  We saw no whales as we went south, and we approached the Strait of Magellan under what seemed to be favorable auspices. The weather was fair, the sea was tranquil and the scenery was picturesque. The strait is three hundred and sixty miles in length, and from five to thirty miles in breadth. Patagonia is to the north, and the island of Tierra del Fuego to the south. As we entered the strait and, for a good many miles as we proceeded, we saw lofty ranges covered with snow and immense glaciers, and between them patches which looked like dark forests. The third day the weather changed, and navigation became more difficult. The fog set in and, though we had seen no vessels, the captain deemed it wise to be cautious, and we made only about three or four knots an hour. In the late afternoon the fog lifted, and the captain made for the shore of Tierra del Fuego. The sea became more boisterous, the sky assumed a threatening aspect, and the captain gave orders to throw the lead. When four fathoms was reported, he gave orders to heave to, to take in sail and put out two anchors. In the meantime the sky grew blacker, and we all worked with a will to have the ship snugged up and ready when the storm broke. The sea became more boisterous, and the captain gave orders to throw the lead. When it came, it was more like a hurricane than a squall, and it came without any warning other than the troubled aspect of sea and sky. It seemed as if all the wind in the world were gathered in one terrific blast and that, too, for our especial benefit. It nearly swept the men off their feet and drove them to cover; it fairly shrieked as it swept through the rigging, and the only good thing about it was that it lasted less than half an hour. Kreelman said to me, “I rather think after all that the old man knows his business. I believe he’s made the voyage through here before and he knows just what to do and when to do it. By the way, Fancy Chest, who was that man Magellan they call the strait after, was he a Nantucket whaleman?” “Oh, no. He lived a hundred years before the Mayflower came over. He was a Portuguese, but sailed for a Spanish king. In 1520 he made the passage through this strait from east to west, and was the first white man to cross the Pacific Ocean. He gave it the name of Pacific, stopped at the Philippines and was killed there by the natives.” “He had some grit, didn’t he? If he hadn’t been killed, I rather think he would have returned by the way of the Horn.” We remained at our anchorage all night. The watch reported another storm towards morning, only less violent. At daybreak the sea was calm, and a boat appeared. Never had I seen and never have I since seen such a spectacle of destitution, misery and wretchedness. The boat was a rude affair, propelled by clumsy paddles. In the center on a stone foundation was a fire, or rather a bed of live coals. The occupants of the boat were Fuegians, small in stature, badly formed and only half-clad. It would be difficult to picture people more inferior and degraded. Some huddled over the fire, and others stretched out their arms while they muttered something which we assumed to be a request for food or clothing. The cook threw them some scraps, and, as we weighed anchor and were off, they called to us in tones from which we judged that they regarded our bounty as a scant one. Lakeum came forward and said to me, “What do you know about these Fuegians?” “I read up about them when I was at school. They are of a low order of intelligence and are treacherous and degraded.” Lakeum declared, “Let me tell you what an officer in our navy told me. He said that their vessel once called at the northerly side of the strait and that the Patagonians, though living close to salt water, never ventured from shore. What little they knew about boating pertained to fresh water. They had a circular craft for crossing shallow streams. They would dump into it whatever was to be transported; and then a horse was attached and he drew it to the other side. This officer also said that the Fuegians would cross the strait, steal anything they could lay their hands on, and, putting off in their boats with their plunder, would laugh at the Patagonians standing on the shore and unable to follow them.” We were a week in making the passage, and a hard week it was, too. The brief hurricanes came towards night, and the captain made due preparations, as he had warning of their coming. Fogs came and went; the air was raw and the desolation and solitude were relieved only once when we sighted a steamer in the distance. The mere glimpse of her improved our spirits and gave us courage. At the middle of the strait there were large mountains at the north, and small hills at the south. Here, on the Patagonian side, was a white settlement called Sandy Point, and used by the Chilean Government as a penal colony. We ran so near shore at this place that we could plainly see a little group of Patagonians. They were of large structure and powerfully built. I have since learned that the statement that many Patagonians are seven feet high is untrue. As we approached the eastern entrance to the strait, we noticed that the shores were low and reddish in color, and apparently sandy. Once more in the Atlantic we began to sing lustily the familiar