The World of Ice by R. M. Ballantyne (digital e reader TXT) 📕

While the captain’s crew were thus engaged, Saunders, the second mate, observing from the ship the accident to the first mate’s boat, sent off a party of men to the rescue, thus setting free the third boat, which was steered by a strapping fellow named Peter Grim, to follow up the chase. Peter Grim was the ship’s carpenter, and he took after his name. He was, as the sailors expressed it, a “grim customer”, being burnt by the sun to a deep rich brown colour, besides being covered nearly up to the eyes with a thick coal-black beard and moustache, which completely concealed every part of his visage except his prominent nose and dark, fiery-looking eyes. He was an immense man, the largest in the ship, probably, if we except the Scotch second mate Saunders, to whom he was about equal in all respects—except argument. Like most big men, he was peaceable and good-humoured.

“Look alive now, lads,” said Grim, as the men pulled towards the whale; “we’ll get a chance yet, we shall, if you give way like tigers. Split your sides, boys—do—that’s it. Ah! there she goes right down. Pull away now, and be ready when she rises.”

As he spoke the whale suddenly sounded, that is, went perpendicularly down, as it had done when first struck, and continued to descend until most of the line in the captain’s boat was run out.

“Hoist an oar,” cried Amos Parr, as he saw the coil diminishing. Grim observed the signal of distress, and encouraged his men to use their utmost exertions. “Another oar!—another!” shouted Parr, as the whale continued its headlong descent. “Stand by to cut the line,” said Captain Guy with compressed lips. “No! hold on, hold on!”

At this moment, having drawn down more than a thousand fathoms of rope, the whale slackened its speed, and Parr, taking another coil round the loggerhead, held on until the boat was almost dragged under water. Then the line became loose, and the slack was hauled in rapidly. Meanwhile Grim’s boat had reached the spot and the men now lay on their oars at some distance ahead, ready to pull the instant the whale should show itself. Up it came, not twenty yards ahead. One short, energetic pull, and the second boat sent a harpoon deep into it, while Grim sprang to the bow and thrust a lance with deadly force deep into the carcass. The monster sent up a stream of mingled blood, oil, and water, and whirled its huge tail so violently that the sound could be heard a mile off. Before it dived again, the captain’s boat came up, and succeeded in making fast another harpoon, while several additional lance-thrusts were given with effect, and it seemed as if the battle were about to terminate, when suddenly the whale struck the sea with a clap like thunder, and darted away once more like a rocket to windward, tearing the two boats after it as if they had been egg-shells.

Meanwhile a change had come over the scene. The sun had set, red and lowering, behind a bank of dark clouds, and there was every appearance of stormy weather; but as yet it was nearly calm, and the ship was unable to beat up against the light breeze in the wake of the two boats, which were soon far away on the horizon. Then a furious gust arose and passed away; a dark cloud covered the sky as night fell, and soon boats and whale were utterly lost to view.

“Waes me,” cried the big Scotch mate, as he ran up and down the quarter-deck wringing his hands, “what is to be done noo?”

Saunders spoke a mongrel kind of language—a mixture of Scotch and English,—in which, although the Scotch words were sparsely scattered, the Scotch accent was very strong.

“How’s her head?”

“Nor’-nor’-west, sir.”

“Keep her there, then. Maybe, if the wind holds stiddy, we may overhaul them before it’s quite dark.”

Although Saunders was really in a state of the utmost consternation at this unexpected termination to the whale-hunt, and expressed the agitation of his feelings pretty freely, he was too thorough a seaman to neglect anything that was necessary to be done under the circumstances. He took the exact bearings of the point at which the boats had disappeared, and during the night, which turned out gusty and threatening, kept making short tacks, while lanterns were hung at the mast-heads, and a huge torch, or rather a small bonfire, of tarred materials was slung at the end of a spar and thrust out over the stern of the ship. But for many hours there was no sign of the boats, and the crew of the Dolphin began to entertain the most gloomy forebodings regarding them.

At length, towards morning, a small speck of light was noticed on the weather-beam. It flickered for a moment, and then disappeared.

“Did ye see yon?” said Saunders to Mivins in an agitated whisper, laying his huge hand on the shoulder of that worthy. “Down your helm,” (to the steersman).

“Ay, ay, sir!”

“Stiddy!”

“Steady it is, sir!”

Mivins’ face, which for some hours had worn an expression of deep anxiety, relaxed into a bland smile, and he smote his thigh powerfully as he exclaimed: “That’s them, sir, and no mistake! What’s your opinion, Mr Saunders!”

The second mate peered earnestly in the direction in which the light had been seen, and Mivins, turning in the same direction, screwed up his visage into a knot of earnest attention so complicated and intense that it seemed as if no human power could evermore unravel it.

“There it goes again!” cried Saunders, as the light flashed distinctly over the sea.

“Down helm; back fore-top-sails!” he shouted, springing forward; “lower away the boat there!”

In a few seconds the ship was hove to, and a boat, with a lantern fixed to an oar, was plunging over the swell in the direction of the light. Sooner than was expected they came up with it, and a hurrah in the distance told that all was right.

“Here we are, thank God,” cried Captain Guy, “safe and sound! We don’t require assistance, Mr Saunders; pull for the ship.”

A short pull sufficed to bring the three boats alongside, and in a few seconds more the crew were congratulating their comrades with that mingled feeling of deep heartiness and a disposition to jest which is characteristic of men who are used to danger, and think lightly of it after it is over.

“We’ve lost our fish, however,” remarked Captain Guy, as he passed the crew on his way to the cabin; “but we must hope for better luck next time.”

“Well, well,” said one of the men, wringing the water out of his wet clothes as he walked forward, “we got a good laugh at Peter Grim, if we got nothin’ else by our trip.”

“How was that, Jack?”

“Why, ye see, jist before the whale gave in, it sent up a spout o’ blood and oil as thick as the main-mast, and, as luck would have it, down it came slap on the head of Grim, drenchin’ him from head to foot, and makin’ him as red as a lobster.”

“’Ow did you lose the fish, sir?” enquired Mivins, as our hero sprang up the side, followed by Singleton.

“Lost him as men lose money in railway speculations nowadays. We sank him, and that was the last of it. After he had towed us I don’t know how far-out of sight of the ship at any rate,—he suddenly stopped, and we pulled up and gave him some tremendous digs with the lances, until he spouted jets of blood, and we made sure of him, when, all at once, down he went head foremost like a cannon-ball, and took all the line out of both boats, so we had to cut, and he never came up again. At least if he did it became so dark that we never saw him. Then we pulled to where we thought the ship was, and, after rowing nearly all night, caught sight of your lights; and here we are, dead-tired, wet to the skin, and minus about two miles of whale-line and three harpoons.”