"Mine, Sir!" answered Bunker, who was equipping himself in an old short-sleeved shirt, a relic of "last voyage," and an old pair of woollen drawers, preparatory to jumping over on the whale to put in the blubber-hook, a part of the boatsteerer's duty far more desirable within the tropics than in higher latitudes, and especially to be eschewed on a cold, rugged morning in the Arctic regions.
"Over hook!" shouted Father Grafton, as soon as the crew began to muster along. "Bear a hand, boys, and stand by the windlass! Overhaul your fall well! Now then, Bunker, where are you? Now's your chance—smooth time! Here, Blacksmith, you belong to the hold gang. I shall put you in the waist gang, too. Stay here in the gangway, and lend a hand with the boatsteerers."
The hook was soon in, and Mr. Grafton in his stage under the main chains with a long spade, the second mate in the forward stage with another. The old man had become ubiquitous, and was in twenty places at one and the same time.
"Here, Kelly, I shall appoint you captain of the scoop-net. Get a strap-tub along here ready to sling by the backstays, and get your net all ready. When they cut round the head, stand by to save all the slivers, and if you let a piece of fat go astern as big as a half-dollar, I shall stop it out of your lay. Hoist away that fall! Heave the windlass some of ye, and get the slack in! Here, Collins, go aft there, and stay with the carpenter to turn grindstone. Keep your ears peeled for the word 'sharp spade!' from over the side, and don't make them sing out a dozen times or I shall be hunting you up myself. Boatsteerers! get the short spades all ready to use in the waist? That's right. Hook take well, Mr. Grafton? Here, pick up that monkey-rope, Fisher, and keep it out of the grease. Heave away that windlass? Where are you, Jeff, with the song? Open your throat—Mr. Dunham, be careful and don't cut your blanketpiece too wide. Sharp spade into the after stage! Mr. Johnson, let me whet this boarding-knife for you. I used to be a good hand at it. Avast heaving, there! Keep your ears open, and mind the word!"
All circumstances being favorable, the head was cut off before breakfast, and the body all in the blubber-room by nine o'clock, Captain Upton driving a spade into it with a perfect gusto, and slashing it into horse pieces almost as fast as it was stowed in the hatchway. The windlass went round "slip slop" to the lively strains chanted by Old Jeff, and chorused by all hands in various keys, making the clear air vocal with discord. I made considerable progress in the technicalities of "Board O!" and "In strap and toggle!" as well as in the equally important mystery of preserving my aplomb on the greasy deck, having been on my beam ends only twice during the whole operation. To the startling hail from the old man, "What are you doing down on deck? That's my place!" I made no audible reply but a laugh; but mentally responded, that if that were the old man's place, he was quite welcome to keep it.
The heaviest work was to come in getting the junk inboard. It was roused forward into the waist, and after considerable "overhauling" and "rounding up," and some hard service for Bunker in getting a chain strap through the "junk," it was at last cut from the "case" and fairly hung in the tackles. All hands went to the windlass; the waist gang, the third and second mates found room with the rest; even Father Grafton lent a hand, and encouraged the others to lay out their strength on the bars. The captain again pervaded the whole deck, glancing anxiously aloft at his masthead pendants and tacklefalls to see how they bore the immense strain, and from time to time breaking forth in a sort of exhortation, half-command, half-entreaty, "Heave hard, men! Heave and raise him! Few squares more and we'll have him!"
The good cordage of the falls groaned under the tension, as each ropeyarn seemed to yield a little to assist the rest, and the Arethusa heeled lower and lower at each additional "downpawls!" of the windlass, till her starboard plankshear was but little above the surface of the water. Slowly but steadily, by almost imperceptible degrees, the ponderous junk rose from its watery bed, its scarred black skin showing, in the ragged furrows and white streaks on its surface the marks of many a shock received in angry encounters with other sea monsters, and the mingled oil and water streaming at every pore and running in a gush from the hole where the chain-strap was cutting and jamming into the fat under the fearful strain. The mainmast-head itself could be seen to "give" sensibly to the weight, and the larboard main-shrouds to stiffen like bars of iron.
"Heave, boys! Square or two more!" said the captain, as the mighty mass began to cant inboard. "That's lively! Downpawls again! That watchtackle ready boatsteerers? High enough! Lay aft here, and get this tackle ready! There he swings lower! Lower away! Hook on and rouse him aft! What time is it? Slide him well aft, Mr. Grafton, out of the way! Steward! pass up my quadrant? We'll get dinner, Mr. Grafton, before we sling the case."
"An' sure," said Farrell, as he came sliding and tumbling aft with the rest, to haul the tackle, "and is that his head, now?"
"Head? no!" growled Old Jeff, "that's only a small piece of it."