From early morn, when the men took their places in the hoops, to look for whales, there followed the regular order of the day. If the weather were good, the captain took his observations; the watches changed at proper times, and the men at the wheel and the lookouts were relieved every two hours. In the afternoon, usually at about four, the pumps were tested and the decks scrubbed. There was no noise in the ship save that occasioned by wind and wave and orders to the men. However, in the second dogwatch, which was generally about twilight, some fun was permitted. The men gathered, chatted and smoked. Rude strains were drawn from a battered accordion, while all the time the boat-steerers were at the bench aft the try-pot, engaged in whetting harpoons.

We had, in our day, the old-fashioned log to determine the rapidity of the ship’s motion, but it wasn’t used very much, as in cruising for whales the speed of the vessel was of little consequence.

On the approach of a storm the merchantman sometimes failed to make preparations in season. Not so with a whaler. Only a few days after leaving Pico we encountered a storm. As the gale bore down upon us from the windward blackness, and the long range of wave crests grew larger and the situation became more serious, we were quick to shorten sail and, under storm staysails, met the gale without any fear. Higher blew the wind, heavier pounded the sea, our staunch boat shipped little water, though tossed about like a shell.

A week or more passed, and the men in the hoops saw not a single spout. Kreelman said to me, “Fancy Chest, the sperm whale, you know, is a low spouter—just a little bushy spout forward—and it’s not easy to see unless the whale’s near. The men with the sharpest eyes are the Gay Head Indians, and we’ve got one of ’em on board, and he’s up in the hoops now. He can see a sperm spout if any one can.”

Within half an hour came the gladdening cry from aloft, “B-l-o-w-s! b-l-o-w-s! b-l-o-w-s! There he breaches! There he white-waters!” The captain called out, “Where away?” “Two points on the lee bow.” “How far off?” “Two miles, sir.” “Keep your eye on him. Sing out when we head right.”

The captain gave orders to call all hands, get the boats ready, square the mainyard, put the helm up, keep her off, stand by the boats and lower away. Then he took his glasses and climbed to the main crow’s nest. The braces, sheets, and halyards were thrown from the pins, and then, while the men reached and hauled, the mates slacked away, the yards swung and the vessel came about. The boats quickly took to the water, and the crew swarmed down the falls and dropped into their places. The boat-steerers went forward, the officers aft. There was suppressed excitement, but no disorder. The wind was favorable, the masts were stepped in all the boats, the sails hoisted and peaked and the sheets paid out; and away we went. Each boat, of course, carried six men. As it happened, we were headed for a “pod” or “school” of sperm whales. All the boats were in the chase, and the men left on the ship were the captain, the four sparemen or shipkeepers, the cook, the steward and the carpenter. The vessel fortunately was to windward and could easily bear down on a boat if it made fast to a whale. Here I should say that every whaling house had its private code of signals. As the vessel was often a long distance from the boats engaged in the chase, signals gave needed instructions. The signals were generally about fifteen in number. They consisted of the position of colors and of the sails. Thus the men were told of the location of whales they could not see from the boats, of an accident to their companions, such as a stove boat, or the need of their presence on the ship.

We had not gone a quarter of a mile before the wind shifted and we had to take in sail and resort to the oars. My feelings are so well told by Captain Robbins, an old whaleman, in his book called the “Gam” that I propose to quote his exact language. The captain says:

“I shall never forget the dazzling sensations of that first moment—the tall ship, with her checkered sides and her huge white davits; the two sharp-bowed clinker-built boats—five long oars in each—two on one side, three on the other; the sun-glint upon the oar-blades as they lifted above the surface, the white splash when they dipped again; the rapid, nervous, brutal stroke; the pose of the officers as they stood in the stern-sheets of the boats, each with his lifted left hand holding the steering oar, and each with his right hand pushing upon the stroke oar; and, yet more vivid, the one figure I could see in our own boat. For the mate stood last, steering with one hand and helping me row with the other.”

Just as Captain Robbins describes, Lakeum steered with his left hand and pushed on the handle of my oar with his right. He was an interesting figure as he urged the men on in a low tone, telling them at the same time not to make any noise. “It’s a pretty good pod and we ought to get a good-sized bull,” he declared. Of course, Lakeum was the only one in the boat who could see ahead. The rowlocks were thumbed with greased marline, to prevent any noise of the oars. Soon came the order to take in the oars and use the paddles. Then I knew that we were close to a whale. In a few minutes we were told to take the oars again and await orders. I turned my head and beheld just in front of the bow of the boat a low black mass, and I saw the boat-steerer leaning forward as if awaiting the mate’s order. The fateful moment had come and my feelings were intense. The boat moved ahead very slowly, and, just as the bow touched the monster, Lakeum shouted, “Up and let him have it.” The boat-steerer rose in a moment and pushed his left leg into the clumsy cleat in the forward thwart. Then he rested the top end of the harpoon handle in the palm of his right hand, steadying it with his left. He hurled the iron with all his force and saw it bury itself in the blubber up to the hitches. Seizing the second harpoon, he threw it with equal success.

