Tommo & Hawk (9 page)

Crawlin Nestbyte is a cruel braggart who talks endlessly of his exploits and derring-do with the whale. There is an old saying on a whaling vessel which goes thus:

That which the coward brags he will do,

The whaleman true goes silent to!

It must be said in fairness, though, that those men who have shared a boat with Nestbyte admit that he is not lacking in courage. He is known to be reckless and because of this no one who has previously voyaged on the Nankin Maiden will volunteer to his whaleboat, choosing any other by preference. While he takes delight in inflicting suffering on others, he is not afraid to take on a man his own size even without a knife. That is all that can be said in his favour. The crew are hard men who would turn like a pack of wild dogs on one of their own kind caught stealing or cheating. But they take little pleasure in witnessing Nestbyte's numerous cruelties to whalemen whom he believes have offended him or have been neglectful of their duties.

Though his Quaker mouth is full of God's words, his dark soul is in the possession of the devil himself. Nestbyte employs only two expletives, 'Bastard' and 'Damn', explaining to all that both words are not a blasphemy or foul language. The first is but the name for a child born out of wedlock and the second a shortening of the word damnation which is to be found frequently in the good book itself. If both words are innocent, then never was there a man who could inject more venom into them!

I have been out to sea only half a dozen times in a whaleboat, on practice runs while we were becalmed to learn the harpoon. Now the atmosphere is charged. I sincerely hope that I do not let my companions down, for I don't know what to expect. Seb Rawlings, on the last occasion he took me out, pronounced himself satisfied that I have the strength and skill to throw the harpoon. But as we rowed back to the ship he said, 'Ah yes, lad, but do ye have the courage to stand up to the whale and will ye use the lance correct?'

Do I have the courage? I now ask myself. Will I prove a coward? I cannot answer. I must wait for the moment to come, when I must throw a harpoon into a live whale and not a bobbing barrel, and use a lance at which I've had no practice. I am thankful that Hammerhead Jack is the harpooner in our crew, and I hope by watching to learn much from him.

*

Seated on our thwarts we are perilously close to the harpoon rope. This runs from the barrel at the stern, down the centre of the boat, to the crutch on the starboard bow where it is spliced to the two harpoons in front of where Hammerhead Jack is seated. When the rope is running to the whale it becomes sizzling hot. Should we suddenly be thrown against it, or move carelessly, it will in a moment cut inches deep into our thighs or slice our arms down to the bone, cooking the flesh it ravages.

We cannot see the other three whaleboats and our late start has caused some anxiety in Nestbyte. 'Row, row! Row, row!' he repeats urgently. 'It's first to the pod for us, or I'll see ye flogged and stretched to the mizzen! Row! Row! Row, ye cannibal bastards, row!' His voice grows ever angrier as he envisages us lagging behind the other boats.

I am not sure how much of this call is understood by Hammerhead Jack and the rest of the crew. Their faces show nothing beyond the strain of pulling at the oars and they do not quicken their stroke at the mate's admonishments. My arms ache and I wonder how much longer I can keep up.

The breeze seems to me to be stiffening and the seas beginning to rise. Nestbyte, who steers the boat from the stern sheets, counts the breeze insufficient to hoist the lugsail and we must perforce row on. As we come over the lip of a large wave, I can see there is new cloud boiling up from the horizon. A sniff of rain is in the air.

I have been told whalemen hunting in the Pacific Ocean are not concerned by a squall at sea. The Yankee whaleboat is well constructed from half-inch, white cedar clinker planking and difficult to capsize. If it should up-end, or be swamped, it will continue to float or even right itself. If the sea is moderately calm, it is no great hardship to clamber back in. But in the Southern Ocean around Cape Horn and towards the Antarctic it is an altogether different proposition. If a boat should be overturned by an errant wave, the crew will often freeze to death.

'Pacific whaling be a treat, lad,' Rawlings once confided at harpoon practice, 'with naught to bother about except for a mishap with the whale.' Then he grins. 'Mind,' he says, 'should the great fishy tail smash down upon you and you be thrown into the sea and not killed outright, with your boat smashed to smithereens, then naught awaits except drowning or being taken by the sharks who gather at the smell of harpoon blood and tear at anything that moves.'

