In the Land of the Long White Cloud (60 page)

A harpooner from boat one rammed a spear into the animal’s fin. Shocked and annoyed, the whale threw itself around and swam directly at Copper’s boat.

“Careful around its tail! When he’s seriously hurt, he’ll flap around. Don’t get too close, boys!”

Copper gave directions as he aimed for the whale’s rib cage. He finally landed the second hit, which he placed much better than the first. The whale seemed to be weakening. Now an onslaught of harpoons rained down on the animal. Lucas watched with a mixture of fascination and horror as the whale reared up under the assault, now trying to flee but too late. The harpoons were attached to ropes, which was how the whale was to be hauled back to the ship. The whale was now almost deranged with pain and fear. It tore at its bonds, occasionally succeeding in pulling out one of the harpoons. But the whale bled from dozens of wounds, and the water around it foamed red. Lucas was nauseated by this theater, by the merciless slaughter of this majestic creature. The battle of the colossus against its opponents
raged for hours, and the men poured all their strength into rowing, throwing, and pulling on the ropes to overcome the whale. Lucas did not notice the blisters forming and bursting on his hands. Nor did he feel any fear when Copper, determined to distinguish himself, came ever closer to the thrashing, dying whale. Lucas felt nothing but disgust and sympathy for the creature fighting valiantly until its last breath. He could hardly comprehend having a part in this unfair fight, nor could he abandon his crew. He was here now, and his life too depended on the whale being brought down. He could ponder it all later.

Finally the whale floated motionless in the water. Lucas did not know whether it was really dead or simply exhausted, but regardless, the men were able to pull it up alongside the ship. What came next was—if possible—worse. The men began to stick long knives in the body to cut out the fat, which was hauled straight up to the ship to be rendered into blubber. Lucas hoped the creature was really dead when the first chunks were ripped from its body and thrown on deck. Minutes later, they were wading through fat and blood. Someone opened up the whale’s head to draw out the sought-after spermaceti. Copper had told Lucas that candles and cleaning and skincare products would be made from that. Others were looking in the bowels of the whale for the even more valuable ambergris, a basic ingredient for the perfume industry. It stank bestially, and Lucas shivered when he thought of all the eau de cologne he and Gwyneira had owned on Kiward Station. He never would have thought that any part of that was obtained from the stinking innards of a gruesomely slaughtered animal.

In the meantime, fires were being lit under giant kettles, and the stench of the whale fat being rendered filled the ship. The air was suffused with fat, which felt like it stuck to Lucas’s air passages when he inhaled. Lucas bent over the guardrail but could not escape the stench of fish and blood. He would have liked to vomit, but his stomach was long since empty. He had been thirsty earlier, but now he could not imagine anything that wouldn’t taste like blubber. He vaguely remembered that someone had explained the whaling process to him as a child and that he had found it ghastly. Now he was stuck in the
middle of a nightmare of fat and flesh, which people were throwing into reeking kettles. The kettles of rendered blubber would then be emptied into barrels. The cask maker—responsible for the filling and sealing of the barrels—called to Lucas to help him close the containers. Lucas did so, trying not to look into the kettles, where pieces of the whale were cooking.

The other men did not exhibit the least aversion to this job. On the contrary, the stench seemed to give them an appetite; they were obviously excited about the prospect of a meal that featured fresh meat. The men regretted that they could not bring in the whale meat, but it rotted too quickly. So after removing the fat, they would leave most of the body in the sea. The cook would spend the next two days cutting meat out of the whale, having promised the men a solid meal. Lucas knew he would not touch a morsel of it.

Finally the time came to release the remains of the whale from the ship. The creature had been largely gutted. The deck was still covered in pieces of fat, and the crew waded through slime and blood. The cooking of the blubber would still last a few hours, and Lucas realized that days might tick by before the deck was cleaned. Lucas doubted it was even possible—certainly not with the simple broom and buckets of water the men usually used to swab the deck. Presumably, they would simply wait for the next heavy storm to flood the deck and wipe away all traces of the slaughter. Lucas practically longed for such a storm. As he thought over the events of that day, panic began to well up inside him. He would probably acclimate eventually to the journey’s living conditions, to the cramped berths and the unwashed bodies, but never to days like this. Not to the killing and gutting of these massive but obviously peaceful creatures. Lucas had no idea how he was supposed to make it through the next three years.

The fact that the
Pretty Peg
’s first whale had entered “the net” ended up working in his favor. Captain Milford decided to land at Westport and drop off their prize before setting sail again. Their stop would ensure a good price for the fresh blubber and allow them to empty the barrels for the next stage of the journey—and it would cost
the men only a few days. The men rejoiced. Ralphie, a short, blond Swede, began swooning over the girls in Westport.

“It’s a little dump but it’s being built up. Till now just whalers and seal hunters, but a couple of gold diggers on their way. S’pposed to be real mountain men there—someone said something about coal deposits. Anyway, there’s a pub and a few ready-and-willing girls. I had a redhead there once who was well worth the jack, I tell you!”

Copper approached Lucas, who was leaning on the guardrail, exhausted and sick.

“You thinking about the next brothel too? Or would you consider celebrating the successful hunt right here?” Copper had laid his hand on Lucas’s shoulder and was now running it slowly down his arm in what could almost be called a caressing gesture. Lucas could hardly miss the invitation underpinning Copper’s words—but he was undecided. There was no question he owed Copper something; the older man had been good to him. And hadn’t he thought about sharing a bed with a man his whole life? Hadn’t images of men come to him whenever he pleasured himself and when—with God as his witness—he had lain with his wife?

