A Whaleman's Wife

by Frank Thomas Bullen

The task of dividing the ‘case’ and ‘junk’ from the head, which was now taken in hand, is the heaviest of all, not excepting cutting off the head. For the case is a huge oblong tank, full of pure spermaceti, and extending almost the whole length of the head, of which, indeed, it forms nearly half the bulk. It must be cut out, for in a whale of this size it contains nearly three tons of spermaceti as fluid as oil, and there is no way of getting at this precious substance without lifting the whole case. Lifting the head entirely is sometimes effected, but only when the whale is small. In so large a one as this the lifting of the case alone when detached is a task demanding the utmost energy of all hands, and often, when a heavy sea is running, straining the ship dangerously. Even then it cannot be taken on board, but must be suspended alongside, and the spermaceti baled out of it with a bucket in a most cumbrous and unsatisfactory way. The junk, being one solid mass cut off the point of the snout, and weighing about four or five tons, is easier dealt with, since a slip of the spade in cutting it off does not mean a possible leakage of all its valuable contents, for in it the spermaceti is contained in cells as water is held in a sponge, and is, moreover, almost congealed.

By dint of the most strenuous toil, the junk and case were separated, and the former hove on deck and secured, half an hour before dark. Then the mighty case was hooked on and held up alongside. As the ship was beginning to roll uneasily in the new cross swell coming up from the south-east, precursor of the impending storm, it was necessary to pass a heavy chain around it to bind it in to the side. Then a light spar was rigged across the two tackles, high above the case, and a single whip or pulley, with a rope running through it, to one end of which was attached a long bucket. Then a man—he happened to be a merry little Irish teamster, named MacManus—mounted nimbly aloft, and sat upon the spar grasping a spade pole, with which to push the bucket down into the case after he had slit open the top of it. Then, at his word, the waiting men on deck hauled the bucket out and lowered it to the tank awaiting its contents on deck.

Meanwhile all on deck were as busy as ants. Inspired by the skipper, they toiled to get the decks clear, and certain of them, at the word, rushed aloft to furl the few remaining sails that were set, except the close-reefed main topsail. Rube, being on the leeside, did not trouble to cross the deck and go up in orthodox fashion, but as he climbed somewhat wearily he saw MacManus take a header from his precarious seat into the yawning cavity of the case. A scream of horror burst from his lips, but overcoming the paralysis that momentarily affected his bodily powers, he leaped like a cat from the main shrouds to the cutting falls, and, grabbing the bucket in one hand, slid down into the yawning chasm beneath. As he went he felt the slimy walls of the great case embracing him all round, and thought with agony of the depth beneath him—fourteen feet at least of oil—then soundlessly the bland greasiness closed over his head, and all was darkness. But his mind was clear, and his hope was high that those who saw him go would spring to the whip and haul up ere it was too late. And while he thus thought he groped with one arm through the bucket loop, and, feeling something hard, seized it with a drowning man’s grip just as he felt himself ascending. Reluctantly those sucking walls yielded up their prey; his arms felt as if they were being torn from their sockets; but although there was a roaring as of loudest thunder in his ears, he held on. And presently he hung limply in mid-air, one arm still through the bucket loop, the other around the body of MacManus. Four eager and willing men slid down the falls and seized the pair. Securing them with ropes passed to them from the main-top, they lowered them as rapidly as possible on deck. Even then there was no time to be lost, for both were apparently dead—ears, nostrils, and mouths being clogged with the rapidly coagulating spermaceti. But after the application of some highly original methods of clearing it away, and most patient artificial respiration following it, the pair gradually returned from their visit to the shades, and sat up wonderingly.

It was not for several hours that either of them could recall what had befallen them, and when they did both fell a-trembling violently as they again realised the sensation of sliding down into that darksome well of grease. But Rube recovered first, having, as he said, the need laid upon him to offer up thanks to God for permitting him to save his shipmate’s life. He remembered how, as he slid out of the fast-fading daylight, his heart said, ‘O God, make me save him,’ and he felt that by nothing short of a miracle he had been able to do so. Poor MacManus could not speak of it, so broken up was he, but for hours, emitting every now and then a rending sob, he lay holding Rube’s hand in his as if only by so doing could he be prevented from gliding back again into that pit of death.

