“Why, they sink.”
“I didn’t know that, Mr. Lakeum. None of our men ever told me.”
“Yes, they sink, just as so many right whales do. That monster there is worth seven thousand dollars, good, and it would be a pity to lose him.”
The words were hardly uttered when Lakeum shouted, “Don’t look right, Silva; settling a little.” There was apprehension, indeed consternation, in the boats. It was true that the whale was settling. When men don’t know what to do, they often shout, and this is what the men in Silva’s boat did, and when the order came to cut the tow-line, they shouted still louder. Then, as the great whale disappeared, the noise subsided, and as both boats pulled for the vessel, Silva was the picture of despair. The captain had witnessed the unfortunate accident from the ship and was inclined to blame Silva.
“Well, I killed the whale, didn’t I, Captain?”
“Yes.”
“Am I to blame then, if he sunk?”
There was no answer to this question. The captain muttered, “I don’t see why so many of these bowheads sink.”
Since passing Bering Strait we had seen several ships in the distance, but they were not near enough to hail. And now a vessel was bearing down on us—presumably not for a gam but for information. She proved to be the Awashonks, a vessel with a remarkable history. I was standing near the gangway when her captain boarded us. The Awashonks was three years from home, and the captain was anxious for the latest news. There was little for Captain Gamans to communicate, so the conversation, which was necessarily brief, related to their respective voyages.
“We have just lost a whale,” said our captain. “He sank. I suppose you’ve had bowheads sink, haven’t you?”