Yet now there was nothing, only continued silence.
Deciding to wait until later to peruse the journal at length, he rummaged the pantry. There he found ample reserves of smoked meat, salt fish, hard-baked rye bread, beans and rice, and other foodstuffs, as well as kegs of cider and grog. No, it was not starvation that had doomed the men of the Reaper.
In the steerage the captain discovered a second body sprawled out near the foot of the companionway ladder, this one a skeleton also. A small oil-lamp was shattered beneath it, leaving a lightly charred spot. Evidently the person had been carrying the lamp and stumbled or fallen upon it with his chest, the flame quickly smothering under his weight.
“Captain! Where ye be?” he heard the first mate calling.
Mr. Cribb emerged from the doorway of the blubber room. When he espied Captain Seabury hovering over the skeletal remains, he nodded in acknowledgement. “Aye, I saw it as I came down.” Another of the men met them and joined in, pointing a thumb behind him. “I found three of ’is mates in the fo’c’s’le—nothing but bones, jest like ’im.”
The trio stood speechless a moment, contemplating the macabre figure at their feet. Then Mr. Cribb broke the spell.
“Sir, I been to the hole ... I think you’d best take a peek.”
They followed him down the hatchway into the stinking, stifling hold, black as that of a slave ship. In the wavering shadows they stepped carefully, for the stairs and gangways were more often than not slick with oil and scum and could be hazardous.
The captain lifted his light high, and saw no need for explanation as to Cribb’s discovery. The hold was crammed to capacity with whale oil—no less than 2,500 barrels!
The first mate drew his master’s attention to the alarming level of water which covered the ballast and almost all of the bottom rows of barrels.
“It’s more than bilge water, sir. See how the frames are unusually damp? I believe she’s been slowly takin’ on water—shipworms, I’d be a-guessin’.”
Just then they all heard a distinct scraping, rustling sort of sound, coming from several pools of darkness beyond the candle’s feeble, flickering glow.
The third man glanced over his shoulder. “I ’eard quare noises meself,” he whispered uneasily, “when I was forwurd.”
“And I, too,” added Cribb.
The captain frowned but kept his sedate demeanor. “Rats, most likely. Though ’tis odd they have not vacated this part of the ship, considering the seepage.” It was a common fact that rats flourished on such vessels, attracted by whale oil and blood. But somehow that reassurance did not put their minds at ease.
Captain Seabury smacked his lips in dismissal. “Well, let us be off. The rest of the crew will begin to wonder for our safety.”
Once on deck, the fourth sailor reported to the captain.
“The blokes must ’ave bane tryin’-out a whale, sir, but everythin’ seems to be in a bit of a ’urrah’s nest, like they just up an’ quit. The cuttin’ platform is still in place, and the try-pots is full.”
“Anything else?”
The man nodded quizzically. “Aye, three of the boats is missin’; the other two ’ave bane deliberately scuttled—aven the spare.” It was true; the remaining whaleboats hung from their davits, all rendered useless by a vandal’s axe.
Twilight had by now deepened into dusk, a starry but moonless night. Back on board the Jezebel Mr. Cribb took Captain Seabury aside for a private conversation. “What do you suppose, sir?—abandoned a slowly sinkin’ ship? Mutiny?”
The captain creased his brow in thought. “She’s of Yankee origin, probably making for home. But a whole crew suddenly deserting in three whaleboats on the open sea? They wouldst fare a much better chance staying with her till the end, pressing her as far as possible toward the nearest landfall. And mutiny?—why leave a full hold? More yet, what of those sad skeletons? Surely, ’tis a queer business. But perhaps this will furnish the key.” He tapped the log.
Cribb seemed restless. “By your leave, sir,” he continued, “you know me not to be a hen-hearted man, but somethin’ about this gives me the willies. I for one would sleep better this night if that—ship—were cast off and kept at a wide berth. At least until we can puzzle it out.”
