A TRAGEDY OF THE SOUTH ATLANTIC

The whaling schooner Erin was a modern vessel. She had a little of the “old greaser” about her. She had been built and fitted out at New Bedford, Mass., the mother-port of nearly all good whaling craft, and she was manned by men who had served their time in whaling ships. Her tonnage was not over three hundred, but she was so strongly put together that she looked somewhat heavier than she really was. Her bow was like that of a clipper, and her stern had the modern overhang of a cruising yacht, but her beam was great and her top-sides bulky, showing a tumble-home like that of the ancient frigates. Therefore, she was not considered fast. Her spars were short and stumpy, and she had no foreboom, owing to chunky smokestack that arose from her main deck, over which the foresail passed. She was flushed fore and aft, save for a heavy-built superstructure over her engines, through which the smokestack protruded, and it was evident that she could stand a great amount of rough usage. Being built for southern whaling in the vicinity of Cape Horn, she needed all the strength that could be put into her, and Captain Jackson, her commander, always kept her down to a draught of fifteen feet, even when running light, to enable her to hold up to the tremendous rolling seas off the Cape. Forward, she carried a peculiar sort of cannon on her forecastle, which fired an exploding harpoon weighing a hundred pounds, heavy enough to put a quietus upon any ordinary member of the whale family. Her boats and other gear were of the usual type; but, as she was not to carry oil, either in bulk or casks, her deck was devoid of the ordinary furnace of the sperm-whaler, and her hold of the odor which comes from the usual mass of rancid blubber when packed for a long voyage from the Arctic Ocean, in vessels hunting the right whale. She was, in fact, a stanch, trim little vessel. Her crew of thirty men had been selected and shipped, and Captain Jackson cleared for his last cruise.

When well off shore, the boiler was cooled and sails set, for there must be no waste of coal, and the Erin stood to the southward on her long run to the Falkland Islands, where she would begin her hunt for the giants of the southern ocean.

The run south was made without any unusual experience. On the sixty-first day out she raised the huge mountains of Patagonia to the westward, and, shortening sail so as to drift not over four knots an hour, she hauled on the wind and stood through the “black water” between the Falk Islands and Staten Land.

In December and January, the Antarctic summer months, the air is quite cold as far north as the fiftieth parallel. The “blow” of a whale stands out sharply against the sky as the warm air in the animal’s lungs turns into vapor, giving the hunter a chance to see it at a distance of several miles. Objects seem to lift from off the horizon as in a mirage, only they are not inverted.

Here, in the summer season, the great rorqual, or finback whale, disports himself in ease and security, for, until lately, he has had few known enemies, and has been unmolested by man. Dozens of these great creatures often follow a huge bull leader, and they jump and plunge about as lively as they would if their weight were reckoned in pounds instead of tons.

The huge, timid creature who led a school under the shadow of Tierra del Fuego, that season, was a giant of his kind. One hundred feet of solid bulk was between the tips of his tremendous flukes and the end of his hideous head. A hundred tons of bone and sinew, covered with a coating of thin blubber, to keep out the cold of the icy seas.

His head was ugly and flat-looking, and his mouth a hideous cavern, full of slabs of whalebone, from which depended masses of horrible hair to act as a sieve for the whale-food poured down his gullet. His back slanted away to a place amidships, where a lumpy knob rose, as if he were a hunchback, and from there aft he sloped in long and sinuous lines to the spread of his tail or flukes, which were fully two fathoms across. The blades of the Erin’s wheel were not nearly so large or so powerful as the blades of bone and cartilage that drove him ahead through the yielding medium, or raised the tons of flesh and blood to a height that showed a full fathom or more of clear sky under his thin belly when he breached. He was a giant, a descendant from prehistoric ages when monsters of his kind were more common than they are to-day. It is doubtful if ever anything existed in flesh or blood of greater size.

How old the giant was no one could learn. His age could hardly have been less than two centuries, for whales grow slowly. They are like other warm-blooded animals, and it takes many years to build up a mass of a hundred tons of flesh fiber. He was known to Captain Jackson, who had seen him on former voyages, but as yet he had not made his acquaintance; for, in spite of the old whale’s size and age, he was very timid. He would rush from a pair of fierce “killers,”—the dreaded sharks who attack toothless whales,—and only his tremendous size and activity would prevent them from following him. Consequently, whenever Jackson lowered his small boats, with the intention of making him a visit, the old fellow would wait only long enough to allow the boats to approach within fifty fathoms of him. Then he would begin to edge away, and, before the whale-gun could be brought to bear, he would be in full flight to windward, his flock or school following in his wake. Many were the maledictions cast upon him by the whalemen, whose tired muscles bore witness to his speed, and, finally, he was left alone to roam at will in the “black water.” Where he went to, at the beginning of winter, it was impossible to tell, but, at the first easterly blow, he would disappear, bound for other parts, leaving nothing behind but a crew of angry sailors, and taking with him the memory of an undisturbed old age.

