Читать книгу John Frewen, South Sea Whaler - Becke Louis - Страница 2

The quarrel between Keller, a rough, blasphemous-mouthed, and violent-tempered man, and his second officer had arisen over a very simple matter.

Frewen, one of the six sons of a struggling New Hampshire farmer, had received a better education than his brothers, for he was intended for the navy. But at sixteen years of age he realised the condition of the family finances, and shipped on a whaler sailing out of New London. From “‘foremast hand with hayseed in his hair,” he became boatsteerer; then followed rapid promotion from fourth to second officer’s berth, and at the age of five-and-twenty he was as competent a navigator and as good a seaman and boatheader as ever trod a whaleship’s deck. For like many a country-bred boy he had the sea instinct in his bones, inherited perhaps from his progenitors, who were of a seafaring stock in old Devonshire, in that town made for ever famous by Kingsley in “Westward Ho!”

When Frewen joined the Casilda, Keller had taken a great fancy to the young man, whom he soon discovered was a very able officer, and who proved his ability as a good whaleman so amply during the first twelve months of the cruise by never losing a whale once he got fast, that Keller, who was as mean as he was brutal to his crew, relaxed his “hazing” propensities considerably. The Casilda was always known as a “hard” ship and Keller as a “hazer”; but, on the other hand, she was also a lucky ship, and Lopes, the chief mate, who had sailed in her for many years, was a sterling good man, though a strict disciplinarian, and did much for the men to compensate them for Keller’s outbursts of savage fury when anything went wrong. So Lopez, Frewen, and his fellow-officers “worked” together, and the crew “worked” with them, and the Casilda became a fairly happy ship, as well as a lucky one, for Keller, after long years, began to realise that it was bad policy to ill-treat a willing crew who would give him a “full” ship in another six months instead of deserting one by one or in batches at every island touched at in the South Seas.

And Frewen was a mascotte, and his half-caste boat-steerer was another, for whenever a pod of whales were sighted the second mate’s boat was invariably the first to get fast, and on one glorious day off Sunday Island Frewen’s boat killed three sperms—a bull and two cows—and the four other boats each got one or two, so that for over a week, in a calm sea, and under a cloudless sky of blue by day and night, “cutting in” and “trying-out” went on merrily, and the cooper and his mates toiled like Trojans, setting-up fresh barrels; and the smoke and glare of the try-works from the deck of the Casilda lit up the placid ocean for many a mile, whilst hordes of blue sharks rived and tore and ripped off the rich blubber from the whales lying alongside waiting to be cut-in, and Keller shot or lanced them by the score as he stood on the cutting-in stage or in one of the boats made fast to the chains on the free side.

Fourteen months out, as the Casilda was cruising northward, intending to touch at one of the Navigator’s Islands (Samoa) to refresh, the first trouble occurred. Cheyne, Frewen’s boatsteerer, who was a splendidly built, handsome young fellow of twenty-four years of age, received a rather severe injury to his right foot whilst a heavy baulk of timber was being “fleeted” along the deck. Frewen, who was much attached to him, dressed his foot as well as the rough appliances on board would allow, and then reported him to the captain as unfit for duty.

Keller growled something about all “darned half-breeds” being glad of any excuse to shirk duty.

Frewen took him up sharply: “This man is no shirker, sir. He is as good a man as ever ‘stood up’ to strike a whale. Did you ever see a better one?”

Keller looked at his second officer with fourteen months’ repressed brutality glowering in his savage eyes.

“I’m the captain of this ship. Just you mind that. I reckon I can’t be taught much by any college buster.”

Frewen’s hands clenched, but he replied quietly, though he was inwardly raging at Keller’s contemptuous manner—

“Just so. You are the captain of this ship, and I know my duty, sir. But I am not the man to be insulted by any one. And I say that my boatsteerer is not fit for duty.”

Keller’s retort was of so insulting a character that in another moment the two men—to the intense delight of the crew—were fighting on the after-deck. Lopes and the cooper, as in duty bound, sprang forward and seized their fellow-officer, but the captain, with an oath, bade them stand aside.

“I’ll pound you first,” he cried hoarsely to Frewen, “then I’ll kick you into the foc’sle.”

The fight lasted for fifteen minutes, and then Lopes and the third mate forced themselves between and separated them. Both men were terribly punished.

“That will do, sir; that will do, Frewen,” said the mate; “do you want to kill each other?”

Keller had some good points about him and a certain amount of humour as well.

“Haow much air yew hurt, Frewen?” he inquired. “I can’t exactly see” (both his eyes were fast closing).

“Pretty much like yourself,” replied the officer; then he paused and held out his hand. “Shake hands, sir. I’m sorry we’ve had this turn.”

“Wa’al, it’s mighty poor business, that’s a fact,” and Keller took the proffered hand, and then the matter apparently ended.

Early in the morning on the following day whales were raised. There was a stiff breeze and a choppy sea. Three boats, of which Frewen’s was one, were lowered. Cheyne, although suffering great pain, insisted on taking his place, and twenty minutes later his officer called out to him to “stand up,” for they were close to the whale—a large cow, which was moving along very slowly, apparently unconscious of the boat’s presence.

Then for the first time during the voyage the half-caste missed striking his fish. Unable to sustain himself steadily, owing to his injured foot and the rough sea, he darted his iron a second or two too late. It fell flat on the back of the monstrous creature, which at once sounded in alarm, and next reappeared a mile to windward. For an hour Frewen kept up the chase, and then the ship signalled for all the boats to return, for the wind and sea were increasing, and it was useless for them to attempt to overtake the whales, which were now miles to windward. Neither of the other boats had even come within striking distance of a fish, and consequently Keller was in a vile temper when they returned, and the moment he caught sight of the half-caste boatsteerer he assailed him with a volley of abuse.

