It was the first word spoken that showed relief. There was a perceptible slackening of our speed. And the whale was “going back to town,” as the captain had intimated.
“Get hold of that line, Webb, and stand ready to haul,” said Mr. Gibson to me, taking the heavy whalegun from its covered beckets, after changing places again with old Tom.
“Now for it!” muttered the boat-steerer, gripping the eighteen-foot oar and craning forward eagerly. He was just as excited as the rest of us. I hauled in on the line, standing firmly braced just behind the young second mate. The whale had actually come to a stop and did not sound. We drew closer and closer.
“Jest a leetle be-aft the for’ard fin, sir!” whispered old Tom, excitedly.
Gibson grunted some reply and raised the gun, taking careful aim at the mountain of flesh about which the water swirled. A second or two of breathless suspense followed as, oars in hand, we waited the report of the gun.
A sharp report made me jump. Then came the dull explosion of the bomb-lance somewhere in the vitals of the whale.
“Stern all! stern all!” shouted Mr. Gibson, this time finding his voice.
The wounded whale flung itself completely out of the water. For a moment we could see daylight underneath the huge bulk and as we backed water with all our strength it did seem as though that convulsed, eighty barrel sperm must fall upon the boat and overwhelm it!