On that December morning, when Captain Jackson hauled on the wind and stood offshore, the sun shone brilliantly. The wind was light and from the southwest, and objects stood up plainly from the sea. The lookout at the masthead had just been relieved, when the time-worn cry of “blo-o-ow” reached the deck. Away to the southward rose the jets, looking almost as high as water spouts, as the warm vapor condensed in the cool air. It was a large school, or, more properly speaking, herd, for a finback is no more a fish than is a cow. Jackson came on deck and watched the blows, counting them over and over to get the exact number of his game. Whalebone at so much a ton was within easy distance, and it looked as if a few thousand dollars’ worth of the substance would find its way below hatches by dinner time. The forward gun was overhauled and the line and harpoon cleared, the latter being charged with a heavy load of powder. The explosion would open the huge barbs of the harpoon and drive them deeper into the monster, expanding in his flesh, making it absolutely impossible to withdraw them by pulling on the line. They would not hunt him after the manner of the tame and harmless sperm whale, that can be killed with about as much ease as a cow in a pasture, in spite of all the sailors’ yarns to the contrary.

The whales paid no attention whatever to the schooner. They played a quiet, frolicsome game, breaching and sounding, and coming often to the surface to breathe. There were some young ones among them, and the huge leader, the giant bull, seemed to take a special pride in one whose antics were more pronounced than the rest. He would come near it and seem almost to touch it gently with his side flipper, and the little fellow would make a breach clear out of the water, apparently with pure joy at the notice bestowed. Then he would come alongside the big fellow and snuggle up to him in a most affectionate manner, and the giant would roll toward him and put out his great arm or flipper, as if to bestow a caress. He was a very affectionate old fellow, and, as the vessel drew nearer, his size and actions were remarked by the mate, who called the skipper’s attention to them. Just then the great whale breached, and the sun, striking fairly upon his dark side, showed several deep lines that looked like huge scars. His long, thin shape and hideous head were plainly outlined against the sky, and, as he struck, the sea resounded with the crash. He disappeared, and the little fellow breached and followed him.

“That’s the big coward, the leader,” said Jackson. “You kin tell him by them cuts he has in his sides, an’ there aint nothin’ bigger afloat. He is an old one and wary. You wouldn’t think a whale with them scars on him would be scared at a little boat, hey? Them was cut a long time ago, mebbe, but they were done in a fight sech as ye’ve never seen.”

“Mebbe he got licked?” suggested the mate.

“He wouldn’t be here if he had,” said Jackson. “Howsomever, here he is, and it’s our business to get him and cut him up, if we kin.”

To stop the leader of the whales was the object, for, if he was held, the rest would either scatter or await developments. In either case they would not get very far away, and could be reckoned with afterwards. The Erin was held pointed toward the spot where the whale was expected to rise, and the mate went forward and stood behind the gun with the harpoon loaded in it, and ready for a shot as soon as he should come within twenty fathoms. The old coward, however, had seen the approaching ship, and, with a peculiar movement of his flukes upon the water, he gave the signal for danger.

Somewhere in that oily brain the memory of his past life was stored in a strangely simple but vivid manner. He remembered, although he was unable to reason it all out like the human being who hunted him; but, a thousand moons before, he had gone forth in the ocean from his birthplace in the South Pacific, and had held his way proudly and with force. Fiercely he had fought for everything he took of the world’s belongings, and the joy of battle had run warm in his blood. It had surged through his great frame at the sight of a stranger, and he had striven and conquered all who had opposed him or refused to do his will. Many had died, for a sea fight is usually to the death, and the strangeness of the passion had gradually worked its way into the old mind, and he held aloof. The experience of a hundred years taught him something. The oily brain learned slowly. The instinct, or feeling, had gradually come upon him that to fight is a great waste of energy, for life was more pleasant in the companionship of his many wives and young ones, and continual strife was not the right thing. To avoid it, if possible, was the thought uppermost in his old head; so, when he saw the approaching schooner, he gave a warning stroke upon the sea.

Instantly all the whales sounded.

