I hear this morning that after I had turned in, the mate had a shot with the harpoon at a narwhal and missed. I am sure our gun shoots short, possibly the powder is faulty. I have known a man miss fifty shots in succession in the Japanese seas, owing to this cause. He got more suitable powder, and he killed sixty-nine whales without a miss. This is the old style of gun and harpoon which we have on the Fonix. A is wire strop or grummet running in slot in harpoon shaft. B is the “forego,” a length of extra fine and strong line attached to harpoon. C shows the line going into the bottom of the boat. D, crutch turning in; E, a bollard or timber-head.
On the Balæna, a Dundee and Greenland whaler I was on for a long cruise, we coiled down eighteen hundred yards of two-inch rope in each boat, extremely carefully coiled down in three divisions, one in the bows, one amidships, and another at the stern. After using the modern heavy Finner tackle from a small steamer these old lines seem to be very light tackle in contrast. Last year we coiled down five-inch ropes (i.e. five in circumference) three hundred and sixty fathoms to port, three hundred and sixty to starboard, each line filling a bulkhead of, say, eight feet by eight, and each line weighing about a ton, and the harpoons weighed nearly two hundredweights. To play a fish of, say, ninety tons that can snap such a cable or tow your hundred-foot steamer at eight to fifteen knots up wind, with the two-hundred-horse-power engine doing eight knots astern, is some sport. But the thin lines we have here are quite adequate for this Balean whale of the Arctic, for the Right whale as a rule does not sprint and it floats when it is dead, and usually, on being harpooned, dives deep and stays down till it exhausts itself from want of air, and so the lancing is easy. The rorquals go off at great speed nearer the surface.
Does the reader know about the great Svend Foyn, who invented the harpoon for the great finners of modern whaling? He was a man of remarkable determination and strength of character. Many yarns have I heard about him.
This is one of them:
To show how his new harpoon worked, he took his wife on a trial trip—great man as he was, he made mistakes, and had his limitations. He soon made fast to a great finner with his new harpoon and line, and was he not a proud man? But the harpoon struck the whale too far aft and did not disable it. It took out the whole line and with a rush took their little steamer in tow at a terrible speed out of the fiord for twelve hours at fifteen knots against a gale, and they were steaming seven knots astern with a sail up to help to stop the speed.
“Let go, let go,” prayed the wife, “I am seek, I am afraid.” “No, no,” said Foyn, “I vill never let go. I vill show you veech is de strongest my vill or de vill of de beasts,” and he held on and finally got the whale lanced. But it was an awful fight. When they towed the whale ashore in triumph his wife was nearly dead, and she said: “Now you have shown me your vill ees stronger den de beasts’—now I vill leave you,” and she did. And through his life his second wife was his right hand.
The End of the Trail
What a huge industry has sprung from that new harpoon first planned by Mr Welsh in Dundee, but developed in Tönsberg by Svend Foyn, working with Henriksen the engineer, that wonderful patriarch of Tönsberg. Gruff old Svend Foyn died in 1895, a millionaire; but he preserved great simplicity of life and dined off one tin plate, and despised luxuries; and only one ailment did he ever suffer from, that was toothache; so if anyone had toothache they got his sympathy, no other complaint got any. Only one man in Norway could get to windward of him, and that was Yensen, his steward. Once Foyn came on board at night and Yensen was lying on the cabin floor very drunk, but with just enough sense left to clap his hand to his cheek, and when Foyn roared out: “Halloo, what the hell’s the matter with you?” he groaned: “Toothache, Captain, terrible toothache.” “Ho, ho,” said Foyn, “I’ll soon put that right,” and he went to his cabin and poured out a sou’-wester of whisky, which he ordered Yensen to swallow neat, of course; he did so, and made a face, and had some difficulty in getting forward. Foyn was as pleased as could be next morning, when he visited Yensen and found he had only a headache. The steward was very diplomatic and tactful. Once, with his Captain, he went up a high hill somewhere about the Nord Cap to look out for whales in the offing and there came such a clap of wind that it blew the great Foyn down and hurt his person and his dignity. But on looking round he found Yensen slowly getting to his feet, muttering: “That was a terrible blast, Captain.” Yensen had really not felt it at all, so he saved Foyn’s feelings.