Nestbyte hoists the lug sail and I am much relieved that we can ship our oars and turn to see where we might be going. The whaleboat takes smoothly to the waves and we are soon making good progress. It is pleasant not to hear the first mate's harsh voice urging us on. Hammerhead Jack calls for water. We are all streaming with sweat and the sun overhead is as hot as Hades.

'A mouthful each! No more, hear ye?' Nestbyte orders. The canvas bag is passed to Hammerhead Jack, who hoists it to his lips and takes a long drink. 'Enough! No more!' Nestbyte yells. 'If the hunt is long, ye'll beg me for it later!'

The big Maori hands the bag to me and I take a mouthful, then pass it back. 'That's enough! That's enough!' Nestbyte keeps saying before we've brought the mouthpiece to our lips.

The wind changes direction and the lug sail begins to flap. 'Man the oars!' Nestbyte shouts, though we have seen the change and already set to rowing.

'Backs! Put your backs into it, ye kanaka bastards!'

I begin to wonder if Nestbyte's constant yapping will ever stop. Then we rise over another wave and I damn near die of fright!

Not forty feet to port a sperm whale surfaces. The sea around us boils and our boat begins to rise and rise until we are fifteen feet above the highest waves. Nestbyte yells to ship our oars. With a thunderous roar of falling water, the giant fish surfaces from the depths. It is a bull, a monster, a creature a hundred times bigger than anything I have ever seen before. Its malevolent eye, which appears to gaze straight at me, is bigger than a pudding plate!

Suddenly we are drenched, as the spray from its spout pours down like a waterfall upon us. We are too close and I prepare myself to die in the moments left to me. Terrified, I glance at Hammerhead Jack to see what is to be done.

Hammerhead Jack is seated calm as you like, his hands gripping the edges of the thwart so that he might steady himself. He has his back to me but he must sense I seek him, for he turns his head and there is a grin upon his much-tattooed face. His head and shoulders stream with the spray from the whale's spouting. His lips appear to move but there is too much noise to hear what he is saying. I think it must be, 'Good Ork!'

We are suddenly plunged back to sea level as the wave caused by the whale's breaching rolls away and subsides beneath us. The boat begins to spin like a cork in the foaming water and Nestbyte works with frantic energy to steady it by means of the sweep. Then, the very moment the boat is more or less on an even keel, he yells at us to grab our paddles and to row towards the great creature.

Row towards? He must be mad! We are practically embracing the monster! Hammerhead Jack ships his paddle and the boat rocks as he goes to stand at the bow. I look up to see him take up one of the harpoons. He stands darkly silhouetted against the sky. It is him against the whale, St George and the dragon, Neptune and the sea monster. For a short moment I gain courage at his immense calm and resolve as we row towards our certain death.

We are no more than fifteen feet from the great fish and I can see a multitude of barnacles, scratches and scars upon its black carcass, deeply wrinkled aft of its flippers. Then Hammerhead Jack, with a shout, delivers the harpoon into its side. The harpoon's head is buried a full three feet into the whale's flesh.

He has aimed for the heart, just forward of the small dorsal hump not far from the whale's great head, which looks to me entirely composed of a nose with a whitish whorl at its end. At first the harpoon seems to penetrate cleanly, in the manner of a neat dart, but a moment later a huge gush of blood spurts from the side of the whale as though a pipe has burst. Then, just as quickly, the blood stops to a trickle.

Nestbyte screams to Hammerhead Jack, 'Another! Quick, the second! Damn thee, man, thou hast missed the vital part!'

But it is almost as though the whale itself has heard the first mate's shouts. Before the giant Maori can lift the second harpoon above his shoulder, the great beast raises its flukes and crashes them down against the surface of the sea. Rolling away from us, the whale sounds - diving down into the depths beneath us. There is another rush of water and then all hell breaks loose in front of my very eyes.

'Aft, come aft!' Nestbyte yells. He has already wound the manila rope around the samson post, putting a drag on the line which immediately begins to pay out and is soon screaming through the bow chocks. We are now being taken for a ride, towed by the mighty fish at breakneck speed, faster even than any good four-in-hand upon the macadam road to New Norfolk. Our whaleboat skims the waves and Nestbyte is still yelling at us. 'Come aft! In the name of Christ Jesus, aft, ye bastards!'

