I talks to Hawk as though I were asking him the question with our sign language, but what I am saying is that I’ll tell the skipper that the knots were done just before the second harpoon were used. It were then that Nestbyte noticed the splice were not right on the short-warp. It’s a feeble enough explanation what I gives to the captain but it can’t be proved wrong, and it makes some sort o’ sense. But O’Hara ain’t yet willing to give up.
‘Then why, I ask thee, did the kanakas grow most alarmed when I showed the bowie knife?’ he demands, his eyes narrowed.
‘I cannot say, Cap’n. They be savages and I doesn’t speak their lingo.’ Then I ask, ‘Perhaps they thought you was going to do them in on the spot, like? Why, sir,’ I rubs me shoulder, ‘I meself jumped when you thrust the knife at me brother.’
Despite his fever and the sweat glistening on his brow, Seb Rawlings half-smiles at my reply, and I sees he has no love for the skipper.
Captain O’Hara pulls the knife from the table and lays it down, then takes up the quill again and dips it into the ink well. All is quiet as he writes in the ship’s log and we can plainly hear his quill scratching upon the paper.
At last he looks up, scowling. He points the quill accusingly at Hawk.
‘I feel there is more to this business than thou hast admitted, Solomon. I warn thee, nigger, I will sniff out dishonesty! I shall pray to the Lord for guidance and then we shall see what we shall see. Thou mayst go, and thy damned cannibals with thee.’ Then he turns to me, ‘As for thee, boy, thou mayst be sure I shall find something to cool thy ardour and quell thy impudent tongue!’
We turns to go, the Maori shuffling out first, when Hawk signals frantically to me.
‘Cap’n, sir!’ I pipes up from the door of the cabin. ‘Me brother pleads that he be allowed medicines for the injuries the harpooner got while most bravely killing the whale.’
‘Hmmph! A nigger who cares about a kanaka! Miracles will never cease!’ The captain turns to Seb Rawlings. ‘We have here a nigger who cleverly turns Mr Nestbyte’s whale kill to the credit of that damned savage, and turns himself just as neatly into a ship’s surgeon! What think thou of that, Mr Rawlings?’ He does not wait for the fourth mate to reply before looking at Hawk. ‘But of course, I forget, thou hast already proved thyself most handy with a bowie knife!’ He indicates Seb Rawlings with a flick of his head. ‘Thou mayst issue a chit for medicine, though I think it much better for all if the savage should perish.’
O’Hara seems a little calmer, having rid himself of his spleen. He is well pleased with his crack about Hawk being a surgeon and with his last jibe about Hawk’s supposed use of the bowie knife to kill Nestbyte. He twirls the quill in his fingers and muses aloud. ‘The Lord’s ways are indeed mysterious. I have the greatest need of a first mate on this ship and He hath taken my dear brother from me and allowed the devil to replace him with a cannibal savage, a useless kedger with one arm and one eye, who will draw from ship’s rations and return me no profitable labour!’
He looks up at Seb Rawlings, his right eyebrow raised. ‘Thou wilt charge the cost of the medicines to the kanaka’s share of the lay, and he will be placed on half rations until he perishes or otherwise proves to be of some further worth to us!’
The captain is as good as his word and has found me a special punishment. I am working in the blubber room, where I must pitch up the pieces of blubber to be cut ready for the try-pots. These pieces is four foot long, and weighs nearly as much as me. Working them is usually a task for the biggest of the men. Two blubber-room workers in bare feet cuts the blubber with dangerous sharp spades and as a consequence of the deck pitching and rolling, one has had three toes sliced off and the other four, this being the badge of their trade. They is fierce men and don’t like seeing the blubber they cut stack up. ‘Git movin’,’ they snarls each time I forks another slab of blubber, ‘we ain’t got all bloody day!’ I am soon knackered but there is no let-up. The deck is slippery with oil and whale blood and sometimes I near collapses under the weight of me blubber fork. ‘Garn, move yer arse!’ be the constant cry from the cutters.
Not one comes to me aid and some push me over when they see me loaded up so that I crash to the floor, falling on me face. Yours truly is a cause of great merriment to all in the try-works as I staggers to me feet covered in blood and oil. But it ain’t the worst what’s happened to me and I will not give in. No poxy bunch o’ whalemen gets the better of Tommo X Solomon!
