The cutting-in was over by the middle of the afternoon, for that first whale of ours was not very large. If our windlass had been as powerful as modern windlasses, we should have been able to get the case—or even the whole head—bodily on deck, and to get at the oil within it more quickly and completely. The holds of the cutting-falls had been cut away, and the empty case had drifted astern, sinking slowly as it went; the junk had been emptied of its oil, the pure, sweet oil following the spades at every cut; and men were already busy with squeezing out the shreds of spermaceti from the case-matter, two men to a tub. These men seemed to be in no hurry, and to find their task pleasant. I was naturally curious, as a boy should be, and I plunged my hand into a tub of it. I found it to be an exceedingly pleasant unguent, and the half-solidified spermaceti infinitely soothing to hands that were cut and scraped, bruised and chapped. I understood—or I thought I understood—the leisurely way in which the men were working, although this work cannot be done in a hurry and done well. If the spermaceti is not taken out pretty completely, it chars in the try-pots, and darkens the oil, which lessens its value. Head oil is the lightest in color, and the most valuable, and it is always kept separate.

Our mainyards were now aback, the mainsail furled, the topsails reefed, and the ship made very little way, rolling slowly on a drift to leeward. Some of the crew had cleaned out the try-works, taking out the odds and ends and trash with which the pots were filled, and had laid a fire under them. Wood was used for this first fire, but after the first lot of blubber has been tried out, the scraps or “fritters”—blubber from which the oil has been tried, and which are fried crisp—are used for feeding the fire. They burn well and fiercely, with a huge volume of nauseous black smoke. The scraps remaining from one trying-out are kept to start the fire on the next occasion.

The trying-out started on the head-matter, in order to keep the oil from contamination, and to preserve its light color. Meanwhile there were two men in the blubber room with knife and spade to cut from the blubber the pieces of flesh that had come off with it. They then cut the blanket strips into smaller pieces, roughly rectangular. These “horse-pieces,” as they are called, were cut all the way across the blanket, and about six or eight inches wide; so that, in this case, they were strips, about three feet long and eight inches wide. They are sometimes not so long. In cutting the horse-pieces, the men generally stood on the strip in their bare feet, and cut it with a sharp spade held vertically. I knew how slippery those strips of blubber could be, and I trembled for fear that, on that unstable footing, the sharp spade might fall on the wrong spot and cut off a few of those wriggling toes, or even a foot. It would be easy. The spade was sharp and heavy, and a man might cut off his toes before he knew it; but I saw no such accident, either then or later, although I believe it was not uncommon. The men did not seem to be afraid of accidents.

When the blubber had been cut this way, the “horse-pieces” were tossed on deck and taken to the mincers. The mincers were men—usually two—who wielded heavy, two-handled knives about two feet long, with a handle at each end; the knives being a sort of a cross between a butcher’s cleaver and a carpenter’s draw-knife, or more nearly, perhaps, a cleaver with a handle at each end. The mincers work against the end of a heavy block, or horse, at the height of their belts—if they happen to have belts—and chop and slice the flesh side of the blubber, with a peculiar rolling motion of the heavy knife. The mincer used both hands to hold his mincing-knife, while a second man held the horse-piece on the block. The flesh side of the blubber is cut in this way into thin strips, resembling strips of bacon, leaving the outside, or black skin, intact. These are called “bible-leaves,” and are ready for the try-pots.

There was a pair of try-pots set in brickwork just abaft the foremast, with room to work for the men tending them. These men stand forward of the try-works. As I have said before, there was a roof, or house, over them, as is usually, but not always, the case. The fire-space underneath was separated from the deck by a low platform which projected some distance beyond the fire-doors, and this platform had under it a tank, which was always filled with water when the fire was burning, to protect the deck. The fire-doors were in the forward side of the try-works. They were of iron, and could be slid back or swung upward. Two—three, if there are three try-pots—smokestacks of copper, and of rectangular section, projected a little way above the roof.

I have given these details of the arrangements because I know that there are now com­par­a­tively few people who are familiar with them; in fact, there are none except whalemen and outfitters, and men and boys who have been in the habit of running over the ships at will. Even the boys of that last class, if there are still any such, are probably not as familiar with the arrangements as they ought to be, although they may think they are. I had seen whalers since I could remember, and had rambled over them, and played on them and beside them throughout my boyhood, but I had never given a thought to the question whether the fire was fed from aft or from forward of the try-works. I suppose I should have said that the doors opened aft. Somehow, that seemed the natural way—for the men to face the bows as they work. It is not, as it happens. Just aft of the try-works was the bench, with a vise and other “fixins,” where repairs were made on the harpoons and lances and pretty nearly every­thing else.

