Business was now carried on both day and night, or, more properly speaking, all the time, as there was no night. There was always some one in the crow’s nest. To increase the chances of seeing and capturing whales, the Seabird would drop a boat at about seven A.M., and sail about twenty miles and then drop another boat. Then she would cruise between the two boats. There was little danger, where it was light all the time, of losing a craft. The boats were well provisioned, and the men wore their thickest clothing. On the third day a whale was announced just as the captain gave orders to lower. Our boat and Silva’s engaged in sharp competition. We took water first and got the lead, but the movements of the whale favored the other boat, and Silva’s man put two irons into him. We stood by to help if we were needed, and I eagerly watched the proceedings, for this was the first real live bowhead I had seen struck. He pounded the sea with his terrible flukes and then sounded just like a sperm whale. When the slack was taken in and the big fellow appeared on the surface, we followed Silva’s boat and watched with keen interest the last act in the tragedy. Silva handled the lance well, driving it into the body as if he had a sperm whale to deal with. When the bowhead was dead and the tow-line was attached to him, Lakeum said to me:

“I hope Silva won’t have trouble. You know what so often happens in the case of bowheads?”

“No,” I replied.

“Why, they sink.”

“I didn’t know that, Mr. Lakeum. None of our men ever told me.”

“Yes, they sink, just as so many right whales do. That monster there is worth seven thousand dollars, good, and it would be a pity to lose him.”

The words were hardly uttered when Lakeum shouted, “Don’t look right, Silva; settling a little.” There was apprehension, indeed consternation, in the boats. It was true that the whale was settling. When men don’t know what to do, they often shout, and this is what the men in Silva’s boat did, and when the order came to cut the tow-line, they shouted still louder. Then, as the great whale disappeared, the noise subsided, and as both boats pulled for the vessel, Silva was the picture of despair. The captain had witnessed the unfortunate accident from the ship and was inclined to blame Silva.

“Well, I killed the whale, didn’t I, Captain?”

“Yes.”

“Am I to blame then, if he sunk?”

There was no answer to this question. The captain muttered, “I don’t see why so many of these bowheads sink.”

Since passing Bering Strait we had seen several ships in the distance, but they were not near enough to hail. And now a vessel was bearing down on us—presumably not for a gam but for information. She proved to be the Awashonks, a vessel with a remarkable history. I was standing near the gangway when her captain boarded us. The Awashonks was three years from home, and the captain was anxious for the latest news. There was little for Captain Gamans to communicate, so the conversation, which was necessarily brief, related to their respective voyages.

“We have just lost a whale,” said our captain. “He sank. I suppose you’ve had bowheads sink, haven’t you?”

“Not on this voyage,” replied the visitor. “I learned the trick on the last voyage. Every bowhead we kill we cut-in, try-out and stow down, never lose one. If whalemen had learned the trick years ago, there wouldn’t be so many bowheads at the bottom of the ocean.”

The visiting captain evidently had information to convey, but didn’t want to give it voluntarily. It seemed to me that he wanted Captain Gamans to ask for it. There was a pause. Then our captain said:

“I suppose sinking is due to the condition of the whale. I don’t suppose lancing has anything to do with it.”

“Lancing has everything to do with it. That’s where the trick comes in. You lance a bowhead or a right whale over the shoulder blade, directing the lance downward, and it will kill him in the shortest time, but he’ll be pretty sure to sink, because there’ll be a rushing escape of air, shown in large bubbles rising through the water. Lance him straight or a little upwards and it’ll take more time to kill him and be more dangerous, but you’ll save your property.”

The visitor assumed a triumphant air. I never saw Captain Gamans play his part better. He expressed his thanks for the information and then said, in an off-hand way:

“I suppose that the whale we lost was worth several thousand dollars and that’s a good deal of money for any ship that has to depend solely on whaling; but we are not worrying on the Seabird. We’ve packed something away that’s worth at least seven bowheads like the one we’ve lost.”

“And what’s that?”

“Why nothing but a seventy-thousand-dollar lump of perfectly made ambergris.”

The tables were turned. The man who had rejoiced in his triumph was now plainly annoyed. He manifested little interest in the ambergris and soon took his departure.

