The Two Whalers; Or, Adventures in the Pacific

by William Henry Giles Kingston

“Remember, Jack, that either you or I may be as suddenly summoned to meet our God. We must so live as to be prepared,” he answered solemnly.

The boat, the search in vain, now coming alongside was hoisted up, and the ship kept on her course. Scarcely, however, had the yards been braced round than down came the gale upon us with far greater force than before. There was no use longer contending against it. The helm was put up and we ran—tearing through the water—back again into the Downs. Here we lay day after day waiting for a fair wind. It was much the same to me, but a severe trial of temper to the captain and most of the ship’s company, who wanted to be in the Pacific catching whales.

I have not yet described the crew of the “Eagle.” There was the captain, three mates, the carpenter and his mate, the cooper and his mate, the armourer, steward and cook, four boat-steerers, four able seamen, eight ordinary seamen, the doctor, and two apprentices—namely, Medley and I. The ship was thus strongly manned for her size, but in the whaling service, when sometimes four boats are away at a time, a large number of hands are required.

By the time we had been a week in the Downs a fleet of some hundred merchantmen were collected there, driven in by the long continuing south-westerly gales. We had very little communication with the shore, though I managed to send a letter home, and Medley wrote to his friends.

“Never miss an opportunity of writing home, Jack,” he said to me; “I know the pleasure it gives to those who love us to receive a letter, and the anxiety they suffer when they have to go long without hearing from us.”

I followed his advice, and wrote by every homeward bound ship we fell in with, though many of my letters did not reach their destination. We also got a man, Eben Dredge, in place of poor John Major lost overboard. Still the south-wester blustered and roared. Some of the men declared that it had set in for good, and that there never would be any other wind as long as the world lasted.

At length one morning when Medley and I were below, we heard the first mate shouting, “All hands up anchor! Fair wind, boys! Be smart there, all of you.” We sprang on deck. The watch below came tumbling up with eager looks. The wind had suddenly veered round to the east-north-east. Every man, including the cook and steward, set to work with a will; while some with a cheery song hove round the windlass, others flew aloft to loose sails. Hundreds of ships were setting sail at the same time, their white canvas rapidly expanding to the breeze.

We were among the first to get under weigh, and running past numerous ships we took the lead and kept it, closely pressed, however, by another whaler, the “Fair Rosamond,” but we lost sight of her off the Isle of Wight. As if the “Eagle” was eager to make up for lost time she ran under every stitch of canvas she could carry at the rate of nearly twelve knots an hour to the Lizard, when the wind fell; but it breezed up again when we were in the Bay of Biscay, and blew great guns and small arms, as sailors say, or in other words, very nearly a hurricane. I own that I did not like it. Our stout ship looked like a mere cockle-shell amid the mighty billows, which in huge watery walls rose half-way up the masts, threatening every instant to overwhelm her. Though I tried to conceal my fears Medley detected them, but he did not laugh at me.

“I once should have felt as you do, Jack, but I know that we are as safe here in God’s hands as on shore,” he observed. “Our ship is well-built, well found, and well manned, and I trust that we shall weather this gale, and any others we may have to encounter.”

We did weather it without carrying away a rope-yarn, and having sighted Madeira steered for the Cape de Verde Islands, at one of which, Brava, we called to obtain fresh provisions and to ship several tall Kroomen to pull the midship oars in the whale boats. Very fine fellows they were, with gentle, happy dispositions, never grumbling or complaining, and they were consequently much liked by the officers and all the best men of the crew.