CHAPTER II A Whale Hunt
Happy, says the proverb, is the nation that has no history. And since history is so largely made up of the unspeakable horrors of war with all its attendant retinue of resultant miseries, there would really seem to be more truth in this proverb than in most. Yet it must not be forgotten that, surfeited as we are with tales wherein all those things that make life a burden almost too grievous to be borne are set forth in hideous detail, it is no easy task to make a peaceful narrative interesting nowadays. As difficult as to wean the epicure’s palate from highly seasoned and mysteriously concocted dishes back to the simple luxuries of childhood.
Nevertheless it is an inestimable privilege to be allowed to try, and I do hope to show that these simple happy folk possessed the true grit and manliness that all must admire while being totally free from that whining hypocrisy and hateful assumption of spurious virtue that makes the world generally disgusted with so many professed religionists. And here let me say that these happy islanders were what they were from love of the infinitely good and in no wise from the fear of a punishing hell too terrible even to be thought of by their simple trustful minds.
Very early the next morning, Grace, in perfect health and strength, and in accordance with time-honoured custom, took her babe down to the sea and bathed him in those waters which henceforth would be as familiar to him as the dry land. And as she laved his tiny limbs in the shining waves, she noted with swelling heart how strongly and sturdily he kicked, and she longed to take him in her arms and plunge into deep water at once. But she realized that so severe an ordeal could not be good for him, and although she sorely missed her morning swim, was about to return when she heard her husband’s voice behind her.
“Give him to me, Grace,” he cried.
“Thank you, dear,” she replied, and laying the babe in his strong arms, she turned back and sprang joyously into the sea, plunging and flashing through the surf like a fish or a seal in the perfect abandonment of delight that these children of the wave know when in the element they love so well. Prudence restrained her from going too far yet, so in a few minutes she returned, and taking the crowing babe from Philip she sat sedately down upon a fallen tree trunk and watched her mighty husband as he in turn hurled himself through the surf and sported like a porpoise. His bath over, they returned to their home and breakfasted as they had supped, simply and heartily, and then, leaving Grace to receive the visits of matrons and maidens who would presently come trooping along, he departed to his work of cultivating their tiny fields.
But it was ordained that on this eventful day he was not to remain long at that peaceful task. He had not been thus engaged for more than an hour when a long-drawn cry arrested his attention and caused him to drop the tool he was using. It was the signal, well known to them all, that whales were coming close in; the watcher on a high overhanging cliff had spied them and sent his powerful voice ringing across the settlement, from which came hurrying an eager company ready for the great combat with the monsters of the deep. They gathered round the boats where, carefully covered in against the fervent heat of the sun, these precious craft lay waiting with all the gear, harpoons, lances, lines, etc., neatly stored in a shed by their sides.
Swiftly and with hardly a word their boats were equipped, the necessary preparations made, and in less than half an hour from the first sounding of the alarm the two boats, with six men in each, were launched and springing seaward under the pressure of five long ash oars wielded by men who were almost insensible to fatigue and whose rowing was a wonder and a delight to behold.
The watcher on the cliff guided them by means of well understood signs, that is, he made a human semaphore of himself, for it is not until very near to whales that men in boats can see them, and moreover the sperm whale does not send aloft a high column of vapour into the air as do other whales. His breathings are copious, but owing to the shape and position of the spiracle or blow-hole, the thick, highly charged breath spreads itself in a cloud immediately upon leaving his body. And that cloud does not ascend, it is thrust forward ahead of the whale, and being heavier than the air only spreads and gradually settles.
So guided by the look-out man, they laid to their oars with great energy, pulling with a peculiarly noiseless stroke. The blades entered the water cleanly and gripped it so firmly that the tough ash of the looms bent like the lower half of a fishing-rod when catching tarpon. There was no noise either from the rowlocks, for they were padded with thick mats covered with green hide and kept well greased. This great care to preserve silence is absolutely necessary, for although as far as we can tell the sperm whale has little or no sense of hearing as we understand it, he is peculiarly susceptible to strange sounds, and the accidental clatter of an oar on a gunwale is quite sufficient to alarm a school of whales at over a mile’s distance. What this other sense which answers the purpose of sight, scent, and hearing may be we do not know, we can only imagine; like so many other matters connected with the mysterious life of the whale it is hidden from us.