We arrived at the Okhotsk Sea in the early summer; and one has only to visit that inlet to learn how extensive it is. The weather was not so severe as that of the Arctic, and so far as we were concerned we found the whaling equally good. Our captain followed the method he had adopted in the Arctic of dropping a boat, sailing a long distance and dropping another, and then taking a course between them. The bowheads seemed a little more active than those in the Arctic, but, if once struck, there was nothing to fear except their terrible flukes. There was much conjecture as to some probable creature who would yield more oil than the Gay Header’s whale, and thus be the means of bestowing the watch on another. One whale, the largest in the Okhotsk, yielded one hundred and fifty-eight barrels and the Gay Header was safe.

In the whaling days there were quarrels over whales, and a few lawsuits, too. Strange that these differences should arise at places thousands of miles distant from Massachusetts, and that the cases should be tried in the United States Court in that State. How could there be any quarrel or lawsuit over a whale lying dead on the surface of the ocean? And the question may be answered by asking another question, “Whose whale was it?” That is, the question was not always who killed the whale but who owned the whale after it was killed.

There was a usage generally observed by whalemen that when a whale was struck, and the harpoon, with the line attached, remained in the whale, but the line did not remain fast to the boat, and a boat’s crew from another ship continued the pursuit and captured the whale, and the master of the first ship claimed the whale on the spot, the whale belonged to the first ship. At last the matter was taken into the United States Court, and the judge held that the usage was a good one and that the whale belonged to the first ship.

Two lawsuits arose over whales captured in the Okhotsk Sea. One, as follows: Having killed a bowhead, the first mate of the whaler anchored the whale in five fathoms of water and attached a waif, intending to return the next day. Early in the morning, boats of another New Bedford whaler towed the whale to their ship, where it was cut-in and boiled down. It turned out that the anchor didn’t hold in the night, that the cable coiled around the whale’s body, and that no waif irons were attached to it. The captain of the vessel whose boat had originally killed the whale visited the other ship and laid claim to the whale; for oil and bone worth five thousand dollars or more were not to be given up without something more than a protest. If the captain of the vessel which had the oil and the bone had yielded, the bone could easily have been then delivered, but to turn over great casks of oil from one vessel to another, in a rough sea, was not so easy. But the captain wouldn’t yield. The discussion between the two masters was bitter and boisterous.

“I killed the whale,” said the captain of the first vessel.

“Your first mate says he killed it.”

“Now don’t be smart. You know when I said ‘I’, the reference was to my ship.”

“Where’s the proof that anybody in your ship killed it?”

“Proof enough. Even if the waif was gone, the whale was dead, and I can show that the warp coiled around the body was the warp of my ship.”

The captain of the other vessel thundered back, “The whale belongs to this ship, and the oil and bone from him will stay on this ship until we get back to New Bedford, and what are you going to do about it?”

“You’ll find out what we are going to do about it when we get back to that port.”

And the visiting captain went to his boat. They did find out, for when they returned, the United States Court held that the ship whose first mate killed the whale was entitled to the value of the oil and bone.

The subject of the second lawsuit was a bowhead in which we were interested, and a big one, too. Both our vessel and another one laid claim to it. When, on a very fair day for that part of the world, bowheads were sighted, all our boats were lowered. As a rule the captain of a whaler did not go in a boat, but remained on the ship with the cooper, steward, cook, spare hands and so forth. But now and then the captain would take a hand in whaling.

Twice before, during the voyage, Captain Gamans had commanded a boat, and each time had been unsuccessful. There was a little fun among the men over the captain’s failure—of course, with themselves—and I happened to hear a remark one day from Silva which made me believe that the officers had a little fun also, among themselves, at the captain’s expense. I have the impression that the captain wanted to make good, for on this day he decided to go in the boat.

