A Whaleman's Wife

by Frank Thomas Bullen

But in spite of the long night’s excesses there was little alteration in his appearance or manner when he met his men in the morning, noting with high approval that they had succeeded in obtaining the new hands he wanted: six huge piratical-looking ruffians, three of whom were of that peculiar type of Portuguese which can only be found in the islands of the North-West Atlantic—men, that is, with the high-bred facial characteristics of the Portuguese allied to a perfect blackness of skin. Some of these men are of great size, and almost all of them know something about sperm-whaling, since all of these islands were for hundreds of years most prolific haunts of the cachalot. Therefore they have always been welcomed as recruits for whaleships, their undoubted courage and great powers of endurance adding to their desirability. But to Captain Da Silva they represented more than these advantages. They were his own countrymen, and might be relied upon to abet him in any scheme of devilry he might devise, in which he would certainly lack the support of his American officers. And a dim idea of vengeance upon those officers was certainly taking shape within his mind, which, once definitely arranged, he would spare no pains to carry out nor allow any peevish scruples to prevent him doing so.

With a few quiet words to the newcomers about pay, position, &c., also the time of meeting to make the engagement—a very simple matter in those ships—he gave them some money, and went his way to purchase three new whaleboats. In this he was also fortunate, for a local bay whaling company had just dissolved partnership, and all their gear was on sale. He succeeded in purchasing from the representative of the late company four boats and a large quantity of gear for less than half their ordinary value, which pleased him so much that he determined to stay another night ashore and continue his enjoyment. But first he made arrangements for his new purchases to be taken off to the ship. The only message he condescended to send was that the boat should return for him the next day at 10 A.M. And not an ounce of fresh meat or fruit or vegetables went off. These articles were cheap enough in all conscience, but Captain Da Silva never pampered his crew, especially this early in a long voyage, and, besides, there was punishment to be carried out. And no form of punishment on board ship as applied to a whole crew is more effective than to be anchored near a fruitful shore after months of bad salt food and be denied a taste of the delicious things they can almost see growing. Under ordinary conditions such a deprivation would be next to impossible, as there are always people along shore anxious to earn a little by catering for the needs of a ship’s company, except in the most savage lands. And if there be no money on board, barter can always be resorted to: quite a quantity of sweet potatoes, oranges, or bananas can be obtained for a shirt. The Captain, however, had arranged all that; according to his wishes not a boat had been near his ship. And, besides, she was a long way out.

When the officers saw the gear and boats, and received the message, they looked at each other significantly, but said no word. Mr. Court, now able to hobble about, took charge of operations, and in quite a short time the newly acquired boats had been placed in position, had each received a coat of white paint, that being the colour of the Grampus’s boats, their gear fitted to them, and everything made ready for their lowering to a whale. They came alongside at midday, and by nightfall were ready for use. During all this activity Priscilla had been quite forgotten. The officers felt doubtful how she would receive any information about her husband which, in answer to questions, they might have felt tempted to supply, so they did not mention the matter. Only the genial darkey steward, in the perfectly respectful yet familiar manner common to negro servants in America, chatted away to his mistress, and kept her from being too lonely or dwelling too much upon the unknown reasons which had induced her husband to leave her on board the ship for two days without giving her any information at all of his doings. Had she known it, she might have felt surprised that he had never so much as given her a thought. But she would hardly have been grieved at anything he did now to her, having fortified her mind against the worst that could befall.

Punctually at the time appointed the boat arrived at the place ordered by the Captain, who almost immediately appeared, and gave orders for the transhipment to the boat of a number of cases. Altogether they made a heavy cargo for such a frail boat; but whalers are most expert at this business, and effect transportation by means of these boats that seems impossible to any ordinary sailormen. This done they shoved off, Captain Da Silva standing erect in the stern, his eyes fixed upon his ship, and noting detail after detail as they became visible. A frown, never entirely absent from his handsome face, deepened upon it as he failed to see any cause for complaint. She looked beautifully trim; not a rope yarn out of its place, the weather-beaten patches on her side carefully touched up, the boats all bright with new paint, the three mastheads manned, and, as he came alongside, the mate at the gangway to receive him, and the crew all standing by the boat’s falls ready to hoist her up the moment he should step on board.

