‘Look out for that line!’ commanded the mate. The flying line lashed about like an angry snake. If an arm or leg got caught in it the limb would be nipped off as neatly as if amputated by a surgeon’s saw. Either that, or the man would be snatched out of the boat by the whizzing line and carried down after the whale.
How deep would the whale go? The sperm-whale is the best diver on earth. With the greatest of ease he can go a quarter of a mile or more straight down.
A man would be crushed to a pulp long before he could reach such a depth. The pressure of the water upon his body would squeeze all the flesh out from between his bones and crush his skull. Even if he could descend to such a depth he could not rise again to the surface without getting a terrific case of the “bends’ that would cost him his life.
The line was nearly all gone from the tub. But there was a second tub of line, and a sailor hastily tied the two ends together. In a few seconds the first tub was empty, and the line was whirring out of the second so fast that the eye could not follow it. ‘He can’t go much deeper,’ said one of the men.
‘Can’t he, though?’ retorted the mate. ‘Ever hear what happened down near Panama? A submarine cable broke and a repair-ship was sent out to fix it. When the ship hauled the two broken ends to the surface a dead sperm-whale was found in the coils. That cable had been lying on the bottom of the sea, and the sea at that point is half a mile deep. To get caught in the cable, the whale had to dive half a mile straight down.’
‘We can’t afford to have this one dive so deep.’ said the man who had spoken before. ‘We have only three hundred fathoms of line.’
‘Better start snubbing,’ said the mate.
A sailor threw two loops of the line around a loggerhead, or post. The line still ran, but it was slowed by friction against the post and this increased the drag on the whale. The monster might even be discouraged from his downward dive.
This snubbing could be dangerous. If the line was too tight round the post the whale might drag boat and all beneath the sea. The bow was already much lower and the gunwales were awash. Men bailed lustily as waves broke into the boat.
There was still another danger - fire. The friction of the line against the loggerhead sent up a curl of blue smoke and presently a yellow flame sputtered.
‘Douse it!’ ordered the mate.
The man nearest the loggerhead emptied his leather bailing-bucket over the flame. It disappeared, and so did the smoke. But it was only a few moments before the heat of the passing line started a new blaze. Again and again the loggerhead had to be baptized with sea-water.
Chapter 7
A quarter of a mile down
The line went slack.
The big bull had ended his dive. Perhaps he thought he had gone deep enough to be safe, perhaps he had been slowed down by the pull of the line. He lay there more than a quarter of a mile deep while five men in a boa-! anxiously waited.
‘How long can they stay down?’ Roger asked.
Roger remembered his own underwater experiences. When diving in the pearl lagoon he had been able to hold his breath for three minutes. No human diver could do much better than that.
‘No telling,’ said the mate. ‘Usually fifteen to forty minutes. But they’ve been known to stay below for an hour and a half.’
‘How can they do without air for so long?’
‘You saw all that spouting,’ replied the mate. ‘Every time he spouted he blew out dead air and took in fresh air. He did that about a dozen times. That wasn’t just to fill his lungs - it was to put oxygen into his blood. That’s where it counts. And a whale can do about five times as good a job of oxygenating its blood as a man can do. No other breathing animal can do as well. A living submarine, that’s what a whale is.’
The other whaleboats had come up, ready to help if they were needed. The man who had tumbled overboard had been rescued and now climbed back into the mate’s boat.
He was soaking wet and worn out, but he got no sympathy from the crew. Whalers had no kind words for a man who was too clumsy to keep his balance in a boat.
He shivered with cold. Roger stripped off his sweater and gave it to him. The men laughed at him for taking clothes from a boy. Angrily, he gave the sweater back to Roger. He would rather shiver than be laughed at.
For more than three-quarters of an hour they waited. The men sat idly in the bobbing boats. One would think they would be glad of the rest. But every moment was full of suspense.