There were several bowheads in sight, and rather far off. Our men pulled away lustily, but when we were pretty near a big fellow, shy and sly, like all of his kind, down he went, and when he came up the signal from the ship showed him so far away that we gave up the chase. Two other boats were in pursuit of whales, and they, too, were unsuccessful, while the fourth boat made fast to a bowhead. Then there was a commotion in the boat, the men moving around quickly as if something had happened. Lakeum said, “It’s the captain’s boat. I hope he hasn’t had any more bad luck. It looks to me as if they have cut the line. I hope nobody’s hurt. We’ll make for her.” And so we did, while the two unsuccessful boats put back to the ship.

When we came up, the captain told us that they had hardly struck when there was a kink in the line, and they immediately cut the warp. “But,” he exclaimed, “there are two irons in him, and there is nothing to do but chase him up. The whale didn’t sound for a long period and the direction he took was to wind’rd.” There was no stepping the mast and setting the sail, so the men in the two boats tugged away at the oars.

We pursuers were soon outdistanced. Our own ship had not been able to work to windward, and so had to beat her way in the direction we were taking. As Lakeum pushed on my oar, he said, “These bowheads are so shy and cunning you are only sure of them when they are cut-in and stowed down. It may be that fellow will hold up till we reach him, but I should feel more satisfied if it was a sperm.”

We had been pulling for an hour or more, and we were tired and, I think, pretty cross, when Lakeum said, “There’s a boat clear ahead, and, as far as I can see, it’s fast to a whale.” This was encouraging, if the whale were the one the captain’s boat had lost. But what chance was there? I think if it had been put to vote, our men would have voted that the chase was a foolish one. But it wasn’t a foolish one. Even sailors are often mistaken as to things which happen on the sea. Our boat was just a little ahead of the captain’s and when we arrived the whale was in the last flurry and soon rolled over. Captain Gamans was an assertive man, and was never much troubled with modesty.

“That whale belongs to me,” he shouted.

It had seemed to me that the captain took some risk in his assertion, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

“Guess again,” said the mate of the other boat.

“You’ll find two fresh harpoons in him, with the cypher of my ship on them,” insisted Gamans.

The mate of the boat merely ignored our captain and gave orders to attach the tow-line. The men obeyed as if they were unaware that there were claimants of the whale in the neighborhood.

Captain Gamans was exasperated and shouted, “My ship’s harpoons are in that whale, and I claim the whole carcass, bone and all.”

“Keep on claiming,” replied the mate.

“I can see the line attached to the harpoon, and I’m going to keep on claiming my ship’s property, and I’m going to have it, too.”

“How are you going to get it?” inquired the mate, who now looked defiance, and kept changing the lance from one hand to the other, as if he was about to use it for some other purpose than on the bowhead’s body.

“I’m going to cut out them harpoons and examine them myself.”

“No, you’re not.”

“We’ll see about it. You know what the usage is—you see our vessel there working up from the leeward. What does that mean? Here are our two boats in the open sea. What does that mean? Here’s a whale with fresh harpoons in him. What does that mean? And the whale killed by the boat of another vessel, for there’s your vessel to the windward bearing down on us. What does that mean?”

“What are you, a lawyer? You talk as if you was making an argument to a jury, but there’s only six men in the boat and that’s only half a jury.”

This produced a laugh, and our captain was now furious.

“Did you hear what I said?” he shrieked.

“No, I didn’t. I was calculatin’ how much this old fellow would stow down and how much bone he would yield. Then I was figurin’ how much the whole thing would bring in money. Then I was makin’ out what we men in this boat would get on our lays. When a man’s usin’ his mind on heavy matters, he ain’t got no time to attend to little things.”

Our boat was between the captain’s and that of the stranger. Captain Gamans called out, “Lakeum, back water and give me a chance.”

I saw that Lakeum did not want to comply, but the command was from his superior, and he was bound to obey. Lakeum gave the order in a slow tone, and we oarsmen responded with more alacrity, for we wanted to see what the outcome would be. As the captain’s boat advanced, he exclaimed:

“Now I’m going to show you the harpoons of my ship in that whale.”

