In the streets and hotels, or more often the smoking-room of the custom-house of the beautiful old town of New Bedford, Massachusetts, one meets in these latter times certain quiet, elderly men who, save for their weather-beaten faces, an occasional scar, the deference shown them, and the title of "captain," give no sign of the stormy and adventurous lives they have led. These men belong to a most interesting class, and one which promises to soon become extinct. They are the whaling captains of the old days, when, with whaling still one of the most prosperous and important of our national industries, the New Bedford whalers carried the American flag to the most distant parts of the globe, and yearly poured a golden stream into the strong-boxes of their shrewd and venturesome owners. Cabin-boys at twelve, captains before they were twenty-five, at fifty, stranded hulks—having often made and lost great fortunes, made them for others, lost them for themselves—in such quiet havens as chance or fortune affords, they now peacefully and with perfect contentment await the end that sooner or later comes to us all.

For more than a century, New Bedford has been the centre in this country of the industry of which these old captains are pathetic reminders; but in recent years it has made San Francisco the headquarters of its ships. They all carry the name of New Bedford on their sterns, and are owned and commanded by New Bedford men; but, as whaling is now mainly carried on in Alaskan waters, San Francisco has become the principal point of arrival and departure. Only the Atlantic whalers, dwindled now to less than a dozen, still headquarter in the old capital of the trade. The ships engaged in the whale trade are clumsy in appearance, and much smaller than most people would imagine, being rarely as large as the three-masted schooners used in the coasting trade. They are strongly built, wide amidships, and as broad as Dutch galleons at the bow. They are so treated with pitch and tar as to last for generations, and are constantly repaired, a part at a time. Some of the stanchest vessels in the trade are more than half a century old, and promise to do duty for many years to come.

The fleet sailing from San Francisco numbers between forty and fifty vessels. Some of the captains sail in November, and spend the winter in sperm whaling, putting into Honolulu for fresh supplies at the approach of spring, but the majority leave in March. The whales are fast being driven from the Pacific, and every year the whalers are forced to go farther and farther north for them. Only a few years ago, whales were plentiful in the Northern Pacific and Behring and Okhotsk Seas, but now the whalers have to push far into the Arctic to find their game. To make a voyage profitable, a ship must often spend several seasons in the north, and last year the San Francisco fleet sailed prepared for a three years' cruise. Many of the captains took their wives and children with them. They reached Herschel Island late in August, spending last winter as they will the next two, in comfortable quarters at Pauline Cove, returning to the United States in the fall of 1909. Pianos and pool and billiard tables were taken along to help while away the long winters, and the members of the fleet, when they return, are sure to have many an interesting and stirring story to tell.

In order to complete the preparations for its Arctic work, each whaler, after leaving San Francisco, cruises for a few weeks in the central Pacific. During this cruise the crow's nest, or lookout, is put in place, the boats are scrubbed, painted and fitted with sails, steering-gear and oars and the whaling apparatus thoroughly overhauled. Then the ship's rigging receives careful attention, weak spots being made strong, and old sails patched or replaced, and finally, the hold is restowed and put in shape for the long voyage. The crew of a whaler includes, besides the captain, four mates, one boat-leader, four boat-steerers, a steward, cook, carpenter, cooper, steerage and cabin boys, and from twelve to twenty able seamen. The men instead of being paid regular wages, receive a portion of the profits of the cruise. The captain receives a twelfth, the first mate a twentieth, the second mate and boat-leader each a twenty-fifth, the third mate a thirtieth, the carpenter, cooper and steward each a fiftieth, and the sailors each a hundred and seventy-fifth. The captain's portion ranges from nothing to $7,000 or $8,000, according to the number of whales taken during a cruise. If a ship secures twelve whales during a cruise, the captain will receive about $3,000 and a sailor $200. The sailors usually receive an advance of $60 each, and during a cruise are allowed to draw tobacco, clothing and the like, from the ship's supplies, to the amount of $60 or $80. Both officers and men keenly appreciate this co-operative system, and toil with great zeal in the hope of extra reward. Formerly whales were valued chiefly for the oil, but the discovery of petroleum worked a change, and the whalebone is now the main thing sought. This product is worth from $4 to $5 a pound, and the average whale contains a little less than a ton of bone.

