Rush Oh! Page 8

  ‘Over two hundred whales in his imagination,’ said Darcy, rather cheekily. But Salty did not appear to hear him.

  ‘And that is why I say to you, Father, do not fear the humpback. Nor fear the black whale, the blue whale or the white whale.’

  ‘All right,’ said John Beck. ‘Thank you. I will bear that in mind.’

  ‘No,’ said Salty, for he had not finished, ‘it is the spotted whale you must fear.’

  Darcy coughed quietly to himself.

  ‘Spotted?’ said John Beck.

  ‘Aye. That’s what I said. Spotted.’ At this point, Salty paused to stoke his pipe.

  John Beck began to wonder if Salty was having some kind of joke at his expense, although he could not be entirely sure. He looked to Darcy, but Darcy was now bent over his work. He was carving a serpent out of a piece of driftwood.

  ‘Do you know why it is you must be fearful of the whale who has spots, Father?’ resumed Salty, having satisfactorily tended to his pipe.

  ‘No, I do not.’

  ‘Those spots are old harpoon scars.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What I am telling you is this: the whale has been harpooned before.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Three things you must bear in mind now. First up, she’ll be a boat-breaker, for likely that is how she got away. And if a whale has broken a boat once, she likes to do it again; oh yes, she enjoys it, as a child enjoys jumping on a sandcastle. Secondly, the whale knows all our tricks; oh yes, she has our measure. We can no longer surprise or outsmart her. Thirdly, and this is the worst of it . . .’

  ‘Yes?’ said John Beck.

  ‘She is consumed with thoughts of vengeance.’

  Here he puffed away on his pipe to such a degree that his face became momentarily enshrouded in smoke. Again, John Beck looked to Darcy, but Darcy was now bent so intently over his work that his face was entirely hidden from view.

  That day, I had decided to take the children on a picnic to Boyd Tower; they had been fighting amongst themselves and we had all been feeling cooped up. The fact was that we lived a long way from anywhere, and had not much in the way of transportation. Three or four seasons ago, we had had three good horses, ten head of cattle and several sheep, but the varying fortunes of whaling were such that we were now reduced to Two Socks, a good pulling horse although moody in temperament, and Betty, our milking cow. Betty was by no means an especially prepossessing cow, and yet she comported herself with an air of great self-satisfaction which oft times reminded me of my own sister Louisa. Certainly what bovine charms Betty possessed worked their spell upon Two Socks, for over the years he became inordinately attached to her and demonstrated the strength of his feelings by protesting strenuously if any attempts were ever made to separate them. Never a cooperative horse even before this infatuation, he could now only be persuaded to venture from the back paddock if Betty felt inclined to accompany him. This was not such a problem if we proposed a short journey, such as this one to Boyd Tower, which Betty could manage comfortably. However, it was a different thing altogether to have Betty accompany us all the way into Eden. Not only did the journey take three times as long, for Betty was a terrific dawdler and must sample the foliage, but also the exercise exhausted her and was bad for her milk. Suffice to say, there were times when, owing to a shortage of provisions, we had no choice but to go through this ordeal with cow in tow, but wherever possible, we waited till our father was going into town by means of his motor launch Excelsior. Of course, at the moment he was always on lookout, so this was not a possibility. Thus, the long months of whaling season loomed before us, stranded at Kiah, with slim possibility of outings.

