The Sea Rovers

by Rufus Rockwell Wilson

When all is in readiness for the Arctic cruise, the captain of a whaler changes the southwesterly course he has followed since leaving port, and heads for the north. The passage through Behring Sea, on account of the great fields of floating ice which fill that body at all seasons, is always a trying and often a dangerous one, and the whaling masters must of necessity be most skilful navigators. Pushing a ship in safety from lead to lead, and among the threatening cakes of an ice-floe, calls for the most consummate skill, and it is a lesson mastered by sailors only after a long and hard experience. In addition to the highest skill, the captain—or disaster surely awaits him—must possess a resolute will that falters not, even in the face of death. For weeks his ship is seldom out of peril, and he must be ready at all times to make his escape from a threatening pack or an approaching floe.

Some years ago, the ship Hunter, Captain Cogan, when off St. Lawrence Island, was caught in a whirlpool and seriously disabled. He patched up his ship as best he could and made a fresh start. Off Icy Cape, bottom ice was struck, causing a serious leak, and the captain was forced to seek refuge in the nearest haven. Here every movable object was taken out of the ship and carried on shore. Then the spars were unshipped and converted into a raft, which was anchored at both ends and steadied with water casks. Using the raft as a wharf, and in the face of a blinding storm, the ship was hove down, the keel raised above the surface of the water, and the leak repaired. Captain Cogan's cruise up to that time had been a fruitless one, but three months later he sailed safely into port with a valuable cargo. Similar experiences befall the whalers every year.

During the long and toilsome passage through Behring Sea, a sharp lookout is kept for whales, but few are now caught south of Cape Navarin, and whaling does not commence in earnest until the ships are well out into the Arctic. Each ship has five whaleboats, and when the lookout in the crow's nest reports a whale in sight, the crews spring into them and are off in an instant. The captain, however, remains on the ship, and from the crow's nest directs the boats by a code of signals.

The boats always approach their prey under sail, as the use of paddle or oar would startle the whale and cause it to beat a hasty retreat. The old method of whaling with harpoons and lances thrown by hand has been superseded during the last twenty years by the whale-gun, and as a consequence what was once a royal sport has now sadly degenerated. The new weapon is a heavy metallic shoulder-gun fastened to a pole about six feet long. As the boat nears its intended victim, a harpoon attached to several hundred fathoms of line is shot from the gun, and having been "made fast," a bomb, filled with an explosive equal to about ten pounds of giant powder, is fired into the huge body near the head. The missile, exploding as it buries itself in the flesh, blows a great hole almost in the vitals of the monster, and death quickly follows. When the bomb fails to cause instant death or inflict a mortal wound, a second harpoon with a dynamite attachment is thrown, the needle point of the spear, as it sinks into the flesh, exploding the bomb. The second wound nearly always causes instant death; but if not, the harpoons cling to the whale, and with lines attached, the whalers quietly await the reappearance of the whale—which seeks relief by plunging beneath the surface—for another shot at it from the gun, which has in the meantime been reloaded. There is small chance for escape, and another bomb or harpoon from the gun speedily ends the most desperate struggle for life. The sperm whale, the favorite game of the old-time whalers, always puts up a stout battle, but the bow-head whale, found in polar waters, is timid, and dies meekly.

When the whale, its struggles ended, rolls over dead, the vessel gets up sail and makes its way to the body, taking it on the starboard side, in front of the gangway. A stage is rigged over the side and just above the floating carcass, which is secured fore and aft by chains. Then the process of taking the bone and blubber from the body commences. First a cut is made through the deep layer of fat beginning at the nose, and, if all the blubber is to be taken off, running back to the flukes or tail. Next cross-incisions are made every four or five feet, and strips of the fat encircling the whale are marked out. After this, tackle is attached to one end of these strips, and men on the stage sever the strip of blubber from the body, as it is then being hoisted on board. Each strip, as it is taken off, rolls the whale around in the water.