But Captain Jackson was an old whaleman. He was after whales, and he had come thousands of miles to hunt them. The animals must come up again, soon, and to be near the spot where they would reappear would probably mean a capture. With a keen sense of reasoning, the bull knew that bodies that travel through the air must necessarily be retarded by the wind. Therefore, to windward he led the herd, and Jackson did not underestimate his cunning. With fires started under the boiler, the Erin held her way straight into the eye of the breeze, and the mate leaned over the forecastle rail, gun-lanyard in hand, peering into the clear depths for the dark shadow below that would show the presence of a rising monster. Jackson stood at the wheel with the signal pull in his hand, waiting to “shake her up” at the first sign of the game. The wheel turned slowly below, and the slight jar of machinery vibrating the hull was the only sound save the stirred water abaft the rudder from the thrust of the screw, gurgling and murmuring in a soft undertone.

The whalemen were gathered about the forecastle head, or stood near the boat falls, ready to lower away at a signal, and secure their victim. The sun shone strongly, and objects were visible at a great depth below the surface of the sea. Ten minutes passed, and Jackson was getting nervous. He had tried to gauge the rapidity of the old bull’s headway through the water, and had figured that he would come up somewhere in the vicinity of the vessel on her course. But not a sign of a whale had shown, and ten minutes had passed. They must be badly gallied, indeed, to stay under much longer. The old bull was cunning; but he, Jackson, knew a thing or two. It was pitting the old brain of an animal with a century or two of experience against that of an old man with keen intelligence. The skipper felt confident. He would take a long shot at the big fellow, and, once fast to him, whalebone would be plentiful for a few days. While the mate was leaning over the rail forward, looking down into the depths, he noticed a sudden darkening of the water just ahead of the vessel. He sprang to the cannon and stood ready to fire. The great shadow rose toward the surface, and the men saw instantly that it was a huge whale. Jackson was right, to a hair. The great bull was coming up under the jib-boom end. A man raised his hand aloft and gave a low cry, while the rest stood back from the gun to escape the shock of the heavy discharge and powder-blast. Jackson rushed to the rail and leaned over.

But the great shadow did not materialize into anything more. It remained deep down beneath the surface, fully twenty feet below, and, as the schooner forged ahead, it drifted alongside, a few fathoms distant. The signal was made to stop the engines, and both the schooner and the whale lay quietly drifting, the animal deep down and perfectly safe from a shot. “It’s the coward, all right,” said Jackson, coming to the mate’s side; “that big coward bull what won’t show up for nothin’. I never seen sech a scary whale. Look at him—sink me, jest look at him! Blamed if he didn’t wink at me. Will ye look at that eye?”

The old whale was lying almost motionless, and his eye could be seen distinctly. He was watching the vessel carefully, and the rippling water from the bends actually did give him the appearance of opening and closing one eye as the waves of light flashed upon it. He seemed to be very much absorbed in profound contemplation of the ship. Perhaps he had not expected to find her so close aboard when he intended to breach for a breath of air. However, there was plenty of time. Breathing was something he was not obliged to indulge in more than once every half-hour or two, and he would not come up until he had put a little more distance between himself and the vessel. All hands were peering over the side at him when, suddenly, several blows sounded close aboard. All about, jets of spray and vapor shot skyward, and fully a dozen whales breached and then disappeared again. The mate rushed for the gun and Jackson sprang to the engine signal, while the second and third officers, “bos’n,” harpooners, and the rest, ran for their gear. When they looked over the side again the shadow of the giant had disappeared, and the sea was as quiet as a lake. In a few minutes a huge form breached about a quarter of a mile ahead—the bull had breathed, and was quietly going to windward. The animals were not badly gallied as the word is applied to thoroughly frightened whales. They had gone along at a steady, but not fast, gait, and had come up together as if at a signal. The schooner was not troubling them very much, and the sea was wide. There was room enough for all.

The high, grim cliffs of Staten Land rose higher and higher as the morning wore on. The Erin was heading inshore, still pointing into the breeze, and now and then a great spurt of foam and a blow would show where the whales led the way straight ahead.

“Of all the low-lived critters I ever see, that cowardly bull air the meanest,” said Jackson, after seven bells had struck; “but I’ll fix him, if I chase him clear to ’Frisco. I won’t mind burning a few tons o’ coal fer him. Put an extra charge of powder in behind that iron, and loose off at him when we come within thirty fathom.”

“Looks like he’ll be a-climbing the mounting ahead thar in a minute,” said the mate, motioning toward the high and ragged hills which rose out of the sea.

