You ask for a yarn, my friends. I’ll spin you one with all my heart. You are all agreed that Christmas is a merry time. It ought to be so with you who have many kind friends around you, a warm, blazing fire, plenty of roast beef and plum-pudding, and other satisfactory things; and good houses, and warm clothing, and numberless other blessings, spiritual as well as temporal. But, I say boys, that should not allow us to forget that there are thousands of our fellow-creatures, and of our fellow-countrymen, too, who are perhaps at this moment starving and freezing—dying of cold and hunger. Those who have never suffered themselves are apt not to think of the sufferings to which others are exposed. I, however, can never forget a winter I spent—where do you think? In Scotland. Oh, no. Shetland? Further north. Iceland? Further north still. At the North Pole, or, at least, not far off it. I went to sea in the old “Grampus,” Greenland whaler, from Hull, for a summer trip, hoping to be back with my friends by the end of October. The old “Grampus” was barque-rigged, 350 tons burden, carried six whale-boats, three hung up on each side, and a crew of fifty men, all told—consisting of harpooners, boat-steerers, line-managers, coopers, carpenters, foremast-men, landsmen, and apprentices. Each man was to have a share in the profits on every whale caught, so that all were interested. The ship was very strongly built, with ice-knees to withstand the pressure of the ice. When I examined her, and observed that her bows were one mass of wood, I thought that nothing could harm her. I little knew, at that time, the tremendous power of masses of ice when grinding together, though no storm is raging over head, and the sea beneath may seem calm as a mill-pond. Our courses, that is our lower sails, were differently shaped to those of an ordinary merchantman, being narrow at the foot, and fitted with booms, so that they would swing round of themselves when, as was often the case, a few hands only were left on board to work the ship. But an important feature in our ship, in common with other whalers, by which she might be known at a distance, was the “crow’s nest” at her maintop-gallant-mast head. It was like a big cask, and contained a seat, and a place for a telescope, a speaking-trumpet, a flag, and a few other articles. Here an officer was stationed, when whales were supposed to be near, to watch for their appearance. Our boats were different to those in general use aboard trading vessels, the stem and stern were alike, and were about twenty-six feet long. Each carried six whale-lines, of 120 fathoms in length, and harpoons and lances, an axe for cutting the line should it foul, and many other articles. The boats pulled from four to six oars. The captain, or one of the mates, acted as harpooner, the boat-steerer ranked next to him, and the line-manager took the third place. The crew were formed into divisions according to the number of boats, and thus each division consisted of a harpooner, boat-steerer, line-manager, and four or five rowers. The harpooner had command, and when in pursuit pulled the bow oar. I looked forward, with great delight, to the cruise. To see a real, palpable iceberg—not a mere painted one in a panorama—and huge living whales caught, was, I thought, worth going all round the world for, and would amply repay me for any danger I might have to overcome during the short summer trip I expected to make. Captain Blowhard, the master of the “Grampus,” was a relative of my mother, and had offered to take me as a supernumerary in his own cabin. If I liked a sea life I was to continue in it as a profession, but if not, I was to return on shore and learn to wield a pen or a yard measure, instead of a harpoon or a sword. The full complement of our crew, including some of our best men, was to be made up at Lerwick, in Shetland, where we called to take them on board. We remained three days in the Sound, off the chief of those treeless but highly picturesque islands, and, I must say, that a more hospitable, kind-hearted, pleasant-mannered people I never met. They have, however, one grievous cause of complaint. The map-makers will persist in putting their group of islands up in an out-of-the-way corner of the maps, so that a very large proportion of the human race do not know where they are really to be found. In spite of this, however, they are a tolerably happy and contented community. Away we sailed on our voyage, which was anything but a smooth one, for we were tumbled and tossed about by the big waves in a manner which I thought must shake even our stout ship to pieces. They did not, however; and, towards the end of April, our captain showed me our position on the map, not far from Davis Straits. The next morning, going on deck, the sky very blue, the sea tolerably smooth, and the sun shining brightly, though the air was unusually keen, I saw close to us, towering up high above the masts of the ship, a white, floating mountain—an iceberg—pure as alabaster. Curiously shaped peaks formed the upper part, which seemed to rest on a base of arches, forming the mouths of caverns, of the most delicate blue tint. The peaks glittered brightly in the sunbeams, and every instant seemed to change their shape, either as the berg moved slowly round, or we passed by. I exclaimed that I had never seen anything so magnificent. “Wait a bit, youngster, you’ll see stranger sights than that before long,” observed Sam Grummet, our first mate, who had followed the fortunes of Captain Blowhard for the best part of his life. I had one shipmate of about my own age, “Jack;” he had another name, but he was never called anything but Jack. He and I soon became fast friends, though