Lakeum shouted, “Stern—stern—all, and get out of the suds!” He and the boat-steerer changed places,—he to enter into a fight with the whale, and the boat-steerer to become the boat-steerer in fact. The whale threw up his flukes and brought them down with terrific force. The sea was white with suds, but we got out of them safely. Down went the whale and out went the line with a whizzing sound which soon became a regular roar. The line went out so fast that it set fire to the loggerhead, and I put out the fire by pouring water on it.

“I never saw a whale get away so fast,” said Lakeum. “This boat’s nose may be under water any moment.”

The bow was then pretty close to the surface. In a moment Lakeum shouted, “All hands scramble aft!” This was to save us from disaster by balancing the boat.

I was somewhat alarmed and instinctively took the knife from the cleat on the thwart. The men rushed aft in disorder, due to the pitching of the boat, when a voice rang out, “Man caught; cut the warp!” I didn’t have to hack twice; the knife was as sharp as a razor, and one motion severed the line. A sharp cry came from the man who was apparently caught, and overboard he went. Despite my excitement and fright, I was foolish enough to think myself a hero, but I wasn’t. The whale was gone for good, but we were temporarily happy in the thought that we had saved the man from a terrible death. The supposed averted tragedy, however, was more of a comedy. My severing the line hadn’t helped the man any, for it happened that his foot had pressed on the warp and he had been merely thrown into the water, and, as he had hit a man on the way and knocked him over, the order was given by some one to cut the warp. The man in the water struck out for the boat and we soon pulled him aboard.

Lakeum’s face changed color. He looked daggers at me. There were no whales now in sight, and he gave orders to pull for the ship. As he pushed on my oar our countenances were close together. For a time nothing was said. As we neared the vessel, the expression of anger and disappointment passed from his face. Lowering his voice he said:

“I don’t think you are to blame or the man who gave the order to cut, either. You have to work quick at such times. I’ll tell the captain about it and make it all right with him. On some boats there would have been a blast of profanity, and men who had done as you and the other man did would have got bread and water for a week, but such treatment is wrong.” He paused and then resumed, “That was easily a hundred-barrel bull, and he was worth pretty close to five thousand dollars.”

Our boat was the only one which had made fast to a whale and the rest of the day on ship was a dreary one, despite the fact that the sea was quite calm and the sky without a cloud. In the second dogwatch the men gathered and talked over the misfortune of the morning. A few deplored the loss of the whale; the others made light of it and made me the target of ridicule and joke.

“Well, Fancy Chest, you cut the right line at the wrong time. You’ll make a whaleman,” said one.

“He’s so smart that he’ll be harpooning a whale with a knife, next time,” said another.

“I guess they’ll take that five thousand dollar whale out of Fancy Chest’s lay,” observed a third.

There was a loud laugh. Then Kreelman interfered:

“Let Fancy Chest alone. Put yourself in his place, you smarties. For a boy fifteen years old he did well, and a man fifty couldn’t have done better. Any old sailor would have cut the line as Fancy Chest did.”

Kreelman was in a pleasant mood so far as his relations with me were involved, and ignoring the others, he observed:

“I think you are goin’ to make a whaleman, Fancy Chest, and there are some things I can tell you about whales and whalin’ that you don’t know, although you’ve learned two things to-day from bein’ in the boat. One of the things you learned is that the boat-steerer don’t throw the iron with his arm raised but gives it a kind of thrust, and the other thing you’ve learned is that, after he’s thrown the iron, he and the mate change places.”

“And why is that?” I asked. “I can’t see the sense to it.”

“There ain’t no sense to it, but it’s been done since whalin’ begun. People do things because their fathers did ’em before ’em. Many a whale’s been lost because the boat-steerer, after a long chase, was all tired out from havin’ to pull an oar. The boat-steerer ought to sit up in the bow and do nothin’ until the whale’s reached so that he can be in good condition to strike. And after he’s struck he ought to stay in the bow and kill the whale, and the mate remain in the stern. There are many things you ought to know. After a sperm’s struck and goes down, he throws out a kind of oil called ‘glip.’ If the boat passes through this glip or crosses the line between it and the whale, he knows it and puts on more speed. Sometimes the sperm is cunning, for while soundin’ with his head in one direction, he will turn and swim just opposite. Now as to the right whale—never follow his wake, for the moment the boat runs into his suds he knows it and makes off in great haste.”