But this here…Lucas had read the writings of the Greeks and Romans. Back then, the male body had been the quintessential ideal of beauty; love between men and youths was not considered objectionable as long one did not force the boys into it. Lucas had wondered at the pictures of the statues that had been created back then. How beautiful they had been! How smooth, how clean, and inviting…Lucas had stood in front of the mirror and compared himself to them, had attempted the poses those youths had assumed, had dreamed of himself in the arms of a loving mentor—who certainly looked nothing like this whaler. Though he was friendly and good-humored, he was still massive and reeking. There was no possibility of washing himself that day on the
Pretty Peg
. The men would slip between the decks, covered in sweat and filth, sullied with blood and slime…Lucas pulled away from Copper’s inviting stare.

“I don’t know…it was a long day…I’m tired.”

Copper nodded. “Don’t worry; go to your berth, boy. Relax. Maybe later I could…well, I could bring you something to eat. Good chance there’s even whiskey around here.”

Lucas swallowed. “Another time, Copper. Maybe in Westport. You…I…don’t misunderstand me, but I need a bath.”

Copper let out a booming laugh. “My little gentleman! Fine, fine, I will personally see to it that the girls draw you a bath—or even better, for the both of us. I could use one too. Would you like that?”

Lucas nodded. The important thing was that the man leave him alone for today. Full of loathing and disgust for both himself and the men whom he had joined for this adventure, he retired to his flea-ridden bunk. Perhaps the fleas would be put off by the stench of blubber and sweat. A hope that quickly proved futile. On the contrary, it seemed only to attract more bugs. After squashing dozens of them on his body, Lucas only felt dirtier. Still, as he lay awake, listening closely to the laughing and shouting on deck—the skipper had evidently offered up the whiskey—and finally to the men’s drunken songs, a plan began to form in his mind. He would leave the
Pretty Peg
in Westport. He didn’t care whether he would be in breach of contract or not. This life was altogether too unbearable.

His escape had actually been rather easy. The only problem was that he’d had to leave all of his belongings behind on the ship. It would have looked suspicious if he had taken his sleeping bag and his few articles of clothing along for the brief shore leave the skipper had allowed the men. He took a few things to change into—after all, Copper had promised him a bath, so he could justify them on those grounds. Copper laughed about that, but Lucas did not care. He was only looking for an opportunity to run away. This quickly presented itself when Copper consulted with an attractive red-haired girl about finding a bathtub somewhere nearby. The other men in the pub were not paying attention to Lucas; they only had whiskey on their minds or were staring at the girls’ ample curves. Lucas still had not ordered
a drink, and thus avoided the guilt of skipping out on his tab when he now stole out of the bar and hid himself in the stables. As it turned out, there was a rear exit. Lucas took it and slunk across a blacksmith’s yard, a coffin maker’s shed, and a few unfinished houses. Westport was indeed a dump—he had been right about that—but it was also true that it was being built up.

The village was situated on the bank of a river, the Buller, which was wide and calm where it emptied into the sea. Lucas made out sandbanks interrupted by a rocky bank. Most importantly, though, a fern forest began just beyond Westport, a deep green wilderness that looked, and likely was, completely unexplored. Lucas looked around, but he was alone. Apparently, no one else sought the emptiness beyond the houses. He would be able to flee without being seen. Once he’d decided on a course of action, he ran along the river’s edge, seeking cover between the ferns wherever possible. He followed the river upstream for an hour before he thought he’d gone far enough to relax. The skipper would not miss him right away, as the
Pretty Peg
was not set to leave until the following morning. Naturally, Copper would look for him, but not by the river, at least not at first. Later, he might look around the riverbanks, but surely he would limit himself to the area around Westport. Lucas would have liked to head deeper into the jungle right away, but his revulsion at his own filth made him pause. He had to clean himself up. Lucas stripped down, shivering, and hid his dirty things behind a couple of rocks—he gave some brief thought to washing them and taking them with him, but shuddered at the prospect of scrubbing the blood and fat out. So he held on only to his underwear, and would have to abandon his shirt and pants. That was regrettable; if he dared to come into contact with people again, he wouldn’t own anything more than what he wore on his back. But anything was better than the slaughter on board the
Pretty Peg
.

Lucas finally slid down into the ice-cold waters of the Buller River. The cold pierced him to the bone, but the clear water washed all the dirt from him. Lucas lowered himself deeply into the river and reached for a pebble, which he began to rub on his skin. He scrubbed his body until he was red as a crab and hardly felt the water’s cold
anymore. Then he finally left the river, put on his clean clothes, and looked for a path through the jungle. The forest was terrifying—damp and thick and full of massive, unfamiliar plants—but Lucas’s interest in his homeland’s flora and fauna came in handy. He had seen many of the giant ferns, whose leaves sometimes rolled up like caterpillars and seemed almost to come alive, in textbooks and overcame his fear by trying to name them. None of them were poisonous and even the largest tree weta was less likely to attack him than the fleas on board the ship. Even the various animal noises that filled the jungle did not frighten him. There was nothing here but insects and birds, mostly parrots, who filled the forest with their strange calls but were utterly harmless. That evening Lucas made a camp out of ferns and slept not only more easily but also more peacefully than during his weeks on the
Pretty Peg
. Though he had lost everything, he awoke the next morning with refreshed courage—which was surprising given that he had walked out on his employer, broken a contract, and amassed gambling debts that he had not paid back.
Still
, he thought, almost amused,
soon no one will be calling me a “gentleman”!