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  ‘Too full of ruddy finback,’ muttered someone.

  ‘We try calling them, boss?’ asked Albert Thomas Junior.

  My father leaned on his steer oar, peering intently at the water. Finally he nodded. The men raised their oars high and, at a given signal, brought the blades down hard upon the water in a single resounding smack!

  Up on the headlands, the crowd fell quiet; all studying the water, all eager to be first to raise up the cry. A bank of clouds passed in front of the sun. There was an eerie atmosphere suddenly, and a feeling of heaviness in the air. Gently, the boats rose and fell, the water slapping at the sides. A short distance away, a cloud of mutton-birds materialised as if from nowhere and wheeled in wild formation just above the surface of the water. The men watched in silence as the birds banked sharply to one side and skimmed low across the surface, seeming to dip their very wingtips in the water.

  ‘Mutton-birds,’ said the newcomer Shankly, darkly. ‘They are not a tasty bird, by any means.’

  The others looked at him in surprise. Shankly rarely spoke, and when he did say something, it generally had a portentous quality about it.

  ‘Well, that depends!’ responded Salty. ‘It depends on how long you boil them.’

  ‘I believe they are very good if stewed at length in port wine,’ offered John Beck, but Shankly just shook his head grimly. It appeared he had a set against the mutton-bird.

  ‘Salty!’ called my father, whose mind was still on matters whaling. ‘Head over towards Quarantine Bay. We’ll go towards Snug Cove.’

  ‘Right you are!’

  The two boats separated and began moving off in opposite directions. They had not travelled far when, from the cliff tops, the piercing cry of a small boy rent the air.

  ‘Whale! Whale! Whale!’

  Where? wondered the whale men, turning to look up at him, and just now, with a loud spout from its blowhole, the black whale rose up directly alongside the Number Two boat. The inexperienced oarsmen reared back; their instinct was to flee, but unable to flee, they froze and stared at the sight before them. It was difficult to make sense of what they were seeing. It was huge, unmistakably, though most of its mass was concealed underwater; grey-black in colour with a flat broad back. Its ugly, misshapen head had the tumorous quality of an ancient anthill, or a tree stricken with abscesses. These tumours, one of which sat comically atop its head like a bonnet, were whitish in colour with a quality similar to lichen, and within this lichen, odd dark stalagmites sprouted from which rivulets of water streamed. Its vast coal-scuttle mouth curved downwards, and at one end of this a tiny eye, rheumy like an old man’s, gazed up at them. It was grotesque and prehistoric in appearance, yet not unfriendly.

  ‘It’s big, isn’t it?’ said Robert in a hoarse whisper, and I suppose that is what they were all thinking.

  ‘For God’s sake, get your iron up, Harry!’ hissed Salty.

  Harry rose to his feet and scrabbled for his harpoon. With a sigh, the whale began to move away. The oarsmen remained stunned, their oars in mid-air.

  ‘Row!’ cried Salty, and his voice seemed to have risen an octave. ‘Don’t let it get away, you useless b-----ds!’

  This epithet seemed to rouse the men from their reverie. They seized their oars and began to pull, all out of time with one another, their blades colliding.

  ‘Take her, Harry!’ cried my father, whose boat was beginning to catch up. ‘Don’t wait for us!’ My brother raised his harpoon with trembling hands. The notion of plunging such an implement into this mountain of whale seemed suddenly ludicrous, like sticking a hatpin into an elephant.

  ‘You have her in sights?’ asked Salty.

  ‘I have her,’ said Harry, and he braced his thigh against the cleat in readiness. But just at that moment, the leviathan spouted a percussive Bosh!, and the fetid spray blew over him, stinging his cheeks. His iron was poised above his head, but for some reason he did not throw it.

  ‘Dart, dart, you imbecile!’ cried Salty. ‘Into the old girl’s gizzards!’

  ‘Use your iron, son!’ cried my father.

  ‘Harpoon her!’ cried the people on the cliff tops.

  These exhortations were not helpful to Harry. He tossed his harpoon, but in his panicked state, it fell short and landed in the water with a dispiriting slap.

  The whale dived, smacking the water with its flukes and thereby drenching the boat’s occupants. The crowds howled their dismay, as did the whalers.

  ‘God Almighty!’ cried Salty, his face bright red, his grey hair dripping.

  ‘My hand slipped!’