Kreelman continued, “Now, Fancy Chest, them that has book larnin’ write about whales, but we old tars knows more than all of them fellows put together. Sperm whales talk to each other just as folks do.”

“You don’t mean that, do you?” I broke in.

“Talkin’ ain’t always with words. There’s another way of talkin’, especially among animals, and whales is animals. Whales can pass the news from one school to another, so can one whale to another. The moment a whale is struck, other whales in the neighborhood know it and either make off or, if the struck whale is a cow, draw near as if to give help. Can you explain it? I can’t. Men in the hoops often notice that when their own boats is attackin’ whales, a school several miles to wind’ard will appear to be frightened and disappear. Can you explain it? I can’t. Sometimes there’ll be a school of whales spread out over a long distance, and as if by signal they’ll all go under at the same time. Can you explain it? I can’t.

“But there are lots of things whales do that remind you a good deal of human folks. Sometimes you see a lot of sperm whales together, and that’s what you call a big school. Then sometimes you see a little school. Now both them schools may be all bulls, or they may be all cows, with just one bull to take care of ’em. In such case this one bull is a good deal of a gentleman, for, if there’s anything from behind to cause fright, he seems to tell the ladies to make tracks, and he stays behind to look out for the enemy—whether it’s a whaleboat or whatever it is. So this bull, with his caravan, goes travelin’ all over the ocean. Now you let any other bull come near and there’s sure to be a fight. In one of my voyages we saw a fight in the Pacific Ocean. It was a fine day and a smooth sea. The lookout called out whales, and we lowered. It seems it was a school of cow sperms, and there was a big bull with ’em. As we were gettin’ pretty near, another big bull, that had been soundin’, come up not far off, and the two went for each other. Their heads come together with terrible force, and, believe me, you could hear the noise a mile away. Then they drew back and seemed to rest for a minute and then they went at it again. This time they locked jaws. But there was somethin’ clumsy about it. They didn’t seem to show the spunk they did when they first come together. The ladies all disappeared, and we men in the boats laid on our oars and watched the battle, pretty sure we’d get both fellows in the end, and we did. They tried to twist their jaws round without doin’ very much, except that in wigglin’ their bodies and rollin’ round they made lots of suds. It was pretty certain that both of ’em was badly hurt. Our boat and another stole up quietly and we got both of them. And what do you think we found out? Why, one of ’em had his jaw twisted and a number of his teeth torn out, while the jaw of the other was broken off, so that it hung only by the flesh. It’s no uncommon thing to capture a whale whose jaw was long ago shattered and his head battered, and who’s had an awful hard time to get food to eat because he couldn’t fight the cuttlefish. We call them whales ‘dry-skins’ because the blubber makes so little oil.”

“Did you ever see a cuttlefish?” I asked eagerly.

Kreelman was silent for some time. Then he replied:

“I’ve seen big pieces of ’em which come out of the stomachs of sperm whales, but I never see a live one, and I don’t know any one who ever did. When you talk of them great things at the bottom of the ocean it kind of makes you creep. Some folks say that they’ve come up to the surface and run their big arms all over vessels and taken the crew under water and eaten ’em up. I never seen it. Whalemen don’t like to talk much about the cuttlefish, but some do say that the whaleship which sees a cuttlefish never returns to port.”

I saw that Kreelman was not disposed to continue the conversation. Just then Lakeum passed. Kreelman waited until he was well aft and then said:

“That’s a strange man. He seems out of place on this vessel. He’s a good sailor and all that, but there’s somethin’ about his life that we don’t know. He’s been edicated and he comes of well-to-do folks. He’s got a will of his own, but he treats the men fair, and you never hear no swearin’. The men in your boat say that if you hadn’t ’a been a greenie, you never would have cut the warp to-day, and that you would have got it straight in the face if any one but Lakeum had been mate of the boat. But he treated you well, and no doubt he’s made it all right with the captain by this time. Fancy Chest, that man’s name ain’t Coster Lakeum. Nobody never had such a name. No one knows his given name. Now you keep to yourself what I’ve said.”

I went to my bunk in a more cheerful mood, and that night I dreamt that I was boat-steerer and that I made fast to a sperm that stowed down oil worth five thousand dollars.