The captain shook his head slowly and clutched the other’s shoulder. His voice was resolute. “I respect your concern, my friend, but I feel ’tis unwarranted to that extent. I must also respect the best interests of the owners of this vessel, and the sole purpose of our voyage. Begad, man, are you aware of what oil is fetching per ton back in Londontown? Do you not realize the treasure we have yonder? There is a fortune in her hold, and by all the laws of salvage that drifting derelict belongs to me. ’Tis the good hand of Providence.”
The first mate was still not satisfied. “But sir, many of the men are superstitious—there will be talk and scuttlebutt. They’ll fancy her a Jonah.”
The captain began to grow impatient. “Then tell them naught. Set the first dog-watch, and be sure no one gets curious and boards her. At the crack of dawn we start shipping her cargo.”
The first mate sighed in resignation. “Aye, Captain, I will see to it.”
Captain Seabury watched him go, and relished one last long look at the swarthy, sinister hulk of the Reaper. Then he went below.
After a supper of crackerhash, prune pie and tea to wash it down, he met with the other officers to outline plans for the morrow’s task of loading the considerable quantity of oil. Shortly before midnight, at seven bells, he returned to his quarters, lit a lamp, and poured himself a tot of rum. Filling his pipe, he settled comfortably into a chair and opened the leather-bound book to a place dating nine days prior—where, strangely enough, he noticed, the handwriting changed altogether. The heading at the beginning of these newer entries, written in a refined, precise hand, pronounced at the top:
Ship The Reaper of New Bedford.
In the South Pacific Ocean, June, 1846.
Bearings, reckonings and other specifics were noted respectively. The daily accounts, however, were exceptionally long, more than a few pages in length. Then he realized this segment of the journal had actually been backdated, as if to catch up several days’ neglected entries.
The Jezebel creaked and rocked lazily to the whim of the sea. So there, in the solemn tranquility of his cabin, Captain Seabury started to read.
And a most bizarre tale began to unfold ...
The weather had held nicely, being fair but very hot. We were homeward bound at last after forty-two arduous months at sea, plowing the deep and farming its green pastures. And it had been a plentiful harvest indeed, with our hold quite full. Thus the prospect of still one more whale was rather looked upon as a cup running over.
Way into the afternoon the cry was sounded: “There blooows!”—our lookout having glimpsed the familiar ten to twelve-foot spray of air and moisture from the animal’s blowhole, visible for up to six miles.
Without delay the bosun began supervising miscellaneous jobs on the deck, in anticipation of the kill. In jig-time three of the slim whaleboats had been launched into the water, six men to a boat, myself included, and we commenced rowing in the direction of the sighting. The boats were soon scudding across the wavelets, our second mate calling softly, “Spring on your oars, me hearties. Spring hard, I tell you!”
As we approached, he ordered the oars shipped and paddles brought out, which were quieter: for though a whale’s vision and smell are poor, its hearing is acute. A flock of petrels skimmed the water in wide circles, eager to peck at whatever marine life might be clinging to the whale’s back. Had the beast itself been feeding, or had it been spooked? If feeding, it would reappear in the general vicinity within thirty minutes or so; otherwise, it could swim for ten miles or better before resurfacing for air. Silent and tense with expectancy, we could simply wait and watch, floating like a cork on the immensity of the ocean, the sea and sky vague, warm reflections.
We did not have long to wait.
All at once there was a yell from one of the boats, “He breaches!” as the surface erupted hereabout, the whale surging out of the sea in a mighty leap. It white-watered with a deafening sound and again submerged, but not before the mate could make a reasonable guess at how far the animal would travel under water, judging from the way its flukes were turned. It was a fairly sizable sperm, sixty-five feet at least, strangely mottled black and gray in color. He was an old ill-tempered bull, apparently aware of our presence and somewhat agitated as well.
Once more we were pulling on our oars. The harpooneer stood at the ready and braced himself against the clumsy cleat, harpoon in hand. It was a six-foot shaft connected to a thirty-inch iron rod, tipped with a razor-edged doubleflue barb. During idle periods on ship these fellows incessantly checked their gear, recoiling lines, sharpening and resharpening harpoon and lance points, and the time of their preparation was at hand. The men in the other two boats positioned themselves also.
