early one morning the old familiar cry rang from the crow's-nest—"blo-o-o-w."
a lone whale, in plain view from the deck, was sporting lazily on the surface about a mile and a half off our starboard bow. the three boats were hurriedly lowered and the crews scrambled in. we took to the oars, for not a breath of air was stirring and the sea was as smooth as polished silver. away went the boats together, as if from a starting line at the crack of a pistol, with the whale as the goal and prize of the race.
mr. winchester had often boasted of the superiority of his crew. mr. landers had not seemed interested in the question, but gabriel resented the assumption. "just wait," he used to say to us confidentially. "we'll show him which is de bes' crew. our time'll come." the men of the mate's boat had shared their officer's vainglorious opinion. they had long swaggered among us with a self-complacent assurance that made us smart. our chance had at last come to prove their pride a mockery under the skipper's eyes. if ever men wanted, from the bottom of their hearts, to win, we did. we not only had our name as skillful oarsmen to vindicate, but a grudge to wipe out.
so evenly matched were the crews that the boats rushed along side by side for at least half a mile, mr. winchester insouciant and superciliously smiling, mr. landers indifferent, gabriel all eagerness and excitement. perhaps mr. landers knew his crew was outclassed. if he did not, he was not long in finding it out, for his boat began to drop steadily behind and was soon hopelessly out of the contest. but the other two crews, stroke for stroke, were proving foemen worthy of each other's prowess.
"oho, gabriel," mr. winchester laughed contemptuously, "you think your boat can out-pull us, eh? bet you ten pounds of tobacco we beat you to the whale."
"i take you," cried gabriel excitedly. "dat's a bet."
if gabriel accepted the challenge, so did we, and right heartily at that. we threw ourselves, heart and soul, into the struggle. the men in the mate's boat, holding us cheaply, believed they could draw away whenever they chose and go on to win, hands down. the mate kept looking over at us, a supercilious smile still curling the corners of his mouth.
"come on now, my boys," he cried. "all together. shake her up a bit. give those fellows a taste of your mettle."
we heard his words as distinctly as his own crew heard them—he was only a few boat lengths away. they inspired us to greater exertion than they inspired his own men. they spurted. so did we. still the two boats raced neck and neck. we were not to be shaken off. the mate looked disconcerted. his men had done their level best to take the lead and they had failed. that spurt marked the crisis of the race.
the mate's smile faded out. his face grew anxious. then it hardened into an expression of grim determination. he had sat motionless at the beginning. now when he saw his vaunted superiority slipping through his fingers he began to "jockey"—throwing his body forward in violent lunges at every stroke of the sweeps, pushing with all his might on the stroke oar, and booming out, "pull, my boys; pull away, my boys."
but old gabriel was "jockeying," too, and encouraging us in the same fashion.
"we show dat mate," he kept repeating. "we show him. steady together, my lads. pull away!"
and we pulled as if our lives depended on it, bending to the oars with every ounce of our strength, making the long sweeps bend in the water. we began to forge ahead, very slowly, inch by inch. we saw it—it cheered us to stronger effort. our rivals saw it—it discouraged them. under the heart-breaking strain they began to tire. they slipped back little by little. they spurted again. it was no use. we increased our advantage. open daylight began to broaden between the stern of our boat and the bow of theirs. they were beaten in a fair trial of strength, oarsmanship, and endurance.
"ha, my boys," chuckled gabriel. "we win. good-by to dat mate. now we catch dat whale."
we shot along at undiminished speed, pulling exultantly. what the whale was doing or how close we were to it, we at the oars could not see.
"stand by, louis," said gabriel presently.
"aye, aye, sir," responded louis.
a few more strokes and a great black bulk loomed close alongside.
"give it to him, louis," cried gabriel.
and as the boat glanced against that island of living ebony, louis's harpoon sank deep into the soft, buttery mass. we heard the tiny concussion of the cap of the tonite gun, and a fraction of a second later the bomb exploded with a muffled roar in the whale's vitals.
"stern, stern!" shouted gabriel. "stern for your lives!"
we backed water as hard as we could. the great back went flashing down, the mighty tail rose up directly over us, shutting out the sky. it curled over away from us and smote the sea with deafening thunder. as quick as lightning it rose into the air again, curled high above us with tragic menace, and came crashing down, this time toward us. but we had backed just out of harm's way. death and that terrible tail missed us by about three feet.
the mate's boat came rushing up. it was too late. the whale—our whale—had sounded.