The officers of an Arctic whaler are generally Yankees, but all countries are represented in the forecastle. Americans, Britons, Swedes, Portuguese, Germans, Spaniards, Kanakas, a few stray cowboys, and three or four 'Frisco hoodlums are often found in the same crew. Now and then desperate criminals seek an Arctic cruise to escape punishment for their misdeeds, and sometimes induce a crew to mutiny. Such an experience befell Captain Edmund Kelly, now living in retirement in New Bedford, when he was master of the Lucretia. His crew, prompted by three ruffians, who had crept in among them, refused duty soon after the ship entered Behring Sea, and retreated to the forecastle, but not before the captain had emptied it of such food as it contained. When asked to state their grievances they demanded the release of one of their shipmates who had been put in irons for disobedience. This demand Kelly refused to grant, and locked them in the forecastle, determined, if possible, to starve them into submission.

On the third morning the crew, who were all armed with knives and revolvers, broke out of this improvised prison and demanded "bread or blood." The captain appealed to them to return to duty, but the three ring-leaders threatened to shoot the first man who wavered, and none responded. It was a critical moment, but Kelly, sprung from a race of fighting men, proved equal to it. Picking up a rifle, he walked in among the mutineers, and singling out the leader, ordered him to surrender. The man refused, and the captain raised his rifle to his shoulder, but before he could fire, the mutineer snapped a revolver twice in his face, and then took refuge among his companions. Kelly tried to follow him, but his progress was impeded by the crew, and the rascal he was seeking now stole up behind him, took careful aim, and fired. The officers, who were standing aft in a group, thinking their captain had been killed, fired upon the mutineer, wounding him in the leg. Happily, however, Kelly had only received a slight scalp wound. He regained his feet in an instant, and facing the mutineer, who was now crawling towards him with cocked revolver in hand, took aim and fired, whereat the man fell back dead with a bullet in his heart. The others, begging for mercy, threw down their arms, and the mutiny was at an end. During the rest of the voyage they proved a most obedient and tractable crew. When Captain Kelly returned to San Francisco, he reported the affair to the federal courts. The judge who heard the evidence discharged him, and at the same time reproved him for failing to shoot the other leaders of the mutiny.

When all is in readiness for the Arctic cruise, the captain of a whaler changes the southwesterly course he has followed since leaving port, and heads for the north. The passage through Behring Sea, on account of the great fields of floating ice which fill that body at all seasons, is always a trying and often a dangerous one, and the whaling masters must of necessity be most skilful navigators. Pushing a ship in safety from lead to lead, and among the threatening cakes of an ice-floe, calls for the most consummate skill, and it is a lesson mastered by sailors only after a long and hard experience. In addition to the highest skill, the captain—or disaster surely awaits him—must possess a resolute will that falters not, even in the face of death. For weeks his ship is seldom out of peril, and he must be ready at all times to make his escape from a threatening pack or an approaching floe.

Some years ago, the ship Hunter, Captain Cogan, when off St. Lawrence Island, was caught in a whirlpool and seriously disabled. He patched up his ship as best he could and made a fresh start. Off Icy Cape, bottom ice was struck, causing a serious leak, and the captain was forced to seek refuge in the nearest haven. Here every movable object was taken out of the ship and carried on shore. Then the spars were unshipped and converted into a raft, which was anchored at both ends and steadied with water casks. Using the raft as a wharf, and in the face of a blinding storm, the ship was hove down, the keel raised above the surface of the water, and the leak repaired. Captain Cogan's cruise up to that time had been a fruitless one, but three months later he sailed safely into port with a valuable cargo. Similar experiences befall the whalers every year.

