Still the life of the surfmen has its merry, as well as its serious moods. Each station is provided with a small but well selected library, and the men find it a constant source of instruction and delight. Then there is always in every crew one or two who can play a violin, flute or accordion, and often when the weather is fine and the wind off shore, the surfmen gather in the messroom and listen to the music of their companions or sing songs and spin yarns, the latter couched in a quaint and awkward vernacular, yet full of life and spirit, and redolent of the sea and the waves. Often on clear, moonlit nights there are "surprise parties" at the station, made up of the wives, sisters' and sweethearts of the crew, who always bring with them a generous store of household dainties for those they love, sure to prove a welcome addition to the surfmen's plain, but substantial fare. On such occasions the boat-room is quickly cleared for the dance, and joy and merriment hold unfettered sway. And, yet, never is the patrol relaxed, nor do the surfmen forget the stern call to duty that may come to them at any moment. "When I see a man clinging to a wreck," said a sturdy surf man, not long ago, "I see nothing else in the world, nor think of family and friends until I have saved him." And it is but simple truth to say that this heroic spirit animates every member of the life-saving service.
CHAPTER X WHALERS OF THE ARCTIC SEA
In the streets and hotels, or more often the smoking-room of the custom-house of the beautiful old town of New Bedford, Massachusetts, one meets in these latter times certain quiet, elderly men who, save for their weather-beaten faces, an occasional scar, the deference shown them, and the title of "captain," give no sign of the stormy and adventurous lives they have led. These men belong to a most interesting class, and one which promises to soon become extinct. They are the whaling captains of the old days, when, with whaling still one of the most prosperous and important of our national industries, the New Bedford whalers carried the American flag to the most distant parts of the globe, and yearly poured a golden stream into the strong-boxes of their shrewd and venturesome owners. Cabin-boys at twelve, captains before they were twenty-five, at fifty, stranded hulks—having often made and lost great fortunes, made them for others, lost them for themselves—in such quiet havens as chance or fortune affords, they now peacefully and with perfect contentment await the end that sooner or later comes to us all.
For more than a century, New Bedford has been the centre in this country of the industry of which these old captains are pathetic reminders; but in recent years it has made San Francisco the headquarters of its ships. They all carry the name of New Bedford on their sterns, and are owned and commanded by New Bedford men; but, as whaling is now mainly carried on in Alaskan waters, San Francisco has become the principal point of arrival and departure. Only the Atlantic whalers, dwindled now to less than a dozen, still headquarter in the old capital of the trade. The ships engaged in the whale trade are clumsy in appearance, and much smaller than most people would imagine, being rarely as large as the three-masted schooners used in the coasting trade. They are strongly built, wide amidships, and as broad as Dutch galleons at the bow. They are so treated with pitch and tar as to last for generations, and are constantly repaired, a part at a time. Some of the stanchest vessels in the trade are more than half a century old, and promise to do duty for many years to come.
The fleet sailing from San Francisco numbers between forty and fifty vessels. Some of the captains sail in November, and spend the winter in sperm whaling, putting into Honolulu for fresh supplies at the approach of spring, but the majority leave in March. The whales are fast being driven from the Pacific, and every year the whalers are forced to go farther and farther north for them. Only a few years ago, whales were plentiful in the Northern Pacific and Behring and Okhotsk Seas, but now the whalers have to push far into the Arctic to find their game. To make a voyage profitable, a ship must often spend several seasons in the north, and last year the San Francisco fleet sailed prepared for a three years' cruise. Many of the captains took their wives and children with them. They reached Herschel Island late in August, spending last winter as they will the next two, in comfortable quarters at Pauline Cove, returning to the United States in the fall of 1909. Pianos and pool and billiard tables were taken along to help while away the long winters, and the members of the fleet, when they return, are sure to have many an interesting and stirring story to tell.
In order to complete the preparations for its Arctic work, each whaler, after leaving San Francisco, cruises for a few weeks in the central Pacific. During this cruise the crow's nest, or lookout, is put in place, the boats are scrubbed, painted and fitted with sails, steering-gear and oars and the whaling apparatus thoroughly overhauled. Then the ship's rigging receives careful attention, weak spots being made strong, and old sails patched or replaced, and finally, the hold is restowed and put in shape for the long voyage. The crew of a whaler includes, besides the captain, four mates, one boat-leader, four boat-steerers, a steward, cook, carpenter, cooper, steerage and cabin boys, and from twelve to twenty able seamen. The men instead of being paid regular wages, receive a portion of the profits of the cruise. The captain receives a twelfth, the first mate a twentieth, the second mate and boat-leader each a twenty-fifth, the third mate a thirtieth, the carpenter, cooper and steward each a fiftieth, and the sailors each a hundred and seventy-fifth. The captain's portion ranges from nothing to $7,000 or $8,000, according to the number of whales taken during a cruise. If a ship secures twelve whales during a cruise, the captain will receive about $3,000 and a sailor $200. The sailors usually receive an advance of $60 each, and during a cruise are allowed to draw tobacco, clothing and the like, from the ship's supplies, to the amount of $60 or $80. Both officers and men keenly appreciate this co-operative system, and toil with great zeal in the hope of extra reward. Formerly whales were valued chiefly for the oil, but the discovery of petroleum worked a change, and the whalebone is now the main thing sought. This product is worth from $4 to $5 a pound, and the average whale contains a little less than a ton of bone.
The officers of an Arctic whaler are generally Yankees, but all countries are represented in the forecastle. Americans, Britons, Swedes, Portuguese, Germans, Spaniards, Kanakas, a few stray cowboys, and three or four 'Frisco hoodlums are often found in the same crew. Now and then desperate criminals seek an Arctic cruise to escape punishment for their misdeeds, and sometimes induce a crew to mutiny. Such an experience befell Captain Edmund Kelly, now living in retirement in New Bedford, when he was master of the Lucretia. His crew, prompted by three ruffians, who had crept in among them, refused duty soon after the ship entered Behring Sea, and retreated to the forecastle, but not before the captain had emptied it of such food as it contained. When asked to state their grievances they demanded the release of one of their shipmates who had been put in irons for disobedience. This demand Kelly refused to grant, and locked them in the forecastle, determined, if possible, to starve them into submission.
On the third morning the crew, who were all armed with knives and revolvers, broke out of this improvised prison and demanded "bread or blood." The captain appealed to them to return to duty, but the three ring-leaders threatened to shoot the first man who wavered, and none responded. It was a critical moment, but Kelly, sprung from a race of fighting men, proved equal to it. Picking up a rifle, he walked in among the mutineers, and singling out the leader, ordered him to surrender. The man refused, and the captain raised his rifle to his shoulder, but before he could fire, the mutineer snapped a revolver twice in his face, and then took refuge among his companions. Kelly tried to follow him, but his progress was impeded by the crew, and the rascal he was seeking now stole up behind him, took careful aim, and fired. The officers, who were standing aft in a group, thinking their captain had been killed, fired upon the mutineer, wounding him in the leg. Happily, however, Kelly had only received a slight scalp wound. He regained his feet in an instant, and facing the mutineer, who was now crawling towards him with cocked revolver in hand, took aim and fired, whereat the man fell back dead with a bullet in his heart. The others, begging for mercy, threw down their arms, and the mutiny was at an end. During the rest of the voyage they proved a most obedient and tractable crew. When Captain Kelly returned to San Francisco, he reported the affair to the federal courts. The judge who heard the evidence discharged him, and at the same time reproved him for failing to shoot the other leaders of the mutiny.