Remembering my mistakes—some of them—I am not inclined to be so severe upon the men of Atlantic City as some whalemen are. A whaleship went ashore upon those hospitable sands, and they took her as she was, high and dry on the beach, and they repaired her, and fitted her completely, as they supposed, and used her as one more exhibition—one more attraction for the crowds which throng the Boardwalk. I can imagine them; I can even see them coming in crowds, at ten or fifteen cents a head, to go over the whaler—the “spouter,” as I have no doubt they called her, although I rarely heard the term used among whalemen. But, on one day of ill-fortune, there chanced to be a whaleman in that crowd. He looked critically over the old ship, saying nothing; and he found that they had made the try-works face the wrong way, putting the fire-doors aft instead of in the forward side. He smiled, I do not doubt, but still he said nothing—in Atlantic City. When he got home, however, it was a different thing, and the matter was spread abroad in New Bedford, and it got into the papers, which had no end of fun with the poor, ignorant Atlantic Citizens. Occasionally it crops out yet in the “Mercury” or the “Standard.” They simply cannot resist giving the natives of New Jersey a poke now and then.

I can hardly expect readers of this rambling narrative to be better versed in such matters than those men of Atlantic City. In order that they may not be in a state of chaotic ignorance in regard to them, I have dwelt on the details to a degree which most whalemen would think unnecessary and an insult to their intelligence. They would take all these things for granted.

The mates and boatsteerers officiate at the try-pots, and handle the long-handled, long-shanked devil-forks, or the skimmers, or the copper dippers. They began with the head-matter, for reasons which I have given. When this was cooked enough, it was ladled out of the try-pots with the long-handled copper dippers that I have mentioned, and into the copper cooling-tank which stood beside the try-pots. From the cooling-tank the oil overflows into a huge iron pot. From this, in turn, it is again dipped, and put into casks, or barrels, marked “Head” or “Case” or “Junk.”

I did not see this last operation at this time, however. My duties lay mostly in the cabin and the steerage, with the officers and boatsteerers, and I had to go when I was called, or before if I had sense enough for it. I was expected to be on hand at meal times, or a little before, and help the steward. It was now about supper-time, and I was so interested in the process of trying-out that the steward had to send for me, or come for me, which did not improve his temper. I am afraid that I skimped my duties much of the time, but a boy of fifteen has no great sense of responsibility. Captain Nelson was indulgent to me up to a certain point, but he had to give me a wigging more than once. I deserved the wigging, and I knew it well, and was always respectful and very repentant. The captain usually ended by laughing and bidding me mind my eye, which I was quite willing to do, and I always promised faithfully that I would. And then there would come the next time, which was generally due to my great interest in something which I was seeing for the first time, perhaps. I have no doubt that that fact was taken into account in Captain Nelson’s distribution of justice. He was a just man.

It was dark when I got back on deck. Trying-out goes on steadily, day and night, until it is done. A trying-out watch is trying in more senses than one. Each watch consists of half the crew, who are on duty for a longer time on end than usual. It is hard labor, and in a long siege of trying-out, the men get so tired and dazed and sleepy that they move in a drowse, and they will fall asleep anywhere. It is in this state that the man will nap standing at the wheel, and the man on the royal yard also, the thin stay in the hollow of his shoulders, and an arm hooked in the running rigging.

They had finished the head-matter, and had it already ladled into casks lashed along the rail. There it would stay for a day or two until it was cool enough to stow below. They had been working on the blubber for some little time, and the smoke coming from the stacks was thick and black, except when red flames belched from them, mixed with the smoke. Sometimes, when oil got into the fire, perhaps from the boiling over of the pots, the stacks sent broad sheets of flame six or eight feet into the air. These cast a ruddy glare over every­thing, throwing the illuminated portions of the masts and sails and rigging into high relief, and making bloody reflections from the glistening faces and bare arms of the men, and from the crests of breaking seas. Altogether it was a scene of weirdness, but it was evil-smelling, and the whole thing smacked of evil, the men looking like devils feeding the fire to torture some poor lost soul.

