A Whaleman's Wife

by Frank Thomas Bullen

This condition of things, so wonderfully portrayed by Coleridge, is well-nigh intolerable to a merchantman, whose employment probably depends upon the smartness of his passage: to the whaler it matters no more than it does to the steamship, for exactly the opposite reason. The one doesn’t care because his engines are doing the work and his ship’s swift passage through the stagnant air makes a pleasant breeze; the other doesn’t care because he isn’t going anywhere, and consequently the longer he loiters where he is the more chances there are of his seeing what he wishes to see—whales.

In the foc’s’le there was a marked improvement in the mental and moral atmosphere. Released from the awful nightmare of the skipper’s presence, and quite conscious of the fact that the officers were in sympathy with them, the white men grew cheerful and spoke boldly. Moreover, the disarmament of the Portuguese had a splendid effect. It enabled men, hitherto silent under gross provocation because they wanted to live a little longer, to lift up their heads and speak with the enemy in the gate. This feeling of freedom culminated one day in a huge Portuguese ordering a smart little Yankee from Edgar town to ‘git away wiv that face while I sit-a down comf’ble.’ The invited party, being at the time sitting on a stool he had made himself, felt naturally aggrieved, and with a considerable amount of spirit retorted in terms that need not be clearly set down, at the same time retaining his seat. The Portuguese stared stupidly for a breathing space or two, then seizing the little Yankee, flung him in a clucking heap across the foc’s’le. But Rube was sitting next to Hiram, and immediately rose, seized the wrists of the black man, and forcing him backwards on to the deck, sat on his chest, saying: ‘Looky here, my friend, we’ve done with this fun. They’s goin’ to be no more of it onless yew’re prepared to take on the job of killing every white man aboard. I doan’t kyar much which way ’tis, but this hez t’ be stopped anyhow.’ As soon as he had finished speaking every white man sprang to his feet cheering lustily. The Portuguese looked at each other, Reuben’s understudy was allowed to rise, looking foolish and—nothing happened. There was a sense of relief all round, for all felt that the power of the tyrant was broken. And in half an hour all the watch was as chummy as possible, even the bruised Hiram feeling quite satisfied—at least he expressed himself so to be.

Naturally there was a perceptible falling-off in the smartness with which the ship was worked. That was inevitable. In a small unlimited monarchy, such as a ship must be, you cannot have divided rule without a certain loss of power. Mr. Court fought against this tendency with all his might, but do what he would he could not quite overcome it. Still, the only visible effect of the ferment that was going on below was that no whales were sighted, and that of course might be due to natural causes. Four times every day Mr. Court went below and attended on his skipper, always looking stealthily at Mrs. Da Silva as he did so, whenever he could look unobserved, and endeavouring to note any change that should make it imperative for him to interfere actively on her behalf. There was none, however. She seemed to exist and do her duty to her husband automatically, but to grow no worse even in the close confinement of that tiny cabin. But anything more absolutely hopeless than her whole pose was surely never seen.

There was a great change in the skipper, though. Since his mad outburst of rage at Manuel and its result he had to all outward seeming been a different man. His injuries, so rudely handled, resented fiercely their treatment, and for long he had lain in high fever, alternating with periods of utter exhaustion. Only his splendid physique and iron constitution, aiding the careful nursing he received, pulled him through. And as he slowly progressed towards convalescence, he looked strangely at Priscilla, not gratefully, but with some such expression as the West African savage regards his ‘ju-ju,’ believing it all powerful to harm or help him as the case might present itself to the reasoning powers of the dreadful thing. A resolution slowly shaped itself in his brain that come what would he must be very careful of this white, frail woman, who seemed to have passed completely beyond the reach of all the emotions. And he determined to get better in order to carry out this resolve, although had he been capable of entertaining the feeling it would surely have forced its way into his dark heart that the best way in which he could treat his wife would be to die, and set her free from the hourly horror of his companionship, which for obvious reasons has not been insisted upon definitely here.

