A Whaleman's Wife

by Frank Thomas Bullen

REUBEN EDDY, MARINER

We left Rube not only entered conclusively upon his new career, the very antithesis of all his previous experiences, but, by one of those mysterious happenings which prove how little we know of the workings of the human brain, completely dissociated from that former life of his as if it had never been. And yet by some merciful connection, inexplicable in view of his entire loss of memory, but certainly bridging the dark gulf, his former Christian training not merely influenced him, but its effect was intensely deepened and strengthened. So with all his old attributes of patience, of kindliness, of love; attributes which all must confess may exist without any acknowledgment on the part of their possessor of the power of Christianity at all. Also his physical powers developed amazingly. Seemingly quite careless what he ate, but always with bared head returning thanks to God for it, he throve upon that poor food until his torso would have served as a model for an ancient Greek statue of Hercules. Upon his bright face the shadow of a frown was never seen, his serenity of mind seemed proof against all the pettiness of aggravation that men allow to do so much harm in the world, the gnat-bites of daily intercourse which fester into various plagues far more deadly in their continual evil than all the great crimes which shock us so by the horrors of their incidence upon the life of man.

And with all this he was essentially a man, taking with highest intelligence his daily part in all around him, excelling in ability as he did in strength every one of his shipmates until he came to be looked upon by them as a kind of demi-god whose superiority in all things they ungrudgingly acknowledged because he himself was obviously entirely unconscious of it. Forward and aft it was the same. If any felt they had aught to teach him they immediately did so for the sheer joy of the thing; he was so eager to learn, so keen-witted in absorbing new knowledge, so humble and entirely grateful. At first this attitude of his was looked upon with suspicion by his shipmates, for suspicion and jealousy are baleful plants that thrive apace on shipboard among the crew, especially on long voyages; then, when the impossibility of being suspicious or jealous of such a man had been fully demonstrated, good-natured, bantering toleration took its place. This was succeeded by reverence, which gradually overcame the most sceptical, those who longest maintained that ‘Rube wuz jest a easy-goin’ loony ’at y’ c’d do anythin’ y’ liked with.’ This latter phase of feeling towards him arose, I think, as far as the foc’s’le was concerned, in consequence of the stand he took against rows in their common abiding place. Whenever men quarrelled (and shore-folk can hardly imagine how difficult it is to keep the peace in a small apartment tenanted by thirty men), Rube was at once on hand, unless it happened to be his wheel or masthead look-out. And, owing to his great size and strength and utter disregard of himself, it was impossible to bring off a fight when he was about. For he would propose the most absurd things, such as that the two belligerents, if they felt they must beat somebody, should beat him in turn; but beat one another they should not while he was able to prevent them, and they could not doubt his ability to do that. Once an infuriated man did strike him a heavy blow full in the mouth. It was like striking a rock. Rube leaped at the striker, caught his fist, and, holding it up, said, ‘Poor feller, jes’ look at them knuckles, they’re all cut about shameful. Less get a bit er rag an’ tie ’em up.’

What could they do with a man like that but love him? Nothing. And surely never was man so loved aboard ship before. When in the long evenings after the first dog-watch the crew lolled about the fore part of the deck smoking, it became quite an institution for Rube to sit (he didn’t smoke) and tell them stories in his own quaint language out of the Bible from memory. He possessed the only one on board, and read it continually in his watch below, giving up to its delights much of the time his great frame needed for sleep. Perhaps the quotation of a sample of his Bible yarns (as the fellows termed them) may be admitted.

‘Way back in the old days, boys, it seems t’ me thet most people hed a mighty rough time of it. In th’ cities, frum what I c’n see, they wuz pow’ful little ’musement fur the wealthy folks ’cept buildin’ uncomfortable palaces, stuffin’ grub down their necks they didn’t feel to want, gettin’ drunk, an’ seein’ a lot of poor people suffer. Funny how a man or woman should like to see sufferin’, ain’t it? Even then when these rich folks was havin’ what they persuaded themselves wuz a hot ole time, they wuz always expectin’ some feller’d come along an’ make a big hole in ’em with one o’ them old-fashioned stickers you see in pictures, about a foot long, four inches wide, and razzur sharp on both edges. But they was a lot o’ people hadn’t got no palaces. They was something like sailors ashore—always on th’ move, carryin’ their grub with ’em, an’ only stoppin’ any length o’ time where there was water an’ plenty grass fur th’ live stock. ’Course they managed t’ steal a lot of poor fellers ’at didn’t know enough t’ keep out er the way, and make these slaves do all the work. We’re most of us built like that. Comfort was a word that hadn’t come into use those days; but then neither had indigestion, nerves, corns, or rheumatics. Well, among these people was one a good deal better’n most ov ’em, though, of course, he had his faults, an’ his name was Isaac. Only that. Jest a given name, an’ no more: easy to remember. Now this good man was well off as those days went. He had lots o’ sheep ’n’ goats an’ donkeys an’ camels, an’ a mighty big country to travel about in, an’ let ’em feed wherever they would, with no rent or taxes to pay. He had a wife he was very fond of—only one, which was sing’lar for those times, when th’ best o’ men didn’t seem able to get along without a bunch o’ wives. An’ he had two sons. One of these sons was a fine fellow, free an’ open an’ brave, fond of all manly sports, but one of those chaps such as we say’ll never get on in th’ world. He was his father’s darlin’. The other was a quiet, say-nothin’-t’-nobody sort o’ feller, fond of hangin’ around the tents and looking after the breedin’ o’ the cattle an’ sheep, an’ he was what we call a good business man. But you had to watch him close, or he’d get t’ wind’ard of ye every time. His name was a sort o’ warning to anybody t’ keep their weather eye liftin’ when he was havin’ truck with ’em. It was Jacob, meanin’ a feller that gets into another feller’s place after he’s jockeyed him out of it. An’ he wasn’t partikler who it was he bested, his father or his brother jes’ as soon as anybody else. He was his mother’s favourite.