he was before the mast and I was in the cabin. Then there was Sandy Dow, a boat-steerer, a true-hearted and an honest Shetlander. He took an interest in me from the first; not a mere fancy, but because I was young, thoughtless, and inexperienced, and he earnestly wished to do me good. A few days passed away after we got among icebergs, and we were in hourly expectation of making the ice. Even in calm weather it requires great vigilance to discover an opening into which the ship may sail, but when blowing hard, as it did when we entered Davis Straits, it was a very anxious time. The danger was, however, chiefly from the washing pieces of ice, which are often large masses just even with the water. An experienced hand was stationed at each yard-arm throughout the night to look out for them. My wonder was, as I saw the men up there, that they did not drop asleep and fall off, as I am sure that I should have done. At length, a collection of sheets of ice appeared one morning ahead of us, with passages between them, into which no sooner did we run than we found the sea smooth as a mill-pond. Gaily we glided along, sometimes through narrow lanes, at other times across broad lakes bordered by ice. Our crow’s nest, and boats, and gear, were got ready, the first being occupied during the day by a look-out, for any moment whales might appear, and the boats would start in chase. We were at this time sailing along the coast of Greenland, and, although we were from twelve to twenty miles off it, so lofty are the mountains, and so pure the atmosphere, that often it appeared as if we were close under them. Indeed, when we at length stood in for the land, it seemed as if it was actually drawing back from us, so long did we sail on and yet seemed to be getting no nearer. I remembered the story of some of the old navigators who, in consequence of this, thought the country was an enchanted one, and rather than venture on it put about and made the best of their way home again.
As the season advanced, the days gradually increased in length, till the sun itself was visible at midnight, and darkness was banished from our part of the globe. Still, there was a difference, for the night always seemed calmer and more quiet than the day. At length, our ears were gladdened by a shout from the crow’s nest of “A fish, a fish; she spouts, she spouts.” The crew had till then been moving leisurely about, but, in an instant, all were in a state of the greatest excitement. Three boats were sent away in pursuit. No one, by rule, goes in the boats except those who row or steer; but just as Sandy Dow’s boat was shoving off I slipped in, and so eager was everybody to be off that they did not stop to put me on board again. Away we dashed, the water foaming up at our bows. Sandy’s practised eye had marked the spot where the whale had gone down, and well he knew where it would come up again. On we went, and there was a whirling in the waters, and the monster’s back rose gradually out of it, while a column of steam-like vapour ascended into the air.
“There was a whirling in the waters, and the monster’s back rose gradually out of it.”—[Page 41.]
Our harpooner, who pulled the bow oar, rose from his seat. For an instant he stood with his weapon in hand, then darted it with all his strength against the side of the whale, into which it sunk deeply. We were fast. Downwards plunged the whale, the line flying out with lightning rapidity, making the timber over which it passed smoke with the friction. We had but short time for breathing. “She’ll soon be up again,” observed Sandy. So, indeed, she was, when we again hauled up to her with the line, and three lances were plunged into her sides. The agony made her spring almost out of the water. Then down she went, as if she could thus free herself from her tormentors, but the depths of the ocean are no permanent home for the whale, she must come up to breathe. She soon, therefore, appeared, and again we were at her. As we drew near, I saw a huge body in between us and the bright sun, and instantly afterwards there was a loud flop, and a thick shower of a ruddy liquid descended on our heads. We had reason to be thankful that the whale’s tail did not strike us instead of the water, or there would not have been much left either of the boat or crew to pick up. We backed out of the monster’s way, for she was, in her flurry, twisting and turning, and lashing the water, till she was surrounded by a mass of crimson foam, while our crew cheered lustily at the thought of the prize they had won, for such a whale as we had now killed is worth not much less than five hundred pounds. Meantime one of the other boats had got fast to another whale, a huge monster, which was giving a great deal of trouble. As soon, therefore, as our capture turned over on her side, and showed that she was dead, we stuck a flag into her, and, hauling in our lines, went to the assistance of our shipmates. Fearing that the whale would after all escape them, they closed in on her, to plunge a fresh harpoon into her side. Loud cries for help reached our ears. With one sweep of her tail she had knocked the boat to pieces, and we feared had killed some if not all of the crew. We dashed on with redoubled speed. “Make fast to her, make fast,” shouted the harpooner, whom we met swimming towards us. All the other men whom we saw had secured oars with which to support themselves, and seemed in no way distressed. We accordingly approached the whale. Another harpoon, and a fresh shower of darts, were fixed in her, and not till then would the crew consent to be taken on board. Two poor fellows had, however, been struck by the whale, and must have been instantly killed, for they sank immediately.
