A Whaleman's Wife

by Frank Thomas Bullen

The whole affair of his departure and return had been so dramatically sudden that Captain Da Silva was in his cabin shouting for Priscilla to give him dry garments before she had recovered from her swoon. His angry demands brought the trembling steward at his best gait. To his breath-bated inquiry the skipper shouted:

‘Whar’s Mrs. Da Silva, yew black beast; whar’s my wife?’

‘Please, sah, de madam’s done gone swounded, an’ I ain’t can fotch ’er to yit. I ——’

But flinging him aside as if he had been a bundle of rags, the skipper rushed on deck to where Priscilla was sitting up wearily passing a hand over her dazed eyes and wondering what strange thing had befallen her. He seized her arm roughly, and in tones of deepest scorn demanded what sort of —— game she called this? Was he to wait in his wet clothes while she lolled about on deck playing the (more unsavoury adjectives) fool? Mechanically she staggered to her feet, and, like some unreasoning but faithful animal, tottered towards the cabin. I doubt if she would have been surprised had her husband accelerated her progress by a kick, to such a numbness of brain had she come. But she did his bidding, accepted all his blasphemous grumbling, and made no sign. For she was, in the fullest sense of that much-abused brace of words, heart-broken. Her spirit was crushed, never to awake again as it had been; her love was dead, and only patient, animal-like obedience remained. Did any compunction arise in the man’s mind for what he had done to that trusting, loving woman? Those who think so little know the capacity of man for cruelty. A grim smile lit up his diabolically handsome features as he noted her quiet performance of his commands, and although he said no word it was easy to see with what fiendish pleasure he realised this new proof of his power to rule others with a rod of iron.

Without pausing to do more than glance at his injuries—one long black and green bruise which wound twice round his body, and another extending from his right thigh to his heel, with the skin broken in many places—he hastily dressed himself in dry clothes and, without casting another glance at the submissive figure of his wife, rushed on deck. Fortunately for all of them, the crew were working hard to secure the masses of junk (solid pieces, each several tons in weight, cut from the whale’s head), lashing jaw-bones, clearing away try-works, getting up mincing-machine and tricing up gear out of the way of the all-pervading grease. He cast one comprehensive, scowling glance around, which deepened in its frown when he found no cause of complaint, and at once assumed sole command. For the next hour his orders flew like volleys of musketry, spurring on the almost spent men to give up the last ounce of their strength. And then suddenly, as if God had taken pity on those hapless men, the tyrant’s indomitable strength and pluck gave out together, and he sank to the deck moaning feebly, ‘Take me below, —— ye, take me below.’ Even with what seemed the last breath he needs must curse those upon whom he was now utterly dependent for all his wants.

So, inert, all his great energy vanished, and his wiry limbs hanging limply as loose ropes’ ends, he was borne below to his bunk, his appearance in this guise startling Priscilla again, but arousing in her now no such feelings as those with which she had witnessed his disappearance over the rail so short a time before. With quiet dignity she directed the bearers where to lay him, thanked them, and dismissed them. Then, left alone with the man for whom she had given up her life, and more than her own life, had she but known, she went about the duty of attendance upon him methodically, carefully, but with no more feeling than if he had been an utter stranger. All that she could do for him she did, but of affection in her ministrations there was no trace. Presently with a feeling of relief, such as usually accompanies the successful conclusion of a difficult task, she saw him pass from coma to sleep, heard him breathe naturally, and watched the ghastly pallor of his face give place to its healthy olive hue. Then she took some needlework and sat down by his side, ready to attend upon him when he woke, determined to do her very utmost for him dutifully, and hoping to make faithful service take the place of the love she knew she would never feel for him again.