song “Homeward Bound”, the first and last stanzas of which are as follows: We’re homeward bound, oh, happy sound! Good-by, fare ye well, Good-by, fare ye well! Come, rally the crew and run quick around, Hurrah, my bullies, we’re homeward bound! We’re homeward bound, may the winds blow fair, Good-by, fare ye well, Good-by, fare ye well! Wafting us true to the friends waiting there, Hurrah, my bullies, we’re homeward bound! In a couple of weeks we began to see whales, and lowered several times, but they eluded us. When we reached the Rio de la Plata, we captured a sperm whale that boiled down sixty barrels. Imbedded in the body was a harpoon which had evidently been there for a long time. It had become so rusted that we could not discover a trace of the owner’s or ship’s name. I always took an interest in trophies and asked Lakeum if I might have it. My request was granted, and the rusty old reminder of the lost art of whaling is still in my possession. As we neared home, Kreelman began to take an interest in my welfare—no longer with sharp words and in a haughty manner, but rather as a father gives counsel to a son. “Fancy Chest,” he said, “I come from poor folks back in the country, so I thought I would like to follow the sea. I was a young fellow when I reached New Bedford and shipped on a whaler, and in a few years I’ll be an old man. I’ve been on the sea a good part of my life, and I don’t know nothin’ but salt water. Now what have I made out of it? Mighty little. I’ve never spent the little that was comin’ to me, but put it by for old age. I haven’t any home or any friends, and all my folks is dead. I shall ship on whalers so long as they’ll let me, and I may die on shipboard and be buried at sea, but it doesn’t matter whether on land or sea. Now what are you goin’ to do, Fancy Chest—follow the sea or stick to the land and do somethin’ else?” “The sea looks pretty attractive to me. I was warned before I left home that the foremast hand got very little out of a voyage. Every one on this vessel is going to get a little fortune, and why shouldn’t I follow the sea?” “You forget,” Kreelman rejoined, “that the ambergris is a good part of our catch, and you might sail the seas a hundred years without seeing another pound of it. I suppose you hope to be a captain some day, but it’s a long road before you get there. Then, if you marry, you are away from your home about half of your life. Remember that all voyages are not successful. If you stick to the sea you’ll never have a voyage that begins to equal this one. Then there’s another thing. I suppose you think this crew are just like the crew of any other vessel. No, they ain’t. Except gettin’ rid of that fellow at the Azores, this voyage of ours has run as smooth as oil. If you go on another voyage, it may be worse than bedlam.” Kreelman’s counsel set me to thinking, and as the days went by I weighed the advantages and disadvantages of a whaleman’s life. Then I thought of my mother—how hard it was for her to give me up, and how it pained her to part with me. I was still young, only in my eighteenth year, and the world was all before me. Then and there I determined to say to my mother at our meeting that one voyage was enough, and that I would seek employment on the land. Days passed, and as we neared home the Civil War was a constant subject of conversation. We had, of course, no definite information, so we indulged in conjecture. Late one day we saw smoke many miles astern of us, and we assumed that it came from a burning ship or from a steamer. The smoke increased in volume, and we soon saw that the object, which was apparently pursuing us, was a steamer. Some one said it might be a cruiser. From this inadvertent remark grew the general belief that it was a cruiser. It would soon be dark, and word was given to wet the sails. The water was passed up in buckets and the men worked diligently. The hope was that the darkness would protect us, but that hope was soon abandoned, for our supposed pursuer was fast gaining upon us. After capture the oil would be burned with the ship, but what should be done with the ambergris? It was suggested by some one that it be cut up into small pieces and concealed upon our persons, but there was not time enough to resort to that expedient. Nearer and nearer came the great black object, belching out its clouds of smoke. There was nothing on our part but resignation and also reflection on a wonderful voyage ending in collapse and ruin. When within half a mile of us the steamer veered, and in a short time passed us. They must have seen the old whaler, but she was too insignificant for recognition. The reaction brought relief, and the relief was followed by laughter. On the last day of April we sighted Block Island, and soon a pilot boat made for us. When the pilot boarded us he called out to the captain, “What’s your ambergris worth?” “How’d you know about that?” asked the captain. “Why, all New Bedford is talkin’ about it. They say there’s more interest taken in your voyage than in any other since whalin’ begun. You’ll have a lot of visitors when you drop anchor.” The wind came from the southwest and we made good time, soon reaching the Elizabeth Islands and then passing into the bay. We anchored at about the place from which we had sailed