No one could say where the monster would come up. He might rise beneath the boats, tossing them high into the air and spilling their occupants into the shark-infested waters.
‘The longer he stays down the faster he’ll come up,’ said the mate. ‘He’ll be crazy for fresh air.’
The sea began to boil. It was as if a great fire had been lit under it. It rose in a huge bubbling hump, and up through this hill of water shot the whale as if he had been fired from a gun.
He rose clear out of the water and seemed to be standing on his tail like a black tower eighty feet high - about the height of a seven-storey building. Imagine seeing a skyscraper suddenly appear on the open sea. It was a spectacle to remember, and Scott operating his cine-camera was making sure that it would be remembered.
Down came the skyscraper, sending out waves that dashed the boats into each other and made the men bail furiously. The whale threw up one white palm tree after another as he breathed out stale air and took in fresh. It would take him many minutes to restore oxygen to his blood, and during that time he would think of nothing else. This was the whalers’ chance.
‘Lay to it, boys,’ shouted the mate. ‘Pull! Come in just behind his left eye.’
He left the stern and stepped over the thwarts to the bow, while the harpooner came back and took his place in the stern.
It was the old custom. The officer must have the honour of killing the whale. Durkins took up the lance. It was an iron spear five feet long and as sharp as a razor. It was quite unlike the harpoon. The harpoon was. made to go in and hang on, like a fish-hook. The lance was made to go much farther in, and kill.
The mate stood in the bow, the lance held high in his right hand.
‘Closer.’ he ordered.
Roger would have been willing not to get any closer to-the great black boat-slasher. His heart was in his mouth. The enormous hulk of the whale loomed above the small boat and shut off half the sky. The fountains of steam blasted off into the sky like the exhaust of a jet plane.
Now the bow actually touched the black hide. The mate leaned forward and plunged the lance in just behind the eye.
‘Back her, back her!’ he yelled.
The boat pulled away. The whole body of the whale was trembling and twisting. A deep groan came from the
monster, reminding those who listened that this was no fish, but a mammal like the man who was killing him. The groan began on a low tone, but rose to a high wailing bellow.
Then again he spouted. This time the palm tree was not white, but red with blood. This the whalemen called ‘flowering’. And it did look like a gigantic flower, thirty feet high. It was evident that the lance had pierced the lungs. Roger shrank as the rain of blood fell on the boats, but the men were cheering.
‘A hundred barrels if he’s a pint!’ exulted Jimson.
The whale was dead. The sea was blood-red and the sharks were already tearing at the carcass.
A line was put over the tail and the three boats joined forces in hauling the prize back to the ship.
It was a long, slow job. Fifteen oars dipped and pulled. Each pull won only an inch or two. The captain could have brought the ship closer, but he seemed to take a perverse delight in seeing the oarsmen sweat it out. It was long after dark before the whale was alongside the ship. There the cable round the tail was passed aboard and secured. It was as if two ships lay side by side.
The boats were hoisted to the davits and the men collapsed on deck, quite exhausted. The cook brought them meat and coffee. Rog
er said to Jimson:
‘Boy, won’t that bunk feel good!’
Chapter 8
The wolves of the sea
There was great turmoil in the water around the dead whale. The sea was alive with sharks rushing frantically about, taking bites out of the carcass and out of each other.
That won’t do,’ growled the captain. ‘By morning we won’t have any whale left. Somebody’s got to get down there and fend off those sharks. Who volunteers?’
No one volunteered. Even if they had been fresh none of them would have chosen to spend the night on that slippery carcass fighting off the wolves of the sea.
Captain Grindle walked about among his weary sailors.
His eye lit on Roger. The captain’s fist was still sore from the whack against the mast when Roger had dodged his blow.
‘You - you young squirt!’ snapped Grindle. ‘Get down on that whale.’
Hal spoke up. ‘Let me go.’ Mr Scott also ventured a protest. The mate said:
‘The kid’s pretty well whacked, Captain. He pulled a good oar. He deserves to rest.’
