“How do you pitchpole, Peter?” I asked.
“Pitchpole?” said Peter. “Why, the shaft of a lance is light, of pine or some light wood, and you take it under the end on your hand, with the other hand to guide it. Then you toss it in the air blade first. Of course you aim at the whale. You must ’a’ done the same thing with a stick or an arrow many a time. The head being heavy and the shaft light, the blade ’ll keep ahead. If you ain’t too far off, and if you ’re any kind of a shot, it ’ll come down into the whale, but the aim ain’t certain. It can’t be. You haul the lance back by the warp that ’s fast to the shaft. Mr. Baker missed him clean the first time. He must ’a’ been making twelve knots, right into the wind. The second shot just tickled his flukes, and he gave such a powerful start that the first iron twisted off as if it had been made of cheese. That first iron had been doing all the pulling, and when it went that brought a sudden strain on the second iron, and it ripped out. So there we were, and there was the whale leaving us at a mile a minute, more or less. We came back.”
After supper I went on deck again, and saw Peter standing at the starboard rail. I joined him, and we looked over at the whale lying there. The cutting-in had been suspended for the night. It was dark, and I could not see the carcass, but I saw in the water lambent streams of phosphorescence moving slowly and lazily to and fro; little streaks of bubbles which glowed for a brief second or two, and then were gone. Now and then there was a burst of the tiny glowing bubbles, as a fin moved powerfully. The streaks of uncanny, lambent light seemed to interlace, but they all ended at the carcass of the whale and outlined it, leaving it in black darkness.
“See, Peter!” I said. “What a lot of sharks! How many there must be in the ocean!”
This whale was smaller than would have been thought from his actions, and it had been possible to get the whole case on deck. It had been reposing behind Peter and me while we discussed the matter of sharks. It was emptied the next morning, after the blubber was all in and the carcass cut adrift.
Bailing the case furnished sport for many of the crew. It was not necessary to use the case-bucket, but every kind of a receptacle was used, scoops and tin pails and old tin cans being in especial favor. When the case was half empty, a man got inside. He looked perfectly contented and happy, standing in the sloppy, slushy stuff up to his waist, ladling it out with a scoop, and he seemed to revel in the bath of oil and spermaceti. His getting in raised the level of the stuff, so that tin pails and tin cans once more came into easy use. I had never seen oil flowing so freely, slopping and spilling over everything.
When the trying-out was over, we found that we had made just over forty-seven barrels from that whale; pretty near the average, taking them as they come. The average is always called “five and forty.”
CHAPTER XVI
Nothing of note happened for very nearly a month. We had the usual variations of weather, good and bad, but mostly good, and no gales. We had no luck, however. Few whales were raised, and those that we did see were shy and wild, and we got none of them. It was December before we got another.
Early one morning I was out on deck. I had been sent on some errand by Mr. Wallet. I was never very quick on Mr. Wallet’s errands, and I stopped by the windlass, where I was out of sight from aft, and looked out forward. It was a perfect morning, the sun just up, making a path of gold over the tops of the seas, and the Clearchus lazily rolling along that golden path. Of course I lost myself in contemplation, half shut my eyes, and drank in the beauty of it. Mr. Wallet and his errands were forgotten, the oily, grimy ship was behind me, and the gentle breeze blew on my cheek. It was not strong enough to keep the heavy sails filled out, and the jibs, over my head, almost flapped with every roll of the ship. I imagined myself Magellan, and ahead of me that unknown shore, on which a huge savage, resplendent in yellow paint, danced and made gestures of invitation. It was very real to me, and when there suddenly appeared a tiny, soft feather in the savage’s hair—appeared, seemed to stand still for an instant, a tiny, drooping ostrich plume, drifted, and disappeared—I did not know it for what it was. It came again, the tiny, drooping ostrich plume; and at the same moment the quavering cry from high over my head—“Blo-o-ws!” The dancing savage vanished, and I ran.