To me the Awashonks was a vessel of great interest. A number of ships which cruised in early days in the Pacific Ocean were never heard from, and one opinion was that they were captured by savages. This was nearly the fate of this very Awashonks. In October, 1835, she touched at Namovik Island, of the Marshall group, in the Pacific Ocean. The natives who boarded the vessel appeared to be friendly. Suddenly, however, they seized the spades used for cutting in blubber, and attacked the crew. The captain was beheaded and the man at the wheel and the second mate were killed. Before Jones, the third mate, could use a spade he had snatched from a native, he was compelled to flee down the forehatch, and the rest of the crew either took to the rigging or found refuge in the hold. The men aloft cut away the running rigging to prevent the progress of the ship; those below worked aft and, with muskets found in the cabin, opened fire, but with little effect, as the natives sought places that were not within range. Some of them gathered above the companionway, which they had closed; Jones placed an open cannister of powder underneath and fired it. The explosion tore off the roof of the cabin and scattered the natives. Jones and his men then drove them overboard.

Twenty-five years had elapsed since this startling adventure; the Awashonks was still afloat and as a fact was to sail the seas for nearly a dozen years more, only to be crushed by ice in the Arctic. What was the age of whalers? Many a one was from time to time repaired and practically made over. It is authentic that one vessel was in commission for eighty-eight years and another for ninety-one.

The logbooks of whalers are of great value in preserving much of the history of whaling which cannot be gleaned from any other source. Logs kept on merchant ships recorded formal matters, such as the weather, the direction of the wind, the location of the vessel, the courses taken and the distances covered. The logs of the whalers contained all these matters and, in addition, accounts of the whales attacked and captured, the bone taken, the oil stowed down, strange occurrences on the deep, such as battles with whales and deliverances from death, the places visited, the happenings on ship and on shore, items of a personal nature, sums in arithmetic, attempts at poetry, pictures of the whales captured or lost, pen-and-ink sketches and often colored drawings, and illustrations representing scenes in the life of the whaleman.

The pictures of the whales alluded to were sometimes drawn with a pen, but generally were impressed by means of a stamp, which in early years was carved from wood by the men, and was later made of rubber. The impression was made on the margin of the page, and, if the whale were captured and boiled down, the number of barrels of oil obtained was written on a little white spot purposely left at about the middle of the picture. In running down the margins of the pages, one could easily determine how many whales were taken, how many escaped and the amount of oil each whale yielded. Black ink was not always used. Occasionally the impression was in blue, and the whale’s last agony was shown by a scarlet stream pouring from his blowhole. Open the logbook of an old merchant ship and there is nothing to interest, amuse or instruct, but the logs of the old whalers, now in the possession of the New Bedford Public Library and of the Dartmouth Historical Society, are as interesting as story books, and are, indeed, story books themselves. If the log book of the Seabird was deposited in one of these repositories, one will find this entry made by Lakeum after the capture of the cachalot which yielded the ambergris—“This day we took a golden whale.”

One would think that it was the duty of the first mate to keep the logbook, but on a whaler others were permitted to ventilate on its pages their joys or woes. One of the most amusing entries was the following, made by the steward of the Mystic, sent on a cruise for sea-elephant oil in 1843.

There are few logbooks which give accounts of mutinies for the reason that, when the mutineers got possession of a vessel, the logbook went overboard. An exception is that of the Barclay, which sailed from New Bedford in 1843. The logbook records that trouble began soon after sailing; that a fight for the third time occurred at supper between one of the crew and the green hands; that the fighter was put in the rigging and given a few stripes; that he acknowledged the blame and was released; that he went forward, making threats; that the blacksmith was very saucy, he being the worse for rum; that for days the weather was so severe and the sea so rough that no entries were made and no observations taken; that after rounding the Horn the weather was much better; that on Monday, April 29, 1845, at eight o’clock, the captain sent the steward forward to call the men, or one of the men, aft, to see their meat weighed; that they wouldn’t come; that the captain called them three times and then took a broom to one of the blacks; that they refused, one of them saying that one of their complaints was that a pound and a quarter of meat was not enough; that they now went forward; that the black was insolent and was told to go aft again, that he replied that he would not and went to the forecastle, that in getting him up one of the men interfered and struck the captain; that the captain dropped his weapon and took hold of him; that the man seized the weapon and attempted to strike the captain; that he was told to go aft but refused, and went down into the forecastle, and, taking a sheath knife, said he would kill the first man who came down there, but that at last he delivered himself up to be put in irons. “Thus ends in Peace.” The mutiny collapsed, otherwise the logbook would have been delivered to the sea.

