“He won’t come, dame, dame. Yes, now, now! Look out! I shoot, I shoot!”
In the mirror of my camera I could see the enormous gray head burst from the water, the blowholes open and send forth a cloud of vapor, and the slim back draw itself upward, the water streaming from the high fin as it cut the surface. Andersen’s last words were drowned in the crashing roar of the gun. Before we could see through the veil of smoke we heard the sailors shout, “Shinda!” (dead), and the next instant the black cloud drifted away showing the whale lying on its side motionless. I tried to change the plate in my camera, but before the slide could be drawn and the shutter reset, the animal had sunk. Apparently it had been killed almost instantly, for the rope was taut and hung straight down.
In a few minutes Andersen gave the word to haul away, and the Engineer started the winch. No sooner had the rattling wheels ground in a few fathoms than we saw the line slack and then slowly rise. Faster and faster it came, the water dripping in little streams from its vibrating surface.
In a few seconds the whale rose about ninety fathoms ahead and blew, the blood welling in great red clots from his spout holes. He lay motionless for a moment and then swung about and swam directly toward the vessel. At first he came slowly, but his speed was increasing every moment. When almost opposite us, about thirty fathoms away, suddenly, with a terrific slash of his tail, he half turned on his side and dashed directly at the ship.
“Full speed astern!” yelled the gunner, dancing about like a madman. “He’ll sink us; he’ll sink us!”
The whale was coming at tremendous speed, half buried in white foam, lashing right and left with his enormous flukes. In an instant he hit us. We had half swung about and he struck a glancing blow directly amidships, keeling the little vessel far over and making her tremble as though she had gone on the rocks; then bumped along the side, running his nose squarely into the propeller. The whirling blades tore great strips of blubber from his snout and jaws and he backed off astern.
Then turning about with his entire head projecting from the water like the bow of a submarine, he swam parallel with the ship. As he rushed along I caught a glimpse of the dark head in the mirror of my camera and pressed the button. An instant later the great animal rolled on his side, thrust his fin straight upward, and sank. It had been his death struggle and this time he was down for good. As the water closed over the dead whale I leaned against the rail trembling with excitement, the perspiration streaming from my face and body. Andersen was shouting orders in English, Norwegian, and Japanese, and cursing in all three languages at once.
I think none of us realized until then just what a narrow escape we had had. If the whale had struck squarely he would have torn such a hole in the steamer’s side that her sinking would have been a matter of seconds. The only thing that saved her was the quickness of the man at the wheel, who had thrown the vessel’s nose about, thus letting the blow glance from her side. It was a miracle that the propeller blades had not been broken or bent so badly as to disable us; why they were not even injured no one can tell—it was simply the luck that has always followed this vessel since Captain Andersen came aboard.
“Then turning about with his entire head projecting from the water like the bow of a submarine, he swam parallel with the ship.”