I looked and saw what I supposed was a ship on fire. A ruddy glare was coloring the sky at the extremity of the sea about three points on the lee bow. I thought to myself, if she is a ship on fire and beyond control, her people will help me to navigate the brig home. The fancy, the hope, elated me; I was wide awake on a sudden, though I had sat down dog tired.
A long swell was rolling out of the south, and a five-knot breeze was blowing off our larboard quarter. I put the helm up for the light, and when I had it fair ahead I gave the spokes to Jimmy, and fetched the telescope out of the cabin where, on a locker, lay the lady Aurora sleeping. The telescope resolved the red light into several tongues of flame which waxed and waned; I had then no doubt whatever that the fire was a burning ship, and forthwith fell to walking first to one then to the other side of the brig, for long spells at a time overhanging the bulwark rail, straining my sight into the darkness, and hearkening with all my ears.
By and by, recollecting that an empty tar barrel stood upon the forecastle, I resolved to make a flare. I rolled the barrel aft, kindled it, and Jimmy and I flung the barrel overboard.
It burnt finely, and lighted up a great space of the sea. If the people of the burning ship were in the neighborhood they’d know by the fire upon the water that help was at hand, and rest on their oars till daybreak, which was hard by.
When the dawn broke the ship was about a mile distant. Smoke was rising from her decks. I sought in vain in all directions for a boat. I saw no fire now on board the ship, and when I pointed the telescope I perceived that she was hove to, and that the smoke was local as though it rose from chimneys. Between us and the ship was a vast lump of red stuff that lifted and fell; it was scored and flaked with white, and its redness was that of blood. The sun came up and touched it, and now I perceived—by this time we had neared it—that the loathsome bulk was a part of a great whale, freshly “cut in,” as it is termed. A number of birds were on it, and they tore the horrid mass with their beaks, and many birds hovered over it.
I looked very hard at the ship. I seemed to know her. Her numerous davits and crowd of boats bespoke her a whaler, and I knew by the sight of that vast heap of whale which had gone adrift that she was “trying out”—that is, boiling down the blubber that came from the whale. In fact, my nose told me of what was going on when I was half a mile away.
The flash of the sun on the skylight awakened Miss Aurora; she came on deck, and cried out on beholding the whaler.
“This is a very wonderful thing,” said I. “Do you know that ship?”
She stared hard and shook her head.
“She is the Virginia Creeper, whaler, of Whitby,” said I, “we spoke her t’other side the Horn.”