She Blows! And Sparm at That!

by William John Hopkins

The boatsteerer or harpooner rows the oar nearest the bow. When near enough to the whale, at the command, “Stand up, Jack,” or “Stand up, you!” from the mate or boatheader, he takes in and secures his oar, turns around, stands up, takes the first harpoon, which is immediately ready to his hand in the crotch, fits his leg firmly in the opening in the cleat, and makes ready to dart. At the further command from the boatheader, “Give it to him!” he darts the harpoon with all the force left in him after rowing for miles, perhaps with all his strength. The harpoon is heavy, and both hands are used in throwing it, the right hand around the upper part of the wooden handle or haft, and giving it its forward impetus, and the left hand supporting the haft toward its lower end. Then, as quickly as he can, he grabs the second harpoon from its rest in the crotch, and darts that. This is in the hope of getting two irons fast, but the second harpoon must be thrown out of the boat in any case.

Lances and spare harpoons are stowed between the thwarts and the gunwale, the iron shanks held in a little brass frame—at least, on the boats of the Clearchus—with a sliding wire to lock them in, and the wooden hafts held in marline. Lances are to starboard, and harpoons to port; and on each, whether lance or harpoon, is a wooden sheath covering the sharp edge. It is one of the duties of the bow oar to remove the sheath, and to get out the lance. He has certain other duties which are important, and which make the bow oar next in line of promotion to the harpooner or boatsteerer.

When fast to the whale, the boatsteerer makes his way aft, and takes the steering oar, changing places with the boatheader, who is usually one of the mates, while the mate takes his position in the bow, a lance in his hand, ready to lance the whale and finish the business.

A harpoon or a lance is a poor bedfellow in a seaway, for they are kept very sharp. In fact, they are often a source of danger even when out of the boat. The second harpoon has to be thrown out of the boat in any case, whether there is a chance of getting it into the whale or not, for it is fast to the whale line, and if it were not thrown out there would be trouble. This second iron, when not in the whale, where it belongs, goes jumping and skittering over the waves after the fleeing whale, ahead of the boat or even abreast of it when the boat is hauled up close, or afoul of it.

The placing of the loggerhead at the stem accomplishes three things: it gives the boat-steerer easy control of the line, which the mate, in the bow, would have no time to attend to when they were at close quarters; incidentally it avoids the possibility of pulling the boat to pieces by a towing whale in which the harpoon is fast; but the controlling reason for it is that the men can heave on the line without leaving their places, which they must be able to do to get the boat up to the whale, so that the mate can lance.

But to come back to the boats, which had been making progress according to the natures of the men in charge of them. They were no nearer than they had been at first, and we drifted on, Mr. Wallet’s boat just abeam of us. The farther we went, the farther we were behind the whales, which were wandering directly away from us. The sun was near setting, and after an hour of a losing chase, signals were made for the boats to come aboard again.

I cast another look about the horizon, and ran aft. There was nothing to be seen of whales—from the deck, at any rate—only a beautiful pearl-gray softness on the water. My dreams that night were a queer mixture of whales and home, and of my father working on a staging beside a whale in a dock, and removing several of his ribs.

CHAPTER V

We reached the Gulf Stream some time during that night. I remember that I was awakened before dawn by the heeling of the ship so that I was all but pitched out of my bunk. I sat up and held on, and heard the rain, and the sound of feet on deck, and orders shouted, and the hoarse singsong of the crew as they manned the sheets and the halliards and the braces, and the noise of the yards swinging, and the sails slatting. There was no singsong from the men aloft taking in sail. The ship was pitching and rolling badly. The old Clearchus was good at that. Then Captain Nelson went on deck, and I dressed hastily, and went out too into the pitchy blackness of a stormy night at sea.

The two men at the wheel were having a hard time of it. I took my stand by the weather corner of the after house, hugging it close, to keep out of the rain, and looked out at the wet deck, which gleamed faintly now and then, and at the shadowy forms of the men who happened to pass near me, and at the white tops of the seas rolling past. The foam seemed to shine with a light of its own. Then the ship gave a more violent plunge than ever, and I could tell by the sound that she had shipped a sea over the bows, although I could see nothing; but as she rose I heard it come rushing aft, and the next moment the water was swirling in the near scupper, and slopped up against the leeward wall of the house. I stood there for some time, until long after they had sail reduced to reefed topsails, and my feelings were a curious mixture of exultation in the wildness of the night and—I may as well confess it now, although nothing could have drawn such a confession from me then—a sneaking fear that the ship would not stand such buffeting. I thought of home, and knew very well that my mother was lying awake and listening to the wind and the rain, and thinking of me. And I knew that I was in my father’s thoughts too, although those thoughts could not keep him awake. He knew that I was taking but the ordinary risks that every rightly constituted boy has to take, and goes to meet gladly. Indeed the risk was not great. It did not seem possible that I had left home less than two days before, and that it was such a few miles behind me. My thoughts being in that direction, I decided to keep a journal of some sort, and send it home when a chance offered. The chance may be a brief one, merely a passing ship, when there is no time to write letters.