We had good weather to the River Plate. Our northeasterly wind continued until we were two days out of Rio, then pulled around into the southwest, and came stronger. There are not many days of calms and variable winds in this part of the ocean, and gales at this season are rare. We were making a course almost due south, and were several hundred miles from the coast. When we arrived off the Plate, early in November, we reduced sail, and cruised to and fro, keeping a sharp lookout for whales.

We had seen no birds at all on the Western grounds, and but few on our way down; but here I saw my first albatross, before we had got any whales. The breeze was light, but there was quite a heavy swell rolling from the southwest, and the ship, under easy sail, was barely moving through the water. I happened to have—or to be taking—a brief rest from my duties, as I was very apt to do. Probably I had been sent on some errand, and, boylike, I was performing it by standing at the rail near the windlass, looking out over the heaving sea, and dreaming my dreams, when I saw, far ahead of us, a white speck on the water. The white speck would rise slowly, as the great rollers advanced, until it was on the top of one of them; then, with the passage of the swell, it would fall as slowly, until it was hidden in the valley. I had the old glass hung about my neck in case we should raise a spout. All the officers used to laugh at me for carrying that jangling load of junk, but I did not care for their laughter, and I was glad that I had it then, for I could not have gone after it.

I looked through the glass, and after searching over a vast expanse of sea and sky—it is no small trick to hold a glass steady on a vessel that is heaving as the Clearchus was, but I had got the hang of letting my feet move with the ship and keeping my body steady—after a long search, I say, I found my white speck, and saw that it was some sort of a great white bird, sitting high in the water, like a gull. It may have been sleeping, but it was not when I caught sight of it through the glass. Its head was up, and it was looking about alertly, and at last it caught sight of the ship. The ship was not near to it, however, and it continued to stare right at me for a long time, until I grew embarrassed, and put the glass down. It sounds absurd enough, but you just try looking at a distant boat or a duck or a gull, through a glass, and if you do not have the same impulse I will eat it—if it is the right kind of a duck. When the glass was down, my embarrassment vanished, and I put it to my eyes again. The bird was still watching me, looking away now and then, and getting more nervous; but it waited until I had a distinct view of its shape and plumage, its bill, with a hook at the end, and its staring eyes, before taking flight. Then, with a last glance toward the ship, it spread long, narrow wings, held them out, seemed to rise on its feet, and began a sort of run over the surface of the water. When it had run a hundred feet or more in this way, and was going at great speed, it managed to take the air. Albatrosses do not take the air easily, and the men said that they are not able to rise from calm water, but depend on the lift of the waves. As it rose it seemed enormous, and I was reminded of the first great blue herons I ever saw. I was on a visit to my grandmother, in Newburyport, and as we were going over Chain Bridge we saw four of the great birds standing in the edge of the marsh. They saw us too; and when we stopped to get a better view, they rose. I remember they seemed as big as houses, as they flew off across the river, trailing their long legs. That albatross, seen through my glass, seemed as big as a house. Probably he had a spread of wing half as large again as that of a great blue heron.

As I stood, with the glass at my eyes, watching the albatross rise and sail away, the surface of the sea for a great distance was in the field of the glass. My attention was caught by a commotion—a sort of heaving of the surface—on the side of one of the rollers, three or four miles away. At almost the same instant a glistening black body shot out, rode high in the water for a moment, and then sank without a splash until only two small islands were visible. I yelled at the top of my lungs, and as if my yell had been a signal, a vigorous spout arose from the whale’s spiracle, plumed off to leeward, and the melodious cry of the Admiral came down to me.

The whale was undisturbed, and lay there like a huge log, taking his time about having his spoutings out. He was off the lee bow, and we kept on for perhaps ten minutes, to get more to windward of him. Then we lowered two boats. The boats had not gone far when the whale raised his flukes lazily, and went down again; and the boats went on to the points which their officers thought advantageous for the whale’s rising, took down their sails, unshipped their masts, and waited.