We rise from our thwarts and stumble over each other as we crowd to the rear of the boat, careful to avoid the zinging rope. We crouch in the stern so that our bow may rise high and stay clear of the waves, for should it follow the downward direction of the whale we will all be dragged under. The eldest of the Maori crew has taken up the piggin and is dousing the whale-rope with sea water to keep it from bursting into flame. But the moment he goes to take another scoop of water, the line starts to smoke again as it whirls about the samson post.

We now come across the other boats and wave to them desperately for help. But all three boats are attached to a smaller cow which sounds at that moment and they are too occupied to see us.

'Damn!' Nestbyte cries. 'We are alone with the monster! This old bull will prove too much for us!' He cups his hands to his mouth again and yells for one of the other boats to cut loose from the cow and come to our aid, but they are by now too distant to hear.

I am shaking like a wet dog in a cold wind, though whether from fear or excitement I cannot tell. The rope is paying out at a great rate from the barrel and, despite its turn about the samson post which is intended to slow the whale by adding our weight to its drag, we are tearing across the water at a great rate of knots.

I cannot believe the speed at which we move. It is as though the whale is a clipper fully rigged caught in a sudden gale, and we the float on a boy's fishing line suspended from its stern - a mere bobbing cork dragged helplessly through the angry seas. How can any creature in nature be possessed of such enormous power as is the whale!

The manila line within the barrel is not attached and should the whale take it all up in its dive, it will be free of us. Nearly the full two hundred fathoms of line have gone, and we begin to think we must soon lose our prey. My silent hope is that we do! Then the rope suddenly goes slack and we are at once becalmed. Thank God! I think. We are saved!

But it seems this is the very moment we've been waiting for. 'Pull in! All hands to the rope!' Nestbyte calls. We begin, hand over fist, to gather the rope back into the barrel.

It is the hardest of work and soon my hands are bleeding, but there is no respite. The task must be done quickly and we must be ready for the whale when he breaches. We pull at the rope until it is no longer slack and so we know it is attached to the whale lurking somewhere below us.

The very moment the rope is gathered, the Maori move back to their thwarts. I follow, scrambling to take up my oar behind Hammerhead Jack.

'We go!' he says happily to me. 'Whale come,' he makes an upward movement with his hands and then blows through his lips, 'Phiff!' which I take to mean that the whale will soon surface spouting again.

We have been occupied with the whale for two hours since the first harpoon and the sun is fierce upon our backs. I have heard how such fights may last six or more hours until, with the coming of the dark, the line must be cut and all is to no avail. I cannot imagine how we will sustain ourselves at our present pace if this old bull fights through the long afternoon.

Within fifteen minutes, the giant whale surfaces about a hundred yards away, and we must follow the rope now toward him. At almost the same moment we run into a squall, the rain belting down so fiercely we can see only a few feet ahead. The raindrops hit like bird shot but they are welcome enough for we have become heated pulling in the line. With the sheeting rain I am once again afraid of our proximity to the giant fish which we can no longer see.

Then, with the rain coming down and the sea misty, we come quite suddenly upon the whale. It is like coming upon a galleon through the fog, its huge shape looming unexpectedly in front of us. It would seem we have arrived midships as both the head and flukes of the Leviathan are lost to us in the pelting downpour. We take up the paddles again so as not to cause unnecessary noise.

Nestbyte looks for our line so that he can determine the whale's head from its tail, for when the old bull sounds again, its flukes could destroy us if we are too close to the tail-end. I can hear my heart beating in my chest as we paddle quietly towards the whale's head and heart so that Hammerhead Jack may make a good shot.

Then we see our line and, a moment later, our harpoon sticking out neat as a needle in a ball of tapestry wool. The old bull seems strangely oblivious of our presence.

Hammerhead Jack takes careful aim, as much as that is possible in the torrents splashing off the whale's back and cascading into the boat. He gives a shout and makes a mighty throw not five feet from the whale. Nestbyte wraps the line about the samson post and screams, 'Row, row! Row, row!' We are scarcely thirty feet away when the bull begins to roll to windward of us.