A Whaleman's Wife

by Frank Thomas Bullen

CHAPTER XVIII

HUMANITY REWARDED

Doubtless many of the superior persons, who, like Matthew Arnold, their high priest, have led sheltered lives, will, also like him, curl the lip of scorn at any sorely pressed human creature in his extremity of need lifting his heart in prayer to God for help. Let them do so, if it please them, while they may. For many thousands know most gratefully that prayer is indeed a perfect communication between man and his Maker, and is answered so fully and so frequently as to put all coldly logical or brilliantly poetical objectors entirely out of court. Who, indeed, would accept the evidence of a blind man as to the value of a certain picture, or of a deaf man upon the merits of an oratorio? Therefore, pace Matthew Arnold and his ‘Self Help,’ let me gratefully return to the comforted little company in that sorely bestead whaleboat. In the midst of that wilderness of kelp, with the awful hand of the gale pressing them back from the goal they so sorely desired, they yet felt a security, a peace such as can only accrue to those who, in a like position, know that underneath them are the Everlasting Arms.

Almost literally inch by inch they fought their way seaward. Much as they valued the smooth which the kelp brought them, its hindering environment was terribly wearisome to the humanly limited strength. But doggedly they toiled on, often only half consciously, as squalls of sleet slashed savagely across their cowering faces and every fresh blast of wind beat at them as if it were the spirit of some malicious demon determined upon their destruction. Suddenly they emerged from the slimy smoothness of the kelp into the free dash of the great waves. And as they did so Mr. Peck, with a great voice, shouted, ‘Now, boys, for y’r lives; out oars an’ pull jest a leetle bit; perhaps we can histe a rag of sail and keep her away a bit presently. That’s it—lift her, lift her; oh, too good, boys, too good, one, two, three; better ’n’ better. I see the ship! She ain’t no distance off. Stick t’ it, me hearties, give ’r all you got—thet’s y’r style.’ In such wise did the fine fellow encourage his men, who were taking the last ounce out of themselves in their desperate fight with the forces of nature. And the passengers cowering in the bottom of the boat heard and saw not, endured dimly, dumbly; until just as it seemed impossible that the overborne sailors could hold out any longer came the glorious cry of ‘Boat ahoy!’ A yell of thankful reply, and the great bulk of the ship materialised out of the darkness. A minute or two of breathless suspense as the boat swung off the wind, and then a blessed sense of security and calm as she surged up under the lee of the grand old tub, where all hands, by the light of the flaring try-works, were awaiting them. Life from the dead, fellow creatures welcomed back from out the gaping jaws of the grave—how glorious a sensation to true men! And when the whisper ran round that some of the saved ones were women there were chokings and dim eyes among these rough-looking but tender-hearted fellows, although comments were mostly limited to the commonplace expression, ‘Poor things, poor things.’

Safely on board, and the boat hoisted into her place, Captain Hampden whispered an order to his mate to keep all the southing he could so as to get well clear of that awful pile of rock, still much too near for comfort. Then with a courtly old-world grace he led the way to his cabin, and begged his strangely shipped passengers to make themselves at home. The three quaint little figures revealed themselves as ladies—young, but haggard with anxiety and privation. Alone in the world, too. For the story of the lost ship from which they had escaped was just this, so bald and simple, yet so full of pathos to the imaginative mind. She was a huge four-master, with splendid passenger accommodation, bound for Australia, and specially recommended as affording a grand opportunity for a perfect sea trip for consumptives. So thirty poor wrecks of humanity, but possessing money enough to buy a chance of life, availed themselves of the opportunity, for, after all, the fare was much lower than in a fast steamer, and the attendance likely to be much better. But the crew! What agony the Captain endured as he found that sailing-ships were in such bad odour that men could not be obtained—that if he would get to sea at all he must needs ship men who hardly knew a cringle from a scupper-hole. However, this is one of the penalties a man must pay to-day when working his way up in a sailing-ship prior to taking charge in steam. And Captain Weston paid it. Running the easting down, he found his handful of wastrels not merely incompetent, but afraid—a poor group of fellows whom no threats or bribes could make do their duty, while he had upon his heart the helpless passengers. So he ran her, recklessly as it appeared, really because he could do nothing else, and strained his heartstrings nightly as he looked up through the blackness at those great sails, and wondered what would happen should they blow away, for to take them in he knew was impossible.