“We’ll strike ile in half an hour, or I’m a sojer,” said the skipper decisively. “You tend ter yer own, and don’t give no advice, an’, if there’s any climbin’ to be done, I’ll do it.”

The animals still held along inshore, and it looked as if they would soon be in shallow water. The leadline was gotten out when the vessel came within half a mile of the rocks, and a sounding was taken. No bottom was found at fifty fathoms, and she was allowed to drift further in, her engines barely turning fast enough to give her steering way. The land was very near, and Jackson was nervous. The heavy snore of the swell upon the ledges sounded plainly over the sunlit sea, and every now and then a spurt of foam showed that, although the ocean was calm, there were heavy breakers falling upon the shore, caused by the lift of the offshore heave. That barren island was not an inviting coast, and to strike upon a sunken ledge would mean disaster. Jackson stood upon the poop, with his hand upon the signal, ready to reverse the engines and swing clear, when there seemed to be a slowing down in the movements of the game ahead. Then the water whitened about the ship, and the cause became evident. They were running through a great mass of whale-food, and the tiny gelatinous bodies were so thick that the color of the sea was changed by them. Jackson rang off the engine. “We’ve got ’em now,” he said quietly, and watched the surface of the ocean.

The big bull whale had run into the mass of food, and had slowed down a little to allow quantities of it to pour down his gullet. There was no unseemly haste in getting away from the pursuing stranger. He would suddenly slew to the southward, when he reached four or five fathoms of water, and then the pace could be increased until the following craft would be dropped behind. He was a cool-headed old bull, and there was no occasion for nervousness—all would have gone well with the whole herd, if it had not been for a willful young cow.

As the Erin slowed down the whales ahead were swimming upon the surface, taking in the food in enormous quantities, apparently enjoying their dinner, and showing no interest in the vessel that held along, with her sinister purpose, in their wake. She barely rippled the water, as she went through it, and Mr. Collins, the mate, stood behind the gun on the forecastle, with the lanyard in his hand, ready to fire at any back that might break water within thirty fathoms. The rest crowded about the rail and waited, some standing by the line, ready to snub it as soon as a stricken animal should become weak enough to allow them.

The young cow that lagged behind the rest was not very large, but she had a thousand pounds or more of good bone in her mouth, and she had breached dead in front of the vessel, with her tail toward it. The bull saw the distance gradually closing between his followers and the ship, and he gave again that peculiar stroke with his flukes which meant danger. All save the lagging whale instantly sounded. She was enjoying the food, and failed to regard the signal, and the Erin, going up astern, quietly approached her.

On account of a whale’s peculiar development, it is difficult for it to see directly ahead or astern, and an object approaching exactly in line can do so quite often without being perceived until within close range. The schooner came drifting slowly down upon the animal, and was within thirty fathoms, when the big bull suddenly breached a short distance ahead, the little fellow who had been under his care being with him. Again he gave the sea a heavy blow with his flukes and disappeared, and nothing broke the smooth surface.

But the young cow was obstinate. She enjoyed the food, and failed to note how close the ship had approached. Suddenly the mate straightened himself and looked along the cannon sights. There was a flash and a loud report, and the exploding harpoon was launched full at the broad back that lay drifting almost awash just ahead. The heavy missile went straight to its mark.

“Stand by to haul line!” came the order, while the mate sprang forward and slipped another charge into the harpoon gun.

The line whizzed out for a few fathoms before the men could snub it, but there was no need for a second shot. The missile had done its work, and the stricken cow began the flurry that ends in death. Round and round she went in a circle, convulsively throwing herself clear of the sea and lashing the water into a lather with her flukes. Blood dyed the foam and her spiracles were crimson. Then she slowed down, and, with a few shudders of her great frame, lay motionless.

The fluke chain was gotten out, and she was soon fast alongside. A man was sent aloft to watch, and the operation of removing the whalebone blades from the mouth began. While this was going on, the rest of the herd did not run away or get gallied. The big bull was seen approaching, after a time; and, for an hour, while the work of cutting in went on, he came up repeatedly at a short distance from the vessel. The men thought little of this, as the whale-food was thick, but Jackson pondered at the strangeness of the old fellow’s behavior. He was an old whaleman, and knew that, at the death of one, the rest of a school usually get badly gallied, and seldom wait for a second attack. A sperm whale will stand, but a finback, never; and, as the old bull rose again and again close aboard, he watched him furtively from the corner of his eye while superintending the work overside. In spite of the fact that the cow was fat, the blubber was not stripped. She was cast adrift early in the afternoon, having yielded a mass of prime bone, and her carcass floated astern, to be devoured by the countless sharks and birds that come, apparently by magic, from the void of sea and sky.