During the long and toilsome passage through Behring Sea, a sharp lookout is kept for whales, but few are now caught south of Cape Navarin, and whaling does not commence in earnest until the ships are well out into the Arctic. Each ship has five whaleboats, and when the lookout in the crow's nest reports a whale in sight, the crews spring into them and are off in an instant. The captain, however, remains on the ship, and from the crow's nest directs the boats by a code of signals.

The boats always approach their prey under sail, as the use of paddle or oar would startle the whale and cause it to beat a hasty retreat. The old method of whaling with harpoons and lances thrown by hand has been superseded during the last twenty years by the whale-gun, and as a consequence what was once a royal sport has now sadly degenerated. The new weapon is a heavy metallic shoulder-gun fastened to a pole about six feet long. As the boat nears its intended victim, a harpoon attached to several hundred fathoms of line is shot from the gun, and having been "made fast," a bomb, filled with an explosive equal to about ten pounds of giant powder, is fired into the huge body near the head. The missile, exploding as it buries itself in the flesh, blows a great hole almost in the vitals of the monster, and death quickly follows. When the bomb fails to cause instant death or inflict a mortal wound, a second harpoon with a dynamite attachment is thrown, the needle point of the spear, as it sinks into the flesh, exploding the bomb. The second wound nearly always causes instant death; but if not, the harpoons cling to the whale, and with lines attached, the whalers quietly await the reappearance of the whale—which seeks relief by plunging beneath the surface—for another shot at it from the gun, which has in the meantime been reloaded. There is small chance for escape, and another bomb or harpoon from the gun speedily ends the most desperate struggle for life. The sperm whale, the favorite game of the old-time whalers, always puts up a stout battle, but the bow-head whale, found in polar waters, is timid, and dies meekly.

When the whale, its struggles ended, rolls over dead, the vessel gets up sail and makes its way to the body, taking it on the starboard side, in front of the gangway. A stage is rigged over the side and just above the floating carcass, which is secured fore and aft by chains. Then the process of taking the bone and blubber from the body commences. First a cut is made through the deep layer of fat beginning at the nose, and, if all the blubber is to be taken off, running back to the flukes or tail. Next cross-incisions are made every four or five feet, and strips of the fat encircling the whale are marked out. After this, tackle is attached to one end of these strips, and men on the stage sever the strip of blubber from the body, as it is then being hoisted on board. Each strip, as it is taken off, rolls the whale around in the water.

The most difficult part of the operation I am describing is cutting off the head, which contains all the whalebone. A single false move may destroy hundreds of dollars' worth of bone, or perhaps entail the loss of the entire head. Axes are used, and it takes a great deal of hard and skilful chopping to pierce the mountain of flesh. When the backbone has been chopped nearly through, a jerk of the tackle breaks the remainder, and the head is then hauled on deck. As a large whale's head frequently contains several thousand dollars worth of bone, the suspense and anxiety of the whaler while it is being taken off can be readily understood. When the head has been secured, the work of taking off the remainder of the blubber is resumed. Some vessels save only the bone, and cast the body adrift after the head has been cut off, but these are usually ships without the needed apparatus for trying out the oil. When the blubber has all been stripped from the carcass, it is cut up into small pieces, and for several days thereafter the crew is briskly employed "trying out" the oil and stowing it away in casks. A large cube of bricks amidships contains two great iron kettles with fireplaces beneath, and in these the oil is boiled from the blubber. Black smoke and foul smell attend this operation, and only an old whaler will go to the leeward of the great pots when it is in progress.

There is little to break the monotony of the whaler's life while at work. Day after day the same routine is repeated, broken only by an occasional storm, or visits in leisure hours to neighboring vessels. But about the whaler there is always the glamor of the Arctic, which those who have once felt its spell say can never be forgotten—by day its marvellous mirages, weirdly reflecting distant ships, or the ice piled in huge, fantastic masses; at night the sombre glory of the aurora borealis, and always the cold, serene purity of ice and water and sky. When winter approaches, if one or more ships are to spend a second season in polar waters, quarters are built in some sheltered spot on land, and there, early in October, all the vessels rendezvous. On each ship the space between-decks is cleared, stoves set up, and bunks arranged along the middle, away from the sides, so that the cold will not so quickly reach the men through the vessel's timbers. When the ice forms around the ship, high banks of snow are piled about it to break the force of the piercing winds, and snow is also piled upon the roof built over the decks. This snow soon freezes and will not drift with the fiercest of gales. Thus prepared for, a winter in the Arctic has lost many of its former terrors.

