lashes the sea to froth with its tail. It is, however, not very common on the Norwegian coast.
It is generally believed that the whale, in spite of its enormous size, is timid and easily put to flight; but that this is not always the case, will be seen from some stories I was told of its stupidity or viciousness by the fishermen last summer. Several boats, they stated, have been struck or run down by whales, sometimes resulting in loss of life, in consequence of which they are not loved by these toilers of the deep. On one occasion, in May last, a whale was shot from one of the steamers, which, by taking refuge right under the stern of the vessel, succeeded in breaking the rope, as the captain was afraid of losing his screw, if moving. The whale, feeling free, took a few turns round the vessel, and then ran full tilt at the stern, with such a force, that the keel was bent for several yards, and screw and rudder carried away. Having thus satisfied its revenge, it made leisurely for the ocean.
With these preliminary observations, I will proceed to describe a whale-hunt on the shores of the Land of the Midnight Sun, according to my own experiences of this summer.
It is a lovely sunlit evening at the end of July, when we steam out from one of the pretty little fjords in the South Varanger. The air is clear and balmy, and the sea lies before us transparent as a mirror, dark green in colour. The mountains in the south stand out as though carved on the dark background, while their shapely cones are reflected in the mirror at their foot. Not a patch of snow or ice is seen anywhere. By degrees, the copse-covered hills and birch groves at the bottom of the fjord are lost in the distance, and through its mouth we behold the broad mighty Varanger fjord, the greatest in Northern Norway. To the north, the view is arrested by lofty mountains, enveloped in an azure veil; the sun is still high in the sky, though it is past eight o’clock; and to the west we look down into the Varanger fjord, where giant chains of sombre cones stand out in picturesque contrast to the view before us. To the east, there is but one view—sky and sea. We are on the confines of the great Arctic Ocean. Under these promising auspices, we anticipated a good and quick catch, as the whale has that feeling in common with man, that he loves sunshine and a calm sea. In such weather he comes inshore, gamboling in the sun’s rays, whilst from time to time leisurely disposing of a few bushels of ‘krill’ for supper, before proceeding to sea for the night. (By-the-bye, when travelling for pleasure in Arctic Norway, the period July-August should be chosen. True, one runs the risk of not seeing the midnight sun, which disappears in the latter half of July; but by way of recompense, there is no time of the year when nature in these regions stands forth in such colours as just then.) However, just now the Varanger seems rather out of temper; the weather thickens a little, and it begins to blow. No whale is in sight. A little while ago, there were a few ‘puffs’ down in the eastern horizon; but they are gone now; perhaps the supper has not been dainty or plentiful enough about us; there is neither whale nor bait to be seen. From time to time, a solitary seabird flits rapidly by, towards shore; he has been fetching his supper. Night slowly casts her veil over the ocean. We are soon far enough out; so the engines are ordered ‘slow,’ and everybody turns in who is not on the watch. We (officers and the writer) go aft to the captain’s cabin, where we make ourselves as comfortable as circumstances will permit, in order to snatch a few moments of rest, in which we soon succeed, lulled to sleep by the gentle rippling of the icy arctic waves as they lick the sides of the vessel.
At first streak of dawn in the east we are called. There are whales about. The boilers are fired under; we turn out, and see at a great distance some ‘puffs;’ but the captain remarks that they are only a few making for the fjord. They are soon out of sight; it is no use attempting to follow them. We again lie down to rest, but in vain—sleep has fled. We dress, and breakfast is served. The steward appears with a steaming pot of coffee and fresh bread—a true luxury. On this occasion, there being a guest on board, we are also treated to real cream; but otherwise a substitute of preserved milk and sugar, of home manufacture, is served. The demands of the body being satisfied, the mind also craves sustenance, and a pipe soon makes it contented. The captain offers, indeed, a cigar; but a pipe is far preferable, and looks more ‘ship-shape’ too. Towards noon we are off Rybatschi-Polostrow (the fisherman’s peninsula). The peninsula is very low and sandy; inland, we see a ridge of mountains; around us, thousands of seabirds whirl with plaintive cries; but no whale is seen. They are, however, generally plentiful here; at times, there are even enormous shoals of them, particularly when the fishing draws eastwards, as the bait is then found here, which is what the whale likes. But now, during the summer months, they are more scattered. It is already past the mid-day meal, and still we have seen nothing. We go below a little disappointed, whilst the steamer’s course is shaped for Vardö. Since last night there has been blowing a stiff breeze, and the sea is in foam in some places. The waves increase in size, and the steamer begins to roll. The smoke and the rest below are of short duration, so we go again on deck to look for ‘puffs.’ Now and then, the ship heels over; a hogshead or two of water comes swishing over the port bow, but does no harm, as we are dressed in sailor’s boots, a thick coat, and sou’-wester. I stare till I am tired at the green sea and the foam-crested waves, as they come rolling towards the vessel. My face becomes coated with a layer of salt, which settles there, when the foam of the waves is swept on board, as the ship plunges into the trough of the sea. If not accustomed to the arctic sea-air, one soon gets frightfully tired, and is obliged to rest, so, after being on the watch for a while, I went below and lay down. Soon sleep irresistibly overpowers me, thoughts become dreams, while the rolling of the ship feels like the gentle swing in a hammock; in fact, I am fast asleep, when a voice thunders down the companion: ‘Turn out—whales in sight!’ I jump up with a start, unable at first to remember where I am; but soon the consciousness of being on a whale-hunt becomes clear, and I rush on deck, fearing to lose any part of the grand spectacle.