The mates stood on the little platform in front of the try-pots, watching their kettles of fat, stirring them now and then with their long-handled, long-shanked devil-forks. Now and then they picked up a piece of blubber on their forks, holding it for an instant clear of the mess, to see if the oil was all tried out of it, and if it was thoroughly done. At last one of the pots was ready, and the piece of blubber, after dripping for a moment into the pot, was thrown on deck instead of being dropped back. It was crisp, and the edges curled like a piece of bacon; it sizzled as it lay there, and it would crackle when it had cooled a little. Standing at some distance from the try-pots, as I was, it made my mouth water; but I am afraid it would not have been as good as it looked. At any rate, I was not to try it, for the fire-door was opened, and the piece of bacon thrown in with an iron fork.

The boatsteerers now came crowding around, with shallow strainers, or skimmers, about a foot across, with a perforated bottom and a long handle, and took out the pieces of blubber, letting each drain out its oil, and threw them on deck. They were the scraps, and would be used almost immediately for feeding the fires. There was an extra try-pot there, three feet across, with legs a few inches long cast on it, standing on the deck near; in fact, there were two of them. It was intended that the hot scraps should be thrown into one of these, but it was easier to throw them on deck, so that was where most of them went, although some of them got into the pot.

A piece of cold minced blubber—bible-leaves—was put into the second pot to hold it back while the first was emptied. A great square copper tank stood beside the try-works, the cooling-tank already mentioned. Although I never measured our tank, I should think it was about three feet wide by four feet long, and stood nearly five feet high. With the long-handled copper dippers the hot oil was ladled from the try-pot into this tank, which held a good deal of oil. Here the oil cooled a little, and some of the stuff, which the skimmers had not taken out, settled toward the bottom. From the side of the tank, near the top, projected an overflow spout, with a fine strainer back of it, and under the spout was kept one of those huge iron pots on short legs. The try-pot which had been emptied was now recharged with fresh minced blubber, and the operation was being repeated.

The contents of the second pot were soon ready, and were ladled into the tank, and that try-pot recharged with fresh minced blubber. So it went on: horse-pieces, mincers, try-pots and tank. I know well that all the men concerned in the process were tired enough of it before they got through, if they thought about it at all. Perhaps they did not think, and merely did it as part of the day’s work; or, at best, took pride in their individual skill in the part of the process assigned to each.

I got very simply tired of the monotony of it, and nauseated with the smell of the burning scraps. It was impossible to get away from that smell without jumping overboard, and I was not yet ready for that. The thick, oily black smoke rose in a column from the two copper stacks, and drifted off in the darkness to leeward; and the men under the shadow of the roof were occasionally bathed in a ruddy light, as they wielded their forks or their skimmers or their copper dippers. I watched the smooth stream of oil run smoking from the overflow spout with each dipperful that was ladled into the tank, while the level of the oil in the huge iron pot got higher and higher. I had had enough of watching it. We had caught one whale, had tried out less than a third of the oil, and there was blubber everywhere, and I was tired of it already. How many whales would it take to fill us up? Perhaps forty. Perhaps fifty or more if we were able to send home any of our oil. The thought of it staggered me, and I turned away.

They had already broken out some of our cargo. The cargo consisted largely of casks, which were variously labelled with chalk or white paint, and some of the new casks, light colored, with that black paint which is used in putting the addresses on wooden boxes or cases. Of the new casks some were labelled “Bread,” some “Flour,” and so on through our list of food that would keep. The “bread” was not the soft kind that I was familiar with in the form of light, delicately brown loaves—my mother’s. It was hardbread, or hardtack, and it looked much like dogbread, like a rock when freshly baked. Good dogbread tastes better than old hardtack, but hardtack in good condition is pretty good. It is good for the teeth. Of course there were no casks of green vegetables, or of eggs or of butter or of milk, or of many other things which we think necessary to our well-being ashore. There were some of salt beef, such as it was. The casks which contained the bread and the flour and what-not, when they had been emptied in the regular course of events, would be filled with oil.

We had been out too short a time to empty many of these casks, and others were being hoisted from the hold, with the legend “Heads and hoops.” There were shooks of staves, too, the staves for each cask hooped together tightly, and bearing some resemblance to fasces. If I had known at that time what fasces were, I should have expected to see the sharp head of a cutting-spade projecting from each bundle. Such a bundle might be borne before a whaling captain as the symbol of his authority. But I had never heard of fasces, and I was interested only in the process of opening the casks and getting out the heads and hoops. The bundles of staves would come later.

