“Golly!” cried Snowball, after regarding the whales for a moment, “dey am a-comin’ dis way!”
“They be,” muttered the old whalesman, in a tone that did not show much satisfaction at the discovery. “They’re coming right down upon us. I don’t like it a bit. They’re on a ‘passage,’—that I can see; an’ it be dangerous to get in their way when they’re goin’ so,—especially aboard a craft sich as this un’.”
Of course the setting of the sail was adjourned at this announcement; as it would have been, whether there had been danger or not. A school of whales, either upon their “passage” or when “gambolling,” is a spectacle so rare, at the same time so exciting, as not to be looked upon without interest; and the voyager must be engrossed in some very serious occupation who can permit it to pass without giving it his attention.
Nothing can be more magnificent than the movements of these vast leviathans, as they cleave their track through the blue liquid element,—now sending aloft their plume-like spouts of white vapour,—now flinging their broad and fan-shaped flukes into the air; at times bounding with their whole bodies several feet above the surface, and dropping back into the water with a tremendous concussion, that causes the sea to swell into huge foam-crested columns, as if a storm was passing over it.
It was the thought of this that came into the mind of the ex-whalesman; and rendered him apprehensive,—as he saw the school of cachalots coming on towards the spot occupied by the frail embarkation. He knew that the swell caused by the “breaching” of a whale is sufficient to swamp even a large-sized boat; and if one of the “body” now bowling down towards them should chance to spring out of the water while passing near, it would be just as much as they could do to keep the gig from going upon her beam-ends.
There was not much time to speculate upon chances, or probabilities. When first seen, the whales could not have been more than a mile distant: and going on as they were, at the rate of ten knots an hour, only ten minutes elapsed before the foremost was close up to the spot occupied by the boat and the abandoned raft.
They were not proceeding in a regular formation; though here and there four or five might have been seen moving in a line, abreast with one another. The whole “herd” occupied a breadth extending about a mile across the sea; and in the very centre of this, as ill-luck would have it, lay the cockle-shell of a boat and the abandoned raft.
It was one of the biggest “schools” that Ben Brace had ever seen, consisting of nearly a hundred individuals,—full-grown females, followed by their “calves,”—and only one old bull, the patron and protector of the herd. There was no mistaking it for a “pod” of whales,—which would have been made up of young males just escaped from maternal protection, and attended by several older individuals of their own sex,—acting as trainers and instructors.
Just as the ci-devant whalesman had finished making this observation, the cachalots came past, causing the sea to undulate for miles around the spot,—as if a tempest had swept over, and was succeeded by its swell. One after another passed with a graceful gliding, that might have won the admiration of an observer viewing it from a position of safety. But to those who beheld it from the gig, there was an idea of danger in their majestic movement,—heightened by the surf-like sound of their respirations.