Lakeum shouted, “Stern—stern—all, and get out of the suds!” He and the boat-steerer changed places,—he to enter into a fight with the whale, and the boat-steerer to become the boat-steerer in fact. The whale threw up his flukes and brought them down with terrific force. The sea was white with suds, but we got out of them safely. Down went the whale and out went the line with a whizzing sound which soon became a regular roar. The line went out so fast that it set fire to the loggerhead, and I put out the fire by pouring water on it.
“I never saw a whale get away so fast,” said Lakeum. “This boat’s nose may be under water any moment.”
The bow was then pretty close to the surface. In a moment Lakeum shouted, “All hands scramble aft!” This was to save us from disaster by balancing the boat.
I was somewhat alarmed and instinctively took the knife from the cleat on the thwart. The men rushed aft in disorder, due to the pitching of the boat, when a voice rang out, “Man caught; cut the warp!” I didn’t have to hack twice; the knife was as sharp as a razor, and one motion severed the line. A sharp cry came from the man who was apparently caught, and overboard he went. Despite my excitement and fright, I was foolish enough to think myself a hero, but I wasn’t. The whale was gone for good, but we were temporarily happy in the thought that we had saved the man from a terrible death. The supposed averted tragedy, however, was more of a comedy. My severing the line hadn’t helped the man any, for it happened that his foot had pressed on the warp and he had been merely thrown into the water, and, as he had hit a man on the way and knocked him over, the order was given by some one to cut the warp. The man in the water struck out for the boat and we soon pulled him aboard.
Lakeum’s face changed color. He looked daggers at me. There were no whales now in sight, and he gave orders to pull for the ship. As he pushed on my oar our countenances were close together. For a time nothing was said. As we neared the vessel, the expression of anger and disappointment passed from his face. Lowering his voice he said:
“I don’t think you are to blame or the man who gave the order to cut, either. You have to work quick at such times. I’ll tell the captain about it and make it all right with him. On some boats there would have been a blast of profanity, and men who had done as you and the other man did would have got bread and water for a week, but such treatment is wrong.” He paused and then resumed, “That was easily a hundred-barrel bull, and he was worth pretty close to five thousand dollars.”
Our boat was the only one which had made fast to a whale and the rest of the day on ship was a dreary one, despite the fact that the sea was quite calm and the sky without a cloud. In the second dogwatch the men gathered and talked over the misfortune of the morning. A few deplored the loss of the whale; the others made light of it and made me the target of ridicule and joke.
“Well, Fancy Chest, you cut the right line at the wrong time. You’ll make a whaleman,” said one.
“He’s so smart that he’ll be harpooning a whale with a knife, next time,” said another.
“I guess they’ll take that five thousand dollar whale out of Fancy Chest’s lay,” observed a third.