It was late in the afternoon when the Erin started ahead again, and the mate took his place at the gun. No sooner had the carcass floated a half-mile distant than the old bull was seen to swim alongside of it. The schooner was turned slowly around and headed back again.

The old bull had come up to the carcass and examined it. The cow was quite dead, and the fact that she had been killed by the stranger gradually became clear to him. Suspicion became conviction on his part, and he turned toward the rest of his charges and led the way straight out to sea. Away out toward the Falkland Islands he headed, and reluctantly the rest followed. The pace was increased to a rapid gait, and soon the pursuing vessel was under a full head of steam, plowing through the heavy swell at a great rate, in an effort to keep the flying herd in sight. The sun sank behind the ragged peaks to the westward, and the darkness soon put a stop to the chase. Jackson had secured one of the herd, but the others were gallied and were headed offshore, where they disappeared in the gathering darkness. Soon the engine was rung off and the vessel put under easy canvas for the night, while Jackson walked the poop and gave forcible expression to his opinion of the old coward who had so ignominiously run away.

Away into the vastness of the southern ocean the old fellow led his charges, always keeping the little whale he had with him close aboard. He missed the mate who had been slain, but he knew that she had disregarded his warning. He had done all he could. Now he would take the rest far away to other feeding grounds, and the ocean would leave no trail to show the stranger whither he had gone. The young one near him needed protection, and he would keep him close until he was large enough to look out for himself. On the edge of Falkland Channel was plenty of food at that season of the year, and a few hundred miles would put the stranger safely out of sight. The old brain longed for rest and quiet. Strife was a useless thing, fit only for the young and unthinking, or those possessed with the killing spirit.

The morning dawned, and, as the sun rose slanting from the southern ocean, the old bull took a look around. Nothing broke the even line of the horizon, and then, the feeling that the stranger had been left behind coming upon him, he slowed the tremendous pace. One hundred miles of trackless sea had been placed between him and the rocks of Staten Land.

For many weeks the herd cruised to the northward of the Falkland Islands, the old bull still keeping the young whale under his protecting care. Finally there was born a pretty little baby whale with rounded lines, weighing, perhaps, a little more than half a ton. A pair of the fierce “killer” sharks soon scented the tender little fellow, and made a concerted rush, one day, to seize him before the older whales could prevent; but the bull smote one a blow with his flukes that crushed him as flat as if a house had fallen upon him, and the other took flight. He was a watchful old fellow, and had to keep on the lookout night and day, for the mother whale was weak, and would recover slowly.

As the days passed the weather began to change. The zone of the “variables,” or that of the “roaring forties,” is not to be depended upon long for sunshine and pleasant breezes. One day it started in for a gale from the eastward, and the sea was white with rolling combers. The whale-food was driven south, and the animals were forced to follow. The sun shone only for a short time each day, being but a few degrees above the sea line, and the high-rolling sea made life upon the surface uncomfortable. The bull headed for the South Orkney Islands, and for days the little band of giants went along below the surface, only coming up every now and then to breathe.

As they made their way southward, the wind grew less violent. The high black cliffs of the islands offered no shelter to vessels, but to the whales the lee of the land was comfortable, and the sea was swarming with food. There they would rest a while and take life easy, beyond the reach of the hurricanes from Cape Horn.

The old bull guided the band among the sunken peaks, and for weeks they fattened under his care, when one bleak morning he came to the surface of the sea and noticed a black shape approaching. There was something strangely familiar in the outlines, and, after watching it for some minutes, he remembered the schooner Erin.

She was heading straight toward the whales, and was going slowly, as if in no particular hurry, and upon her forecastle was the same murderous gun which had slain the cow near Le Maire Strait.

The young whale, who was in company, breached playfully into full view and sounded. The vessel did not change her course, but headed straight for the cow with the newborn calf, who was feeding a mile distant to the southward.

The old bull instantly struck the water with his flukes and headed for her. The rest of the herd took notice of the warning, and sank from view; but, whether the cow failed to notice it, or her young one was disobedient, it was too late to find out. The schooner made a sudden spurt of speed, and, coming close to the mother, fired the harpoon into her before she fairly realized what was taking place. The dull boom of the shot told the old whale what had happened, before he came up to look. When he arrived within a hundred fathoms, the mother was in her last agony, and her little baby was being towed along with her, being unable to realize its mother’s death, and still holding to her with all the tenderness of a child.

