Rush Oh! Page 7

  The second boat, led by my brother Harry, meanwhile made several attempts to fasten to the smaller whale, but, as reported in the same account:

  ‘his somewhat amateurish crew were either unable or unwilling to get within the required distance to throw the harpoon with any chance of success and consequently he had to be content with following the “fast” boat to render aid in the event of an accident taking place.’

  Here I see that I have underlined the words unable or unwilling and inscribed a tiny question mark in the margin.

  I should explain that the second boat is often relegated to the role of ‘pick-up boat’; that is, if the whale line, tearing out of the boat, flicks a man into the water, then the second boat picks him up. Similarly, if the whale stoves in a portion of the boat (this happened rarely, again mainly due to the aforementioned qualities of my father). Sometimes, if a whale was particularly large or possessed of unnatural vitality, or if the first boat’s harpoon had not gained a secure purchase within the whale’s flesh, then the second boat would also make fast to this same whale; however, this was dangerous in practice as the two lines could become crossed in the ensuing chase, and the two boats end up ploughing into one another at high speed. If the Killers had apprehended more than one whale, then the duty of the second boat was to harpoon and capture the second whale or, at the very least, to remain fast to the whale until such time as the first boat could render assistance. In this instance, it seems that the crew of the second boat was deemed ‘unable or unwilling’. Certainly the crew included three new chums (John Beck amongst them), but I wonder if the blame could not be at least in part attributed to my brother’s inexperience in the role of headsman.

  I should perhaps pause here to outline in more detail the duties of the headsman. He is sometimes described as the chief officer of the boat; he steers the boat from the stern with the long sweep or steer oar, until the boat has gained sufficient proximity for the harpooner to employ his tool. It is a highly skilled position and calls for a man with experience; when a whale has sounded, it falls upon the headsman to predict where it might resurface and set his course accordingly. Here it must be said (and perhaps Mr Phillips of the Observer was alluding to this when he referred to my father’s ‘complete knowledge of the tactics of the whale’) that my father had an uncanny instinct for the underwater manoeuvrings a whale might attempt. Frequently was a whale surprised by the cold steel of a harpoon when it at last came up for air.

  At this point, once the boat is attached to the whale by means of the harpoon, the headsman then changes position with the harpooner in order to lance the whale from the bow of the boat. This ‘changing of the guard’ between the headsman and harpooner is a time-honoured practice, but puzzling to the uninitiated. Here is the whale stung by the harpoon and desperately trying to outrun its tormentors, yet just at this critical and dangerous moment, the headsman and the harpooner must each scramble to opposite ends of a thirty-foot boat, doing their utmost not to become entangled in the whale line which is whipping out of the boat at such speed that the friction as it pulls around the loggerhead will sometimes cause it to ignite.

  ‘But why does the headsman not simply harpoon the whale himself?’ I once asked my father.

  ‘Because that is the job of the harpooner,’ he replied in a kindly fashion, as if to a halfwit.

  ‘Then could not the harpooner just stay at the bow and lance the whale?’ I asked, feeling as if I may have unwittingly stumbled across a simple solution to a vexing problem.

  ‘Oh no. No. No chance of that.’

  ‘Why not?’ I persisted.

  ‘Because that is the job of the headsman.’

  I could tell by the tone of his voice that he did not wish to continue this line of conversation, so I desisted. However, I do not pretend to know better than my father; there is much about whaling that my father chose not to explain to me, although I took an avid interest; indeed, there is much about whaling that he tried to spare me. The truth is that throwing the harpoon and wielding the lance are two quite distinct disciplines. Certainly, great skill was required of the headsman to hasten the whale’s demise; a mortally wounded whale in its ‘death flurry’ is extremely dangerous. The headsman would take aim at the whale’s vulnerable spot, about three feet back from its side fin; sometimes, a single thrust of the lance, a mighty shudder and it would all be over. At other times, however, many more thrusts of the lance were required; occasionally, the vitality of the whale was such that it simply would not die. On one moonless night in 1905, a large humpback set such a determined course out to sea after having been repeatedly lanced and even fired upon by the whale gun, that my father was forced to cut it loose, deeming the operation too perilous to continue. They had chased this whale for six hours and over many miles; in spite of its injuries, it showed no sign of weakening, and yet my father considered it could not possibly live. In cutting adrift, my father lost a harpoon and eight fathoms of line.

  I go into detail here about the role of the headsman because I feel it is important to understand that it is a demanding and difficult position, the headsman’s skill in both steering and lancing being crucial to the outcome. Harry at that time was only eighteen years of age, and had been promoted to the position of headsman of the second boat only owing to my father’s extreme difficulty in finding crew members. Harry maintained, in this instance, that his crew had not rowed hard enough, that they seemed leery of getting too close to the whale, but I wonder, was that really the cause? Surely it is up to the headsman to steer the course whereby they are best positioned to encounter the whale when it next resurfaces? Surely it is up to the headsman to encourage and inspire his men with his own steady nerve? These are questions that I felt needed to be asked of Harry; however, given his foul temper that evening, I thought better of doing so.

  At mealtime that night, the crew of the second boat was given a pretty thorough bucketing by the others. When Dan and I brought down the evening meal, John Beck seemed not his normal self, but rather pale and shaken; he took his plate from me without a word and moved off to sit alone, some distance from the others. This concerned me; it was not unheard of for new chums to ‘do a runner’ after their first taste of whaling, and my father could ill-afford to lose an oarsman.

  I brooded over this as I washed the dishes, and as soon as I was free of my duties, I sought him out with the idea of offering him some words of encouragement. Night had fallen and, apart from a slush lamp flickering within a sleeping hut, all was in darkness. It seemed that the whale men, worn out by their exertions, had taken themselves off to bed. With some difficulty, I negotiated the path down to the try-works and stood for a moment on the slipway, holding up my lantern in a bid to peer further into the darkness.

  ‘Well, you were right, Mary,’ said a voice behind me.

  I turned quickly and saw that John Beck was leaning up against the capstan behind me.

  ‘What about?’ I responded.

  ‘There’s a great deal of blood in these whales.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said. ‘Yes.’

  Although pleased to be vindicated, I had no wish to gloat at this moment, so I said nothing further. Moreover, I felt suddenly uncertain as to what I might say that would best offer comfort or encouragement at this time. John Beck also remained silent, seeming greatly preoccupied, although owing to the darkness it was difficult to be sure. Several moments passed; it was John Beck himself who finally spoke.

  ‘Canst thou draw out Leviathan with a fish hook?’ he asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ I said. In truth, his comment startled me.

  ‘Or press down his tongue with a cord? Canst thou put a rope through his nose, or pierce his jaw through with a hook?’ he intoned.

  I was now genuinely at a loss; unfamiliar as I was with much of the Bible, I was uncertain whether a response of some kind was expected of me.

  ‘Wilt thou play with him as with a bir
d? No, that’s not right . . . How does it go again, I wonder? Do you know the passage I mean, Mary? I find I cannot quite remember it, and yet it now seems so important that I do.’

  As I feared, he certainly did sound discouraged.

  ‘I gather you found your first encounter with a whale to be startling,’ I said, summoning all my nerve to speak directly. ‘It put you in mind of something biblical.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, it did. Oh, Mary, such a sight to behold.’

  ‘I have never seen one actually alive,’ I confessed. ‘A spout in the distance, perhaps. Mind you, I’ve seen plenty of them dead, of course, belly-up here on the slipway.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said John Beck. ‘That’s a pity. For it’s a sight to surely fill one with awe.’

  ‘I gather that you were perhaps too filled with awe to bring yourself to row close enough to the drat thing?’

  There was silence in the darkness.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘That is just the general impression I have formed.’

  ‘Has there been a complaint?’

  ‘No. Not really. Look, it’s common for new chums to be scared –'

  ‘I wasn’t scared.’

  ‘Filled with awe then – whatever you wish to call it. Frankly, I mostly blame Harry. He doesn’t have the experience to be headsman yet. I don’t know what Dad was thinking. Anyway, first whale of the season! Plenty of time to get your nerve up! I’m sure on the next occasion you won’t be letting one get away.’

  I gave a light laugh. I had meant this speech to instil in him a sense of optimism and verve, but even as the words spilled out, I began to doubt their efficacy. For although I could see him only dimly by my lantern light, I could sense in him a mounting irritation. There was silence; then a short sigh, as if of exasperation.

  ‘Well, Mary, I will try not to let you down again,’ he said. ‘Goodnight.’

  And with that, he wandered off towards the sleeping hut.

  The Trying-Out

  Here I will attempt to document the interesting process of ‘trying-out’; that is, rendering the blubber into whale oil. Although the smells were abhorrent and the spectacle gory, I often tried to find time to study at least part of the trying-out process, and sometimes brought with me my sketchbook. Looking at these sketches now, I see that I had a great deal of difficulty with the subject; in fact, the longer I stare at them, the less I am able to make sense of what these earnest scratchings are supposed to represent. For if a whale is difficult to draw when alive and kitted out in all its blubber, it is nigh on impossible when just a mountain of indeterminate, unwholesome flesh, denuded of blubber, fins and features, and left abandoned in the shallows. I would sometimes catch our house cat Philly sitting on the slipway staring at these remains – as keen as she was on fish scraps, the very sight of these seemed somehow to defeat her.

  The humpback recently captured had ‘gassed up’ within a day or so and risen to the surface; the Killers had taken their portion, and now the whalers towed it back to the try-works and immediately set to the task at hand. It was not a job they greatly relished, yet they applied themselves to it in a determined fashion, the new chums learning from the old. First, armed with the blubber spade, my father clambered to the top of the carcass and, making an incision near the tail end, cut a piece along the length of the whale about twenty feet long and six feet wide. A rope was then attached to one end of this piece and fastened to the capstan. Seven or eight of the men (including John Beck on this occasion) then put their weight to turning the capstan, thus slowly prising the ‘blanket’ away – for it did not come easily – my father hacking at it with his blubber spade whenever it should stick. In this laborious fashion, the belly side of the whale was flensed of its blubber, and with aid of heavy tackling and much heaving and grunting on the part of the whale men, the whale was then turned over for the same process to be repeated on the other side. This particular humpback was not an especially large one, yet the process still took a great many hours.