The cooper was in charge of this work, but a number of men were helping him. There is always more or less cooper work being done on a whaler, and there were half a dozen men in the crew who were pretty skilful at it. There was an abundance of cooper’s tools on board, especially of hammers and the little tools that are set against the hoops, and struck or tapped with the hammer held in the right hand, to drive the hoops up or down. I think these were called “tappers,” but I am not sure at this moment. Names which were once familiar to me have a curious habit of slipping from my mind and eluding all my efforts to recover them. I suppose it is a symptom of age. The old-fashioned name of a perforated skimmer about five or six inches across, very slightly concave upwards, and with a flat iron handle—somewhat resembling the try-pot skimmers on a small scale—has eluded me in that way for some years. I almost have it, and it is gone. My mother or my grandmother could have told me in an instant, but I suppose it is of no use to ask anybody now.

It did not take long to open the casks. That is perhaps the simplest form of cooperage. They opened enough to give them the heads and hoops that were needed. Then came the bundles of staves, which were undone carefully, one bundle at a time, so as not to get the staves mixed. These staves, being old and oil-soaked, were quickly set up, and the casks rolled over to join the others already lashed by the bulwarks, to be filled with hot oil. They were filled through a big copper funnel—Peter called it a tunnel—with a fine wire strainer fastened in it, and a nozzle that fitted in the bunghole of a barrel. The mouth of this funnel was large and square, and there was a double bend in its long nose, setting off the mouth from the bunghole by a couple of feet.

They do these things differently now. There are large iron cooling-tanks below decks, and the hot oil is poured into them through a pipe which opens in the deck near the try-pots. I have no experience with them, for they were unknown to me in 1872, so that I cannot say whether the oil cools as quickly in the tanks as it did in the casks. The tanks save a great deal of work, although we had men enough to do the work except when we were very much crowded, with two or three whales at once fast alongside, waiting to be cut-in and tried out.

The casks that had been filled were beginning to show a slight ooze of oil at their seams. I was watching them when Peter Bottom stopped beside me.

He gave me a friendly smile. “This ’ll never do,” he said, “will it? ’Most all the casks leak at first. You ’ll hear a deal of setting up hoops before we stow it—and after, too, or the barrels might be empty, some of ’em, when we got home. A lot of oil can leak out in four years, if it’s only a few drops a day.”

I made no answer, and Peter glanced at me. “What’s the matter? Little mite seasick?”

“Oh, Peter!” I said. “The smell!”

He smiled again. “Lor’ love you,” he said, “this is nothin’. It’s pretty bad sometimes, when we’ve had the try-works going for three or four days and nights. Then we’re so tired we can hardly stand, and there’s so much oil and water over every­thing you can’t walk the deck. Why, many a time, I’ve sat down and slid across the deck on the seat of my trousers. And the foul smoke chokes and strangles you, and it feels as if it had got all through you, and you’d like to scrape your lungs with a knife, to get off the soot. Everything’s covered with oil, your clothes soaked with it, your skin full of it, your feet, hands, and hair. Break a biscuit and it shines with oil, and cut a piece o’ meat out o’ the kid and the knife leaves its trail of oil. There’s no gettin’ away from it, and you fair hate yourself. But cheer up, Tim, it ’ll soon be over, and then you ’ll see such a cleanin’ up as you never knew. Sperm oil washes off easy, praise the pigs!”

I was not greatly comforted. I could not stand it any longer, and I went to the stern and tried to get a breath of sweet air. There was none. All the air over that great ocean seemed to be loaded with poison from the burning scraps, and I gave it up, and turned in.

I lay for a long time in the darkness, listening to the breathing of the men in the other bunks, and seeing, before the eye of the mind, the ooze from those seams grow into light amber-colored drops. Then I thought of the multitude of barrels that would make up our full cargo—twenty-four hundred of them—and from each cask an ooze of oil that grew imperceptibly into a drop. It was incredibly slow, that growth. And then all the drops growing, even more slowly, until they shivered a little, ready to fall. I almost held my breath, waiting for them to fall, and tried to multiply twenty-four hundred by three hundred and sixty-five by four—see whether you can do it, in your head, while you wait for all those drops to fall at once—mental arithmetic, they called it in school. I remember that I wished I knew how much oil there was in a drop, so that I should know how much oil we should lose if, for each barrel, there was a leak amounting to a drop a day. Before I had the problem more than begun, I fell asleep, with the drops all trembling, on the very point of falling. I dreamt about it, and woke early. The problem still bothered me, and I went to get pencil and paper, or its equivalent, and figure out that product. Then I would ask Captain Nelson how much oil there was in a drop, and I should know.