The old bull lay watching events, and once tried to make the little fellow let go by giving the sea some tremendous slaps with his flukes; but he was too young to understand, and, while the bull watched, a boat was lowered and the sailors began their work of destruction. They rowed slowly toward the infant, and suddenly one rose in the bow and hurled a harpoon into his soft baby side. The little fellow gave a spring upward in his agony. A man quickly pulled him alongside the boat and another drove a lance through him.

Jackson was standing upon the poop, looking on, and the mate was on the forecastle, loading the gun for another shot when an opportunity should offer. The men in the waist were overhauling the fluke chain to make fast to the dead mother, while the man at the wheel held the spokes idly. The skipper turned toward him.

“Seems to me that that’s the old cowardly bull we fell in with to th’ no’th’ard; aint it?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; it looks like him fer sure,” answered the man; “jest see him, sir.”

As they looked, the great whale lay watching the men in the boat. His old oily brain was working, and the rapid events of the last few minutes were gradually making an impression on his mind. He was wondering at the slaughter, and could hardly understand how it was done so quickly. The mother had been a favorite for many years, yet there she lay, suddenly dead before him. Would the strange craft follow him over the seas, and kill off the herd one by one, until all were gone? The boat approaching the young whale stirred his attention. He smote the sea savagely with his flukes to warn him of the danger. Then the iron went home, and the little fellow was dead beside his mother. Something flashed suddenly through the old brain. The pent-up reserve of years seemed to give way within him, all thought of safety fell away, and the old feeling of the conqueror rose within his heart.

“Good Lord, what’s a-comin’?” gasped Jackson.

His remark was not addressed to anyone in particular, but was caused by a terrific commotion in the sea which caused the men to drop their gear and look out over the side to see what was taking place.

The coward, the giant bull who had fled so often from them, was heading straight for the small boat and was tearing the southern ocean into foam with his flukes. Straight as a harpoon from the gun forward, he shot with tremendous speed, hurling his hundred tons of bone and sinew like a living avalanche upon the doomed craft. “Starn all,” was the hoarse yell from the third officer, who stood upon the stern-sheets and swung madly upon the steering oar. Men strained their necks forward over the schooner’s rail to see. The unfortunate men at the oars of the whaleboat struggled wildly. An oar snapped. There was a wild cry, and some sprang up to dive over the side into the sea. At that instant the whale leaped high in the air, clearing the water fully two fathoms. Then he crashed down upon the boat, wiping all out in a tremendous smother of spray. He was close to the Erin, and the mate stood waiting. There was a loud report as Collins fired the exploding harpoon into him, taking him almost “on the fly,” as it were, and then as he disappeared beneath the surface there was a heavy jar that shook the Erin from stem to stern. She had been rammed.

For an instant not a man aboard moved. Then Jackson, with a face as white as chalk, came forward and called below to the engineer. The line was whizzing out upon the forecastle head, showing that Collins had made the shot of his life. He had struck the whale, but just where he had no idea. He stood watching the line as it flaked away with the rapidity of lightning, but said no word to the men to have it snubbed. He had felt the heavy jar beneath the schooner’s keel, and knew what it meant as plainly as if he had seen the stroke.

Two,—three,—four,—five hundred fathoms went whirling over the side, and silence still reigned aboard. The sea had smoothed again where the whaleboat had been a few moments before, but the only signs of her were a few floating splinters. Not a man ever appeared again.

Suddenly the strain was broken.

“Water comin’ in fast below, sir,” was the word passed on deck.

Jackson walked aft as if in a dream. The mate left the gun, and the last fathom of the line flaked overboard unheeded. It brought up suddenly, taut as a bowstring, then snapped. The mate paid not the least attention to it, but went slowly aft.

“Shall we provision the boats, sir?” he asked, as he approached the captain.

Jackson stared at him. “D’ye know what it means?” asked the old whaleman huskily.

The mate nodded. Half an hour later, four boats full of men were heading northward for the Falkland Islands, and the only thing that remained upon the spot where the Erin had floated a short time before was the carcass of a mother whale with her baby alongside, while above them the birds hovered and screamed as if to mark the grave of the lost ship.

The next year a Scottish whaleman from the Falklands fell in with an old bull whale whose starboard side bore a tremendous wound, partly healed. He was so wary, however, that he was soon lost sight of, and the school that followed him gave no chance for a catch.

---