Suddenly, twenty feet away, there was a tumultuous crash as the whale surfaced squarely beneath the first mate’s boat, cleaving it in twain and toppling some of the crew into the frothy, foaming water. Others clung perilously to the wreckage or lay trapped amidst the tangle of cordage. Then it dipped forward, twice smashing its broad flukes down on the floundering men and flotsam with such force as to splinter the remnants like so much kindling, sending spray into our own boat. There was only one survivor, whom the other boat managed to reach.
The whale, obviously enraged, continued to rampage nearby, as if already in pain or fear. Our companion boat attempted to sink a harpoon—but one of the lines snagged as the thrashing brute moved off a short distance and abruptly sounded, carrying the boat down therewith and drowning all but two of the men, our captain being one of the latter.
When the whale resurfaced we were close by—near enough to immediately put wood to blackskin. The harpoon flashed straight down into the thick blubber and sank clear to its socket. The island of flesh trembled for a moment with shock. Then the harpooneer snatched up a second harpoon, this one tied to an inflated bladder which would tire the animal should it try to dive again, and was able to drive it to the hilt right beside the first one. He tossed out a hundred feet of half-inch manilla.
Quickly but carefully the harpooneer took over the steering oar while the second mate exchanged positions at the bow. And nary a second too soon, for now the harpoon line was whipping out of the boat. The wounded whale was off, the two harpoons buried in its flesh.
Wrapped around the snubbing post, the line became taut and the prow dipped into the water till there were only a few inches of freeboard. The second mate glanced back apprehensively and shouted, “You look out what you are about! Do not box the boat down too much—you may flip her.”
The line whirred faster round the loggerhead until it started to smoke from the friction, so the nearest oarsman dipped water onto it, hatchet handy should it be necessary to cut the rope. Our quarry was running briskly but erratically, dragging us behind it at no less than twelve knots—the Nantucket sleigh ride.
Then, with a certain horror, we realized that the behemoth was bearing down on the Reaper. Recollections of oft-told tales went racing through our minds ... the legendary depredations and malign intelligence of such solitary rogues as Mocha Dick, New Zealand Tom, and Timor Jack. Our ship could, in all likelihood, fall victim to its own prey. And at the present we were helpless.
Our fears began to materialize. The whale was obviously coming foul of the ship, as if to stave in her hull. At the crucial instant of impact, he slowed and swerved, grazing the vessel’s keel with the side of its gigantic head and body, and shearing away part of the hull’s copper sheathing as he went along and came to leeward. But by the life of us, it appeared the leviathan had no ill-intent upon the ship as such, but was merely finding some sort of relief in scraping its hide against her broadside.
Yet the danger was in no ways past, for as the whale of a sudden nudged sharply amidships an astonished sailor engrossed in the excitement leaned too far over the rail and was knocked off balance, plunging headlong over the side. The poor devil fell in front of the monster and was swept directly into the creature’s great jaw where the eight-inch-long teeth of the powerful bottom jaw clamped shut, crunching his hapless victim to pulp. It happened almost within the blinking of an eye.
With fresh advance we took hold of the line and rounded in slack, cautiously moving in for the coup de grace. Although tiring quickly, in close quarters the beast could still crush us like an eggshell. Once within range the second mate unsheathed one of his lances, an eleven-foot spear with steel oval blade, and aimed for the vulnerable area behind the right flipper at approximately eye level. This was the life of the whale, whither the animal’s massive arteries converged near its heart and lungs. With quick dexterity and skill the lance was given its critical, killing thrust, striking home and slicing with terrible efficiency through the windpipe. Thereupon the whale’s lungs were flooded and the supply of blood to the heart dwindled.
“Stern all,” our mate called again, and we backed the boat off to a safe distance. The whale briefly submerged, surfaced, and spouted a pinkish-red mist. “We have him now,” someone exclaimed. “See—his chimney is afire!”
The death throes did not last long. After about five minutes he rolled dead on his side.