nearly three years before. The sharks at sea were quick to gather round the carcass of a whale; so were the gentlemen on land, of the same name, quick to gather on the deck of our vessel. These were the visitors the pilot referred to. One of them shook me vigorously by the hand, remembered me perfectly, was sure he had fitted me out before I sailed, and would do the right thing by me now, if I would go to his shop. “You are mistaken,” I declared. “You didn’t fit me out. My outfitter was a woman.” “A woman!” he exclaimed. “Yes,” I said, “my mother.” Just then some one tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and beheld my old friend, the shipkeeper. How delighted we were to meet again! How pleasant it was to hear that my parents were well! “Bleechly,” he remarked, “don’t have anything to do with the outfitters. Our boat is going up soon, and we’ll take you and your chest along. By the way, how did you like Lakeum?” “Fine. I pulled the stroke oar in his boat.” “Yes, he is a fine man,” said the shipkeeper, thoughtfully. “It’s rare indeed that you find a man like him on a whaler.” The captain and officers went with us in the boat. Glad as I was to be home again, I felt some regret in parting from the old vessel, scarred from the battles with wind and wave and reeking with grease and oil. I gave Lakeum a pressing invitation to go home with me and meet my parents, but he courteously declined. He showed feeling when I thanked him for his kindness to me during the voyage. I ordered the chest sent up to the house and walked briskly myself, so as to anticipate its arrival. Of my meeting with my parents and of the assurance conveyed to my mother that I had done with the sea, I propose to say nothing. Happy was our home and delighted was my mother with the things I brought her—the handiwork of the South Sea islanders, and of the inhabitants of Pitcairn. That evening all the boys I had ever known, including my old classmates, crowded into the house and made a hero of me. All the articles I had brought were scanned and handled as if they were precious and invaluable. Strange and ridiculous questions were asked, which I answered with great dignity and with solemn demeanor. The ambergris was, of course, the subject of animated discussion. Its value naturally was greatly exaggerated, one boy putting it at a million dollars. Then the watch was taken up, and all kinds of questions were asked as to its make and value. These I could not answer, because I had not received it. When the boys took their departure, most of them said that they were going to sea. My mother smiled and observed that their parents would have something to say upon the matter. How strange that night it seemed to stretch out in a bed! How difficult it was to compose myself to sleep! My little room had not been occupied since my departure, and now for the time being the three years seemed to be obliterated and I was a boy once more under my father’s roof. At last sleep stole on. I was visited by pleasant dreams and, when I awoke in the morning, I exclaimed, “Where am I, where am I?” only to find that I had forsaken the forecastle for the home of my youth, and as good a home as any boy ever had. The voyages were to be settled on the following day, so I told my parents that, before officers and crew separated, there were three of our number whom I desired to invite to the house, and they approved my purpose. I made search that morning for Lakeum. Again I wanted to press him to come to our home. I could get no trace of him. At last I bethought me of the shipkeeper. “Bleechly,” he said, “Lakeum’s gone and left a power of attorney with a friend to settle his voyage. From what he said I think it likely that he’ll never go whaling again.” Thus this man, who had been such a true friend to me, and who had won the esteem of all the men under him for nearly three years, passed out of my life. I never saw him or heard of him again. I found Kreelman in an outfitter’s establishment and I urged him to honor our home with his presence at supper that evening. He seemed touched and voiced his thanks most courteously but declined my invitation. Then I looked up Ohoo and found him in a sailor’s boarding house in the company of some questionable-looking individuals. I called him to one side and extended an invitation to supper. “Me go, me tank ’ou,” he replied. When I introduced him to my mother, in the afternoon, she observed, “My son has told me how kind your family were to him in their home in Honolulu, and now we are only too glad to have you in our little home here in New Bedford.” “Me tank ’ou. Me sing and dance.” Ohoo conducted himself at our humble table with credit. His manners were better than those of many people of opportunities and education. In the evening he sang some of his quaint and weird native songs, and he indulged in dances which caused merriment and won applause. Just before he left my father cautioned him as to the care of the money he was soon to receive, and suggested that the savings bank take care of it during his absence on the next voyage. As a fact, the counsel later was followed, and, when Ohoo went to sea again, a goodly sum was standing to his credit in the institution my father named. |
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