‘Who gives orders on this ship?’ roared the skipper. ‘Did ever a ship have such a pack of softies! The next man who talks back at me will be put in irons.’
He gave Roger a hard kick in the ribs.
‘Get down there, you lazy loafer. This ought to be good - a gent dancing on a whale’s back. You may find the dance-floor a bit slippery. One good thing about it -if we lose you, we won’t lose much. I can’t spare a real man. Get along!’
He kicked again, but since Roger had already moved away the captain lost his footing and sat down hard on the deck. Some of the men laughed. That did not improve the captain’s-temper. Hurling curses about him like belaying-pins, he strode off to his quarters aft.
Roger stood at the rail looking down on the dead monster besieged by sharks. An almost full moon lit the weird scene. The mate was looping a rope around Roger beneath the arms. The other end of the rope would be held by a seaman on deck.
‘If you slip, he’ll pull you up,’ said the mate.
The seaman, whose name was Brad, did not willingly accept the job.
‘Look here,’ he complained. ‘This ain’t my watch. I’m tired. I’ve done my bit.’
‘So has everybody else,’ replied the mate. ‘You know well enough there aren’t any watches when we catch a whale.’
‘But suppose I fall asleep?’
‘Don’t,’ warned the mate.
He gave Roger a whaling-spade. This was a flat razor-edged knife about the same shape as a spade fastened to the end of a fifteen-foot pole. Tomorrow, spades like this would be used to cut the blubber from the whale. Tonight, the spade would be Roger’s only weapon against the sharks.
Try to punch them in the nose,’ the mate instructed. ‘That’s where they kill easiest. Or rip them in the belly when they turn over.’
Roger, trembling with weariness, but stimulated to new strength by this new challenge, climbed over the rail. Brad eased out the line and Roger was lowered to the whale’s back.
Roger’s first act was to fall flat on his face. The captain had not been fooling. The whale’s back was slippery. It was more slippery than any dance-floor.
The whale’s skin is not wrinkled like an elephant’s or rhino’s. It is not hair like the hide of a buffalo or lion. It has no scales like those of a fish. It is as smooth as glass.
Worse than that, it is like greased glass. Oil from the blubber beneath it oozes up through it, filling the pores so as to keep out the cold and enable the monster to slide through the water like a streamlined submarine. Roger heard a low chuckle from the sailor Brad, watching him from the deck above. He crawled to his feet, clutching the spade. The ocean swell rolled the whale gently from side to side. At each roll Roger slid, and Brad chuckled.
If Roger slipped down on the off-side he would be promptly finished off by sharks. If he slid down on the other side he would be crushed between the ship and the whale. The danger terrified Roger, but the man above him couldn’t care less.
Brad resented being posted on this dreary night duty. He was already tired of holding the rope-end. Glancing round to make sure that no officer was looking, he made fast the end of the line to a stay. Then he settled himself to enjoy the acrobatics of the moonlit figure on the rolling dance-floor.
Roger was not going to give him much amusement. The boy was learning how to keep his footing. With his sharp spade he cut two footholds in which he could sink his heels. Now he swayed with the roll, but did not slip. With his feet firmly planted, and the rope to hang on to, he could stay upright.
Brad was disappointed. It had promised to be a good show, but the boy had spoiled it. Disgusted, Brad slumped down to the deck and went to sleep. , The jar made by a big wave sent Roger sliding and he got back to his footholds with difficulty.
‘Hi,’ he called. ‘Will you hold that line a little tighter?’
He got no answer. He called again, without effect. He saw that the line had been looped to a stay. He supposed that Brad had sneaked off to his bunk.
The silence terrified Roger. The silent sky above with stars racing back and forth as the whale rolled, the silent ship, the silent sea hiding mystery and death.
