Fighting the Whales

by R. M. Ballantyne

The death of poor Fred Borders cast a gloom over the ship for many days. Every one had respected, and many of us had loved the lad, so that we mourned for him long and truly. But a sailor’s life is such a rough one, requiring so much energy and hearty good-will to his work, that he cannot afford to allow the sorrows of his heart to sit long on his countenance. In a day or two after no one would have supposed we had lost one of our best men. Whales appeared in great numbers around us. The old cry of “There she blows!” ran out frequently from the mast-head, and the answering cry from the captain, “Where away?” was followed by the “Stand by to lower!—lower away.” Then came the chase, with all its dangers and excitement—the driving of the harpoon, the sudden rush of the struck fish, the smoke and sparks of fire from the logger-head, the plunging of the lance, the spouting blood, the “flurry” at the end, and the wild cheer as we beheld our prize floating calmly on the sea. And in the midst of such work we forgot for a time the solemn scene we had so recently witnessed. But our hearts were not so light as before, and although we did not show it, I knew full well that many a joke was checked, and many a laugh repressed, for the memory of our dead shipmate.

The man who was most affected by his death was the captain; but we were not prepared for the great change that soon appeared in his manner and conduct. After a time he laughed with the rest of us at a good joke, and cheered as loud as the best when a big fish turned belly up, but his behaviour to us became more gentle and kind, and he entirely gave up the habit of swearing. He also forbade working on Sunday. Many a whale have I seen sporting and spouting near us on that day, but never did we lower a boat or touch a harpoon on Sunday. Some of the men grumbled at this, and complained of it to each other, but they never spoke so as to let the captain hear, and they soon gave up their grumbling, for the most of us were well pleased with the change, and all of us had agreed to it.

The first Sunday after Fred’s death, the captain assembled the crew on the quarter-deck, and spoke to us about it.

“My lads,” said he, “I’ve called you aft to make a proposal that may perhaps surprise some of you. Up to this time, you know very well, there has been little difference aboard this ship between Saturday and Sunday. Since our poor shipmate died I have been thinkin’ much on this matter, and I’ve come to the conclusion that we shall rest from all work on Sunday, except such as must be done to work the ship. Now, lads, you know me well enough by this time. I have never been a religious man all my life, and I don’t pretend to say that I’m one now. I’m not very learned on this matter, and can’t explain myself very well; but what think you, lads, shall we give the whales a rest on Sundays?”

We all agreed to this at once, for the effect of the captain’s speech was great upon us. It was not so much what he said, as the way in which he said it. He was by nature a bold, determined man, who never flinched from danger or duty, and when we heard him talking in that way we could scarcely believe our ears.

This was all that was said about the matter between us and the captain, but we had many a hot discussion in the forecastle amongst ourselves after that. Some were in favour of the new move, and said, stoutly, that the captain was a sensible fellow. Others said he was becoming an old wife, and that no luck would follow the ship. In the course of time, however, we found the benefit of the change in every way; and the grumblers were silenced, because in spite of their wise shakings of the head, we filled the ship with oil as full as she could hold, much sooner than we had expected.

Shoregoing people have but little notion of the ease with which the heart of a jack-tar is made to rejoice when he is out on a long voyage. His pleasures and amusements are so few that he is thankful to make the most of whatever is thrown in his way. In the whale-fisheries, no doubt, he has more than enough of excitement, but after a time he gets used to this, and begins to long for a little variety—and of all the pleasures that fall to his lot, that which delights him most is to have a gam with another ship.

Now, a gam is the meeting of two or more whale-ships, their keeping company for a time, and the exchanging of visits by the crews. It is neither more nor less than a jollification on the sea,—the inviting of your friends to feast and make merry in your floating house. There is this difference, however, between a gam at sea and a party on land, that your friends on the ocean are men whom you perhaps never saw before, and whom you will likely never meet again. There is also another difference—there are no ladies at a gam. This is a great want, for man is but a rugged creature when away from the refining influence of woman; but, in the circumstances, of course, it can’t be helped.

We had a gam one day, on this voyage, with a Yankee whale-ship, and a first-rate gam it was, for, as the Yankee had gammed three days before with another English ship, we got a lot of news second-hand; and, as we had not seen a new face for many months, we felt towards those Yankees like brothers, and swallowed all they had to tell us like men starving for news.

It was on a fine calm morning, just after breakfast, that we fell in with this ship. We had seen no whales for a day or two, but we did not mind that, for our hold was almost full of oil-barrels. Tom Lokins and I were leaning over the starboard bulwarks, watching the small fish that every now and then darted through the clear-blue water like arrows, and smoking our pipes in silence. Tom looked uncommonly grave, and I knew that he was having some deep and knowing thoughts of his own which would leak out in time. All at once he took his pipe from his mouth and stared earnestly at the horizon.