There be two hours to go and every forkful of whale blubber is stained with blood from me bleedin’ nose. I feels a hand on my shoulder and I stops, expecting another shove. But it’s Hawk, come to find me!
‘I have been asleep and did not know of this,’ he signals with his hands. They still be swollen to twice their size, yet he takes up me fork and begins to spear and lift the slabs o’ blubber. Though the pain in his hands must be awful, it is as though he is shovelling straw into a hayrick, such is his strength. One of the whalemen what has been amusing hisself at my expense now scoffs at me. Without turning, Hawk strikes him with the back of his huge hand, so that he flies across the try-deck and lands skidding in the whale oil.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Hawk strike a man and it were like he was brushing away a fly. Then Hawk walks over to the whaleman, who is nursing a bloody nose, and with the fork pierces the greasy duck of his Norfolk breeches so that the tines fit under the man’s belt. Hawk lifts him up and carries him across the room, depositing him on the blubber table in front o’ the mincer. The mincer is a large man himself, dressed in a cassock made from the skin of a whale’s penis, and he holds the blubber-room man down as though he’s about to slice him to size for the try-pots, before letting him go again.
There is howls of laughter from the men watching. Hawk smiles his big white smile at the others in the blubber room and they ain’t so stupid that they can’t see that it carries a warning never to mock me again.
I am most shamed that me brother needs to defend me, though I be too tired to fight it. I tells meself that if it should ever come to an open fight, I’d even the score with me axe. But I know that Hawk’s now a part o’ me and that old Tommo is no longer alone in this world. And so I finishes me first watch in the blubber room.
The men is working ‘round the clock to get the blubber into the try-pots so that it may be made into good oil, a most difficult task. The whale’s tied by chains from its tail and head to the starboard side of the ship and the cutting platforms, hung from the ship’s topside, is lowered to meet it. The cutting tackle is secured to the mainmast and also lowered so that the mates can begins the cutting in. With Crawlin Nestbyte dead and Seb Rawlings ill, two of the older, more experienced whalemen handles the cutting spades along with Tom Stubbs and Timbin Hollowtree, the third mate.
The men attaches the cutting tackle to the whale, using the blubber hook at its end. They cuts a long scarfing line about nine inches in width on either side o’ the blubber hook. Then the hook is pulled upwards by the block-and-tackle and the mates frantically cuts the blubber to loosen it from the whale flesh. It’s as though they is peeling a giant Spanish orange, though the blubber, if you can imagine it as orange skin, be about fifteen inches thick.
The power for the block-and-tackle is supplied by men working a windlass on deck, what is connected to ropes run down to it from the main top. The blubber peels off in a long, intact spiral what stretches from the whale right up to the topmast, pulling the whale’s great carcass hard against the ship. The weight makes the vessel heel so that when the blanket of blubber is freed, the ship lurches violently back on her beam ends, as though buffeted by a stormy sea.
The long strips of blubber, what weighs as much as a ton, are then lowered by the tackle into the blubber room, where they’s cut into slabs by the blubber-room men of the few toes. It is these self-same slabs of blubber which yours truly is required to lift and carry to the mincer. This cove cuts them into fine strips leaving only the skin attached so’s the blubber
now resembles the leaves of a book, known in whaleman lingo as bible leaves. These thin leaves, not much more than an inch thick, gives us the most oil. The bible leaves is placed into the bubbling try-pots and turned into oil, before being ladled into copper cooling-tanks and put into the cooper’s casks.
If it all sounds simple enough, it seems to me a vision from the cavern of hell itself. At the cutting platform, not many inches from the surface of the water, the sharks is in a feeding frenzy, and the mates stabbing down at them with their cutting spades. This is no sport, for each shark killed means more blubber saved. A shark what’s cut with the razor-sharp spade becomes the prey o’ the other sharks, what’s then distracted from the whale carcass as they turns to feed on their own kind.
Up on deck, the sails and rigging be completely clouded in black smoke while the deck is lit by the orange flames what keeps the oil hissing and bubbling in the try-pots. This fire ain’t fed with wood for there ain’t room enough on a whaler to carry timber. Instead the whale gives us the means to make its own oil. After the blubber is turned into oil, the skin and bits remaining, known as the fritters, is burned as fuel. The dense smoke makes it difficult to see. The men about the windlass be blackened by it, their faces like polished blackamoors’ in the glare of the flames.