Is it fair to put such a strain upon one man as this? I do not think so, yet most captains of our big sailing-ships must shoulder such a burden to-day, and for, at most, £200 a year. No wonder the Mercantile Marine is unpopular. Captain Weston endured his load almost helplessly in view of the season and the quality of his crew; and when, while snatching a few moments’ sleep in his chart-room, he felt his ship go over, over, over, until on her beam ends, and knew that she had broached-to in the height of one of the southern gales, he gave a sigh almost of relief as knowing the worst. Out of the half-dozen boats he carried one succeeded in getting away with three ladies on board, whose charges, a consumptive father, uncle, and sweetheart, were practically killed by the shock. There were also two male passengers, the mate, and four seamen. And these were all the survivors of that awful mid-sea catastrophe, when a great ship, through bad steering, was thrown on her beam ends and, her decks bursting, sank like a broken cup in the midst of that lonely ocean.

For two days the surviving boat and her miserable freight managed to keep ahead of the hungry, following sea, until, in the blackness of the third night, when hope was well-nigh dead, she entered the kelp fringing Gough Island, and after a series of hairbreadth escapes the whole party succeeded in landing upon its frowning shores. There, for nearly three months, they had maintained life in semi-savage fashion, wondering whether they were doomed to spend the rest of their days there, when help came in the shape of the hardly beset Xiphias, and they were once more restored to a little world of living people.

With a sigh Captain Hampden bore up for Cape Town. It was much out of his way, and, besides, he was so far to the southward that it would be difficult to make the port, especially in such a sluggish old craft. But the idea of carrying those poor ladies on to the Mauritius, which was the only place that lay anywhere near his track whence they could be shipped home, was not to be thought of for one moment. And having decided upon what to do, he did it with all his heart, allowing no one to see what a struggle it had cost him. All sail was made, therefore, and the course set for Cape Town, the rescued mate and his four shipmates taking a vigorous part in the handling of the ship, so that the Xiphias’ crew could finish their heavy task of securing the oil from their previous catch.

She was a mighty busy ship, as well as a happy one, for there was so much to do with the two and a half tons of baleen secured, after the oil was all stored below, that no one had any time of leisure. This peculiar substance—‘whalebone,’ as we have agreed to call it—is really of the nature of dried gristle or soft horn, and when it is green—i.e., newly taken from the whale—it needs constant care and labour in scraping, drying in the sun, and other trade treatment. Without this it soon becomes valueless, and, since it is so high-priced when properly cured, it is obviously the most important duty on a whaleship to attend to it. But this duty tries the patience of all hands most sorely. In the present case, however, there were compensations. For, in the first place, Captain Hampden was not the man to keep his crew at other work all day and scraping, &c., whalebone all night; and, secondly, a cheery whisper ran round the ship that he (the old man) intended landing the stuff at Cape Town for transhipment to market.

And then, to the great joy of the crew and the unbounded chagrin of the passengers, the ship ran one morning at daybreak into the midst of a vast school of sperm-whales, extending from one horizon to the other. Their numbers no man could calculate, any more than what stupendous stores of food must be necessary to feed such an army of monsters. Captain Hampden’s heart glowed with thankfulness that he had been by humanity turned thus far out of his intended course, and, in obedience to his newly born instinct, went away into a corner by himself and lifted up his heart, not merely in gratitude to God, but for wisdom, after all these years of experience, to do just the right thing in the manipulation of this great store so lavishly spread before him. It only took a minute or two (how simply and quickly can we prefer our petitions and praises to the King of kings), and he was back again among his men, the guiding, ruling spirit of all. As if his plan of campaign had been laid out a week ahead, he apportioned to each officer his place in the coming struggle, took advantage of the presence of the passenger mate and four seamen to give them the handling of the vessel, and then gaily took the field himself with five boats, skipper leading.