CHAPTER VII
HOW CAP’N PEM LOST HIS LEG
“’Long ’bout forty-five years aback,” began the old man, as all gathered about to hear his story, “I were secon’ mate o’ the Greyhoun’ bark, out o’ New Bedford—Cap’n Ezra Clapham, master—an’ boun’ for the Pacific arter sparm whales. Ev’rythin’ went fine an’ we rose whales mos’ from the time we was out o’ soundin’s. Ne’er did see so pesky many in all o’ my life. By the time we was ’round Cape Horn we was that full up the Old Man put in at Valp’raiso an’ transshipped the ’ile. Reckon thet must ’a bust the luck, ’cause we cruised hither an’ yon fer nigh six weeks an’ ne’er raised a whale. Had a right smart crew too, an’ good as I e’er seen. But I tell ye, it begun for to look as if we’d be a-cruisin’ fer the res’ o’ our lives an’ rot at sea ’thout gettin’ ’nough ’ile ter grease our boots. Aye, an’ ’twas fair hard work a-keepin’ that crew busy, I tell ye. Ev’ry tooth aboard the bark’d been scrimshawed an’ ev’ry mite o’ bone made inter knick-knacks. There weren’t a mite o’ ol’ rope or canvas that hadn’t been made inter chafin’-gear an’ Chips couldn’t fin’ a splinter o’ wood thet so much as needed a tenpenny nail or a dab o’ paint. Men jes’ spent the time a-s’archin’ fer whale an’ many’s the day I’ve seed the riggin’ an’ mas’heads that full o’ men a-lookin’ fer a blow thet ye’d swored the ol’ Greyhoun’ was a mannin’ o’ her yards fer show, like as does the ol’ frigates. Bimeby, ’long erbout nine week out o’ Valp’raiso, we seen a sail, an’ runnin’ down to her, we foun’ she was the Mohawk out o’ Salem. Course we had a-gammin’ an’ the Mohawk’s folk—they was purty nigh full up an’ home’ard boun’—spun a yarn ’bout a mad whale what they’d riz a couple o’ week afore. Tol’ how as the cap’n’s boat had struck an’ was fas’ when the critter turned an’ run fer the boat, an’ grabbin’ it in his jaws chewed it to smithereens. Then long comes the mate’s boat an’ picked up the men an’ the secon’ and third mates’ boats went in an’ both boats got fas’. Well, thet jes’ made the whale wusser an’ wusser, an’ a swingin’ o’ his jaw to sta’board an’ port, he chawed both boats. Cordin’ to the yarn, the ol’ bull now had six irons in him, but thet didn’t bother him a mite, an’ no sooner was the nex’ boat fas’ than he stove thet. Meantime, two spare boats was on han’, a-pickin’ up the other’s crews, when the ol’ whale jes’ rushed ’em an’ sounded, a-leavin’ four stove boats an’ a-takin’ o’ seven irons an’ twelve hundred fathoms o’ line to Davy Jones fer souv’neers. Aye, an’ ye can jes’ bet our men druv the barbs inter the Mohawk folk a-laffin’ at ’em fer a-losin’ o’ a bull whale, arter they’d got seven irons in. One o’ our chaps—a young boat steerer—’lowed he’d like ter see the whale he’d let get away with his iron and lines, an’ ev’ry one o’ the crew o’ the Greyhoun’ was that sore at not havin’ raised a whale fer so long thet they jus’ prayed fer a chanct ter run athwart the hawse o’ the Mohawk’s mad whale.
“An’ by gum, we did! Three days arter leavin’ the Mohawk, we raised a whale ’bout four p’ints offen the sta’board bow and the cap’n an’ mate lowered. But I’ll be blowed ef thet whale’d wait fer ’em to go on, but jes’ as soon as he spied the boats he come arter ’em head up an’ tail over the dasher, so to speak, a-roarin’ an’ a fumin’ with his jaws wide open, an’ gettin’ the mate’s boat fust, he stove thet and turned fer the cap’n’s. Jes’ took one nip and there weren’t ’nough lef’ o’ thet boat fer to make toothpicks outen. Then a-droppin’ o’ the boat, the pesky bull swung ’roun’ an’ grabbed the mate. Jes’ as luck’d hev it, the bark weren’t far, an’ soon’s I see what was happ’nin’ I lowered an’ started a-yellin’ ter the third mate ter foller an’ pick up the cap’n’s crew. Jes’ got ter the mate in the nick o’ time an’ hauled him in purty well chawed an’ mussed up, when the whale breached ’bout quarter o’ a mile ahead. My boat steerer was the cock-sure cuss I told ye of an’ ’fore I could say a word the crew was a-pullin’ like mad an’ we was a-goin’ on. ’Course I didn’t stop on ’em—didn’t want no boat steerer or crew a tellin’ me I was scart o’ any bull whale—an’ purty soon the boat steerer puts down his oar and pulls offen his jacket and takes up the iron, fer we was close on an’ the ol’ bull didn’t seem fer to see us.