They had been loafing there about a quarter of an hour when, suddenly, without warning of any kind, the body of a whale shot clear of the water, between the boats, and fell back with a tremendous splash. This was too much for the nerves of one of the green hands, who let loose a yell. The whale had no difficulty in hearing that yell. We heard it on the ship. The whale, which was not the one they had been waiting for, but another, lobtailed twice, and made off between the boats, to windward, before the crews could get their oars in the water. The whale was evidently “gallied,” and was swimming head out. Although the boats took up the chase at once, and we hastily lowered another boat to head him off, if possible, that boat was too late, and he passed a quarter of a mile ahead of the ship. The first two boats, seeing that they were rowing a losing race, returned to their stations, to wait until the first whale rose; but the boat we had lowered, which was the fifth mate’s boat, continued the chase for five miles. It got no nearer in the five miles of hard rowing, and then gave it up, and returned.

Meanwhile the two boats were back again, watching the water for a sign of the reappearance of the first whale. The hour was almost up, and I glanced aloft at the Admiral’s station at the foremasthead. The Admiral was not there, for he rowed bow oar in Mr. Snow’s boat—the fifth mate’s—but another man was manipulating the signal flag. I had learned a little of their system of signalling, and I saw that he was telling them that their whale had risen far to leeward. I looked and could just make out the spout, about a couple of miles to leeward of the boats. The whale seemed to be reconnoitering. He swam slowly in a circle, always keeping his distance from the boats and from the ship, and working to windward.

“Clean gallied,” said a voice behind me. “Damn that man! They may as well come aboard.”

That seemed to be Captain Nelson’s opinion, for the boats were soon called back. It was a disgusted lot of men that came over the side. I had no difficulty in spotting the man who had yelled, and thereby, as they all maintained, had lost them a perfectly good whale. It was Kane, in Mr. Brown’s boat. He looked sheepish and ashamed, and said not a word. Kane afterward became one of our best men.

We were not always to have that kind of luck. A week later we raised whales again. Mr. Baker and Mr. Brown lowered at once, and after about half an hour, when more whales had come to the surface, Mr. Tilton and Mr. Wallet. Mr. Baker struck almost immediately. His whale was rather a small one which happened to rise just ahead of the boat, and Macy got both irons fast. The whale then started to run under water, coming to the surface now and then to spout. He ran so hard that it was impossible to pull up for lancing, and they were unable even to hold all they had, and had to give him line. He was heading for Montevideo, and passed out of sight with Mr. Baker in the bow, holding a useless lance, and swearing volubly, I have no doubt; and with Macy holding hard at the steering oar, and the boat throwing a small cataract of spray from either side.

Meanwhile a second whale had risen some distance ahead of Mr. Brown. They pulled hard for it, a much longer pull than Mr. Baker’s. When Mr. Baker was well on his way to the coast of South America, and I turned my glass on Mr. Brown’s boat, he had succeeded in getting near the unsuspecting whale, approaching from behind. The whale had just become aware of it—he had not seen it, but probably he had heard it—and was preparing to see about having something done about it. What that would have been I was never to find out, for the boatsteerer was just taking in his oar. The boatsteerer was Starbuck, an energetic Nantucketer from Mr. Tilton’s boat, who had been given Wright’s place over the head of Black Tony—the Prince—to my dis­ap­point­ment. I think most of the men would have been glad to see the Prince get it. The officers would have been glad, too; but the Prince was as black as the ace of spades. That fact stuck in their crops. It always does, whatever may be said; and, although there was no serious objection to a black boatsteerer, that would be the end of promotion for him, while Starbuck was one of themselves, and would go as high as his natural ability would take him.

Well, Starbuck was just taking in his oar. They were very close, and he had no time to get his breath after his hard pull, but must throw the harpoon at once; and it was his first whale, and he was undoubtedly nervous. The consequence was that he did not make a good dart, and although the harpoon struck, it was not thrown hard enough, and only the barb penetrated. His second iron missed altogether.

