And now came the trying-out. The try-works were placed between the foremast and mainmast. The timbers underneath were of great strength and capable of sustaining a mass of brick and mortar. They were some ten feet square and five in height and were secured to the deck by heavy knees of iron. The try-works were covered by a hatchway, on removing which two great try-pots appeared. When not in use they were kept clean by an application of soapstone and sand. The furnaces under the try-pots were furnished with heavy iron doors. Under the enclosed surface was a reservoir which was supplied with water as evaporation went on.

The first fire in the try-works was started with wood, but, after the oil was tried out, the pieces, called scraps or fritters, served as substitutes. Thus the whale supplied his own fuel. The horse pieces had to be minced, and the clank, clank of the mincing machine was constantly heard. At night the sight was a novel one. As the blubber was thrown into the heated pots, the flames leaped out of the doors, the smoke rolled away in great volumes, the oil pitched with the pitching of the vessel and the smutched faces of the watch made the scene all the more gloomy. Was there ever a whaler that didn’t have plenty of cockroaches? If so, ours was not one. As the heat increased, out came the little fellows and ran about in search of new abodes.

The work at night was carried on under the glare of blazing cressets, called bug lights, hung from the davit heads. These cressets were supplied with the scraps taken out of the boiling oil. The light they gave could be seen for a long distance, and, though we had not seen a sail that day, the light that night brought a vessel to us. She came very near and wanted to know if we were on fire and needed help. She was a merchant vessel bound for New York, and, as she went on her way, the pleasant incident made us feel grateful and put new vigor into our work. The deck was so slippery from oil and blood that at times it was difficult to keep on one’s feet. The boiling watch lasted six hours and, when it ended, the released men presented a sorry sight with their dirty, cold and clammy clothes and their faces showing such intense fatigue. As they went to their rest, choking with smoke and carrying a sooty deposit in their nostrils, they were happy in the thought that there was no longer occasion for harsh language among the men and still harsher commands of the mates. And yet I should modify this statement, for the work was not one of continuous hardship, for at times we made a show of merriment by nibbling bits of fried blubber and frying doughnuts in the grease. Later in the voyage we dipped biscuit in salt water, heaved them into a strainer and boiled them in the oil; also with the help of the steward, we made fritters of the brains of the whale, mixed with flour, and cooked them.

The hot oil was strained into a large copper cooler, where it settled, and was then poured into casks—not always an easy task while the vessel pitched and rolled. The barrels were coopered, the hatches removed, and the barrels lowered into the hold. The casks were of various sizes, some of them containing three hundred gallons or more. When the oil was all stowed down, came the clearing up. Crude sperm oil, which was of a golden tint, and lye made from the burned scraps were excellent for cleaning. Soon deck and rigging were as orderly and presentable as if the whaler were a regular merchantman. The two whales yielded sixty and thirty barrels and the work of trying-out went on without a rest for three days and nights.

We were now getting south, and we were told by the old hands that it was probable that we should see few whales before rounding Cape Horn. No one yet had made any demand on the slop chest and, as the clothes of some of the men were getting a little worn, the crew began to make use of needle and thread. It used to be said that a whaleman could be told by his patches, and we had proof of it in the work of some of the men. My clothes were in good condition and, while my mother had taught me to sew and to patch a little, I was glad that I was not one of the first ones to attempt repairing. I watched the others, and I found it hard to repress a smile as the good-natured blunderers plied needle and thread. One man patched a dirty, dark garment with a piece of white cloth. Another attempted to sew on a button by carrying the thread over the side or edge. A third put an old jacket inside of another, sewed them together and patched the openings. He said that he did this in order to have something warm to wear when going round the Horn.