Perhaps I may be pardoned for anticipating criticism here by a word or two. I know well that women can, and do, show love of the deepest, truest, holiest kind for men who not merely speak to them harshly, but beat, starve, or ill-treat them in every way. But Priscilla was not one of these women. It may be, too, that her love for Ramon Da Silva was not love in the best sense of the word, but merely a hurricane gust of passion that for a season had changed the whole surface of her being, while leaving unruffled the great depths below. I do not know, nor do I care to dogmatise, but of this I am sure—that there are many Priscillas about, worthy of all the love of a good man, and fully capable of returning it, whose love, calmly, thoughtfully given, would be changed into utter dislike and contempt for the once loved one if they should have the misfortune to discover him to be cruel or disgusting. And for one I dare not say that they are therefore in any way worthy of blame, or are not perfectly true and lovable women.

Now ensued a period of calm satisfaction for all hands, tempered only by the knowledge that it would soon come to an end. The exceedingly heavy toil of mincing the blubber, boiling down the oil, storing it in casks, and disposing those casks in easily accessible positions about the decks, went on without intermission, but quietly. Every man worked as if the knowledge of his tyrant’s impotence, for a time at any rate, had supplied him with an incentive. But the Captain was suffering utter torment below. Ordinarily he was quite wanting in what we vaguely speak of as nerves: he worried about nothing. Now, however, his great strength entirely gone from him, knowing how large a task was in hand on deck, and knowing, too, how glad was every man on board that he, their despot, was helpless, he raged and fumed, and thereby retarded his recovery greatly. But for those who came in contact with him, this time was a terrible one. His poor wife and the negro steward lived in utter terror of him, although physically he was powerless to do them harm.

Perhaps it may be thought that too severe a description of this man has been given, and that thereby some injustice has been done to men generally. But if so, I would like to ask objectors whether they have never had the misfortune to know anybody, not necessarily a man, who would, given the opportunity have behaved quite as badly as Captain Da Silva. God knows, I have no wish to libel any of my fellow men or women, but I am absolutely certain that but for the grace of God, the sweet influences of Christianity, there are very few of us who can be trusted with absolute power over our fellows. And if any doubt were possible, surely the records of the National Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children would dispel it. The sight of helplessness does in some infernal way seem to generate in many minds an irresistible desire to inflict suffering upon the helpless. And it needs all our faith in God, as well as all our recollection of the tender love that fills so many hearts, to keep us from feeling that mankind in general is possessed by all those attributes which we have agreed to consider as the characteristics of Satan. Of course, like all other qualities, cruelty needs special opportunities for its full development as well as a deliberate cultivation. And for this reason I have never been able to understand why so many otherwise level-headed people should object to corporal punishment for the perpetrators of cruelty, since it is almost invariably the case that cruel people are most tenderly solicitous for the care of their own susceptibilities to pain. Exceptions there are to this rule, of course, and Captain Da Silva was one. No amount of corporal punishment would have deterred him from being again the merciless monster he was by nature, given fitting opportunity; for he, as I have already endeavoured to point out, had an almost Chinese disregard of personal suffering. But even he was certainly no worse for the tasting in his own proper person of some of the pains he was wont to bestow lavishly upon others.

Only two persons wished him speedily well, and for obvious reasons. They were his personal attendants. The chief mate, whose business brought him below periodically to report progress, always had to summon up all his courage to face his suffering chief, always returned to upper air again acutely conscious of relief, although he was a man of great ability and resource, and, moreover, had the comforting knowledge that under his (comparatively) mild rule the work was slipping along on greased wheels. But (and this is one of the peculiarly subtle depravities of some natures) he could not help feeling that his commander’s irritation at his own helplessness was in no way lessened by the knowledge that affairs were going on quite smoothly without his interference—that, in fact, it would have been in some measure an alleviation of his sufferings could he have known that, bereft of his oversight, matters were at sixes and sevens. And each time the mate came to report, and gave him the bland information that all was going as well as possible, the men were working with a will, the weather continued fine, and the blubber was yielding most richly, the skipper was instant in cross-examination on every detail, apparently in the hope that he might somehow find occasion to vent his long pent-up spleen upon someone else beside his wife and the negro steward.