This accident had, of course, caused much delay, but still, through the now almost pitchy blackness of the night, by the aid of cressets of blazing fuel suspended from the boat-davits, the work had gone on, until at four bells (10 P.M.) a few strokes of a spade released the ponderous mass from its slings, and with a sullen, thunderous boom it fell back into the sea. Immediately upon its disappearance the skipper ordered half the crew below for a couple of hours’ rest, and himself hastened to visit the victims of the late mishap. He found MacManus asleep, nervously twitching all over, but Rube lying with hands folded on his breast, his lips moving slowly as he murmured praises for his deliverance.

‘Well, Rube, ’n’ haow d’ye seem t’ be hittin’ it b’ now, hey?’ said the old man cheerily.

Rube turned on him a dazzling smile, and answered in a quiet tone: ‘Jes ’s grand ’s grand kin be, Cap’n. I don’t know as I was ever so happy in all m’ life. Only one thing I’m sorry fur, ’at I kain’t be up ’n’ doin’ my share o’ th’ work thet’s goin’ on. But as yew’re all so kind, I don’t feel able t’ worry nearly ’s much ’bout thet ’s I feel I oughter.’

‘Jes’ yew stop right thar,’ said the skipper. ‘Don’t wanter hyar ‘et yew’re worryin’ any ‘t all. Why, blame my cats, I want ye well, ’n’ haow in thunder air ye goin’ t’ git well ef you lays thar a-worryin’? Guess me an’ th’ rest ov yew’re shipmates ’ll dew all th’ worryin’ thet’s called fur till yew’re round again. We kain’t git ’long ’thout yew a bit, ’n’ thet’s a fact.’

‘Ah, Cap’n,’ murmured Rube, ‘it does sound good ov ye to say so, and say it so kinder tender like. Fact is, yew’re all of ye so kind ’at I’m’s happy as a man k’n be. Nothin’ don’t seem able t’ hurt me. Naow and then thar’s a set o’ blurred pictures comes up in my mind of a long time ago, when I was very unhappy an’ looked ahead to see nawthin’ but trouble an’ misery waitin’ fur me all my days. But it never gits quite clear. I never remember anything fur certain, and I don’t seem ter—I kain’t seem ter—feel ’at I keer a row o’ pins what’s goin’ t’ happen ter-morrer. I seem ter ben here all my life, ’n’ don’t want a little bit t’ be anywhere else. I ain’t gut a care ner a fret ner a want in the world.’ Then, as the Captain turned as if about to leave abruptly—for the need upon him to do so was great—Rube gently laid a detaining hand upon his arm, saying: ‘Cap’n, I believe it’s all the goodness of God. Some of us don’t think as much of Him as we might. I know I don’t, but I b’lieve ther’ ain’t one of us but what thinks more about God’s love to ’em than they do ’bout anythin’ else in this world.’ ‘Stop,’ almost shouted the skipper, ‘yew’re hurtin’ me wuss ’n ye know. I dassent say a word ’at w’d hurt yer faith in us, but fur God’s sake don’t make us out like that. I kain’t tell ye haow mean an’ low down an’ ord’nary yew make me feel when yew talk like that. Naow I must git, fur yew’re mighty low, ’n’ I got work wants doin’. Try an’ git t’ sleep an’ be about among us as quickly as ever yew can.’ And the skipper hurriedly departed.

In truth he was glad to get away from what was rapidly becoming an intolerable situation. Back to his mind had been brought with startling clearness the old Quaker home, the sweet placid face of his mother, as with a cooing gentleness she taught him to utter his earliest prayers to the All-Father with whom she was on such beautifully intimate terms. He remembered how the light upon his mother’s face always seemed to him to be reflected from the sky, and how he used to shut his eyes tight and wish that he might have a vision of that dear Friend whom he felt sure that mother could see and hear so clearly. Also the grave face of his father came up before him, never, as far as he could remember, lit by a smile, always looking as if the tremendous realities of life had left their indelible impress there. He knew that while he had loved his mother he had reverenced his father, but never seemed able to get beyond that feeling of awe-stricken admiration. Then came the death of both those holy ones, the breaking up of the old home, and the gradual loss through the struggling years that followed of personal communion with his mother’s Friend, while still retaining through all the hardnesses of a whaler’s life a blend of her sweet temper and his father’s exalted rectitude. And now he was set a-wondering in the presence of this gentle ‘greenie’ how much he had lost through his gradually letting slip his acquaintance with his mother’s God. But like most men of Anglo-Saxon race, he felt a strange fear lest he should betray to anyone around him these ennobling, uplifting thoughts that welled up from his heart. His face burned and his voice trembled curiously as he walked among his toiling men, glancing furtively at each familiar face as if wondering whether any of them could detect any difference in him—for difference he knew there was—from what he had been yesterday.