Every surface of the windlass and the decks, bulwarks, rails and try-works is covered in oil and slime from the whale. Inside the blubber room we is clothed in greasy duck and covered in oil, blood and blubber, as savage-looking a group of men as could be found on the face of the earth. The smell is beyond the ken of any landlubber.
No abattoir or cesspool compares with the evil pong o’ smoked blubber. This stink, once in the skin, can only be undone by weeks of scrubbing with lye. Us whalemen will be making our presence known to any what stands downwind for some time to come.
The Nankin Maiden pitches and rocks in the seas, like she’s about to be engulfed in flames. And the rats is as many as ants at a picnic. They darts between our legs, feasting on the scraps ‘til they’s so bloated with blubber that they drags themselves along in the slime and may easily be kicked high over the ship’s side as though they was footballs.
The final task is to take the precious spermaceti oil from the head of the whale. A hole is made in the whale’s noggin and the spermaceti scooped out. This be a whitish, waxy liquid, what’s five times more valuable than the best whale oil, and is used to make ointments and ladies’ cosmetics. It makes the finest candles and incense what the Pope himself uses. The cow we took gives five barrels of this stuff and Hawk’s large bull no less than twelve.
After me first watch I am too exhausted to feel shame that I would have collapsed had it not been for Hawk. But Billy Lanney comes up to me in the fo’c’sle and, patting me on the back, says in his peculiar lingo that I has done well. Such a job were for ‘big pella’ and the master be a ‘plurry Kwaka Christmas sausage!’ which I takes to mean, ‘a bloody Quaker Christian savage!’
I crawls into me bunk and I has never slept more soundly in me life. I wouldn’t have given a damn if the cockroaches had made merry over every inch of me body, though they was busy feasting elsewhere like the rats.
For two days and nights we works the try-pots and on my fourth watch, I am finally able to complete forking the heavy slabs of blubber without Hawk coming to my rescue. With a little help from his twin, yours truly has survived the ordeal what were meant to break him. Up yours, Captain O’Hara, sir!
At last we cuts the bloody remains of the whales loose and watches their blubber-stripped carcasses float away. The sharks still churn the water and tear ferocious at them, and ten thousand sea birds darts ever downwards for scraps. The top o’ the whale carcasses look like giant rookeries with birds squabbling, wings flapping and beaks snapping for every available morsel o’ flesh. In all the time we has been flensing the whales and boiling down their blubber, these birds has surrounded us with a screeching that has drowned out all other noise on deck and below, so that we must shout to be heard at more than a distance of three feet.
After the whales has floated far enough to the leeward away, so that they be two small dots on the horizon, I am amazed at the silence what surrounds us. It’s like the great parties at the governor’s mansion I has heard of, now finished and quiet, with every guest gone home again.
The first duty now, with the barrels stacked in the hold, is to wash down the decks and housing. This task is a tradition, a rite to bring successful hunts in the future. The men is knackered but they put great heart into the scrubbing of the decks, using absorbent cloths over their hands made from the tendons o’ the whale.
Whale oil is most effective in removing stains of all kind and soon the vessel is ship-shape. But no amounts o’ cleaning gets rid of the oily fish stink. Only the fo’c’sle, now lit by candles and whale-oil lamps, has a sweet smell. It don’t take long though for the fo’c’sle to sink back to its former state, and who’s to mind? Hawk is more particular about cleanliness than yours truly. Cards and sly grog is seldom found in clean-smelling places, and pipe smoke and spittoons is as much a part of a game of flats as the Joker in the pack. A little dirt don’t hurt no one.
Hammerhead Jack is still alive. He is weak and in great pain, yet he never cries out. Under Hawk’s tender care he is slowly mending. Billy Lanney has had a hand in this too.
The medicines Hawk got from Seb Rawlings did nothing to keep the Maori’s shoulder socket from festering. His face were swollen mightily and his eye socket leaked pus and gore, despite Hawk cleaning it each day, along with the terrible shoulder wound. For days, Hammerhead Jack were in a constant fever and delirium. His men was ever at his side, never leaving, and it were clear they believed he would die.