“Nex’ minute the young chap struck, an’ by gum, afore ye could say Holy Mac’rel thet dumb-gasted boat steerer had another iron inter the critter! Dunno whether ’twas the s’prise o’ bein’ struck ’twict ter onct or what, but the fight all seemed ter go clean out o’ the whale and he jes’ sounded like a lump o’ lead. Jes’ as soon as he’d put the secon’ iron in, the boat steerer tumbled aft an’ I jumped fo’ward an’ o’ course the two lines was a-whirrin’ out o’ the bow-chock like steam an’ a jumpin’ like livin’ snakes o’ steel outen their tubs. Jes’ as I passes the tub-oar, I hear a sort o’ yell and a groan an’ I swings ’roun’ in time to see the boat steerer a-floppin’ roun’ an’ a-flyin’ forrard with a kink o’ the secon’ line ’roun’ his leg. Nex’ secon’ there was a flash o’ steel an’ a dull thud an’, think I, some one’s cut the line, an’ I see what I took ter be a ol’ boot splash overboard. ’Course ’twas all over in the shake o’ a lamb’s tail, an’ jes’ then the whale was a comin’ up to breach an’ I didn’t give no heed ter it. ’Spected the whale fer to turn on us, but he’d got ernough o’ fightin’, I reckon, and started off to the west’ard as if he’d a forgotten sumpthin’. Didn’t steer no straight course, though, an’ milled an’ twisted an’ turned; an’ thet there boat steerer was a wonder. Swung the boat quicker’n the whale an’ never shipped a drop till ’bout fifteen minutes arter gettin’ fas’, we drew in an’ druv home the lance an’ without a flurry the ol’ bull spouted blood an’ went fin-up. An’ jes’ as he done it I heerd a rattle an’ thud, an’ lookin’ ’roun’ I seed the boat steerer all a heap in the starn. When I got to him I jes’ give one almighty yell an’ drapped down an’ couldn’t believe my own eyes. Thet there youngster had chopped off his own leg an’d been a-steerin’ o’ the boat with a bleedin’ stump fer fifteen mortal minutes! When he cum to, the fust thing he says was, ‘Did ye git that there mad whale?’ An’ when we told him he jes’ grinned an’, sez he, ‘Told them Mohawk lan’ lubbers I’d git him or lose a leg, an’ I did.’ An’ thet’s how Pem come fer to lose his leg.”
Cap’n Pem flushed purple to his grizzled hair. “Lem, ye ol’ lyin’ shellback!” he burst out. “’Twant me what kilt the bull an’ ye know blamed well ’twas jes’ fer to save my life I done it. Anyhow, what’s the use a-talkin’ ’bout things what was done forty year ago?”
But the boys and the assembled company would not listen to his protestations or denials and vowed he was a real hero.
Now that the subject of whaling adventures had been started, various stories of marvelous escapes and incredible heroism were told, for several of the islanders who had gathered at the Potter cottage, were old whalemen who had left their perilous calling to settle down for the rest of their lives on Tristan da Cunha. They told of ships sunk by infuriated whales which blindly rushed at the vessels and stove them in. They related tales of being locked in the Arctic ice floes and of the awful loss of the whaling fleet in 1871, when thirty-two ships were crushed and destroyed and over twelve hundred people made their way in open boats through freezing, stormy seas for eight hundred miles in order to seek safety in the vessels which awaited them. They spun many a yarn of weird, uncanny happenings at sea, of premonitions, St. Elmo’s fire and derelicts; of mutinies and acts of violence, and all were true; for the whalemen, unlike his merchant sailor brother, has plenty of facts to draw from without the need of weaving tales from imagination.
“Aye, an’ that ’minds me o’ the cap’n o’ the Pole Star,” mused one gray-bearded old islander after one of the others had told a story. “Ye’ll mind she was a-whalin’ in the Ar’tic. The cap’n struck a right whale an’ was fas’ when his boat were stove an’ the whale tackled the cap’n. I was boat steerer i’ the mate’s boat an’ seen the whole thing. The Ol’ Man were a pow’ful fine swimmer an’ used fer to boast on it, an’ ’twere sure lucky fer him he were, b’gosh! Fust time the whale started fer him, he dove under an’ come up t’other side o’ the whale. Us couldn’t get in near, the whale was a kickin’ up of sech a rumpus, fust striking wi’ its flukes an’ then a risin’ of its head an’ a slammin’ of it down like er capsized mountain, an’ all the time the skipper a-divin’ an’ a dodgin’ an’ a swimmin’ fer his life. Two or three times I seen the whale’s flukes lift the cap’n clean out o’ water an’ time an ag’in I seed the head come down an’ druv him clean out o sight. Each time us thought ’twas all over, but somehow or tother the skipper didn’t get hit square an’ kep’ a-fightin’. ’Course us didn’t know it at the time, but all the while the skipper was a-tryin’ to git his sheath-knife into the whale’s nose to tarn him—ye mind a right whale’s nose’s so plumb tender he’ll turn tail an’ run if ye so much as touches of it—but the knife got stuck an’ he had a mortal time a drawin’ on it, what betwix’ swimmin’ an’ a dodgin’ o’ flukes an’ head. Bimeby, though, he got it out, an’ edgin’ roun’—ye mind a right whale can’t see ahead—he swum in front o’ the whale and druv the knife home. Jumpin’ Jehosephat! Ye’d oughter a seed that there whale skihoot off! Bet he ain’t stopped a-goin’ yit, an’ thet was back in seventy-three. An’ us picked up skipper nary the wusser fer his fight.”
“An’ did ye ever hear o’ the whaleman what was act_oo_ally grabbed by a sparm bull an’ taken down to the bottom an’ spit up ag’in?” asked another ex-whaleman. “I disrecollec’ his ship, but he was a chap name o’ Jenkins. Got fas’ to a sparm whale back in ’70. Whale turned an’ bit the boat in two and then made a rush and grabbed Jenkins an’ sounded. The boat weren’t smashed up, jes’ cut clean amidships, an’ the crew was a holdin’ on ter the two pieces a-waitin’ to be picked up an’ a sorryin’ fer their los’ mate, when the whale breaches close alongside, an’ openin’ his mouth, spits Jenkins out and tosses of him into the forrard part o’ his boat. Warn’t much hurt neither—bruised up a bit an’ mauled, but less’n a fortni’t later was back ter work again.”
“That is a tall yarn,” laughed Tom. “Is it true?”