After a short interval of oversight, a few words with the officers who were superintending the commencement of the trying-out process, and an entirely contented look around at the storminess of the night, he said to the second mate, who was in charge of the watch at the time: ‘Wall, Mr. Peck, I guess I’ll go and turn in fur a spell. It’s goin’t’ be a dirty night, an’ ye mout’s well rig up the cover over th’ try-works, ’case it rains, ’r she ships any water. Don’t want th’ pots bilin’ over ’n catchin’ light, do we? Nawthin’ else yew’d like t’ talk t’ me abaout, is there, ’fore I go below?’ ‘No, sir,’ said the officer; ‘everythin’ seems to be goin’ in good shape so far, ’n’ as fur this dirt, wall, I reckon the moon’s ’bout due at seven bells ’n’ I shouldn’t wonder if she scorfs it all.’ ‘Ha, ha,’ laughed the old man; ‘it’s mighty certain she wunt scorf the fly jib anyhaow. It’s too well fast fur thet. Good-night.’ He alluded to the old, old yarn at sea of the careful mate who, because the night was threatening in appearance, asked the skipper whether he shouldn’t ‘take some of the kites off her.’ ‘Oh, no,’ said the skipper, ‘the moon’ll scorf (eat) all that’ (alluding to the ugly appearance of the clouds). But when aroused by the tumult on deck an hour or two latter the skipper came rushing on deck and anxiously inquired what had become of the flying jib, the mate replied nonchalantly, ‘Oh, the moon’s scorfed that, sir.’
Diving below, the old man took a searching look at his barometer, noted the direction of the ship’s head, and then passed on to his own tiny state-room, slipped off his boots and sat down. Alone with his thoughts, they flew back again to that far-off time to which they had been directed by his contemplation of Rube. Slowly his head dropped upon his hands, lower and lower he bowed himself, until, utterly oblivious of all the sea-noises around him, of the uneasy motion of his ship as she headed the rising sea, or of his responsibility for the welfare of every soul on board, he slipped down upon his knees, and as simply as ever he did when a child, but with an added fervour, he lifted up his heart to God.
It was at least half an hour before he rose from his knees, but in the space of that brief period he had learned more than most men learn during the whole of their lives. Confessing his sins he asked for pardon, admitting his blindness he asked for sight, acknowledging his ignorance he asked for teaching; and he obtained all his desires. Then with a sense of lightness and freedom from care never before felt he lay down on his little settee to be ready for a call, and in about the space of one minute was fast asleep.
On deck, the scene to an uninitiate would have been appalling. With a monotonous, never-ceasing, and ever-increasing wail the wild wind bore down out of the windward blackness upon the brave old ship. A peep over the weather bulwarks revealed the long, long ranges of gleaming wave-crests rolling down upon her, their uncanny greenish light flickering against the black background and showing by the distances they were apart longitudinally how mightily the waves had grown. There was a fascination about them, too, which held the observer gazing until like a splash of small shot a spray of spindrift struck him in the face and sent him smarting to shelter. But as if it had been the finest of summer evenings the steady stress of labour continued. Up from the blubber-room were hurled the massive horse-pieces of blubber, carved with so much labour from the great blanket pieces by the slipping, struggling labourers below. Of all the strange places I have ever seen I think the blubber-room of a whaleship at night in a gale of wind is beyond comparison the strangest. It is a square space of about thirty feet each way and between six and seven feet high. Into it are piled the blanket pieces, those immense widths of blubber, each weighing a ton or so, which have been ripped from the carcass of the whale. In uncouth masses they lie one upon another, piled often almost to touching the beams overhead. As the ship rolls they glide and heave upon one another as if still actuated by the breath of the monster they so lately covered. From a beam, generally in a corner, swings a primitive lamp, little more than accentuating the darkness. And at the beginning of operations two dim forms crawl precariously about among those greasy masses, occasionally slipping a leg down into a temporary crevice and having it squeezed into numbness before being able to withdraw it. They wield short-handled spades like Dutch hoes, and with infinite labour hew off blocks from the masses of blubber of a fit size to pass through the mincer. When they have a dozen or so of these blocks ready they must needs in some unexplainable fashion balance themselves under the hatchway, and with a sort of diminutive pitchfork hurl the blocks (horse-pieces) upwards into a shallow trough secured to the coaming or upper edge of the hatch, whence the attendant on the mincer loads a tub with them and drags them away. And unless these blubber-room men be exceedingly skilful as well as strong, they will not only never have a breathing space during the six hours of their stay below, but will, in addition, have to bear much contumely from the officer in charge, who will be instant in his sarcastic inquiries as to what they may be doing below—whether they are asleep or not.
The clank-clank of the mincer is unceasing, tall tongues of flame from the funnels of the try-works make long red smears upon the gloom as they stream away to leeward, and the two harpooners feed the bubbling cauldrons with minced blubber, bale out the sufficiently boiled oil, and watch with unceasing care against a sudden splash of cold water into the pots, which may cause the oil to rise in a moment, and, overflowing into the furnaces, set fire to the ship. All the watch is so busy that there is no time to notice the weather, or moralise upon this most romantic scene—a ship’s company who, having succeeded in winning from a hostile element the spoil of the mightiest creature known, have now converted their vessel into a floating factory, and under the most extraordinarily difficult conditions conceivable are engaged in realising that spoil in order to convey it to their home port thousands of miles away.
Here let us leave them for awhile, and exercising our privilege of instant transition, glance back at the quiet village whence the departure of our hero withdrew so much consolation and manly assistance in the old age of his parents.
CHAPTER XI
AT THE OLD HOMESTEAD
Saturday night in the Eddy homestead. In their respective chairs, occupied by them with hardly a break through thirty-eight years of ideally happy married life, sat Farmer Eddy and his wife. The labours of the week were ended, the hired people gone to rest, and husband and wife sat face to face as they had done for so many years, but never until the last six months with such weary hearts. Mrs. Eddy had aged very much. Not that any care for her boy’s spiritual welfare worried her—she felt as certain of him in that respect as if he had been always under her eye. But since his departure from New Bedford in the Xiphias it was as if he had passed into the eternal silence, and although she said little her heart-hunger was terrible. His last letter was but half-a-dozen lines, hastily scrawled and posted without signature, telling his parents that he was outward bound on a South Sea whaling voyage, and in the hurry of the moment omitting to mention even the name of his ship. Naturally, therefore, as the days went by lengthening into weeks, the weeks into months, the disease of uncertainty made her its prey, and she aged fast, perhaps as much from the heroic effort she made to conceal her anxiety from her husband as from its direct effect.
Alas, what Mrs. Eddy endured has too often been the lot of American mothers. For in those days recruiting agents for the New England whalers prowled about the country beguiling simple young men with specious tales of the glories of a roving life and the wealth they would by-and-by bring home. And as the recruits never knew where they were going except that it was out upon the wide ocean, nor when they might possibly return, except that it must not legally be longer than four years, the news they were able to send their people at the time of shipment, even supposing they felt in good heart enough to do so, was of necessity extremely meagre. Nor were opportunities for sending letters frequent afterwards. An occasional whaler was spoken which might or might not be homeward bound in the course of a year or so. It was hardly worth while entrusting letters to such a casual packet as that. And the land touched was almost always carefully selected for its aloofness from civilisation, as well as its offering few inducements to a would-be deserter who was anxious to return home.