It were Billy Lanney, ever the curious one, what comes over one morning to take a look, shaking his woolly head and clicking his tongue. Two days later he be back, carrying a small tin filled with live maggots. These worms does not come from his own back, what is now well scabbed, but were procured most cleverly.
After Billy sees Hammerhead Jack, he asks me to catch a fish and give it him. That afternoon when I comes off watch, I catches a nice-sized tuna, about six pounds. This I gives to him and he gets the cook to lay it on top of a salt-pork barrel in his galley overnight. By morning all the maggots in the pork has crawled out to find the fresh fish and Billy scoops them up and brings them to Hammerhead Jack, who is still fevered and unconscious.
Billy carefully makes two poultices of live maggots and puts one on Hammerhead Jack’s shoulder and the other on his eye socket. He binds the shoulder loosely so’s the maggots stays inside and covers the eye socket from the light. By the following morning the pus has gone, and the wounds be quite clean.
Hammerhead Jack is now making a slow recovery with no fevers to plague him. Billy’s maggots does the task better than the captain’s medicines what was bought at great cost.
It is two days after the cleaning and scrubbing of the ship and we has changed our course. It is said we be headed for New Zealand waters, the talk on board being that O’Hara hopes to pick up another ship’s officer there to replace Nestbyte. No doubt he plans to make more trouble for Hawk once we reaches port!
The crew be resting up from the trying out and cleaning o’ the ship. The hold is well over two-thirds full with barrels, and there’s a feeling of calm. On Hawk’s warning, I has lost several card games in the fo’c’sle and am telling the story of the killing of the sperm bull to as many as I can.
All seems well and so it knocks me for six when Captain O’Hara sends Seb Rawlings and Tom Stubbs to arrest Hawk and the three Maori. He plans to try ’em for the murder of Crawlin Nestbyte.
I nearly panics but then takes heart, for the men’s views has changed somewhat. Nestbyte is not missed and the fo’c’sle is a much calmer place for his death. I’ve been most careful to tell my cooked-up version of the hunt, making much of Hammerhead Jack’s bravery and Hawk’s courage in rescuing him when he were sinking in the briny in
a foam of blood.
The crew already sees their bringing in a ninety-foot sperm whale as an awesome achievement, and Hawk, Hammerhead Jack and his Maori crew has become heroes of sorts. Although they’s only a nigger and four kanakas, there is now a high regard for them, if for no other reason than each man on board will be more flush for their courage.
They has not forgotten, either, Hawk’s backhanding of the cutter what scorned me. The man’s name be Bob Jenkins and he’s known to be a good fighter with a knife and unafraid with his fists. He’s not small with it— fourteen stone and almost six foot, with good weight in his shoulders and nimble enough on his feet. News of Hawk’s smashing him to the deck and then forking him up to the mincing man has spread throughout the ship. It has earned Hawk respect for his Herculean strength. The story grows more exaggerated daily. Jenkins is much shamed and vows he’ll have his day.
When the master sends Rawling and Stubbs to fetch Nestbyte’s crew and put them in chains, there is much unrest among the men. Hammerhead Jack is also brought into custody and on the Sabbath all is made to stand before the mainmast in front o’ the entire crew.
Captain O’Hara is again dressed in his black Quaker suit with white lace bibby at his neck. Only his greasy stovepipe hat be the same as other days. He has in his left hand the Holy Bible which he holds against the pocket of his long coat. He looks ‘round at us and begins to speak.
‘We are gathered together here on the Sabbath and in the name of the Lord to witness that justice be done in the trial of the whaleboat crew under the command of the first officer of this ship. I have spent much time at prayer in the concern of the murder of Mr Nestbyte and have asked for higher guidance on the matter.’ O’Hara frowns at the prisoners, what stand with their heads bowed before him. ‘"I am not mocked, sayeth the Lord!”’
There is a groan from the crowd, for we has witnessed the Lord’s word translated through the prayers of O’Hara before— and, o’ course, through those of the recently deceased Nestbyte too. The Lord’s instructions seldom turns out merciful to a whaleman. The crew be generally agreed that, if Christ Jesus were the skipper of a whaling vessel, there’d be none on board what would sign on with him, even though He could walk across the water to harpoon a whale.
Tommo and Hawk Page 11