The young man listened with sullen resentment dulling his dark face, then as he turned to limp for’ard the captain bade him make haste and get better, and not “try on any soldiering.”

He turned in an instant, his passion completely overmastering him: “I’m no ‘soldier,’ and as good a man as you, you mean old Gape Cod water-rat. I’ll never lift another iron or steer a boat for you as long as I am on this ship.”

Five minutes later he was in irons with a promise of being kept on biscuit and water till he “took back all he had said” in the presence of the ship’s company.

“I’ll lie here and rot first sir,” he said to Lopez; “my father was an Englishman, and I consider myself as good a boatsteerer and as good a man as any one on board. But I do not mean any disrespect to you, sir.”

Lopez was sorry for the man, but could not say so. “Keep a still tongue between your teeth,” he said roughly, “and I’ll talk the old man round by to-morrow.”

“Do as you please, sir. But I won’t lift an iron again as long as I am in this ship,” he replied quietly.

He kept his word. On the following morning he was liberated, and in a week’s time he had recovered the use of his foot. Then, when the barque was off the Tonga Islands, a large “pod” of whales were sighted. It was a clear, warm day. The sea was as smooth as a lake, and only the faintest air was ruffling the surface of the water. Three miles away were two small, low-lying islands, clad with coco-palms, their white belting of beach glistening like iridescent pearl-shell under the glowing tropic sun.

As the boats were lowered he said to Frewen, “You know what I have said, sir. I won’t lift a harpoon again on this cruise; so don’t ask me.”

Frewen did not believe him. “Don’t be a fool, Randall. We’ll show the old man something to-day.”

“I will, sir, if it costs me my life.”

Five minutes later he was in his old place on the for’ard thwart, pulling stolidly, but looking intently at Frewen, whom he loved with a dog-like affection.

Frewen singled out a large bull whale which was lying quite apart from the rest of the “pod” sunning himself, and sometimes rolling lazily from side to side, oblivious of danger. In another five minutes the boat would have been within striking distance.

“Stand up, Randall,” he said.

The half-caste peaked and socketed his oar, and looked at the officer.

“I refuse, sir,” he said quietly.

“Then come aft here,” cried Frewen quickly, with hot anger in his tones.

“No, sir, I will not. I said I would neither lift iron nor steer a boat again,” was the dogged reply.

There was no time to lose. Giving the steer oar to the man pulling the “after-tub oar,” the officer sprang forward and picked up the harpoon just in time, Randall jumping aft smartly enough, and taking the tub man’s oar. Ten seconds later Frewen had buried his harpoon up to the socket in the whale, and the line was humming as the boat tore through the water. Then, still keeping his place, he let the whole of one tub of line run out, and then hauled up on it and lanced and killed his fish quietly. Cheyne apparently took no notice, though his heart sank within him when Frewen came aft again, and looked at him with mingled anger and reproach.

Some one of the boat’s crew talked of what had occurred, though Frewen said nothing; and that night Cheyne was placed in irons by Keller’s orders. At the end of a week he was still manacled and almost starving, but he steadfastly refused to do boatsteerer’s duty. Then the captain no longer placed any check on himself, and he swore that he would either make the half-caste yield or else kill him. And he did his best to keep his word.

Nearly a month passed, and then, at Frewen’s suggestion, all the officers waited on the captain and begged him to release the unfortunate man; otherwise there was every prospect of the crew mutinying.

“Is he willing to turn to again?” he asked.

“Not as boatsteerer,” replied Frewen.

“Then he shall stay where he is,” was the savage retort.

Five or six days later Frewen went to Cheyne, who was now confined in the ‘tween decks, and implored him to give in.

“Very well, sir. To please you I will give in. But I mean to desert the first chance.”

“So do I. I am sick of this condition of things. There are three other men besides yourself in irons now.”

“Who are they, sir?”

“Willis, Hunt, and Freeman.” (The two latter belonged to his own boat, and had been ironed because they had refused to eat some bad beef. Frewen himself had told Keller that it was uneatable, and again angry words passed between them.)

Cheyne was released and resumed his old place in Frewen’s boat, and the officer then sounded the rest of his men, and found they were eager to leave the ship. So he made his plans, and he and Cheyne quietly got together a small supply of provisions and a second breaker of water.

They waited till the ship was well among the Friendly Group, and Upolu Island was three hundred miles to the north, and then were given the needed opportunity—when the mate’s boat was destroyed by the big bull whale, which was then struck by Cheyne.

“Boys,” shouted Frewen to his crew, as the boat tore through the water, “I’m not going to kill this whale awhile. He’ll give us a long run, and is taking us dead to windward, away from the ship. But before it gets dark I’ll give him a bomb.”

He successfully carried out his intention. Just as darkness was coming on he hauled up on his line and fired a bomb into the mighty creature; it killed it in a few seconds. Then they lay alongside of the floating carcase, spelled half an hour, had something to eat, and then Cheyne, who had a sense of humour, wrote the scrawl to Keller and tied it round the whift pole.

“Now, lads,” cried Frewen, “up sail! It is a fine dark night, and we should be forty or fifty miles away by daylight.”

And so, whilst the Casilda burnt flare after flare throughout the night, the adventurers were slipping through the water merrily enough, oblivious of the cold rain squalls which overtook them at midnight, as they headed for Samoa.