The whaler's homeward passage through Behring Sea is often more difficult and dangerous than the outward voyage. With sudden gales, treacherous currents, blinding snowstorms, and long, dark nights, each master must literally feel his way with the lead, getting such aid as he can from log and lookout. Every captain breathes a sigh of relief when he has passed the Straits and is once more in the Pacific, southward bound. There is plenty of work on the return passage. The crow's nest must be taken down and stowed away for another cruise; the masts scraped and varnished; the ship scoured and cleaned above and below; and finally, if it is a steam vessel, the sails unbent and stowed away. Just before entering port, the crew discard their skin clothing. A few hours later the voyage is at an end, and the men are tasting, perhaps for the first time in years, the delights and comforts of life on shore, and spending with open hand the money they have worked so long and so hard to earn.

Whaling in the Arctic saw its best days in 1852, when the fleet numbered 250 vessels and the value of the catch exceeded $14,000,000. Its gradual decline began a little later, but it received its first serious set-back in June, 1865, when the Confederate cruiser Shenandoah, making its way without warning into the Arctic, burned thirty and captured four other whalers. New Bedford's loss alone was twenty-three vessels, which, with their outfits, were valued at more than a million dollars. Since then, wind and ice, the ever-present perils of the whaler, have caused two appalling disasters, and further hastened the decline of the trade. The first of these disasters occurred in 1871. Between August 11th and 29th of that year, the ice closed in upon the whaling fleet at work near Wainright Inlet, and at the end of the month thirty-three vessels were helpless prisoners. During the next week three vessels were crushed or carried off by the ice, the crew in each instance narrowly escaping with their lives. Each day the ice packed closer and it became apparent to the captains, who held daily meetings to discuss the situation, that for their ships at least, escape was hopeless. There was not the time nor material to build winter quarters on land, and even had this been possible, the scanty stock of provisions could only postpone certain starvation, or death by scurvy and disease, during the eleven months that must elapse before they could hope for relief to reach them from the outer world. And so it became clear that the crews must be got away before winter came or all would perish.

Captain David Frazer, who, with two whaleboats, had been sent to the south to see what could be done, returned on September 12th and reported that he had found the rest of the fleet, seven ships, off Icy Cape, ninety miles to the south. They were also, he said, fast in the ice, but would be able to work their way out and would lie by to aid their distressed companions. On the receipt of this news, the captains, some of whom were accompanied by their wives and children, met to decide upon a final course of action. Three million dollars' worth of property and 1,200 lives were at stake, and to save the latter all else must be sacrificed. It was then resolved, unless the weather moderated, to abandon the fleet next day. Morning brought no change and the most daring were convinced that nothing but flight remained. The 200 whaleboats of the fleet were manned by their crews and the southward journey begun. There was a narrow strip of water between the ice and shore, and through this the sad procession made its way.

At night a camp was made on shore, and on the second day the boats reached Blossom Shoals, and came in sight of the refuge vessels. They were lying five miles out from shore and behind a tongue of ice which stretched ten miles farther down the coast. Around this obstruction the crews were forced to make their way before they could get on board. On the outer side of this icy peninsula a fearful gale was encountered and the boats were tossed about like corks; but by four in the afternoon all dangers were safely passed and the 1,200 refugees distributed among the several vessels of the fleet. Sail was made at once, and on October 24th the first of the ships reached Honolulu, the others following speedily. Of the splendid fleet of forty vessels that had sailed northward less than a year before, only these seven returned; but not a life was lost. When in the following year some of the captains visited the locality where the ships were lost, they found that with one or two exceptions they had all been carried away by the ice, ground to pieces, or burned by the people of a near-by Eskimo village. The value of the wrecked vessels sailing from New Bedford exceeded, with their cargoes, a million dollars. Some of the city's wealthiest whaling-masters were ruined and many more badly crippled by the disaster.