  Our three remaining chickens had managed between them to lay two eggs. In a rush of excitement I attempted the Economical Madeira cake from my mother’s Presbyterian Women’s Missionary Union cookbook. It turned out presentably enough and, while it was still warm, I wrapped it in a tea towel and we set off. Louisa and Uncle Aleck decided at the last minute that perhaps they would come after all, then the dogs took exception to being left at home, so all in all, we made quite a procession. The six of us would not fit in the buggy, so had to be taking turns walking, except Uncle Aleck, who was suffering with his lumbago. A lengthy and heated discussion ensued. Finally, it was resolved that there would be a changeover every two hundred paces; however Violet, the youngest, considered that somehow she should be exempt from this ruling and registered her protest by taking tiny, tiny steps and Annie, in her customary fashion pretending to be a horse, insisted on being a very nervous horse that shied at the slightest leaf rustle and finally baulked altogether. At this point, our real horse, Two Socks, decided that he would only continue if Betty walked alongside him (up until then, Betty had been tied to the rear of the buggy), but Betty did not care to walk ahead because she did not like Patch, and Patch always had to take the lead in any expedition as he imagined himself to be our advance guard. So that meant we had to make Patch ride in the buggy, sitting across our laps, but he struggled so much that finally I walked just ahead of Betty and Two Socks, carrying Patch in my arms so he wouldn’t annoy Betty. This worked well enough until a magpie got it into her head that we were after her babies so she began to swoop us; this frightened Betty and she baulked, whereupon Two Socks baulked, so now Dan had to get out of the buggy in order to hold Louisa’s parasol above Betty’s head so she could not see the magpie. But then Bonnie (who had been the least trouble of anyone) got a prickle in her paw, and made such a performance of bravely limping onwards that it was agreed she should ride in the buggy, at which point Patch decided, somewhat contrarily, that if Bonnie got to ride in the buggy, then so should he. I was glad of this, because Patch had been getting very heavy, but once in the buggy he became excited and commenced jumping about from one side of the buggy to the other until everybody screamed at him to ‘Sit!’, whereupon he sat himself down on my Madeira cake.

  ‘Stop yelling at Patch, Mary!’ implored Annie.

  My nerves were frayed and I had lost my temper; it was the way Patch was grinning at me whilst wagging his tail stump about in my Madeira cake.

  ‘He’s just a dog!’ cried Violet, hugging him violently. ‘He can’t help it!’

  At which point, Patch noticed he was sitting in the Madeira cake and so commenced to eat it.

  Soon after, we arrived at Boyd Tower, where the whale men stared at us perplexed.

  ‘Why is the boy holding an umbrella over the cow?’ asked Albert Thomas Senior, to which there was no sensible answer. The magpie had stopped swooping some distance back, but Betty seemed to enjoy the shade that the parasol provided her.

  One of the pleasures of visiting Boyd Tower was that it afforded, on occasion, an excellent vantage point from which to observe the marvellous work of the Orca Gladiator. The steep cliffs overlook Leatherjacket Bay, the preferred headquarters of the Killer whales when residing in Twofold Bay, and often they would pass the time between the real action of chasing whales by teaching the younger Killers the complex tactics and manoeuvres involved in such a sport. Sure enough, much to the children’s great excitement, a game of ‘Chase the Finback’ was underway. An unfortunate finback had been enticed into the bay, and now found himself being herded back and forth and roundabout by several squads of Killer whales.

  Each squad, consisting of seven or so Killers, seemed to have its own responsibilities. The first squad was involved in the direct chasing and harassment of the finback; the second concerned itself with heading off the creature from its desired course while the third squad formed a sentry line across the bay to contain any attempts at escape. The entire business was conducted at tremendous speed, and on several occasions the finback (who we estimated to be thirty feet in length) leapt entirely out of the water in his desperation to escape his tormentors. At one point, he charged towards the shallows as if to beach himself, but Hooky and Charlie Adgery would have
none of that; they darted ahead and turned him round again, as if to say, ‘Oh no you don’t, sir, we’re not finished with you yet!’

  As the finback grew more exhausted and began to slow down, he was dealt a sharp nip to the tail by Tom and instructed to get a move on. Up and down and roundabout and do-si-do your partner; in this fashion, the game continued for most of the morning. Finally, they tired of it and got down to the real business. There was a great threshing and foaming of the water, and the finback disappeared from view.