Fortunately the whale did not seem greatly disturbed, but only a little surprised. He appeared to change his mind about the boat, and swam off at a leisurely gait. Mr. Tilton was nearly up by this time, and Mr. Brown, fearing that the harpoon would pull out at any moment, signalled him to get fast to the whale. Mr. Tilton did. His boatsteerer, Azevedo, a stocky, heavily set Western Islander, sunk both irons to the haft in the whale’s other side, just behind the flipper. Whether the harpoons had touched a vital spot I do not know, but the actions of the whale were peculiar. In fact, he did not act at all, but lay like a vast log on the water, giving both Mr. Brown and Mr. Tilton all the chance in the world to pull up and lance him. This they did, both, one from each side. The whale lay so low in the water that I could see nothing of him, but it turned me rather sick to see them both pumping their lances up and down in him, seeking the life, that being the great arterial reservoir I have mentioned. Mr. Brown found it, and the whale began to spout thick blood. It seemed to me a revolting business, mere butchery of a great beast that was harmless and passive. Was this the career I had chosen? I put the glass down, feeling a little sick at my stomach and rather faint, and leaned against the mast and closed my eyes, missing the flurry, which they told me afterwards was lively enough to make up for the whale’s previous inaction.

By putting down the glass and closing my eyes I missed the first part of an incident which would have given me some pleasure. The ship had got pretty near the boats by that time, and I was roused by a shout from the Admiral and from the crew on deck. Mr. Wallet was slow in getting into action, as was quite usual with him. Two other whales had come up, and one of them, chancing to rise very near Mr. Wallet’s boat just as he was taking in his sail and about to unstep his mast, made for the boat without an instant’s hesitation. It was this that had caused the men to shout. There was nothing harmless and passive about that whale, and I could have killed him without a qualm—if I had been in the boat and had had a chance. The men in the boat evidently saw no chance to do anything but get out, for the whale had gone under water a short distance from the boat, and they knew what he would do next. He did it. He rose at some speed directly under the boat, and tossed it into the air as if it had been a straw, staving it completely, the men spilling out on each side. Two of the men had jumped out before the whale struck them, and were swimming away, and the others seemed to be swimming away from the fragments of the boat as fast as they could, but I could not see, at the time, whether they all got away or not. It was all white water there. The whale was in a furious temper, and chewed the wreckage of the boat and the oars to splinters, and then thrashed the mass with his flukes. He missed the men, probably failing to see them; and, having done all the damage he could, he made off slowly, pausing in a truculent way as if he was in doubt whether he should attack Mr. Brown and Mr. Tilton. I have had no doubt, since I have come to know whales better than I did then, that he would have attacked them if he had seen them clearly. They were over a quarter of a mile away. But you never can tell what a whale will do.

Mr. Brown immediately cast loose from the dead whale, but he did not, as I expected, go at once to the rescue of the men from Mr. Wallet’s boat. These men were swimming about in the water. I could just see their heads. They had begun to go back to the wreckage of the boat and pick up pieces of oars and fragments of planks from the broken boat to cling to. Mr. Brown, so far as I could see, paid them no attention, but made after the whale, which had abandoned its leisurely gait, and was swimming in a business-like way, as though he had just remembered an appointment. The chase was a short one, for the boat did not gain at all with the men pulling their hearts out, and Mr. Brown gave it up, and went back to pick up the men.

Mr. Tilton had also cast loose, having put a waif on the dead whale—a waif is a little flag on a pole, which is stuck in a hole made with a spade for that purpose—and he had gone in chase of other whales which had come up. But the pod seemed to be thoroughly alarmed, and the three whales in sight were making off at a pace too fast for the boats. That made six whales in the pod, for I thought there were no more.

Both Mr. Brown and Mr. Tilton appeared to be of my opinion, for they were giving the dead whale all their attention. Both boats were alongside of it for some time. I could not see just what they were doing, but they were evidently getting ready to tow it—probably making the lines fast—and presently the two boats straightened out and began pulling toward the ship. It was hard work towing that whale, and they got ahead so slowly that I could not mark their progress, the whale nearly under water, and the seas washing gently over his back. The ship was bearing down on them, and they stopped rowing, and waited for her.

