A Whaleman's Wife

by Frank Thomas Bullen

Again the voice of the skipper arose—no note of triumph in it, no suggestion of rest for his crew. ‘Hull in thet line, lively naow. Hyar yew,’ to the after oarsman, ’histe thet wheft’ (small blue signal flag) ‘’n’ wave fur th’ secon’ mate t’ come up.’ So they hauled up alongside of the whale and cut the line from the harpoon, by which time Mr. Winslow, who had kept close to the fight all the time, was also alongside. ‘Naow,’ shouted the skipper to him, ‘git thet fluke-rope passed ’s if ye knew haow, an’ be ready with yer eend to pass aboard when I come. Pull two, starn three, so, all together,’ and away shot the boat towards the ship, which was coming down towards them at a fine rate. So fast, indeed, did the two craft draw together, that barely ten minutes had elapsed from the time the skipper’s boat left the whale until he was again on board and, hoisting his boat, was issuing his orders as if he were an engineer handling the cranks, levers, and throttle-valves of his engines. Now he was in his element—now he felt the primal delight of power—to rule his fellows and bend to his moulding will. The whale was not large as regards bulk, but full of fatness—so full, indeed, that the utmost care must needs be exercised lest the hoisting gear should tear out of the almost rotten blubber. The operations were conducted in peerless fashion, the skipper being apparently the mind of all hands—his late disablement appeared to have given him an impetus that none of his previous experiences had supplied. So great, indeed, was he that muttering passed from man to man after this fashion: ‘Oh, but he’s a horse, ain’t he?’ ‘Don’t he do it?’ ‘What a man he is!’ &c.

The work of securing the spoil was carried on with such vigour, such exquisite skill, and due apportionment of labour, that before the day was closed all the worst of the duty was done, and the skipper strode proudly the scanty limits of his quarter-deck with the mien of a man who could not possibly learn from any a better way of doing his work. And, as I have already noted, he had also earned the intense admiration of all hands, although each one of those men was aching from head to heel with the extraordinary strain put upon him.

And Priscilla? Well, she had not suffered. She had learnt to wait in patience the outcome of all things—not to be distressed by strange noises as of strife, or no less strange interludes of silence, when it seemed as if everyone but herself was dead. Even when upon the deep quiet (as of the grave) which enwrapped her there impinged a great noise, she did not shrink or shudder: she just looked up and was comforted. That she should have been thus becalmed, as it were, in the midst of tempests, that to her wilful, wayward heart should have come so bountiful a measure of the Divine patience, will naturally seem incredible to many—quite as great a miracle as the raising of the widow’s son. But, thank God! there are also many of us who know that such miracles are daily wrought by the direct interposition of God. Sometimes man is honoured by being the instrument in such cases, but more often they are the outcome of an answer given by the trembling, tired soul out into the darkness whence comes the comforting, still small voice.

When at last the skipper came down he wore all the self-conferred honours of a successful tyrant. He had vindicated his position as the one man who could do things without making mistakes, who could be depended upon to come upon the scene when disaster seemed imminent, and, taking the helm of affairs, conduct them triumphantly to victory. And the knowledge was almost too much for him. He strode into his state-room and flung his orders at Priscilla much as if she had been a negro slave—with little distinction between her and the steward. And she, with calmest demeanour, obeyed him to the foot of the letter. She gave him no cause of complaint, and to his intense surprise he found himself looking furtively at her and wondering how it was she did not cry or protest or do something, anything except act like one whom nothing could make unhappy or disobedient. At last he could no longer endure the spur of his curiosity, and he said, in strangely subdued tones (the steward having gone on deck), ‘Wut’s th’ matter with ye, Pris? Ain’t feelin’ sick, air ye? Yer lookin’ kinder curis, y’ know.’ She turned her calm face to him and said, ‘No, Ramon; I’m feeling very well, thank you. Is there anything more I can do for you?’ He did not answer. For his keen Latin wits had come up against something that was quite outside of his experience. Something of the baffled rage of the early persecutors possessed him as he realised that his wife had passed into a region from which he was quite shut out. So he hurled a savage curse, a farrago of Portuguese blasphemy, at her, which sounded like the rattling of manacles, and passed on deck again.

Remember, if you would blame Priscilla for not trying to win this bad man, that she knew him, knew that any language she might use would be utterly unintelligible to him, knew that his long and successful career of cruelty had hardened in him all the baser attributes, and she felt it would be hopeless to try. She felt, too, that she would only be bringing more suffering down upon herself, and was not at all confident as to the limit of her endurance. She was wrong, of course: she had not a sufficiently ample idea of the power of God to save. But we dare not blame her: many of us in her position would have gone mad. And she did pray for him, but without the faintest belief that her prayer would be answered. She felt, as Mr. Moody once expressed it, as if when she prayed for that man the heavens above her were as brass, that prayers on his behalf could not ascend.

So the Grampus sped onward towards Brava under the most favourable conditions possible. The work of securing the spoil of the whale was carried through in marvellous fashion; the wind held true to the north, even sometimes a point to the westward of north, and freshened enough to give the old ship a speed, rap-full, of five knots an hour. Whether it was any anticipation of meeting old acquaintances (a man like that never has friends) or not, the skipper, too, was certainly less severe than usual in his treatment of his men. He even condescended to inquire occasionally after the health of his mate, who was doing wonderfully well in the pure air and utter lack of all medicine, aided by his splendid constitution. So well, indeed, did the old ship progress, that by the time she had been restored to her ordinary condition of spotless cleanliness, the beautiful outlines of the islands were sighted, and all hands, with quickened pulse-beats, began to look forward to a little change in the ordered monotony of their lives. But great was their disappointment when they found that, instead of going as closely in as was safe, the Captain anchored his ship in thirty fathoms of water—far out to sea. And without the loss of an hour he ordered his boat to be manned (by Portuguese only), and, dressed like a bridegroom, mounted the rail preparatory to descending. The second mate stood near; the mate listened from the corner aft, where he sat helpless, with painful earnestness for any word the skipper might drop of his intentions.