As he put his foot on the rail, Mr. Court said, ‘Good morning, sir.’ But instead of replying, the Captain said, ‘Whyn’t ye git under weigh?’ And without pausing for an answer shouted: ‘Man th’ windlass.’ The cry was re-echoed all over the ship, and almost immediately nothing could be heard for the clatter of the pawls as the big windlass barrel revolved at top speed. ‘Down frum aloft there an’ loose sail, courses, taups’les, an’ t’gallantsails,’ again shouted the Captain. ‘Lively naow; think yer goin’ t’ sit up thar an’ sleep while th’ ship’s gittin’ under weigh?’ Oh, he was a hustler, was Captain Da Silva. In ten minutes from the time he came on board the boat’s cargo was discharged, she was hoisted, the Grampus was under weigh, and pointing south for the resumption of the long and weary voyage. Then, and not till then, did the skipper condescend to say anything to his chief officer. He called him, and with a coldly sarcastic curl of his lip as he saw him hobbling aft on improvised crutches, he said, ‘Anythin’ t’ report?’ ‘No, sir,’ replied Mr. Court, ‘’cept thet I’ve returned t’ duty.’ ‘No need t’ report thet, anyhaow,’ growled the skipper; ‘I k’n use my eyes. But yew don’t look pretty, ’n thet’s a fact. Mout’s well hide yerself a bit longer, moutn’t ye? Hain’t gut tired doin’ nawthin’, I’m sure.’ ‘See here, Captain Da Silva,’ hissed the mate, ‘you’ve gut th’ whip hand now, I’ll own, but if ever I git on equal terms with ye, all this’ll hev t’ be settled fur.’ ‘Go, lie daown, dog,’ muttered the Captain. ‘I’ll attend t’ you an’ all th’ rest right along ’n’ git all th’ sleep I need too.’ And the Grampus began to rise and fall gently to the incoming swell as the Captain went below.

CHAPTER XIV

AMONG RIGHT WHALES

We left our hero Rube suffering in body but triumphant in soul, and also in perfect ignorance of the astounding change his behaviour was bringing about in all hands. I have always maintained that a Christian ship presents as near an approach to what most of us agree Heaven must be like as we can make on this side of the gate thereof. For look at the position! The grosser forms of temptation are entirely absent, yet there is none of the selfish side of monasticism present. Men talk and laugh and work with their fellows amid the most glorious of all earthly surroundings—the pure, wide, bright ocean. There is no monotony, since every day brings diversified duties, and in hours of rest not needed for sleep there is an ever-changing panorama of glory present to the newly awakened eyes, drawing ever-deepening thankfulness from the regenerated heart. The thousand-and-one miseries and pettinesses that distract men ashore are absent. From the little world evil has departed—almost the knowledge of it, since there is no daily paper recording the never-ending succession of crimes.

Yes, it is an ideal state of existence, a sort of Happy Valley in the midst of the ocean, whence the trail of the serpent has been removed, and where the community bask, unshadowed by sin, in the sunshine of God. Of course, it will be cynically remarked that this is a picture of perfection, unattainable, impossible. Well, it is nearly, but not quite. I have experienced something very near it, and I beg to submit that it was so idyllic that it could not be made a subject for cynical sarcasm, even by the editor of the Freethinker, if he only saw it in operation. It might be called right fruit of wrong belief; but I do not love paradoxes. I prefer to believe that men do not gather grapes of thorns or figs of thistles.

But I am doing an injustice to Reuben and his shipmates by interpolating my own meditations in their story. When the work of realising the spoil of their first whale had been finished, all hands felt that they had now served their apprenticeship—were now fully equipped for their work on board, whatever it might be. And in their watches below the men found a wondrous fund of conversational matter in the happenings of the past few days. But whenever they approached the subject of Rube’s rescue of MacManus there was a perceptible lowering of the voice, an air of solemnity upon everybody, for they all felt that here was a man who, given opportunity, would have dived into hell itself if by so doing he might haply rescue a comrade. And that a comrade by no means specially dear to him, but just one of the many. The incident brought them a truer insight into the character of Christ than millions of sermons could have done. And in saying this I in no wise undervalue sermons. ‘It hath pleased God through the foolishness of preaching to save them that believe.’ But the living example of faith’s outcome, a far-off and feeble imitation of Christ, carries us beyond the reach of argument, makes the most sceptical silent. Against it the waves of criticism beat in vain. Logic, with all its perverseness; the scornful finger-pointing at the unfaithful professors; the cavilling of the sticklers for formulated creeds—all, all are silenced or stopped; and the splendour of Christ manifest in the flesh again, though it be but in the flesh of one of His humblest servants, overwhelms us.