There were already sharks about the carcass, half a dozen or more, attracted in some mysterious way. They had come in with it; had appeared with the first blood. It took some little manoeuvring to get the carcass in proper position close along the starboard side, where the cutting-stage is rigged, the flukes forward, and the head about at the gangway. Then a line with a sinker attached was dropped between the ship and the body of the whale. Beyond the sinker was more line with a float on the end. The sinker was dropped down deep enough to carry the float down clear of the body, then pulled up again, and the float came up beyond the whale. It always does. I never saw it fail. The men in the boat got that line, and hauled in on it, and pulled it all in, and a heavier line attached to its end, and then a chain cable to which the heavy line was fast. They made the chains fast, the fluke chain about the tail at the smallest part, just before it begins to spread into the flukes, so that the carcass would turn in it freely. The flukes sometimes measure, from point to point, as much as twenty feet.

We began cutting-in at once. It was already well on into the afternoon when we began, and within a couple of hours we sighted Mr. Baker’s boat returning dejectedly, without their whale. The men soon came aboard, rather crestfallen. Peter told me that the shank of one iron twisted off, and the other pulled out. The whale was still going too fast for the boat, and there was nothing to be done except to come back.

“Best we could do, we could n’t heave in hard enough to get close,” he said. “Then Mr. Baker tried pitchpoling.”

“How do you pitchpole, Peter?” I asked.

“Pitchpole?” said Peter. “Why, the shaft of a lance is light, of pine or some light wood, and you take it under the end on your hand, with the other hand to guide it. Then you toss it in the air blade first. Of course you aim at the whale. You must ’a’ done the same thing with a stick or an arrow many a time. The head being heavy and the shaft light, the blade ’ll keep ahead. If you ain’t too far off, and if you’re any kind of a shot, it ’ll come down into the whale, but the aim ain’t certain. It can’t be. You haul the lance back by the warp that’s fast to the shaft. Mr. Baker missed him clean the first time. He must ’a’ been making twelve knots, right into the wind. The second shot just tickled his flukes, and he gave such a powerful start that the first iron twisted off as if it had been made of cheese. That first iron had been doing all the pulling, and when it went that brought a sudden strain on the second iron, and it ripped out. So there we were, and there was the whale leaving us at a mile a minute, more or less. We came back.”

After supper I went on deck again, and saw Peter standing at the starboard rail. I joined him, and we looked over at the whale lying there. The cutting-in had been suspended for the night. It was dark, and I could not see the carcass, but I saw in the water lambent streams of phos­phor­escence moving slowly and lazily to and fro; little streaks of bubbles which glowed for a brief second or two, and then were gone. Now and then there was a burst of the tiny glowing bubbles, as a fin moved powerfully. The streaks of uncanny, lambent light seemed to interlace, but they all ended at the carcass of the whale and outlined it, leaving it in black darkness.

“See, Peter!” I said. “What a lot of sharks! How many there must be in the ocean!”

This whale was smaller than would have been thought from his actions, and it had been possible to get the whole case on deck. It had been reposing behind Peter and me while we discussed the matter of sharks. It was emptied the next morning, after the blubber was all in and the carcass cut adrift.

Bailing the case furnished sport for many of the crew. It was not necessary to use the case-bucket, but every kind of a receptacle was used, scoops and tin pails and old tin cans being in especial favor. When the case was half empty, a man got inside. He looked perfectly contented and happy, standing in the sloppy, slushy stuff up to his waist, ladling it out with a scoop, and he seemed to revel in the bath of oil and spermaceti. His getting in raised the level of the stuff, so that tin pails and tin cans once more came into easy use. I had never seen oil flowing so freely, slopping and spilling over every­thing.

When the trying-out was over, we found that we had made just over forty-seven barrels from that whale; pretty near the average, taking them as they come. The average is always called “five and forty.”