  My father watched their antics with amusement; however, I imagine he wished that the Killers were expending their efforts on chasing a real whale. Occasionally, if the Killers had driven a finback onto the beach, the men might tow the carcass home and go through the rigmarole of trying-out, but as there wasn’t much blubber on them, it was hardly worth the effort. As for myself, I had found the Killers’ play discomforting. Although the other spectators laughed and cheered as each bid to escape was thwarted, it struck me that the Killer whales were nothing more than a pack of schoolyard bullies. Their behaviour demonstrated that they had not once ounce of compassion between them. I found myself overcome with sorrow for the hapless finback, to be hounded to death in such a fashion.

  John Beck was on lookout in the tower for much of this time, and then he came down and said hello, to which I responded, ‘Hello.’

  We stood side by side in complete silence watching the blood and the oil spread across the water, and then he turned to me and said: ‘I would not much like to be a grampus, would you?’

  ‘A grampus? Why do you say that?’ I said sharply. I was sensitive on the subject as Harry used to tease me and say that I reminded him of a grampus he had seen washed up on a beach, and that it was lucky that the grampus had not been wearing spectacles, otherwise we would have been virtually indistinguishable from one another, and everybody would say, ‘Oh look, there’s poor Mary Davidson washed up on a beach and covered in kelp.’ This never failed to upset me, and finally my father had ordered him to desist.

  ‘Well,’ said John Beck, ‘because it has just been torn apart by the Killer whales.’

  ‘That was not a grampus; that was a finback. They are completely different.’

  ‘Really? Are you sure? Because Salty told me it was a grampus.’

  ‘Oh, Salty calls everything a grampus,’ I said dismissively. ‘What would he know?’

  For some reason, I was sounding very bad-tempered, although I did not mean to. It was probably because I was hungry and had not thought to bring any food besides the Madeira cake which Patch had sat in. Yet even as I spoke, I recalled an article that I had cut out from the newspaper, entitled ‘How a Woman Becomes Popular’, from which I quote below:

  ‘She was not a pretty woman, rather plain than stylish, but of a cheerful temper. When asked to give a reason for her popularity, she answered: “A man is a sensitive creature, and in dealing with him, I bear that in mind. He does not like to be reminded of his shortcomings, nor does he care to hear another man praised for the attributes he lacks. He dislikes to be interrupted when telling a story, or set right over unimportant matters. I always try to talk to every man as he talks to me, and treat young men as if they were old and old men as if they were young. I can think of no other reason for my popularity.” ’

  The homely woman had made it her practice never to remind men of their shortcomings or set them right on unimportant matters, and here I was this very minute setting John Beck right on the subject of the grampus.

  ‘Well,’ said John Beck, ‘I might take myself for a walk along the rocks then.’

  ‘Yes, all right then, why don’t you,’ I said. I could certainly not be described as being ‘of a cheerful temper’.

  If he was going for a walk along the rocks, then I would take myself for a walk in the opposite direction – along the cliffs, perhaps, where I might spot a whale and be the heroine of the day. I was just setting off when I saw ahead of me Louisa sitting on a rock, with her young admirer Robert Heffernan in doting attendance. She made no attempt at concealing her boredom, and when she saw me jumped up eagerly and called out: ‘Can we go soon?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, we have only just got here!’ This was not true; we had been there for almost two hours. But for some reason, I was feeling oddly contrary. Louisa was forever setting men right or reminding them of their shortcomings, or in this case openly yawning out of boredom, and yet men admired her all the more for it! It was simply not fair. The homely woman did not know what she was talking about.

  As I walked, my thoughts returned to the Killer whales, and their conduct regarding the finback. I realised that my discomfort in watching the harassment may well have stemmed from my own experiences at the hands of one Eunice Martin and her friends at Sunday school. (Incidentally, this was the same Eunice Martin who had gone on to receive the blue ribbon at the Eden Show for Towamba Eventide, the depiction in watercolours of a five-legged cow at sunset.) She and her friends had poked fun at me because of my spectacles and said that I smelled like a dead whale. Also they had once shoved me into the sand at the Sunday school picnic. This sort of behaviour went on for some time; however, when my mother died, my father lost all interest in attending church and so my torment finally ended. But it seemed to me that day, as I pondered what I’d seen, that the Killer whales were the Eunice Martins of the marine world.

  And yet, had I known at the time what was to become of Eunice Martin, perhaps I would have judged her less harshly. For only several years hence, she was found in Towamba cemetery after attempting to poison herself. She had left several letters indicating where she might be found, placing the blame squarely on Constable Weston, who it seems may have molested her in some fashion. My sister Annie took a dim view of this, and said, ‘How difficult is it to poison yourself? And how convenient that she left so many letters indicating where she might be found so that she may be revived before it was too late.’ Certainly she recovered fairly promptly, but the family was obliged to leave the region shortly thereafter. In the meantime, Constable Weston had been hastily moved on to Barmedman, where it was expected that he might engage in further unwholesome activities involving young ladies of hitherto spotless reputations; there was a brief furore about it in the newspaper.

  I had been charging along through the low shrub, not looking up but just stomping angrily head down and thinking about Eunice Martin, when suddenly I heard a cry: ‘Rush oh! Rush oh!’ The lookout had spotted a whale! Where? I thought, furious at myself for not having spotted it first. I looked out to sea. At first I saw nothing, and then at once I saw it – a V-shaped spout of mist and the sense of an immense dark bulk beneath the water. I stood without breathing for a moment, not daring to believe it. Then a vast set of gnarled black flukes rose up out of the water and hung there, as if suspended.

  The First Black Whale of the Season

  The wind was working up to a gale and the work was heavy in pulling across the water. The whale had last been seen off Jews Head but, as the boats approached, had sounded. A considerable interval had passed and it had not yet reappeared. At different vantage points along the cliff tops, groups of onlookers were gathering and their cries could be heard across the water, urging the whalers on.

  ‘It is all very well to shout at us,’ muttered Harry. ‘Kindly tell us where the whale went, if you wish to be useful.’

  He was out of sorts as he had been demoted from the position of headsman and was now taking the secondary role of harpooner. This meant more rowing, which was unfortunate, as whichever way they turned the wind was against them. They had already rowed many miles with only occasional distant glimpses of their elusive quarry.

  ‘Are we just to row round and round in the hopes it will come up beneath us?’ he asked, with a note of petulance.

  ‘These whales can certainly hold their breath for a long time,’ remarked Robert Heffernan.

  Salty, who had taken the
role of headsman, urged them to shut up. The crowd on the headland had broken into screams and shouts, and were waving their hats and handkerchiefs in the direction of Cattle Bay. There it was, spouting idly, basking in the winter sunlight. It was the length of a steamer, and even from this distance, you could see that its head was a mass of unsightly callouses.

  ‘Black whale all right,’ said my father, turning the boat towards Cattle Bay. A cheer went up amongst his boatmen. A black whale (or a ‘right’ whale as they are also known, because they are the ‘right’ whale to catch) is the most valuable of all the whales, especially a big one like this one. Its whalebone would be long; its blubber thick.

  My father’s boat led the way, moving quietly so as not to startle the leviathan. Arthur Ashby rose to his feet and braced his thigh in the cleat, his harpoon poised. The whale wallowed contentedly in the water, quite unconcerned, almost as if it hadn’t seen them. The boat crept up to within four or five boat-lengths away. But just as Arthur pulled his arm back to launch his iron, the whale curved its broad back and slid under the water, flicking its flukes idly. The crowd let out a cry of disappointment. Arthur Ashby lowered his harpoon.

  ‘Where was she off to then, George?’ cried Salty, across the water.

  My father shook his head. He gazed intently at the circle of smooth water the whale had left behind, trying to read in its shape some idea of the whale’s intentions. Up above, an albatross hovered – the men looked up at it hopefully. Seabirds often provided clues as to a whale’s whereabouts; they were both, after all, interested in the same food. Sometimes, if a whale was lunging through a patch of krill with its mouth open, the cheekier birds liked to swoop in and pick off any morsels of marine life stuck in the whalebone. The albatross, however, veered off on the wind.

  ‘Where are the Killers?’ asked Bastable, disgruntled. ‘Have they not noticed there’s a whale in the bay?’