I have said that the men were kept busy on a whaler. Yet life was not all labor and peril. There were times when the sailors were allowed to engage in “scrimshawing”, that is, carving and decorating sperm whale’s teeth and bones. Jawbones of the whale were towed astern so that they might bleach to a dazzling whiteness. The lower jaw was lashed down to ring bolts, the gums were lanced with a cutting spade, and the teeth were drawn out by a tackle rigged from above. They were then pickled in barrels of strong brine. Another way was to leave the lower jaw on deck until the gums rotted and released the teeth. A few whalemen had delicate tools with which they carved out sketches of whales and whaling scenes on sperm whale’s teeth, but most of the work was done with crude tools and sometimes with a jack knife alone. In using pieces of the jawbone, the whalemen seemed to favor “jagging wheels”, so popular for crimping purposes. They were probably thinking of the pies they had enjoyed in their distant homes. The best collection, probably, in the world, of these curious and now valuable articles, will be found in the rooms of the Old Dartmouth Historical Society of New Bedford.

We were now off the Falkland Islands, when a sail was sighted. The lookout announced that she was a whaler. He knew that, of course, by the boats she carried. Word was given to write letters for home as quickly as possible. It was evident that the approaching vessel desired to “gam” because she was bound home and wanted to learn the latest news. The social feature of whaling was gamming—that is, the ships exchanged visits by boats’ crews, the two captains remaining for the time on one ship, and the two first officers on the other. Another method as well was to let part of the crew of one ship visit the other, and, while the captains and officers were in the cabin, the men gathered forward, chummed, smoked poor tobacco, sang songs, danced to the notes of a battered accordion, played games, and, perhaps, listened to the yarn of some good story-teller.

The vessel we were interested in proved to be the Billow of New Bedford. The captain with a boat’s crew boarded us. They were bound home after a four years’ voyage, with a good cargo of sperm, and had heard nothing from New Bedford for nearly a year. As we had been out a considerable period, there was little or nothing to communicate, but the visit did everybody good and, as the boat returned, we gave them a lusty cheer.

This very day, as there came a lull in some work I was doing for Lakeum, he said, “Where are we now, Bleechly?”

“Off the Falkland Islands.”

“What’s on the starboard side?”

“The Strait of Magellan.”

“Who was Magellan?”

“A great navigator.”

“When did he discover the Strait?”

“I think in 1520.”

“Did he go through?”

“Yes, but he had an awful time of it.”

“How did you learn these things?”

“Read them up.”

Lakeum continued, “Now, Bleechly, you know how it has quite often happened that, when a sperm whale has been struck, the line has parted and years afterwards the same whale has been taken at a place far distant from the place of the first encounter. Let me give you a real case. I am told that just about where we are now, many years ago a boat of the bark Resolute of New Bedford, belonging to the whaling firm of Justin & Davidson, struck a sperm. He was a big fellow and put up a great fight. They had to cut the line, and he went off with the harpoon in him. Several years afterward, the same vessel, at a spot in the Indian Ocean seven thousand miles away, captured the same whale and cut out the harpoon in him. When they had cleaned it they found the imprint, Justin & Davidson.

“How did the whale get to the place where they found him?”

Lakeum, who, as I have said, was a man of good education, delighted occasionally to ask questions with a view of testing my knowledge, and in this case the location of our vessel suggested the questions themselves. I had been so successful in responding to his queries about the Strait of Magellan that I did not want to fail in this second exercise. I set out to say that the whale swam to the Pacific Ocean, but was restrained by the thought that Lakeum was in earnest and that the remark would be regarded as impertinent.

“Think it over and let me know in half an hour.”

I could have gone to Kreelman, but to solicit his help would not have been fair. It occurred to me to think over the habits of whales, and immediately the whole thing was perfectly clear.

“Can you answer the question?” said Lakeum, later.

“I think so. The whale made the Indian Ocean by way of the Cape of Good Hope.”

“Why?”

“For two reasons. He didn’t go by the Strait of Magellan because the sperm hates soundings, and he didn’t go round the Horn because the water was too cold.”

“Go to the head of the class,” was Lakeum’s remark as he walked away.