Only the dorsal fin of each shark could’ be seen. It stood up like a little black sail in the path of the moon. There were at least a dozen of these small black sails speeding here and there, now rushing in to the whale’s flank, now sailing away again as the shark swam off with a chunk of meat in its teeth to swallow at leisure.
As one sail approached, Roger plunged in bis spade and felt it go deep into the living ship beneath that sail. At once blood poured from the injured shark while its tail savagely thrashed the water in an effort to escape. But the other sharks were upon it at once and, like the cannibals they were, proceeded to tear their companion to bits and devour him.
When they had done dining upon their brother they turned their attention once more to the whale. Another sail came flying in, but disappeared at the last moment as the shark turned upside-down before taking its bite. Some sharks prefer this upside-down way of attack. Roger’s cutting spade plunged into the brute’s throat. Again the sharks forgot the whale to turn upon their injured companion.
Why did they prefer to eat each other? It was because they were blood-lovers. Blood is to sharks what alcohol is to men. They go wild over it, drunk even at the smell of it. And it is much easier to get through the skin to the blood of a shark than to penetrate a whale’s coat of blubber a foot thick and reach its arteries and heart.
If Roger could just keep these cannibals feeding upon each other he could save the whale. He tried every time to strike the sensitive nose. Often this was impossible and he sliced into the shark as it was swimming away. When the cut was far back towards the tail where the shark could reach it by turning its head back and tail forward, this strange devil of the sea would actually tear at the wound with its teeth, drink its own blood and devour its own flesh.
The red sea attracted more and more sharks. Many of them attacked out of reach of Roger’s fifteen-foot spade. He must be able to run forward towards the whale’s head, or back towards its tail. Two footholds were not enough - he had to cut a row of them, both forward and aft, each hole cupped two or three inches deep into the hide. Along this curious path on a whale’s back Roger ran this way and that as far as the length of his rope would permit, and stabbed every attacker he could reach.
Once as the whale rolled he slipped out of the tracks and slid far over until his feet were in the sea. With a rush the savage beasts closed in on him, snapping at his boots. Fortunately they were tough and strong, and not easily crushed.
Then one boot was yanked off together with the woollen sock beneath it.
Roger felt teeth closing upon his bare leg. He jerked it out of the way and hauled himself up on to the whale by means of the rope.
Blood streamed from his leg. Should he climb on deck and have it attended
to? There was no surgeon on board. It was usual for the captain to have some skill in first aid. But Roger would rather suffer the pain and risk of blood-poisoning than submit himself to the tender mercies of Captain Grindle.
He scrubbed the wound with sea-water, tied his handkerchief round the leg, and went on with his work.
Midnight came and went. Roger had trouble in keeping his eyes open. A ghostly haze lay over the sea. It was the time of night for men to sleep and ghosts to walk. Roger was not superstitious, but he could not help but be affected by the mystery of the night.
And then he saw something that sent a chill of fear down his spine. It could not he true. He must have gone to sleep and he was having a terrible nightmare.
For the dorsal fins that cut the water, each of them about a foot high, had suddenly grown into great black sails as tall as a man. Taller - they were certainly seven or eight feet high.
No more did they skim along gently like sail-boats. They shot by at furious speed. They ploughed up the water and sent spray high into the air.
One of them came straight towards the whale. It struck the great eighty-foot monster with such force that Roger felt the vibration throughout the huge body. No shark, not even the great white shark, could strike such a blow.
Chapter 9
Fighting killer-whales
Then one of these impossible monsters raised its head six feet above the surface of the sea. It looked like a great black torpedo standing on end. It was as big as a dozen sharks. Evidently supported by the moving tail and fins beneath, it continued to stand up like a statue for many seconds. And it looked straight at Roger.
The moon in its westward journey was now in position to light the beast’s eyes, Roger had never seen such eyes. They were not small like those of a whale. They were as big as saucers, and round and staring. Roger felt as small as a midget under that terrible gaze.
05 Whale Adventure Page 4