The most difficult part of the operation I am describing is cutting off the head, which contains all the whalebone. A single false move may destroy hundreds of dollars' worth of bone, or perhaps entail the loss of the entire head. Axes are used, and it takes a great deal of hard and skilful chopping to pierce the mountain of flesh. When the backbone has been chopped nearly through, a jerk of the tackle breaks the remainder, and the head is then hauled on deck. As a large whale's head frequently contains several thousand dollars worth of bone, the suspense and anxiety of the whaler while it is being taken off can be readily understood. When the head has been secured, the work of taking off the remainder of the blubber is resumed. Some vessels save only the bone, and cast the body adrift after the head has been cut off, but these are usually ships without the needed apparatus for trying out the oil. When the blubber has all been stripped from the carcass, it is cut up into small pieces, and for several days thereafter the crew is briskly employed "trying out" the oil and stowing it away in casks. A large cube of bricks amidships contains two great iron kettles with fireplaces beneath, and in these the oil is boiled from the blubber. Black smoke and foul smell attend this operation, and only an old whaler will go to the leeward of the great pots when it is in progress.

There is little to break the monotony of the whaler's life while at work. Day after day the same routine is repeated, broken only by an occasional storm, or visits in leisure hours to neighboring vessels. But about the whaler there is always the glamor of the Arctic, which those who have once felt its spell say can never be forgotten—by day its marvellous mirages, weirdly reflecting distant ships, or the ice piled in huge, fantastic masses; at night the sombre glory of the aurora borealis, and always the cold, serene purity of ice and water and sky. When winter approaches, if one or more ships are to spend a second season in polar waters, quarters are built in some sheltered spot on land, and there, early in October, all the vessels rendezvous. On each ship the space between-decks is cleared, stoves set up, and bunks arranged along the middle, away from the sides, so that the cold will not so quickly reach the men through the vessel's timbers. When the ice forms around the ship, high banks of snow are piled about it to break the force of the piercing winds, and snow is also piled upon the roof built over the decks. This snow soon freezes and will not drift with the fiercest of gales. Thus prepared for, a winter in the Arctic has lost many of its former terrors.

The whaler's homeward passage through Behring Sea is often more difficult and dangerous than the outward voyage. With sudden gales, treacherous currents, blinding snowstorms, and long, dark nights, each master must literally feel his way with the lead, getting such aid as he can from log and lookout. Every captain breathes a sigh of relief when he has passed the Straits and is once more in the Pacific, southward bound. There is plenty of work on the return passage. The crow's nest must be taken down and stowed away for another cruise; the masts scraped and varnished; the ship scoured and cleaned above and below; and finally, if it is a steam vessel, the sails unbent and stowed away. Just before entering port, the crew discard their skin clothing. A few hours later the voyage is at an end, and the men are tasting, perhaps for the first time in years, the delights and comforts of life on shore, and spending with open hand the money they have worked so long and so hard to earn.

Whaling in the Arctic saw its best days in 1852, when the fleet numbered 250 vessels and the value of the catch exceeded $14,000,000. Its gradual decline began a little later, but it received its first serious set-back in June, 1865, when the Confederate cruiser Shenandoah, making its way without warning into the Arctic, burned thirty and captured four other whalers. New Bedford's loss alone was twenty-three vessels, which, with their outfits, were valued at more than a million dollars. Since then, wind and ice, the ever-present perils of the whaler, have caused two appalling disasters, and further hastened the decline of the trade. The first of these disasters occurred in 1871. Between August 11th and 29th of that year, the ice closed in upon the whaling fleet at work near Wainright Inlet, and at the end of the month thirty-three vessels were helpless prisoners. During the next week three vessels were crushed or carried off by the ice, the crew in each instance narrowly escaping with their lives. Each day the ice packed closer and it became apparent to the captains, who held daily meetings to discuss the situation, that for their ships at least, escape was hopeless. There was not the time nor material to build winter quarters on land, and even had this been possible, the scanty stock of provisions could only postpone certain starvation, or death by scurvy and disease, during the eleven months that must elapse before they could hope for relief to reach them from the outer world. And so it became clear that the crews must be got away before winter came or all would perish.