A Whaleman's Wife

by Frank Thomas Bullen

With that consummate ability for navigating difficult seas that seems inherent in American whaling officers, Mr. Court had, despite his limitation of access to the means of navigation, due to the Captain’s behaviour, brought the Grampus through the intricacies of those waters south of Celebes, and had steered her safely past the western end of New Guinea out to the southward of the Pelew Islands before Captain Da Silva came on deck. I have purposely avoided all mention of his behaviour while thus laid helpless a second time, for the subject is such a painful one that it is difficult to do more than hint at it. A wounded tiger would certainly have been far more docile, and have repaid his nurses with much more gratitude than this man, from whom every one of the Divine qualities of our nature seemed to have been withheld. Doubtless this vile temper did much to delay his recovery, but that he could not see; and hard as his language was to bear, the mate felt that it was infinitely better to listen to it occasionally below than to have his presence on deck again. And as the news of his approaching recovery crept about the ship, every white man, except Rube, kept repeating to himself most fervently, ‘Oh, if he would only die!’—‘he,’ of course, being the common enemy. As for Priscilla, the long confinement and constant strain of nursing this terrible man had worn her to a shadow. He did not abuse her so much now, but she had to listen constantly to his abuse of others, listen to his furious conversations with his Portuguese harpooners, who were daily summoned below to his bedside to report to him their observations of how the Yankee unmentionables were handling the ship. But this latter affected her as little as the former, which she could understand. The abominable phrases in her own language fell upon utterly unheeding ears, and left no more impression than did the imprecations in an unknown tongue. What she was suffering from was purely physical, as it had been before reaching the Cosmoledos.

At last one lovely morning, with the ship’s head pointed towards the Bonins under his instructions, the skipper gave orders that Pedro and Manuel should attend him and assist him on deck. He needed help. He was worn to a shadow, his face was like a hatchet for sharpness of outline, and many threads of white appeared in his hair and whiskers. But from out the caverns whither his eyes had retreated gleamed the same infernal fires: the indomitable will had not been subdued in the slightest degree. Upon reaching the deck, he cast a comprehensive glance around the vessel. She was like a new pin for cleanliness, not a rope yarn was awry, and most of the watch were busy scraping the spare spars, always a favourite device with him when nothing else could be found for them to do.

From forward came the clink, clink of iron where the remainder of the men were beating iron-rust off the anchors and cables. Everything was going, in fact, as goes a good watch after it has been wound by the master’s hand. There was absolutely nothing to find fault with, yet the mate surely knew that fault would be found. So he stood near, offering no salutation nor expecting any, but awaiting the contemptuous burning words he knew would soon be flung at him. Suddenly the skipper said, without looking at the mate:

‘Wall, seems yew’ve mistook th’ ship fur a pleasure boat. Wut in thunder yew ben doin’ all the way up hyar from Borneo?’

‘Doin’ wut hed t’ be done, ’n’ doin’ it well too,’ growled Mr. Court. ‘Wat d’ye expect I’d be doin’, ef I mout be askin’?’

‘Ha, thet’s wut ye ben doin’, is it—gittin’ things ripe fur a mut’ny a’gin’ me. All right. I’m layin’ fur ye. Y’ mout hev made sure while I ben lyin’ thar he’pless ef yew hed th’ grit ov a purp, but yew haint, yew ——’ There is no need to suggest the remainder of the vile sentence. But Mr. Court had found time not only to recover his self-control and respect, but to gauge the capacity of Captain Da Silva’s supporters to overcome the white portion of the crew. Moreover he had, with commendable forethought, drawn the stings of the harpooners and as many of the foremost Portuguese hands as he could convict of possessing them—that is, he had taken away their revolvers and ammunition, and by perfect equality of treatment had re-established a proper order of things in the foc’s’le. All of these things Captain Da Silva, with his almost superhuman grasp of matters only faintly shadowed forth to his senses, had already seen except the disarming of his gang. He was not likely to mistake the import of the change in Mr. Court’s tone and bearing towards him. It was a heavy blow, but he was wily as a snake, and immediately changing his tone slightly, he resumed:

‘Thar, I s’pose it’s no use makin’ more trouble than thar’s any need fur. P’r’aps I’m a bit frazzled eout with lyin’ below like a gutted herrin’. Anyhaow, I guess I’ll be all right time we git on the Jappan groun’, an’ then we’ll hev some fun. Hyar! Manuel, Pedro, come an’ git me b’low ’gen. I ain’t feelin’ good a bit.’

As the two scowling dark men passed him and placed each an arm carefully behind the skipper’s back to assist him down into the cuddy, Mr. Court viewed them with clear eyes, saying nothing, but pondering a great deal. He was not in the least deceived by the change in his skipper’s tone. He knew full well that no stone would be left unturned to do him a mischief, and he determined to treble his vigilance and that of his compatriot officers in order to guard against any sudden surprise, and, satisfied that he was doing all that in him lay both for duty and self-preservation, he turned away and resumed his daily business of supervision.

What he did not, could not, know was that by his resolute bearing and brave words he had saved one of his countrymen from being put to the torture. It had been the skipper’s determination when he came on deck to see his cruel intention towards Rube carried out, and, as we know, he was not easily turned away from his purpose. Ever since he had regained consciousness the idea of wreaking his will upon Rube—first as being one of the rescued boat’s crew he had been, as it were, driven to save; and, secondly, as the successful opponent of that will—had been fermenting in his busy brain, and at the earliest possible opportunity he had appeared on deck for the purpose of putting it into practice. But for the first time that voyage he had found himself successfully thwarted by one of the hated Americans, and he needed all his marvellous powers of self-control and dissimulation not to indulge in some frantic outburst that would certainly have resulted in his being disabled from doing any more harm that cruise. His cup of humiliation was not yet full either. As they went slowly down the companion-way, Manuel whispered to him in Portuguese:

‘Do you know that the mate has taken away our weapons?’