During the voyage I had made many entries in the logbook under the direction of Lakeum, and now I was to be intrusted with further authority. Lakeum observed:

“Bleechly, I’m going to let you keep the log now. You’d better first tell me what entries you are going to make, and after you’ve made them I’ll look them over in a general way to see that they are all right. I don’t know as you are given to poetry and such things. If you are I wouldn’t put any of your rhymes on the logbook. There is too much scribbling on some of them.”

Lakeum laughed heartily, the first sign of merriment on his part I had for a long time seen. However, I had a little artistic taste, and I proposed to indulge it. In a few days I had my first entry to make other than the usual formal matters, and here it is:

Remarks on Board of the Seabird, Captain Gamans. In the Arctic Ocean.

Thursday, July 7, 1860.

First part light breezes from S. W. Middle part much the same. At 2 p.m. saw whales and put off. Boats among whales. One whale being towed to ship.

The imprints tell the story,—one whale making sixty barrels, and underneath the words, No. 12; another whale without any accompanying figures and the imprints of several flukes, above one of which was the word “missed”, and under another the words, “Drew the Iron.” Thus one whale was captured, the iron missed a second and drew out of a third. Such a method of description reminds one of the picture-writing of savages.

Of course there was surmise as to who would sight the largest bowhead which was captured. I think there was a general feeling that the gold watch ought to go to the Gay Head Indian. He had, so far, sighted more whales than any man on the ship. It was generally thought that the other prize would go to me, although it was possible that a sperm whale larger than the one I had announced might be captured. One of the men reasoned, “Fancy Chest didn’t really sight the whale; the whale sighted him. He happened to come up near the ship, and such luck might have happened to anyone. Now the Gay Header has got the best eyes of any man on board. Those Gay Head Indians have made the best mastheaders on the New Bedford whalers for years. But just as likely as not luck will be against the man, and some greenie will get the prize.”

I answered, “You forget that there are two more seasons yet—one sperm whaling and another again north. As for myself, I wouldn’t object to the watch, but I’m not catching unhatched chickens. I don’t know as I would like anything better than for Ohoo to get the watch.”

Our life in the Arctic was not so bad. Not compelled to cruise far north, as vessels were in later years, we encountered little ice and the weather was generally fair. We were successful, and the hardships we had to endure were not so severe as we had anticipated. One day from the lips of the Gay Header came the happy call. The boats were lowered and in a few hours the largest bowhead yet was fast to the Seabird. The Gay Header was well liked, and his supposed good fortune gave great satisfaction. During the cutting-in and trying-out there was much conjecture as to the monster’s yield, and it was remarkable how accurate were the estimates of the men who for years had followed the sea.

Here is the entry which I made in the log book:

Remarks on Board the Seabird. In the Arctic Ocean.

Tuesday, August 17, 1860.

These twenty-four hours commenced with a light air. Cloudy from the southward and westward. At 3 p.m. Gay Header sighted whale and boats lowered, and at 7 fast to whale, 3 miles from ship. Took whale alongside at 11. All hands sent below. At 7 called all hands and commenced cutting-in.

And what were the imprints in the white spot in the black whale on the margin?

“L. B. B. 163 barrels No. 16.”

Four days later one of the men sighted another whale and when he was alongside it was noted that he was of great size. Would he prove larger than the Gay Header’s whale? That was the question. Comment and guessing went on for several days while the toilful labor was pursued. Towards the last of the trying-out and stowing down the excitement rose to a high pitch, and the announcements were eagerly received. As we were nearing the end 161 barrels was called out, then fifteen gallons more. The amount was increased ten gallons, then the last of it made six gallons more. A shout went up, “A half a gallon short of 162, but call it 162”, and the Gay Header was one barrel ahead. We had now, besides the sperm oil, ten hundred and fifty barrels of whale oil in the hold and twelve thousand pounds of whalebone, not to mention the ambergris.

I had written at school very modest verses, lauded by my schoolmates as very fine poetry, and I now composed a crude stanza which I wanted to put in the logbook. With some hesitation and diffidence, I went to Lakeum and stated my request.

“I thought I told you, Bleechly, that we didn’t want any scribbling on the log.”

“Well,” I replied, “they’ve made some fun of me because they say that my sighting the big sperm was only a matter of luck, and I want to show to whom I would like to have the watch go, if a still larger whale than mine is captured.”

“Well, show me the lines.”

I have spoken of Lakeum laughing heartily. He repeated the exercise.

“Put it in if you want to. I think, however, you’ll make more money whaling than you will writing poetry.”

I made the following entry: