JOHN FREWEN, SOUTH SEA WHALER
By Louis Becke



JOHN FREWEN, SOUTH SEA WHALER


From "Chinkie's Flat And Other Stories"

By Louis Becke


Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott Company 1904





BOOK I




CHAPTER I

Captain Ethan Keller, of the _Casilda_ of Nantucket, was in a very bad
temper, for in four days he had lost two of the five boats the barque
carried--one had been hopelessly stove by the dreaded "underclip" given
her by a crafty old bull sperm-whale, and the other, which was in charge
of the second mate, had not been seen for seventy hours. When last
sighted she was fast to the same bull which had destroyed the first
mate's boat; it was then nearly dark, and the whale, which was of an
enormous size, although he had three irons in his body and was towing
the whole length of line from the stove-in boat as well as that of the
second mate, was racing through the water as fresh as when he had first
been struck, three hours previously. Then the sun dipped below the
sea-rim, and the blue Pacific was shrouded in darkness.

"Why in thunder couldn't the dunderhead put a bomb into that fish before
it came on dark?" growled the skipper to his other officers, as they
sat down to a harried sapper in the spacious, old-fashioned cabin of the
whaler.

No one answered. Frewen, the missing officer, was as good a whaleman
as ever drove an iron or gripped the haft of a steer-oar, and his
half-caste boatsteerer Randall Cheyne was the best on the ship. But
there was bad blood between young Frewen and his captain, and Cheyne was
the cause of it.

"If they cut and lose that whale," resumed Keller presently, "I'll haze
the life out of them--by thunder, I will, if I break my back in doing
it! Why, that is the biggest fish we've struck yet. If I had been in
that boat, I'd have had that whale in his flurry two hours ago. Why, it
appears to me that Frewen got too soared to even try to haul up and give
him a bomb, let alone giving him the lance--which was easy enough."

Just as he spoke, one of the boatsteerers entered the cabin and reported
that some of the hands thought that they had heard the second mate's
bomb gun.

"All right," growled Keller, "tell the cooper to burn a flare."

"I guess Frewen won't lose him," said Lopez, the first mate. "He told
me long ago that he never yet had to out, and I don't think he'll do it
now--unless something has gone wrong. That must have been his gun."

"Huh!" sneered Keller, as he viciously speared a piece of salt pork with
his fork, "we'll see all about that when daylight comes. You'll find Mr.
Firwen and that yaller-hided Samoa buck back here for breakfast, but no
whale."

None of the men made any reply. They knew that Frewen would be the
last man to lose a fish through any fault of his own, and only after
carefully "drogueing" his line would he part company with it, and that
only if the immense creature emptied the line tubs and "sounded." Then,
to save the lives of those in the boat, he would have to cut.

"Guess we'll see that whale to-morrow, anyway, whether Mr. Frewen is
fast to him or not," said the third mate to the cooper, as they met on
deck; "he's got a mighty lot of line hanging to him, and, just after the
second mate got fast I saw him shaking his flukes and trying to kick out
one of the two irons the mate hove into him."

"Well, that is so; I hope we shall get him. The old man is pretty cranky
over it. He hasn't a nice temper even when he's in a good humour, and
there will be blue fire blazing if Mr. Frewen does lose the fish after
all."

For four hours the barque made short tacks to the eastward, in which
direction the boat had been taken by the whale. The night was fine but
dark, the sea very smooth, and the flares which were burnt at intervals
on board the barque would render her visible many miles away, and a keen
look-out was kept for the boat, but nothing could be discovered of it.

Towards midnight the light air from the eastward died away, and was
succeeded by a series of rather sharp rain squalls from the south-west,
and Keller, fearing to miss the boat by running past her, hove-to till
daylight.

The dawn broke brightly, with a dead calm. Forty pairs of eyes eagerly
scanned the surface of the ocean, and in a few minutes there came a
cheering cry from aloft.

"Dead whale, oh! Close to on the weather beam."

"Can you see the boat?" cried Lopez.

"No, sir," was the reply after a few seconds silence. "Can't see her
anywhere."

"Look on the other side of the whale, you bat!" growled the skipper.

"She's not there, sir," was the reply.

"Lower away your boats, Mr. Bock and Mr. Lopez," said Keller in more
gracious tones to the third and first officers; "the second mate can't
be far away, but why in thunder he didn't hang on to the whale last
night I don't know. Take something to eat with you. You will have to tow
that whale alongside--this calm is going to last all day."

Five minutes later the two boats pushed off, and then, as they sped over
the glassy surface of the ocean and the huge carcass of the whale was
more clearly revealed, Bock called out to his superior officer that he
could see a whift {*} on it.

     * A wooden pole with a small pennon; used by whalers' boats
     as a signal to the ship.

Lopez nodded, but said nothing.

They pulled up alongside, and the mate's boatsteerer stepped out on to
the body of Leviathan and pulled out the whift pole, which was firmly
embedded in the blubber.

"There's a letter tied round the pole, sir," he said to his officer, as
he got back to the boat again and passed the whift aft.

The "letter" had been carefully wrapped in a strip of oilskin, and then
tied around the whift pole by a piece of sail twine. It was a sheet of
soiled paper with a few pencilled lines written on it. Lopez read it:--

     "For the information of Ethan Keller, Haser: This whale was
     struck, for the sake of his shipmates' lays, by Randall
     Cheyne, the 'yaller-hided Samoan,' who has struck more
     whales than old Haser Keller ever saw. If Haser Keller wants
     us he will find us at Savage Island, where we shall be ready
     for him.

     (Signed) "R. Cheyne, Boatsteerer, "Casilda."

"Where is Mr. Frewen, sir?" inquired the boatsteerer anxiously.

"Gone for a picnic," replied the mate laconically. "Now, look lively,
my lads. We've got to tow this fish to the ship and 'cut in' before the
sharks save us the trouble."




CHAPTER II

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.




CHAPTER III

When Frewen allowed Cheyne to write the pencilled note to Captain
Keller, he did so with a double purpose, for he and Cheyne had carefully
thought out and decided upon their plans. In the first place, the dead
whale would convince the ship's company that he and his boat's crew had
"done the square thing," by killing and leaving for their benefit the
best and largest whale that had yet been taken, and that although
they were deserting (and consequently losing their entire share of the
profits of the cruise so far, which would be divided with their former
shipmates) the rich prize they were leaving to the ship would prove of
ten times the value of the boat in which they had escaped. In the second
place he wished to put Keller on a false scent by naming Savage Island
(or Nine, as it is generally known) as their destination; for Keller
knew that the island was a favourite