That was our last whale on these grounds, and we turned our nose again to the southwest, for the grounds off Patagonia. Nourishing the secret hope that we might land there, I carried the “Navigators” around in my pocket, and read over again and again the account of Magellan’s visit—all to no purpose, as it turned out. We saw nothing of the Battles; but she had a nasty habit of turning up when we thought we had lost her for good and least expected to see her. She had become as a thorn in the flesh to Captain Nelson and Mr. Baker, especially to Mr. Baker. I really think that at this time it would have given him pleasure, as exquisite as he was capable of feeling, actually to see her, with his own eyes, go down in deep water or batter to pieces on a rocky shore. I know that he had reported to Captain Nelson his controversy with her, his unsuccessful effort to see Captain Coffin, and Wallet’s message. Captain Nelson was angry for an instant, and his eyes darkened; then the whole thing seemed to strike his sense of humor, which he had in plenty.

“Just as well,” he said, “you did n’t see Fred Coffin. I’m going to see Fred sooner or later—the first chance I get. And that settles Wallet.”

We had good weather to the Patagonia grounds, mostly westerly and northerly winds, and pretty strong, but nothing in the way of weather could scare me now, after the Hatteras hurricane—of which we had nothing more than a flirt from the skirt—and my taste of pampero. The old ship made good time, as time goes for a whaler of her type, and we arrived on the grounds to the north of the Falklands in about a week. I was disappointed that we did not go even within sight of the mainland of Patagonia.

Albatrosses were a fairly common sight, however, and made up to me somewhat for the lack of painted savages. In these latitudes there was almost always at least one of these great birds in sight, and although they were not always near the ship, they never failed to be on hand when the cook emptied his pail of scraps over the side. I never tired of watching their powerful, soaring flight. It seemed as if they played with the ship, like porpoises. They would keep along with us for a while, then suddenly shoot ahead or off to one side until they were almost out of sight, without a motion of the wings, so far as I could see. There must have been some slight motion of the wings to adjust themselves to the wind or to the vertical angle at which they were flying, but I could not detect it.

There have been various explanations, none of which is quite satisfactory. One is that they make a long glide downward to get up speed; and, having speed enough, they change their angle, and gain height. How they can do this indefinitely without an occasional flap, I never could see. Their slight rolling motion may do the trick, first on one wing and then on the other. I do not pretend to knowledge of the matter, but I am content to let a beautiful mystery remain a mystery.

Whales were not plenty here. We took one in two weeks, and then we gave it up, and bore away for the Falklands, for Port Stanley. Here the captain went ashore, and we stood off shore and on for some hours. At this point and this season the current sets to the northeast about fifteen or twenty miles a day, and we made a rough allowance for that by standing off shore for thirty minutes, and on shore for thirty-five, until Captain Nelson came back.

We had strong westerly winds for days, and the crew had much time to themselves. They used this time in mending their clothes or in scrimshawing. Peter was getting on with his model, which was beginning to look like a glorified Clearchus, a tiny ghost of the ship. The masts were in place, and most of the yards, and he had finished one of the wee whaleboats, which he had hung at the davits. It was completely equipped, even to the harpoons, lances, and the bomb gun lying under the cleat, to which it was attached by a thread through the stock.

Although my duties were not affected by the lightening of the duties of the crew, I could almost always find time for doing the things which I ought not to do, if I watched my chance. I studied rather harder in periods of a letting up of work, for at such times Mr. Brown could give me more attention. He seemed to like to do it; and I had reached a pitch of admiration for him which was almost worship, so that I did willingly and gladly anything which I thought would please him. He was pleased, I think, and satisfied. At any rate, he knew that I was doing my best, and he rewarded me with a greater intimacy than I had ever known with a man as much older than myself, not excepting even my father. True intimacy involves an equal footing, and that was what I never felt in the case of my father—never could feel, from the nature of the relationship.

There was always plenty of work for the carpenter and sailmaker and cooper, and I used to watch the boatsteerers overhauling the boat gear, and the consequent sharpening of harpoons and lances and spades. The sound of the grindstone was almost continuous. I had talks with Peter Bottom, of course, and some with the Prince. It was always hard to talk with him, for he had very little to say except with respect to the use of his especial tools and the chasing of whales. He would deliver long discourses upon this subject, and I might have profited greatly if it had been easier to understand him. I should have preferred to have him talk about his own country, which I was firmly convinced was a savage country, in which all the inhabitants wore nothing but straw skirts and nose rings and skewers through their lips; and where they stood around in groups, holding long spears and oval shields, like the pictures in my geography.

They got out the remains of our stoven boat, and set it up near the carpenter’s bench. When I got there the sailmaker and Peter Bottom were looking over the broken bones of the boat, feeling them, testing a rib or a plank here and there. They seemed to know what they were about, although they said nothing. It was just the way my father or one of his men would have gone about such a job. The very movements of the sailmaker, as he went to the pile of new cedar planking, and turned it over, and of Peter, as he picked out a piece of oak that suited him, reminded me of my father’s men.

I stuck around for some time, watching their skilful, leisurely movements. I knew good ship carpentry when I saw it, for I had been observing it all my short life, and I had absorbed a good deal of the methods. My father’s men worked rather faster, but not so very much. There is more actually accomplished by making your work count, and not wasting a stroke, than in merely keeping very busy. Peter was a better workman than the sailmaker, and there was no object whatever in working fast, for they had plenty of time.

The boat was done, as good as new, in ten days, and then painted, and lashed, bottom up, on top of the after house. One result of Peter’s work upon this boat was that thereafter he was a sort of unofficial ship’s carpenter.