Compared with the disaster of 1871, that of 1876 was much less destructive to property, but vastly more appalling by reason of the great loss of life with which it was attended. The whaling fleet reached Point Barrow early in August, 1876, and began whaling. Strong currents and constantly moving ice made work difficult from the first, and in the end the pack suddenly closed in upon the fleet. Four vessels made their escape, but the rest were carried slowly away towards the northward, great jams at the same time choking up every avenue leading to the south. With cold weather fast approaching, it was plainly impossible to release the ships from their icy prison. A majority of the masters resolved to take to the boats as the only chance for escape, but five of the captains, with their crews, hoping against hope, refused to leave their ships. Progress over the ice was slow and painful. With infinite labor the boats would be hauled for a mile or so over the ice and then the men would return for the provisions and clothing they had taken from the ships. At night they crawled under the upturned boats and slept as best they could on the ice. Late in the evening of the third day land was reached, and after resting and drying their clothes the captains decided to push on at once to the ships lying below Point Barrow.

At the end of a week, exhausted, half-frozen and starving, they reached this refuge, and were kindly received by their fellow captains. The men were divided among the several ships, and as soon as the wind opened the ice the return voyage began. When the Golden Gate was reached, the last piece of meat was in the copper and the last loaf of bread in the oven. Out of a fleet of twenty vessels, twelve had been sunk or abandoned, with a loss of over $800,000. On the southward journey over the ice, two of the captains bethought them of some valuable furs they had left behind, and decided to return for them. They made the trip in safety and had a warm welcome from those who had remained on the ships, but the latter turned a deaf ear to their earnest appeals to return with them, and the two captains again pushed southward alone. Since that hour nothing has been seen or heard of the ships or of the 150 men who refused to leave them. In the silence and darkness of the long Arctic winter they perished and gave no sign. How passed their final hours? A grisly and gruesome story which all whalers tell offers a partial answer to this question. Many years ago Captain Warrens, of the whaler Greenland, while lying becalmed among icebergs, sighted a dismantled and apparently deserted vessel. The boat's crew sent off to the stranger found the deck deserted; but seated at a table in the cabin was the corpse of a man covered with green, damp mould. A pen was still clutched in the stiffened hand, and on the table lay a log-book containing this last entry:

"We have now been enclosed in the ice seventeen days. The fire went out yesterday and our master has been trying ever since to kindle it again, without success. His wife died this morning. There is no relief."

The corpse of another man was found on the floor, and in one of the cabin berths lay the dead body of a woman. The corpse of the cabin-boy crouched at the foot of the gangway. Scattered about the forecastle lay the dead bodies of the crew. The ship was barren of fuel or food. It had been frozen in the ice thirteen years. Perhaps in similar manner this later Arctic mystery may yet find startling solution.

There have been few whalers lost during the last twenty years. This has been due to the gradual introduction, since 1880, of steam-whalers, which act as tugs to the sailing ships when in danger, and to the constant presence in the Arctic of one or more revenue cutters, which render efficient aid every season, and convey to San Francisco the crews of such vessels as are lost—the Corwin on one of its cruises saving an entire fleet from destruction. With these extra safeguards, the trade would doubtless have speedily recovered from the disasters I have described, but for the gradual disappearance of the whale itself. Each year, the whales, to escape pursuit, push still farther into the polar ice-caps, and each year the number caught decreases. The annual product of bone and oil has now fallen to less than a million and a half of dollars, and new whaling grounds must soon be found or a great industry abandoned. Already the British whalers are turning their attention to the south polar region. Should whales prove plentiful there, the Yankees will be sure to follow in the footsteps of the English, and the energy and capital long expended in the far north will be diverted, for a term of years at least, to the other end of the world.

THE END