What a change! Now, every wave has a snow-white cap; they tower high on all sides, and the vessel is tossed to and fro like a toy. Gulls and teistes sweep rapidly along the furrows between the waves, rise nearly perpendicularly as the wave breaks, and, just clearing the comb, dive into the next watery valley. ‘Look, look, what a tremendous puff!’ ‘That’s a big one.’ ‘Look, look—puff, puff!’ ‘There are a good many here.’
We are in the middle of a flock of the giants of the sea. The enormous brown and blue bodies rise out of the sea; the back is bent upwards—it looks like the bottom of a capsized ship; it disappears; but the sea becomes almost calm where the whale went down, and several minutes elapse before the waves are able to conquer the calm. From time to time, deep dull snorts are heard, thundering and trembling, as if the deepest strings of a dozen double-basses were being played down below; and at others, a sharp swishing sound like an enormous fountain suddenly set to play, and a column of crystal spray ascends some thirty feet into the air. The gigantic, glistening body appears on the surface; the back is bent upwards a second, and it again disappears. It looks as if the whale was warm and comfortable enough; the sea-water, to us looking so cold, plays pleasantly around it; hot steam issues from its dilated nostrils, and it seems like a man enjoying a refreshing morning dip.
During the last quarter of an hour we have seen some forty whales; but none has come within range. The gun has no certainty much beyond thirty yards, so that the whale must be nearly under the ship’s bow when firing. As we stand looking at this magnificent spectacle, the water close round the ship suddenly becomes light green in colour and somewhat calm. Then a deep heavy thunder; the ship trembles from stem to stern; a great column of dampness is shot into the air, drenching us all, a dull snort, and an enormous blue-whale rises out of the sea a few yards on our starboard side. Now the captain will fire, we think, involuntarily holding on to the wire-rigging; but Foyn stands by his gun without making the least movement, and the next second the whale again descends into its watery home. The range was probably not a good one. A few minutes after, the same thunder, the same sensation, the same column, and the same snort—another whale appears close on the port side. The captain turns the gun, whilst we watch with beating hearts the movements of the animal as well as his own. Every second seems an eternity. He raises the gun, aims. Alas! a heavy sea strikes the vessel, heels her over; the gun is lowered, but the whale is gone. They seem all to have disappeared now, not a puff to be seen. We stand and talk about the incident, and somebody suggests to go aft and ‘have a smoke;’ when suddenly two whales are seen some distance off, now going side by side, now behind each other. The helm is turned, and we follow them in hot haste through wind and waves. A complete silence reigns on board during the pursuit, only now and then broken by the captain’s short words of command, who stands calmly watching the animals. Now the vessel heels over—the whales are within range. ‘Stop,’ sounds in the engine-room. But the speed was too great, and we shoot past them. ‘Full speed ahead,’ sounds again. ‘Two men at the helm!’ The vessel turns swiftly, and we separate the couple. The whales disappear. We follow the direction they are taking, and look!—a little before us the sea becomes emerald green. ‘Slow,’ again. The vessel moves slowly forward, and the whale reappears twenty yards off. ‘Stop,’ shouts the captain. The gun is turned, raised, and again lowered—not a sound is heard on board—the whale has puffed—the back is bending; the captain aims—and a thundering report rends the air, and makes the vessel tremble in every section. We have watched all this with every nerve strained, and hardly feel the icy foam of the sea which bedews the cheek and benumbs the hands.
‘Did you hit him?’ we shout to the captain.
‘Don’t know,’ is the laconic answer. ‘Almost absurd to attempt it in such a sea; one risks losing the gear and frightening the whale.’
In the meantime all the crew are busy clearing the line of the harpoon, and we are still in doubt whether we have hit him; but the suspense does not last long, as immediately a ‘Look out!’ is shouted by the captain, and the line runs out with terrific speed and a great noise. ‘Full speed ahead,’ is shouted below; but the ship is running double her highest speed, such is the strength of the whale which has her in tow. The animal is fleeing at the top of its speed, and we follow right through the breaking seas. Ten minutes pass by—they seem ten hours—when suddenly a blood-streaked column of water is seen on the horizon. It is our whale! Another moment, and a clear one is seen. It is his companion, which follows her wounded mate. Both go down; the line does not run out so fast; the wounded whale appears once or twice more, when he sinks. The whale is dead. After a while, the hauling-in begins very carefully, and finally the great body rises to the surface, the ship heeling over. After a few hours’ hard work in securing the monster to the vessel with chains and ropes, the course is shaped for home.
‘What do you think of it, captain?’ I ask.
‘Not bad,’ he answers simply.—‘Steward, give the crew a drink all round! And let us have something to eat.’
The whale measured more than eighty feet in length.
Once more his widowed mate takes a turn round the ship, when she stands out to sea; whilst we, with our noble spoil in tow, slowly make for the whale-station in South Varanger.