‘See here, Mr. Winslow,’ drawled the skipper, ‘ye’ll keep the men at work, watch on watch, same’s at sea. Yew’ll keep a bright look-out for me comin’ back, as I shall be ’fore long, anyway. An’ if anythin’ happens ’at ye want me sudden, set the ensign at the peak.’ And without another word he was gone, and his boat’s crew, with the splendid stroke of the trained American whaleman, was making the pretty craft fly towards the shore, its captain standing erect in the stern, handling his steer-oar, like a figure of stone. The second mate watched him out of definition range, then, descending from the rail with a sigh, he sought the mate, saying, ‘Well, Mr. Court, whut ye think of him? Ain’t he a daisy? I really dunno haow it es, but th’ wuss he is th’ more I admire at him, until his back’s turned, ’n’ then I want t’ kill him. An’,’ dropping his voice, ‘d’ jever before in a ’Merican ship see a lady treated like this one? I have stood, I k’n stand, a good deal frum him, but if ever he raises his hand t’ thet poor broken-hearted woman when I’m erroun’ I’m goin’t’ kill him right in his tracks—naow, yew hear me!’ ‘Oh, shet yer head!’ fretfully replied the mate. ‘I know all abaout thet; wut’s th’ use er chawin’ it over? What I wunt t’ know is, wut sort of a gang of dagoes is he goin’ t’ bring with him. All his own relations, I suppose, ’n’ thar’ll be the usual amount er spyin’ an’ lyin’ an’ devilishness generally. If only I had this leg ’n’ arm o’ mine usable! I ben thinkin’ over a good many things sense I ben a-laying here, I tell ye, but I got one idea solid, ’n’ that is thet, live er die, I’m a-goin’ t’ stand up t’ him an’ whoever he brings aboard here, an’ hev’ my rights as mate. You, too, I know, Winslow; but only as man to man; no hatchin’ anything’ or conspirin’. We’ll leave that to them. But I do wish we could help the poor woman.’

‘Thank you, friends,’ said Priscilla, who had glided on deck and overheard the last portion of the mate’s remarks. ‘It’s very good of you to think about me, but I shall be grateful if you will behave as if I were not on board. I cannot, must not, be a source of trouble, and, moreover, the Captain is my husband. Now don’t, please don’t, think of helping me, as you call it, any more. I’ve got help of the best kind always available. I didn’t know I had until a short time ago. I’d forgotten God, as it seems to me God is forgotten at sea. But when I was ready to go mad with what I thought was my undeserved trouble, He came to my rescue, and now I feel I can bear anything. And, anyhow, what is my trouble compared with yours? Ah, Mr. Court, I have felt so much for you in your awful pain, and not to be able to help you at all. Are you in pain now?’ ‘Oh, no, ma’am, thank you kindly,’ murmured the mate; ‘that’s all over and done with. Anyhow, it was never quite as bad as you might think. Sounds a good deal worse than it is. I’m hurt more at havin’ to lie here doin’ nothin’ than by any pain I’ve got.’ ‘Well, I’m glad to hear you say so. Now I must go down. I feel that I’m doing wrong sitting up here talking to you, as I should certainly not be doing if my husband were here.’ And she departed below, leaving the two mates, with a totally new set of sensations, staring at each other dumbly.

Unfortunately, mischief had been done. One of the Portuguese sailors had been ostensibly occupied in renewing the seizings on the mizen shrouds, but for the last ten minutes he had devoted all his faculties to listening. Vainly; he did not know enough of the language to take in the conversation, but he knew that the Captain’s wife had been talking for a long time to the two mates. And he determined that the knowledge should not be wasted. The two officers, so deeply interested were they, did not notice this man, and when presently the second mate almost guiltily resumed his oversight of the men and their work he did not even see Lazzaro furtively glancing at him from the mizen rigging. No more was said by either of the mates or Mrs. Da Silva on the subject, and the work of the ship went on throughout the day with something of its old machine-like regularity. Night fell, and still no sign of the skipper. With deepening distrust and anxiety the officer saw the watches set, attending to every detail of his duties with the utmost fidelity, and reporting at eight o’clock all his doings to the mate. Mr. Court sent a respectful message to Priscilla on hearing this, acquainting her with the condition of affairs and assuring her that she had no cause for alarm. She would receive instant attention to her lightest wish, and probably the Captain would be aboard before morning. And so, quietly enough to all outward seeming, but with much anxiety among the afterguard, the night passed away.

Ashore the Captain was having what sailors term a mighty good time. Congenial spirits awaited him of both sexes, long known to him, and, flinging aside all the restraints he felt he had been bound by during the last year, he plunged into the wildest excesses. He was one of those men to whom such an outburst, even at very long intervals, seems a necessity of life—one that when the opportunity for obtaining it arrives can by no effort of will be refrained from, although it is hard to suppose that such an effort is ever made or attempted. And yet he could be, as far as abstention from vulgar vice was concerned, a very eremite for a year at a time, otherwise he would never have reached his present position; for the American shipowner—or, indeed, employer of any kind—is entirely intolerant of drunkenness or debauchery among his servants, and will have none of it if by any means he can prevent it. Now, however, his boat’s crew disposed of—allowed to run a little riot of their own among their cronies, and merely ordered to turn up in the morning at eight o’clock, bringing six recruits with them, he abandoned himself to the fierce delights of the Latin seaman when let loose.