"your boat can beat us, eh?" gabriel called tauntingly to mr. winchester. "not much. i know we break blackskin first. i know we win dat race."
our line began to dance and sing, leaping up from its neatly laid coils in the tub in dizzy spirals and humming out over the bow.
"ha, boys," sang out kaiuli, our kanaka bow oarsman. "now for fine ride behind arctic race horse—eh?"
with a whale harnessed to our boat and a sea as smooth as any turnpike for our highway, we settled ourselves for the ride. the friction of the line set the boat going. it gathered momentum. in a little while we were tearing along through that sea of oil, our bow deep in the smother as the whale pulled down upon it, and flashing walls of white spray flaring out on either side.
the other boats pulled for the point at which it seemed most probable the whale would come up. when it rose to the surface, the mate's boat was nearest.
"lay me on four seas off and i'll get him," we heard long john shout to mr. winchester. the mate did just that. the whale was up but a moment and long john tried for it, but it was too long a dart, and his harpoon fell into the sea. before he had recovered his iron we had shot past. when the whale rose again, we bumped out of water on its body. a second harpoon drove home in its back, a second bomb exploded in its insides. a great shudder seized the monster. the water foamed white with its throes. then everything grew still. slowly the great body rolled over, belly up.
big foot louis danced up and down in the bow, raising his knees high in a sort of joyful cake-walk. gabriel, equally excited, waved his hat.
"by golly," he shouted, "dat mate don't strike him. dat feesh is all ours. it takes old gabriel fer kill de whale, by golly."
when we got back to the brig we looked like snow-powdered santa clauses. the spray kicked up in our wild ride behind the arctic ocean race horse had wet us from head to foot and, freezing on our fur clothes, had frosted us all over with fine white ice. mr. winchester was a good sportsman and paid his bet promptly. out of his winnings gabriel gave each man of his boat's crew a plug of tobacco.
after the whale had been brought alongside the ship and the blubber had been peeled off its body, it fell to the lot of big foot louis to cut in the "old head." it was his first opportunity to show his experience in such work and he was as elated as a boy. he threw off his coat with a theatrical flourish, hitched up his trousers, seized an axe, and with an air of bravado climbed down on the stripped carcass. a little sea had begun to run and the whale was bending sinuously throughout its length and rolling slightly from side to side.
louis chopped two little ledges in the whale's flesh with the deftness of an old hand, and planting his feet in these, began raining blows with his axe on the neck. he was getting on famously, and the crew, hanging over the bulwarks, was watching with admiring eyes. suddenly the whale gave an unexpectedly violent roll—our arctic ocean race horse was proving a bronco even in death—and louis's big foot slipped off into the water. he lost his balance, pitched forward, and sprawled face downward on the whale, his axe sailing away and plunking into the sea. he clutched frantically at the whale, but every grip slipped loose and, inch by inch, with eyeballs popping out of his head, he slid off into the sea and with a yell went under.
everybody laughed. the captain held his sides and the officers on the cutting stage almost fell off in the violence of their mirth. louis came up spluttering and splashing. he was an expert swimmer, as expert as the kanakas among whom he had lived for years, and he needed all his skill to keep afloat in his heavy boots and skin clothes. as soon as the mate could control his merriment, he stuck the long handle of his spade down and louis grasped it and was pulled back on the whale's body. he sat there, dripping and shivering and with chattering teeth, rolling his white eyes up at the laughing crew along the rail with a tragic "et tu, brute" expression. he couldn't see the joke.
"lemme aboard," he whimpered.
"stay where you are," roared the captain, "and cut in that head."
louis lived in mortal fear of the skipper, and the way he straightened up in his slippery seat and said "aye, aye, sir!" made the crew burst out laughing again. another axe was passed down to him. he floundered to his feet, and though he found it harder than ever in his wet boots to keep his footing, and slipped more than once and almost fell off again, he finally succeeded in cutting off the head. he had regained his air of bravado by the time he had scrambled back on deck.
"pretty close shave, louis," ventured a sailor.
"humph," returned louis, "dat's nothin'—nothin' at all." and with quite lordly dignity, despite the dripping brine, he stalked off to the cabin to change his clothes.