The crew wasted no time in lowering the slender scaffolds of the cutting-in stage over the whale and we pitched in to insert a chain through a slit cut in the flukes which were swung forward. Thither it was brought alongside, floating just awash. Having joined our shipmates on deck, we surveyed the inboards for damage, and found none other than the external layer of copper plating, designed to retard marine growth.
By then it was rapidly nearing sunset. Luckily, we were spared a grueling tow to the ship. The whale was ours. But woe the cost, for the sea was haunted with the ghosts of eleven of our men.
The dying rays of the setting sun turned the bloodstained sea into a dark, shimmering rainbow of fire.
Before supper, our master (or “old man” as we referred to him among ourselves) proffered a prayer in memory of our dead mates. It was admittedly a harsh, dangerous, and often violent livelihood, he said, this existence on the unforgiving sea, long and far from family and friends. But whalemen were a proud and stubborn lot, and pointed out that it was better for an old salt to be lost at sea caught up in the adventure that was his life, than to languish on land and perhaps pass away in a wretched sick-bed in some dismal, shuttered room. And for most of us his words rang true. The old man was in his late thirties or thereabouts, his face rugged yet aristocratic, and sporting an elegant beard. He had signed aboard in his early teens as a lowly cabinboy and gradually worked his way aft to the officer’s quarters.
Whilst we weary oarsmen stole a few hours of sleep that night, our other crewmen finished arranging the equipment for the next two or three days’ labor: processing the dead whale and rendering it into barrels of oil. The cumbrous iron kettles were uncovered and cleaned, kindling laid under them for when the blubber was ready to be boiled, and water was poured in the brick trough on the floor beneath the tryworks, to protect the wooden deck against the extreme temperatures.
In the early morning we were rousted into action: “All hands ahoy! Tumble up and man the windlass! Nothin’ but arses ’n elbows this day, maties!” So we each fell to our tasks with a will. We would toil around the clock in six-hour shifts amid an inferno of soot and flame, transforming the Reaper into a miniature floating factory.
Upon closer inspection, we soon ascertained that the whale was as peculiar physically as in its previous behavior toward the ship. It was not mottled in color at all—as we had originally perceived—but was partially covered with literally thousands of barnacles. Old battle scars, callouses, sucker-fish, sea-lice, and barnacles were a common sight on just about any whale, but to this degree was most extraordinary. Colonies of such crustacea were generally referred to by whalemen as �
��dead men’s fingers,” either owing to the stalked, fingerlike appearance in which they typically grew, or because of their rigid, deathlike grip.
At any rate, even though our former wind had lessened to a light breeze, the ship carried only enough canvas to maintain slight headway, to retard the vessel from drifting in circles and so the gentle forward motion would act to hold the heavy carcass in close to her hull.
The twenty-foot cutting spades were taken from their racks and several of the men set to flensing away huge blanket pieces of the foot-thick, yellowish mantle of fat under the moderately thin outer skin, to be impaled with a hook and hauled on board.
The old man and second mate kept a vigilant eye on everything, insuring that we sliced the blubber to the proper thickness, churned the cauldrons habitually to prevent any settling on the bottom, and making sure the blazing, sputtering fires were kept fueled to the highest intensity. If anyone was caught shirking in his duties he received a good dressing down: “Show-a-leg there, buckos—this ain’t no widow’s walk!”
No regular meals were served, but rather we would take an occasional break for a smoke and snack of blubber cracklins and biscuits dipped in salt water and fried in the oil, or fritters of minced whale meat mixed with potatoes.
The great number of barnacles proved to be a significant hindrance, ofttimes making it nigh impossible to chop into or through them, thereby frustrating our efforts to easily or practically get much of the blubber we sought and repeatedly causing it to tear as it was stripped. The whale was rolled over on its back and the mates wielded their spades with surgical precision to sever the lower jawbone, providing ivory from its colossal teeth. They managed to slash the massive vertebrae and decapitate the beast, employing block and tackle to raise the giant head to deck level near the gangway, so one of the hands could carefully dip out of the natural reservoir therein containing hundreds of gallons of spermaceti, a fine oil highly esteemed by New England candlemakers.
The Year's Best Horror Stories 14 Page 4