Deep Sea Hunters in the Frozen Seas

by A. Hyatt Verrill

Once more Jim’s rifle crashed out and a smaller bull sagged like an empty sack upon the shingle.

“Hurrah!” cried Tom, and then his glad shout died on his lips and he screamed a warning filled with terror. Within two feet of the boat—so close he could have touched it with his outstretched hand—a great, ferocious-looking head had burst from the water, the tiny, wicked eyes gleaming like those of an enraged elephant, the stiff, horny whiskers bristling, the two-foot yellow tusks dripping blood from a deep gash across the forehead where Jim’s bullet had cut its way.

Wounded, mad with fury, the walrus reared its massive neck above the water and hurled itself at the boat. Frantically Tom yelled. The men seized the oars and struggled desperately to swing the boat. Jim hastily reloaded and strove to shoot. But the boat was swaying and tipping to the men’s efforts and Jim could not aim. Almost before they realized their peril, the boys saw the maddened creature’s head raised above the edge of the boat. With a tremendous blow, the long tusks came crashing down, splintering the thwart, breaking the stout oak rail and bearing the boat down to the water’s edge.

Instantly the men threw themselves to the opposite side of the craft. With oars, clubs and whatever they could grasp they rained a shower of blows upon the animal’s head, but they might as well have struck at a helmet of steel. With blood pouring from the wounds, but not affected by them in the least, the bull walrus lashed the water into a maelstrom of froth, wrenched his head back and forth, bellowed with rage, and swung the heavy thirty-foot boat from side to side and up and down as though it were a thing of paper. Excited, rattled, terror-stricken, Tom was paralyzed with fear, and neither he nor any of his men realized that their antagonist was striving with might and main to tear free his tusks wedged in the splintered wood; that, with his head thus held as in a trap, he could not lift himself high enough to withdraw his tusks, and that he was in reality almost as terrorized as the occupants of the boat. Owing to some mistake, none of the old hands were in Tom’s boat. Not a member of his crew had ever before seen a live walrus, much less an infuriated wounded one. They were so thoroughly frightened by the creature’s sudden and savage onslaught, that they completely lost their heads.

Then, suddenly and with a wild shout, one-eyed Ned leaped forward, seized a boat spade and, yelling like a fiend and holding the weapon as though it were a bayonet, he plunged the keen-edged spade time after time into the thick, wrinkled neck of the walrus. The sea turned crimson, the walrus lashed the water into scarlet foam. Gradually his struggles ceased, his eyes closed, and he lay dead, with his tusks still locked over the boat’s rail.

But the danger was not over. The inert, heavy body tipped the craft until every wave lapped over the side, and while several men struggled and heaved and tugged to lift the creature’s head free, the others bailed for their lives, but seemingly to no purpose. Not only was the buoyancy of the boat pressing upwards against the weight of the walrus, but the tusks were driven so firmly through the thwart that they were locked as though in a vise. Each second it seemed as if the boat would fill and all would be struggling in the icy water.

Their shouts and cries had attracted the attention of the other boats and Swanson, who was nearest, had come racing to Tom’s aid. Before his boat was alongside, the battle was over, however, and seeing the trouble, the cooper and several of his men leaped into Tom’s boat and with their weight on the upper side, the water ceased to come in. Then Tom, suddenly remembering his responsibility, recovered his scattered wits. “Here!” he shouted. “Get the handle of an oar under his head and pry him loose!” But even with the stout handle of the heavy ash oar as a lever, the walrus’ head could not be budged.

“Get the hatchet and cut away the thwart!” ordered Tom. As the keen-edged little ax cut through the splintered wood, the men heaved up on the oar, and with a splash the animal’s head slipped over the rail into the sea.

Swanson stood up, pulled at his huge mustache, drew his pipe from his pocket and commenced to fill it with a blunt, blackened forefinger. “Ay tank you bane have close shave,” he remarked, as he glanced about. “By yiminy, you bane pretty near cut das fellow head off.”

“I’ll say we had a close shave!” exclaimed Tom. “And if it hadn’t been for Ned we’d all have been drowned or killed. Gee, I’d have hated to be overboard with that beast. Ned was the only one who kept his head.”