The Strife of the Sea

by T. Jenkins Hains

When well off shore, the boiler was cooled and sails set, for there must be no waste of coal, and the Erin stood to the southward on her long run to the Falkland Islands, where she would begin her hunt for the giants of the southern ocean.

The run south was made without any unusual experience. On the sixty-first day out she raised the huge mountains of Patagonia to the westward, and, shortening sail so as to drift not over four knots an hour, she hauled on the wind and stood through the “black water” between the Falk Islands and Staten Land.

In December and January, the Antarctic summer months, the air is quite cold as far north as the fiftieth parallel. The “blow” of a whale stands out sharply against the sky as the warm air in the animal’s lungs turns into vapor, giving the hunter a chance to see it at a distance of several miles. Objects seem to lift from off the horizon as in a mirage, only they are not inverted.

Here, in the summer season, the great rorqual, or finback whale, disports himself in ease and security, for, until lately, he has had few known enemies, and has been unmolested by man. Dozens of these great creatures often follow a huge bull leader, and they jump and plunge about as lively as they would if their weight were reckoned in pounds instead of tons.

The huge, timid creature who led a school under the shadow of Tierra del Fuego, that season, was a giant of his kind. One hundred feet of solid bulk was between the tips of his tremendous flukes and the end of his hideous head. A hundred tons of bone and sinew, covered with a coating of thin blubber, to keep out the cold of the icy seas.

His head was ugly and flat-looking, and his mouth a hideous cavern, full of slabs of whalebone, from which depended masses of horrible hair to act as a sieve for the whale-food poured down his gullet. His back slanted away to a place amidships, where a lumpy knob rose, as if he were a hunchback, and from there aft he sloped in long and sinuous lines to the spread of his tail or flukes, which were fully two fathoms across. The blades of the Erin’s wheel were not nearly so large or so powerful as the blades of bone and cartilage that drove him ahead through the yielding medium, or raised the tons of flesh and blood to a height that showed a full fathom or more of clear sky under his thin belly when he breached. He was a giant, a descendant from prehistoric ages when monsters of his kind were more common than they are to-day. It is doubtful if ever anything existed in flesh or blood of greater size.

How old the giant was no one could learn. His age could hardly have been less than two centuries, for whales grow slowly. They are like other warm-blooded animals, and it takes many years to build up a mass of a hundred tons of flesh fiber. He was known to Captain Jackson, who had seen him on former voyages, but as yet he had not made his acquaintance; for, in spite of the old whale’s size and age, he was very timid. He would rush from a pair of fierce “killers,”—the dreaded sharks who attack toothless whales,—and only his tremendous size and activity would prevent them from following him. Consequently, whenever Jackson lowered his small boats, with the intention of making him a visit, the old fellow would wait only long enough to allow the boats to approach within fifty fathoms of him. Then he would begin to edge away, and, before the whale-gun could be brought to bear, he would be in full flight to windward, his flock or school following in his wake. Many were the maledictions cast upon him by the whalemen, whose tired muscles bore witness to his speed, and, finally, he was left alone to roam at will in the “black water.” Where he went to, at the beginning of winter, it was impossible to tell, but, at the first easterly blow, he would disappear, bound for other parts, leaving nothing behind but a crew of angry sailors, and taking with him the memory of an undisturbed old age.

On that December morning, when Captain Jackson hauled on the wind and stood offshore, the sun shone brilliantly. The wind was light and from the southwest, and objects stood up plainly from the sea. The lookout at the masthead had just been relieved, when the time-worn cry of “blo-o-ow” reached the deck. Away to the southward rose the jets, looking almost as high as water spouts, as the warm vapor condensed in the cool air. It was a large school, or, more properly speaking, herd, for a finback is no more a fish than is a cow. Jackson came on deck and watched the blows, counting them over and over to get the exact number of his game. Whalebone at so much a ton was within easy distance, and it looked as if a few thousand dollars’ worth of the substance would find its way below hatches by dinner time. The forward gun was overhauled and the line and harpoon cleared, the latter being charged with a heavy load of powder. The explosion would open the huge barbs of the harpoon and drive them deeper into the monster, expanding in his flesh, making it absolutely impossible to withdraw them by pulling on the line. They would not hunt him after the manner of the tame and harmless sperm whale, that can be killed with about as much ease as a cow in a pasture, in spite of all the sailors’ yarns to the contrary.

The whales paid no attention whatever to the schooner. They played a quiet, frolicsome game, breaching and sounding, and coming often to the surface to breathe. There were some young ones among them, and the huge leader, the giant bull, seemed to take a special pride in one whose antics were more pronounced than the rest. He would come near it and seem almost to touch it gently with his side flipper, and the little fellow would make a breach clear out of the water, apparently with pure joy at the notice bestowed. Then he would come alongside the big fellow and snuggle up to him in a most affectionate manner, and the giant would roll toward him and put out his great arm or flipper, as if to bestow a caress. He was a very affectionate old fellow, and, as the vessel drew nearer, his size and actions were remarked by the mate, who called the skipper’s attention to them. Just then the great whale breached, and the sun, striking fairly upon his dark side, showed several deep lines that looked like huge scars. His long, thin shape and hideous head were plainly outlined against the sky, and, as he struck, the sea resounded with the crash. He disappeared, and the little fellow breached and followed him.

“That’s the big coward, the leader,” said Jackson. “You kin tell him by them cuts he has in his sides, an’ there aint nothin’ bigger afloat. He is an old one and wary. You wouldn’t think a whale with them scars on him would be scared at a little boat, hey? Them was cut a long time ago, mebbe, but they were done in a fight sech as ye’ve never seen.”