Peter the Whaler

by William Henry Giles Kingston

The calm confident tone in which Andrew spoke had a great effect on his hearers, and not another word of complaint was uttered. While we were at work, we had not noticed that a breeze had sprung up. One by one we were retiring to our hut, when on looking seaward I observed that the whole surface of the ocean was broken into crisp waves; and glancing my eyes to the northward, there I beheld what no seaman could doubt for a moment were the topgallant-sails of a large ship.

I rushed into the hut where my companions were sitting, most of them with their heads sunk between their knees, brooding on our misfortune, except Andrew, who stood with his arms folded, meditating on our future plans, and asking assistance whence alone assistance could be given.

“A sail! a sail!” I exclaimed. My voice aroused them from their lethargy. They looked at my countenance, and seeing that I was in earnest, like madmen they rushed from the hut. Every eye was turned towards the point I indicated. There, sure enough, was the sail I had seen; and without waiting to secure any provisions, we hurried down towards the boat, but Andrew called us back.

“We should not go empty-handed, mates, among our new friends, nor quit those who have treated us so hospitably without a word of farewell,” he exclaimed. “There is yet time enough to do what we should do, and to pull out into the offing before the ship is off here.”

Ashamed by his mild reproof, we went to the tents of our Esquimaux friends, who still remained near us; and explaining that a ship, by which we hoped to return to our country, was in sight, we bade them understand that if we did not return, all the property we left behind was to be theirs. We saw tears falling from their eyes as they wrung our hands when we stepped into the boat, which they assisted us to launch over the ice.

We had loaded her with as large a supply of provisions as she could carry, and with our guns and the little ammunition which remained. Once in the boat, we gave way with a will, and pulled boldly out to sea, with our jack at the end of a spar of three times the usual length.

On came the stranger. O how our hearts beat as we saw her hull rising out of the water!

On we pulled, so as to place ourselves directly in her course, that there might not be a possibility of her missing us. Various were the conjectures as to what nation she belonged; for it was soon seen she was not English by the cut of her sails, and as she drew nearer, by her build. Some said Danish, others Dutch, and others French.

The last proved right; for, as we got within hailing distance, once more the voices of civilised men struck our ears. We could not understand the question put to us; but when we sung out that we were Englishmen, who had lost our ship, a voice in our own tongue told us to come on board. With joyful hearts we pulled alongside, and found ourselves on board the Saint Jean, whaler, belonging to the port of Bordeaux.

The cargo of our boat, as Andrew had supposed, was not unwelcome, and secured us a warmer reception than we perhaps might otherwise have experienced. The Saint Jean was nearly full, and was one of the few ships which had that year succeeded in reaching Pond’s Bay; so the second mate, who spoke English, informed us. Most of them, afraid of the early setting in of the winter, had already gone to the south, and must have passed out of sight of land. Thus, had we not seen the ship, we should probably have had to pass another winter in the arctic regions.