The Strife of the Sea

by T. Jenkins Hains

“Mebbe he got licked?” suggested the mate.

“He wouldn’t be here if he had,” said Jackson. “Howsomever, here he is, and it’s our business to get him and cut him up, if we kin.”

To stop the leader of the whales was the object, for, if he was held, the rest would either scatter or await developments. In either case they would not get very far away, and could be reckoned with afterwards. The Erin was held pointed toward the spot where the whale was expected to rise, and the mate went forward and stood behind the gun with the harpoon loaded in it, and ready for a shot as soon as he should come within twenty fathoms. The old coward, however, had seen the approaching ship, and, with a peculiar movement of his flukes upon the water, he gave the signal for danger.

Somewhere in that oily brain the memory of his past life was stored in a strangely simple but vivid manner. He remembered, although he was unable to reason it all out like the human being who hunted him; but, a thousand moons before, he had gone forth in the ocean from his birthplace in the South Pacific, and had held his way proudly and with force. Fiercely he had fought for everything he took of the world’s belongings, and the joy of battle had run warm in his blood. It had surged through his great frame at the sight of a stranger, and he had striven and conquered all who had opposed him or refused to do his will. Many had died, for a sea fight is usually to the death, and the strangeness of the passion had gradually worked its way into the old mind, and he held aloof. The experience of a hundred years taught him something. The oily brain learned slowly. The instinct, or feeling, had gradually come upon him that to fight is a great waste of energy, for life was more pleasant in the companionship of his many wives and young ones, and continual strife was not the right thing. To avoid it, if possible, was the thought uppermost in his old head; so, when he saw the approaching schooner, he gave a warning stroke upon the sea.

Instantly all the whales sounded.

But Captain Jackson was an old whaleman. He was after whales, and he had come thousands of miles to hunt them. The animals must come up again, soon, and to be near the spot where they would reappear would probably mean a capture. With a keen sense of reasoning, the bull knew that bodies that travel through the air must necessarily be retarded by the wind. Therefore, to windward he led the herd, and Jackson did not underestimate his cunning. With fires started under the boiler, the Erin held her way straight into the eye of the breeze, and the mate leaned over the forecastle rail, gun-lanyard in hand, peering into the clear depths for the dark shadow below that would show the presence of a rising monster. Jackson stood at the wheel with the signal pull in his hand, waiting to “shake her up” at the first sign of the game. The wheel turned slowly below, and the slight jar of machinery vibrating the hull was the only sound save the stirred water abaft the rudder from the thrust of the screw, gurgling and murmuring in a soft undertone.

The whalemen were gathered about the forecastle head, or stood near the boat falls, ready to lower away at a signal, and secure their victim. The sun shone strongly, and objects were visible at a great depth below the surface of the sea. Ten minutes passed, and Jackson was getting nervous. He had tried to gauge the rapidity of the old bull’s headway through the water, and had figured that he would come up somewhere in the vicinity of the vessel on her course. But not a sign of a whale had shown, and ten minutes had passed. They must be badly gallied, indeed, to stay under much longer. The old bull was cunning; but he, Jackson, knew a thing or two. It was pitting the old brain of an animal with a century or two of experience against that of an old man with keen intelligence. The skipper felt confident. He would take a long shot at the big fellow, and, once fast to him, whalebone would be plentiful for a few days. While the mate was leaning over the rail forward, looking down into the depths, he noticed a sudden darkening of the water just ahead of the vessel. He sprang to the cannon and stood ready to fire. The great shadow rose toward the surface, and the men saw instantly that it was a huge whale. Jackson was right, to a hair. The great bull was coming up under the jib-boom end. A man raised his hand aloft and gave a low cry, while the rest stood back from the gun to escape the shock of the heavy discharge and powder-blast. Jackson rushed to the rail and leaned over.

But the great shadow did not materialize into anything more. It remained deep down beneath the surface, fully twenty feet below, and, as the schooner forged ahead, it drifted alongside, a few fathoms distant. The signal was made to stop the engines, and both the schooner and the whale lay quietly drifting, the animal deep down and perfectly safe from a shot.

“It’s the coward, all right,” said Jackson, coming to the mate’s side; “that big coward bull what won’t show up for nothin’. I never seen sech a scary whale. Look at him—sink me, jest look at him! Blamed if he didn’t wink at me. Will ye look at that eye?”

The old whale was lying almost motionless, and his eye could be seen distinctly. He was watching the vessel carefully, and the rippling water from the bends actually did give him the appearance of opening and closing one eye as the waves of light flashed upon it. He seemed to be very much absorbed in profound contemplation of the ship. Perhaps he had not expected to find her so close aboard when he intended to breach for a breath of air. However, there was plenty of time. Breathing was something he was not obliged to indulge in more than once every half-hour or two, and he would not come up until he had put a little more distance between himself and the vessel. All hands were peering over the side at him when, suddenly, several blows sounded close aboard. All about, jets of spray and vapor shot skyward, and fully a dozen whales breached and then disappeared again. The mate rushed for the gun and Jackson sprang to the engine signal, while the second and third officers, “bos’n,” harpooners, and the rest, ran for their gear. When they looked over the side again the shadow of the giant had disappeared, and the sea was as quiet as a lake. In a few minutes a huge form breached about a quarter of a mile ahead—the bull had breathed, and was quietly going to windward. The animals were not badly gallied as the word is applied to thoroughly frightened whales. They had gone along at a steady, but not fast, gait, and had come up together as if at a signal. The schooner was not troubling them very much, and the sea was wide. There was room enough for all.