“No, you ain’t.”

“There they are,” declared the captain, “and the short warps attached to them.”

“You can’t prove it,” roared the stranger.

“We’ll see if I can’t,” retorted the captain.

The bow of our boat touched the stranger’s on the port side, near the stern. Each man brandished his lance, and it looked like a battle, which might result perhaps in a tragedy, when a voice rang out:

“Jessup, put up your lance. I’ll handle this matter.”

In our excitement we were not aware that a boat had been approaching, and now, as we heard the sharp command and turned to look at the craft, we rightly inferred that it belonged to the vessel bearing down on us from the windward.

Our captain fixed his gaze on the stranger; the expression of anger left his face; his lips just parted; his eyes sparkled. Then he muttered, “I can hardly believe it.” But he did seem to believe it, for he called out, “Is that you, Gates? I thought you was in New Bedford.”

“Well, Gamans, I knew you wasn’t there, but I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you was in the Arctic this season.”

“I was last year, but where did you come from, Gates?”

“I’m master of the Oriole, the old ship you and I were boat-steerers in some years ago. And there she is, bearing down on us. But what’s this row about?”

“Your mate is laying claim to my whale. We struck him a while ago and the lines parted. Then we followed him up with all speed and when we got here we found that your mate’s boat had put irons in him, and the whale didn’t turn over until after we arrived.”

“Can you show your irons in him?”

“I can, if I have a chance.”

There was a laugh all around, and the mate of the Oriole seemed to assent to the merriment, for a faint smile lighted his countenance.

“I’ll give you the chance,” Gates responded.

The two captains examined the leviathan, and, sure enough, there were two fresh irons in the whale with a short piece of warp attached to each. We laid on our oars, awaiting the result. Captain Gamans examined the harpoons carefully and then, turning to Captain Gates, said, “There’s our cypher stamped in each of them.”

Captain Gamans maintained that the case came within the usage acknowledged and followed by whalemen. Captain Gates replied, “I don’t know but it does, Gamans, but I can’t give up that whale for old friendship’s sake. I have my owners to look out for as well as officers and crew. It seems as if our men did some of the killing. Be that as it may, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You take the whale and then we’ll gam this evening and draw up some kind of an agreement which shall state all the facts to satisfy our owners, and which may be evidence in court, if the case can’t be settled in any other way. I want to see your ship, for I’ve never been in her before. But you know the Oriole of old, so I’m going to invite myself aboard of your vessel.”

“Good,” said Captain Gamans. Then he continued earnestly, “What’s the news from home?”

“The chief news is the war.”

“What war?”

“The Civil War.”

“I didn’t know that war could be civil. I thought it was pretty uncivil.”

“Don’t you know there’s war between the North and the South?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why, the southern States have left the country—that is, they haven’t cleared out, but have left the government and set up one of their own. Each side has armies, and there’s fighting going on.”

“I declare,” said Captain Gamans. “This is the first time we’ve heard of it. We learned that a man named Lincoln was elected President, but the war’s a surprise.”

We were all excited, and as we pulled for our ship there was general regret that we knew so little of the great conflict, and that it would be many months before we should know more.

The vessels kept near each other that night—what night there was. At about six bells Captain Gates came aboard, and some of us were anticipating a nice gam with the men who brought him in the boat, when Lakeum came to me and said, “The captain wants you in the cabin.”

What did it mean? I had no right in that part of the ship unless summoned; and, indeed, I had not been in the cabin since the voyage began. Was I supposed to be guilty of some offense, and was I to appear before the captain as a criminal appears before a judge?

I entered with mingled fear and anticipation, and received from Captain Gamans the curt statement, “I sent for you because you’re a good penman, as I’ve seen from your handwriting in the logbook. And you’ve had a better education than most of us, even if you are a boy. We shall want you in a few minutes. Sit down there until we are ready, and keep quiet.”

