“About two miles, sir.”
“What does it look like?”
“Sperm whales, sir.”
“Ay, ay; sing out every time you holler.”
By this time the captain was aloft, and, on taking a view with his spy-glass at the “spouts,” sings out, “Sperm whales! Call all hands; bear a hand there, and get your boats ready.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” is the reply. All hands are called, and the different crews stand by their respective boats, “all eager for the fray,” and expressing their determination to capture a whale before returning to the ship, taking for their motto, “A dead whale or a stove boat.”
“Lower away the boats!” shouts the captain, as he descends to the deck. They are instantly lowered, followed by the crews, and now comes the tug of war. Each boat sets her sail, and the men pull in good earnest. While they are skimming the waves the whale is still spouting, and all are anxious to reach him before his “spoutings are out.” It frequently happens, when in pursuit, that, just at the moment the boat-steerer “stands up” to strike the whale, he suddenly descends; but experienced whalemen can generally tell the direction they take while down by the position of the “flukes” when going down. The boats are then pulled in the direction the whale is supposed to have taken. They also judge of the distance the whale will go under water by the velocity of the animal when last seen. After the boats have pulled what is judged to be the proper distance, they “heave up,” or cease pulling. A large whale, when not “gallied,” or frightened, generally spouts from sixty to seventy times before going down, and remains down from fifty to seventy minutes.
The boats have now got close on. Those left on board the ship are watching with breathless anxiety, occasionally exclaiming, “Oh pull, boys! do pull!” Meantime the men in the boats are bending back to it, but the bow boat has the advantage; she is the head boat. Mr. K. is jumping up and down in the stern, crying, “Once more, my hearties; give it to her! a few more strokes, and we have him; pull, my children! why don’t you break your backbones, you rascals? so there you are now; that’s the stroke for a thousand pounds; start her, but keep cool; cucumbers is the word; easy, easy; only start her! why don’t you snap your oars, you rascals? bite something, you dogs! easy now, but pull; oh, you’re all asleep! stop snoring, and pull; pull, will ye? pull, can’t ye? pull, won’t ye? pull, and start your eyes out! that’s it; now you start her.” Thus, one moment coaxing and the next scolding; but no one heeds him, as all are bent on taking the whale. “Stand up!” shouted he; and the boat-steerer rose to his feet, grasped his iron, and, as the boat neared the monster, “Give it to him!” is the next cry, and “chock to the socket” went the first iron, followed as quick as thought by the second. One deafening cheer, and the cry resounded over the waters, “We are fast! we are fast!” The sea, which but a moment before lay still and quiet, with scarcely a ripple to break its even surface, is now lashed into foam by the writhings of the whale. “Stern all!” shouts the officer. The boat is immediately backed, and removed from present danger; the officer takes the head of the boat, and the boat-steerer takes the steering oar to manage the boat; the whale is sounding, and the line is running through the “chocks,” or groove in the head of the boat, with the rapidity of lightning, and as it passes round the loggerhead it ignites from the heat produced by friction, but the tub-oarsman is continually dashing water upon it in the line-tub. The whale sounds deep, and the line is almost out; a signal is made to the other boats, which are coming down. They come near enough, and bend on their lines; but presently it ceases running out and slackens; the whale is coming to the surface again. All hands now commence to “haul in line” as fast as he rises, and the boat-steerer coils it away, as fast as hauled in, in the stern sheets. He soon breaks water, and the boat is gradually hauled up to him. Another boat now fastens, and he again attempts to sound; but, being weakened by loss of blood, he is soon at the surface again. The boats now draw alongside, and the officer of the first boat fast prepares his lance. He darts it for his vitals (just behind the fin), and the first one proves fatal, for in a moment more he shows the “red flag;” the blood flows freely from the spout-hole in a thick, dark stream; the sea is stained for some distance, and the men in the boats are covered with the bloody spray, but glory in it.
“GIVE IT TO HIM.”