These little manifestations of interest in me were particularly pleasing, and assured me that I had, in this fair and just but rather mysterious man, a true friend.

And now the weather became more disagreeable and the ocean more boisterous. The men put on their warmest garments, and the dread of the passage of the Horn was relieved a little by the thought that with favorable weather we should catch a glimpse of the Magellan Clouds and the Southern Cross. And sure enough we did. The Magellan Clouds are nebulÆ in the southern part of the heavens—that is, they constitute a beautiful, bright patch in the sky far different from anything I have ever before seen; but the Southern Cross impressed me even more. It is a small constellation of four chief stars forming a cross. The brightest star is the southernmost. The stars are white except the northernmost, which is of an orange color. The constellation looked to me more like a kite than a cross.

Though the weather was severe, the old hands said that we were making an excellent passage and the chances were that we would soon find ourselves in the Pacific Ocean. It was the severest weather I had yet seen, and I thought that, if the passage were an excellent one, I certainly did not care to see a rigorous one. The prediction that we would soon find ourselves in the Pacific did not turn true. We were nearly round the Horn when we met with awful weather. There were sleet and a head wind for ten days. During this time we just held our own. To add to our discomfort, the cook found it difficult to run the galley, and our food was poor and there was not much of it. The distress and misery were shown in every face, and the only cheer came with the announcement that the captain had decided that, if the weather didn’t change for the better on the following day, he was going to turn about and make the Pacific the other way.

“That’s a good many thousand miles,” said Kreelman, “but he won’t make the Pacific that way. He’ll make it as we are headed now.”

“What makes you think so?” I inquired.

“You’ve got some book larnin’, Fancy Chest, but you don’t know everythin’. Did you ever see the moon? I haven’t been to sea for years for nothin’. Well, the moon changes to-morrow in the afternoon. About two o’clock you’ll see the sea go down and the wind shift too, and we’ll go ahead and round into the Pacific a-swimmin’.”

“Do you think the moon affects the weather that way?”

Kreelman gave me a look of scorn and contempt, and, without answering, walked away.

The night was the wildest we had known, and the morning broke with disheartening prospects. During the rest of the voyage I never saw such an angry sea or knew such a dreadful storm. As noon approached the waves began to go down and the wind to subside. By two o’clock the weather was fair, and the wind had shifted in our favor. Every one was contented except Kreelman. His discontent related only to me; for, as he passed me on the deck, he gave me a withering look. The next day Kreelman was more genial, and I thought I would see if he was approachable. I observed:

“I studied up the Pacific some before leaving home, and I suppose that we are now going to whale it off the coast, and then farther west on the Offshore Ground.”

All he said was, “Water and fresh stuff.”

This was a puzzle. I didn’t want to betray my ignorance, and, while the man had been helpful to me in many ways, I didn’t warm up to him very much when he was in the wrong mood. I determined to find out what he meant, if I could, from another source.

I have said little or nothing about our single Kanaka. He was of the color of his race—not very dark—a good sailor, good-natured, lusty and diligent. He had shipped on his first voyage at Honolulu and had seen something of the world—more particularly of the world of water. Born in a sunny clime, he did not like cold weather, and he had suffered greatly in rounding the Horn. He had picked up considerable knowledge from observation and experience, and he had what people call in common language “horse sense.” In the second dogwatch I went up to him and said:

“Ohoo, I suppose that we are going whaling now.”

“Whale as you go, but I tink cap’n, he go get to drink and eat.”

“What do you mean by that, Ohoo?”

“Me tell. No good water, old stuff to eat.”

“In other words, Ohoo, the captain wants fresh water for us all and fresh things to eat, and he’s going to stop at some island to get these things.”

My inference was right.

“Dat it.”

“What island do you think?”

“Me dunno, but me tink Quesas.”

I wondered where Quesas was. I had taken great interest in geography at school, because, I suppose, of my fondness for the sea. I knew that the Pacific was studded with islands, but I could not recall any island of that name.