I complied, but my heart was with the visitors on deck, and I listened listlessly to the rambling conversation of the captains. The only subject of any interest to me was the reference to their going in the boats, and this ended the colloquy.

“How many times have you been in the boat, Gates?” asked our captain.

“Three times.”

“What luck?”

“None, twice—third time, uncertain. And you, Gamans?”

“Three times.”

“What luck?”

“None, twice—third time, uncertain.”

Both men saw the joke and laughed heartily.

Captain Gamans fumbled about and brought out some letter paper, a small bottle of ink, which had not been opened, and an aged penholder to which was attached a rusty pen. I dug out the cork of the bottle with a knife, and then the two captains began their dictation. There was little difference in their view of the situation and in their respective claims to the whale. The trouble seemed to be their inability to express themselves in proper English, and I was quite proud when they relied on me, occasionally, to supply a word and straighten out their sentences, although, by their manner, they seemed to regard me, all the time, as an inferior. To shorten the story, the agreement, in its final form was as follows:

When I had made a good copy of the above stipulation, that is, as good a copy as I could make with the worthless pen, I passed the paper over to my superiors for them to sign.

“You sign first, Gates.”

“No, you sign first, Gamans.”

“I’ve got a little rheumatism in my hand, Gates.”

“I’ve got a kink in my forefinger, Gamans.”

I wanted to say, “What is the use of making all this fuss? Neither of you can hardly more than sign his name, but that’s no disgrace. Some of the ablest captains have little education and, if they had been educated, they probably never would have risen to be captains. And here you two men are acting like old women who, when they sign their names, give all manner of excuses because their handwriting is so poor.”

“Give me the pen, then,” said our captain.

It took a mighty effort for him to write his name. He twisted his body and cramped his fingers, and, when the task was over, handed me the pen with a gesture of impatience.

I said, in a very respectful tone, “Don’t you think you had better write underneath the words, ‘Captain of the Seabird?’”

“Look here, young fellow, do you suppose I am going to write a book?” he replied, sharply.

“The boy’s right, Gamans.”

“I think it will do no harm if I do it for you, as you have written your name in full,” I suggested.

“Go ahead, then.”

Then Captain Gates repeated our captain’s performance, and the last-named deliberately folded up the paper and put it in his pocket. “Where do I come in, Gamans? How can you keep that paper when I ain’t got none?”

“I’ll keep it for you; I’m honest.”

The two men had been very friendly that evening, and a bottle and two empty glasses in sight justified at least the inference of conviviality. It looked for the first time like a clash, when I modestly intimated that a copy might be made and executed like the original. Consent was given, and the copy was made and signed with the same fuss which attended the execution of the original.

Serenity restored, Captain Gates said, “I’ll tell you where I’ve got you, Gamans. It’s in the long distance you rowed from the time you struck the whale and lost him until you reached our boat.”

“And I’ll tell you where I’ve got you, Gates. When our boats got up to the whale, your mate hadn’t used the lance, and the whale hadn’t yet rolled over.”

A glance from Captain Gamans told me that I was dismissed. I was glad to get forward where the visiting crew were. They were giving our men the news from home.

When one of them caught sight of me, he blurted out, “Hullo, Tom Haggass, the last time I saw you, you were raidin’ my father’s orchard.”

“Well,” I rejoined, “the last time I saw you was three years ago, when you cut a caper and were threatened with the State Reform School. Besides, I’m not Tom Haggass. My name is Homer Bleechly.”

A roar greeted the rejoinder. The captains appeared. As the boat pulled away we gave them a hearty parting. A quarrel had been averted and a good time enjoyed.

Now as to the whale. The usage was on our side and, when we reached home, we learned that it had been affirmed by the court in a case whose facts were almost identical with ours. The oil and bone of that bowhead brought forty-five hundred dollars.