So he mended rapidly—so rapidly, in fact, that one week after he had come to the conclusion above noted he was seated on the top of the little deck aft with Priscilla by his side, both luxuriously inhaling the sweet air as the homely old ship wallowed along northward. It was a heavenly afternoon. The sky had the appearance of a great green field—the first tender, unsullied green of spring, upon which lay billowy masses of fleecy cloud, motionless as masses of whitest wool and arranged in regular rows converging to a point in the south-east. An unaccountable longing for the peace of those heavenly solitudes, a desire to leave behind her the weighing down of her earthy part possessed Priscilla’s soul, and quite unnoted by her the heavy tears rose to her eyes, coursed down her thin cheeks and dropped upon the deck. He, stealthily watching as usual while he was awake, became alarmed, because he had not seen a tear for so long. ‘Wut ails ye, Pris?’ he inquired anxiously. ‘Ain’t sick, air ye? C’n I order y’ anythin’—c’n I do anythin’?’

Immediately the gracious fountain ceased to flow, and, turning, she looked steadily at him, saying, ‘No, thank you, Ramon; I want nothing.’

‘Wall, wut ye cryin’ fur, then?’ he demanded irritably.

‘I don’t know, Ramon, and, what is more, I didn’t know that I was crying until you spoke.’

Then, to her great relief—for her dread was a long and acrid cross-examination by her husband upon any subject whatever—the skipper half rose from his chair and hissed out, ‘Whar’s the watch? Wut ye all doin’? Look thar!’ Involuntarily Priscilla looked where he pointed, and was filled with admiration and wonder. A mighty sperm whale had risen from unknown depths and roamings within a cable’s length of the ship and lay there, clearly visible in the beautifully transparent blue of the sea, almost motionless. All his majestic outlines defined themselves to the eye, the great down-hanging shaft of the jaw, the huge rotundity of the belly, and the vast fans of the flukes that, apparently motionless, were in reality quivering with receptivity like the diaphragm of a telephone. She had never before seen a whale at close quarters, never had an opportunity of admiring this, the mightiest of all God’s creations in the plenitude of his powers and in his own proper element, and the sight filled her with awe.

The reason of the whale’s nearness to the ship, not merely without alarm—for that can readily be understood, since whales, like other animals, long unmolested become perfectly tame—but without having been previously seen, is not to be very clearly stated. When such an occurrence does take place on board a whaleship there is usually much unpleasantness, because the captain is bound to believe that it proves that the watchers aloft are neglecting their duty, or they would have reported the proximity of the whale before. The supposition is only reasonable because really from the masthead of a ship on a fine day, such as this was, the whole vast circle spread out beneath one looks so small, and objects upon it are so clearly defined, that it seems impossible for four pairs of eyes to miss the spout of a whale. And as the distance from that height to the visible horizon is not less than fifteen miles, within which in such weather a sperm-whale’s spout should be clearly discernible, the whale should have risen twice within the visible range to spout. His utmost speed when going for all he is worth is only about fourteen miles an hour, his usual cruising speed when underneath only about three or four. He can stay down an hour, but rarely exceeds forty-five minutes, and he does not care, unless driven by necessity, to travel fast under water. When he does come to the surface, too, after a stay beneath of that length, he must stay up until he has finished a certain number of inspirations and expirations or ‘spoutings out’—fifty, sixty, or seventy, as the case may be. And no matter how hardly he may be pressed by enemies, this always holds good. Yet I have seen a sperm whale rise in ghost-like fashion almost alongside the ship during a stark calm on a day when sea and sky were one flawless expanse of blue, blending into each other at the horizon so perfectly that no one could tell exactly where sea ended and sky began. All hands were most eager to ‘raise whale,’ for the bounty offered was five pounds—equal to twenty-five dollars—and we had fine men at the mastheads. Yet our first intimation of his appearance was given by himself spouting almost alongside. As silently as shadows we prepared to go after him, but as the boats were about to be lowered he disappeared, nor did we ever catch a glimpse of him again, although all hands clustered aloft straining their eyes in every direction. He vanished so unaccountably that there was an uneasy feeling on board that what we had all seen was no whale at all, but a sportive spook sent to befool us by some sarcastic sea-demon. There is no doubt that both coming and going were exceptions to all the ordinary laws governing the actions of the whale-folk.