We had hardly washed clear of the ice in the heavy seas when "Blow!" rang from the crow's nest. A school of whales close ahead, covering the sea with fountains, was coming toward the ship. There were more than thirty of them.
"Bowheads!" shouted the mate.
Their great black heads rose above the surface like pieces of ; tall fountains shot into the air; the wind caught the tops of the fountains and whisked them off in smoke; hollow, whispers of sound came to the brig as the breath left the giant lungs in exhalations. Why they were called bowheads was instantly apparent—the outline of the top of the head curved like an Indian's bow. As the head sank beneath the surface, the back, half as broad as a city street and as black as asphalt, came spinning up out of the sea and went spinning down again.
Our crippled captain in his fur clothes and on limped excitedly about the quarter-deck glaring at $300,000 worth of whales under his nose. But with so much ice about and such a heavy sea running he was afraid to lower.
If the whales saw the brig they gave no sign. They passed all around the , the spray of their fountains blowing on deck. One headed straight for the ship. The mate seized a shoulder bomb-gun and ran to the bow. The whale rose, blew a fountain up against the jib-boom, and dived directly beneath the brig's forefoot. As its back curled down, the mate, with one knee resting on the starboard knighthead, took aim and fired. He surely hit the whale—there was little chance to miss. But the bomb evidently did not strike a vital spot, for the leviathan passed under the ship, came up on the other side and went on about its business.
The sight of all these whales passing by us with such unconcern, blowing water on us as if in huge contempt, almost seeming to laugh at us and mock our bombs and and human skill, drove the captain . Should he allow that fortune in whales to escape him without a try for it? With purple face and popping eyes he gazed at the now passing astern.
"Lower them boats!" he cried.
"What?" expostulated Mr. Landers. "Do you want to get us all killed?"
"Lower them boats!" yelled the skipper.
"Don't you know that a boat that gets fast to a whale in that ice will be smashed, sure?"
"Lower them boats!" shouted the captain.
Mr. Winchester, enthusiastic and fearless whaleman that he was, was eager for the captain's order. His boat and Mr. Landers's went down. The waist boat—mine—was left on its davits. But Gabriel, its boatheader, armed with a shoulder gun, went in the mate's boat. Left aboard to help work ship, I had an opportunity to view that exciting chase from beginning to end.
With storm-reefed sails, the boats went away over the big seas, sharply about to avoid the ice cakes. Not more than two hundred yards away on our starboard beam a great whale was blowing. The mate marked it and went for it like a bull dog. He to its course. It was a pretty piece of . The whale rose almost in front of him and his boat went shooting upon its back. Long John let fly his . Gabriel fired a bomb from his shoulder gun. There was a flurry of water as the whale under. Back and it slapped with its mighty flukes as it disappeared, narrowly missing the boat. Down came the boat's sail. It was bundled up in a jiffy and the mast aft until it stuck out far behind. Out went the sweeps. The mate stood in the stern a long . I could see the whale line whipping and sizzling out over the bows.
For only a moment the whale remained beneath the surface. Then it . Its black head came shooting up from the water like a rocket. Up went the great body into the air until at least forty feet of it was lifted against the sky like some , mighty column, its black sides glistening and its showing white. Then the giant bulk crashed down again with a on the sea that might have been heard for miles and an impact that sent tons of water splashing high in air. For an instant the monster on the water as if mortally hurt, spouting up fountains of blood that splattered over the ice blocks and tu............