  Those men not engaged in flensing would commence cutting the ‘blankets’ into ‘junks’, which were then sliced into smaller pieces, called ‘horses’, and tossed in a vat to render into whale oil. After a period of time, these pieces were pulled out again and placed on the mincing horse to be sliced into thin leaves, and thence into the try pot itself, where they would liquefy into valuable whale oil. The oil would then flow automatically into a series of coolers, and from there be ladled into large iron tanks, and then into casks for storage.

  Uncle Aleck himself took the task of supervising the try pots, standing by with his skimmer and every so often pulling out a piece of crispy blubber and examining it closely. Only when he was satisfied that every last ounce of oil had been extracted would he toss it aside. It could then be used to fuel the fire, although the smell was not pleasant.

  ‘I have a question for you, Father,’ said Uncle Aleck. Glistening with blood and oil, he looked like a creature from the bowels of hell as he stirred the foul contents of his cauldron.

  ‘Oh yes?’ said John Beck. He also glistened with blood and oil, yet somehow the effect on him was more pleasing.

  ‘It’s a theological question of sorts.’

  ‘By all means. Ask away.’

  ‘I believe you were a minister of the Methodist church?’

  ‘That’s right, for a time.’

  ‘In your frank opinion then, Father,’ said Uncle Aleck, ‘how do you find the Methodist ladies compare with Presbyterian girls? I’m speaking purely of appearance – never mind personality for the moment.’

  Uncle Aleck had never married, and his thoughts often lingered upon such topics.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t rightly say,’ said John Beck, and at this point he glanced over to where I sat sketching, some small distance away. ‘I’ve not had a lot to do with Presbyterian girls.’

  ‘More’s the pity! Presbyterian girls are the prettiest by a country mile!’ volunteered young Robert. Some of the whale men then proceeded to offer their own opinions on the subject; Bastable took the case for the Anglican lasses while Salty admired the good women of the Salvation Army. The conversation was just turning to the Little Sisters of the Sacred Heart when my father instructed me to get back up to the house.

  ‘But why? I’ve nothing to do up there.’

  ‘This is no place for you, that’s why.’

  Annoyed with him, I gathered my drawing implements and headed off up to the house; the whole area was awash with blood and whale oil, but thankfully I did not slip.

  Excursion to Boyd Tower

  Situated on the cliff top at South Head, Boyd Tower was built by Benjamin Boyd, one of the founding fathers of the Eden district. He was a pastoralist, banker, adventurer and whale man who later went broke and took off in his schooner, only to be killed and eaten by natives somewhere in the Pacific. Such is life. The structure is some sixty feet high, and constructed of sandstone: across the four stones at the very top of the monument is carved the word boyd. Inside, a series of perilous ladders lead to the top, and if one is game to climb them, tremendous views of the ocean may be enjoyed. It was from this uppermost vantage point that our whale men took turns in keeping lookout each day from dawn to dusk.

  It was now seven weeks into whaling season, and we had captured only the one moderately sized humpback. Since then, any whales that passed by on their journey north must have veered so wide of the coast that they eluded even our vigilant Killers. Could it be that the whales were growing more cunning? Strange to think that after almost a century of whaling in Twofold Bay, the whales might finally be concluding that it was better to avoid the place.

  ‘You’ve never engaged in this line of work before then, Father?’ asked Salty. They were leaning against the base of Boyd Tower, idly surveying the horizon. Other whale men were playing cards or draughts, or fishing off the rocks below.

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p; ‘No,’ said John Beck. ‘This is my first time whaling.’

  ‘Well, then. That’s grand. Good luck to you,’ said Salty, sucking at his pipe. ‘Can you bear a word of advice from an old hand?’

  ‘I’d be glad of any advice you could offer me.’

  ‘I’ve been doing this for thirty years now, and I’ve encountered a few whales in my time. I think I might know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I would not doubt that,’ said John Beck.

  ‘Nevertheless, you may dismiss it as the rantings of an old fellow, if you so choose. It is entirely up to you.’

  ‘Anything you have to tell me would be of great interest to me.’

  ‘I was not fortunate enough to get much in the way of schooling as a youngster; however, there is one area in which I am learned, and that is the subject of whales. In fact, some folk call me the Professor of Whales.’

  ‘I have no doubt that you are a great authority on the subject,’ said John Beck. He was beginning to think that Salty was something of a blowhard, and might never get to his point.

  ‘An authority? Some may consider me so. The truth is, I would estimate that I’ve harpooned over two hundred whales in my time.’