Ohoo resumed, “Me dunno as me call him right, but not all Quesas; he not all Quesas, he somethin’ before dat.”

Then it came to me.

“Is the name Marquesas?”

“Dat him, dat him.”

“Do you know about these islands, Ohoo; for there are more than one?”

Then he told me the names of two of them. I could not understand his pronunciation, but the real names I learned later. Nukahiva he called Newkeva, and Roa Pona he called Row Pew.

“Newkeva be fine place—plenty good water, plenty everytin’ else. Row Pew, he fine place, but me no like him. Long ’go dey take Kanaka and eat him.”

“Cannibals?” I inquired.

“Me no know canny bells. Me know all ship bells.”

It was all clear now. The drinking water was almost unendurable, and every one from the captain down was longing for fresh food. There was no sign of scurvy, but scurvy might at any time appear. The Kanaka’s guess seemed reasonable, and the thought of having a drink of good water once more and a sufficiency of fruit and vegetables, as well as other things, was as pleasurable as the feeling that for once I had the opportunity of getting the better of Kreelman. The next morning I said to him:

“I say, Mr. Kreelman, shall we take on our recruits at Nukahiva or Roa Pona?”

I put an accent on “Mr.” and I spoke in a tone which indicated confidence in the statement.

“Who told you that we are goin’ to stop at them places—Lakeum or the captain?”

“Neither of them. The captain hasn’t spoken to me but once since we sailed, and then he told me to get out of the way. Lakeum’s talked with me some, but he’s never mentioned stopping anywhere for recruits. You’ve been long enough at sea to know that captain and officers don’t hobnob much with us common sailors.”

“Look here, young fellow, don’t you get smart with me. I’m as good as anybody. Now I want to know who told you that we are goin’ to recruit at the Marquesas.”

“I keep my own secrets, Mr. Kreelman.”

I permitted a little bit of a smile to come to my countenance, and, as I walked away, I felt that Kreelman, although really a friend to me, was as curious as any old busybody, and I resolved not to furnish him with the information he desired.

Within a week we struck and killed two sperm whales, which stowed down about a hundred barrels. There was nothing unusual in their capture, and the incidents attending cutting-in, trying-out and stowing down were similar to those we had already experienced.

Now came an interesting episode, its first occurrence, but to be repeated frequently during the rest of the voyage. Three men wanted things out of the slop chest. I supposed that that chest was an enormous affair, several times the size of a huge trunk—an article of superior finish like mine, only three or four times larger. I found out that the slop chest was only a figure of speech and that there was no real chest at all. The clothing and other articles were put in large casks, which later were to be filled with oil, and were only taken out as they were called for. On this occasion the men wanted light shirts. So the carpenter, who had charge of the business, brought up an armful of cheap shirts for the men to make the selection. The garments were of different sizes. As a man held one of them against his body, to determine the fit, a button fell off. There was a general laugh. Some one called out, “They charge for these shirts twice what they are worth, so they’ll make a deduction of five cents for the button.” The laugh was renewed and the carpenter endeavored to repress it. The appearance of the captain was followed by silence. The carpenter gave the name of each man and the garment selected, and the captain made entries in a book. As far as I could see, the men didn’t have much to say about the price of the articles, and after making the entries the captain did not announce them or, if he did, it was in a low tone. Resort to the slop chest was more frequent later, but it ceased to be of interest save to the participants.

I knew little, practically, about navigation, but I could tell something by the sun, and I was sure that we were bound for the Marquesas Islands. One morning no one was ordered aloft. This was the first day since our departure when the crow’s nest was not occupied.

The Kanaka said to me, “Me know what up. See land soon.”

The prediction was realized, for within an hour came the glad cry,—“Land ho!”

It was now April, 1860, and, with the exception of the bleak and barren coast of Terra del Fuego, this was the first land we had seen since leaving Pico, and, in all this time, we had not had a case of scurvy or any kind of sickness, and hence an unopened medicine chest.