‘Well, after both boys had grown up, an’ Jacob had ben workin’ off his little schemes pretty frequent, ’specially on his twin brother Esau, his dotin’ mother puts him up to a dodge to take in the old man, who was gettin’ pretty shaky, so’s he’d scratch Esau outer his will, and put Jacob in. And between ’em they rigged up Jacob in goatskins to make him feel like Esau, who was one of those big, burly, hairy men, so as his poor old father, who was blind, shouldn’t know the difference, an’ give him all the property as well as his blessin’, which counted in them days fur even more than property. And th’ scheme worked all right. But when Esau come home from the country, and found it out, Jacob had to quit, or else Esau would have killed him sure. So his mother lost him altogether. I don’t s’pose that bothered him greatly. Anyhow, he did just as well in the new country he run to, and in just the same way. An’ he kem back a good many years after with quite a procession of wives an’ children an’ no end of property, an’ who should meet him but Esau, without any wives an’ children or property, but an army, which was almost the best thing to have in those days, ’cause when you’d got it you could get the other things whenever you wanted ’em by taking ’em away from somebody else.

‘And Jacob, bein’ scared ’most to death, offers to buy Esau off from what he s’posed was goin’ to be his revenge, with a whole heap of his property. But Esau says, “Thanks, old man, I don’t want to take away what belongs to you; I’ve got all I want. But I’ll send a bit of my army along with you to see that nobody else comes and robs ye.” But Jacob says to himself, “Oh, no, this is just a scheme for taking all I’ve got away bymeby.” So he refused. An’ they parted, an’ never saw one another again.’

Loud cries of ‘Bully for Esau!’ and opprobrious remarks about Jacob, changing into utter bewilderment when next evening Jacob’s subsequent history was told in the same quaintly familiar fashion, and the justification of his being chosen by God was pointed out. For not only did Rube tell Bible stories, but in the most artless manner he based conversation upon them; never arguing, but gently suggesting; familiarising his hearers with Scripture in the most pleasing way, and never attempting to compel belief by his efforts. It is no exaggeration to say that in spite of the disappointment felt by the men at the long period of unsuccessful searching, Rube’s sweet influence was felt by all hands. And although many of them still had their occasional doubts of his sanity, none doubted the perfect goodness and beauty of his character.

They became a very smart crew. Every duty they were called upon to perform they did as if they loved it, and the skipper’s rugged face glowed with eagerness to see how they would behave on whales if and when the chance came. But it was not until they were midway between the Line and Cape Horn that they sighted their first sperm whale. He was a lone whale of enormous size, and evidently making a passage to some other feeding-ground, since he kept his course as if steering by compass, spouting with the utmost regularity a given number of times, descending and rising again as if timed by a chronometer. Cautiously, but with all the attention possible, the ship was worked to windward of him, until, in a suppressed shout, Captain Hampden gave the order, ‘’Way boats!’ It had previously been decided that only two boats were needed for the job, so the first and second mates’ boats started, dropped alongside lightly as foam flakes, and with a long, swinging stroke they pulled away to windward. Rube was in the mate’s boat pulling midship oar—the heaviest of the five—and the mate simply gasped with astonishment to see how this recent yokel handled his eighteen-foot oar, how all his powers were given to its manipulation, and what a beautiful stroke he had. They pulled for half an hour, then with sails set to the strong breeze that was blowing, bore down upon the unconscious whale, the other boat following hard after them at a cable’s distance. Nearer, nearer they drew, all hands holding their breath. Now a wide sheer to port because of that little eye’s power of seeing astern. They gain rapidly; they are abeam. A strong sweep of the steer oar, the main sheet is slacked off, and the boat sweeps round and leaps at the whale’s broadside like a living thing. Before she strikes, the harpooner has hurled his iron, and it sinks its length into the black side; the whale is fast. Haul aft the sheet, flat as possible, the boat flies up into the wind, the harpooner casting out the stray line meanwhile, and there, although tossing tremendously because of the fuss being made by the indignant whale, they get the hampering sail rolled up and mast unshipped and fleeted aft out of the way.

Before they have finished their task the second mate is alongside awaiting orders. He is told not to go near, but wait and see what the whale is going to do, always an uncertain factor in scenes like this. The whale is going to behave in orthodox fashion—i.e., descend to where beyond these voices there is peace. Downward he goes deliberately, as if hurry were never less needed, but apparently taking no heed of the strain kept on the line by the buoyant boat above. Presently it becomes evident that he is a stayer, for the second line-tub is nearly empty, and he shows no signs of slackening in his downward path. So the second mate is called upon to pass the end of his line aboard, and it is spliced on at once. (The strands are always kept plaited up, so that a splice may be made almost as rapidly as a knot, and much neater and more safe.) Still he goes down, down, down; while faces gather blackness as fake after fake of line disappears. Will he never weaken? The heavy drogue (equal in retarding strain to four boats) has been bent on at the splice, but seems to have no effect upon him. The mate’s heart sinks. Up goes the urgent wheft, a signal to the ship that more line is needed immediately; but, alas! it is too late. There is a short interval of almost agonising suspense, and the end of the line flips over the bows. He is gone!