  ‘He throws like a girl!’

  ‘This is where nepotism gets you,’ cried Bastable. ‘The boy has been promoted regardless of merit.’

  ‘Shut up, the lot of you, for Christ’s sake!’ said my father.

  Chastened like children, the men fell silent. Even the crowds on the headlands desisted from hurling their derisive comments.

  My father stood gripping his steer oar, his face a study of grim concentration. Minutes passed; nobody spoke. Hearts thudded in chests.

  Some distance away, a Killer whale leapt out of the water, and slammed the full weight of its body upon the surface – the sound ricocheted across the water like the crack of a whip. The crowd on the cliff top let up a cry: ‘Tom! It’s Tom!’ The men in the boats grabbed hold of their oars and tried to steel themselves; now the chase would be on in earnest. A strange sound rose up out of the water, hard to identify at first: a piteous kind of bellowing, like a bull set upon by dogs.

  I realise that I do not paint my brother Harry in a very favourable light, first of all in his failure as a headsman and now with his harpooning. Certainly, I was very hard on him at the time, and yet even as I write this account, it occurs to me that perhaps Harry was not scared at all, but simply had no wish to kill the whale. It is entirely possible, as he was a kind-hearted boy in many ways; if not with his sisters, it was certainly evidenced in his treatment of ‘all creatures great and small’. As a small child, he would climb to the top of the run-off tank and endeavour to rescue any small insects that had apparently drowned. Gathering them gently in his palm, he would blow softly upon their lifeless forms till they revived. Then he would sit there quietly nursing them till such time as their wings had dried and they were able to fly away.

  Nor can I believe that he would be put off by such an oft-seen sight as a whale spout, even a large one. My brother had the idea that when a whale spouted, it was actually saying, ‘Bosh!’; that is, vehemently pooh-poohing something, as would a curmudgeonly old man (in fact, it was a common retort of Uncle Aleck). As a young oarsman in the whaleboat, this notion tickled Harry to such an extent that he would endeavour to have a conversation with a whale if it was spouting nearby.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Whale, are you aware that the dolphin is said to be the smartest of all God’s creatures?’

  ‘Bosh!’

  ‘I believe Towamba is a dead cert to defeat Eden in the upcoming semi-final.’

  ‘Bosh!’

  And so on and so forth, until he would set to giggling. It was all very distracting when someone was meanwhile trying to harpoon the whale. I know my father frowned upon it, and perhaps that is why he was so anxious to tax Harry with the more serious tasks of headsman or harpooner. As I say, I cannot know for sure why Harry failed with the harpoon on this occasion, and it has only just occurred to me that the reason may have been something other than fear.

  A Celebration

  Thankfully, our return journey from Boyd Tower was much faster than the one we had endured on the way out there. Once Two Socks was pointed in the direction of home, he invariably put a sprint on, and Betty was simply expected to keep up. We were glad about this, as we wanted to be sure we were ready for our whale men’s return. As they had run for the whaleboats, several of them had thrust their freshly caught fish upon me, with ins
tructions as to how best I should prepare them. Darcy had pulled some molluscs and mutton-fish off the rocks below, and these were also added to the bounty. Thus I had several whiting and three schnapper, and one fish the likes of which I had never seen before, plus five mutton-fish, a dozen or so oysters and a handful of other unidentified bivalves. As the boats pulled away from the cliffs, Salty was still calling out his recipe for fish stew; much of it was lost on the wind, but it seemed to involve plentiful amounts of milk and cream. ‘A liberal dash of Worcestershire will improve the flavour,’ was the last that I heard.

  Thus when we arrived home, we set about preparing it. Such was the excitement over the long-awaited appearance of a whale that the whole family pitched in to help. Dan cut open the first oyster, but injured his thumb so badly in the process that Louisa took over (she could at times prove herself very capable), while Uncle Aleck cleaned the fish; Annie coaxed some milk from Betty, and Dan and Violet went to find parsley and chives in the garden. Meanwhile I browned some onions in a little butter, and made a gelatinous broth from the fish heads which formed the base of the stew. With a portion of Betty’s cream, some boiled potatoes, salt and pepper, a pinch of cayenne powder, and of course the obligatory Worcestershire sauce, the fish morsels and molluscs cooked up very nicely indeed. It was a hearty meal for the whale men, and one they were sorely in need of when finally they returned home that evening.

  ‘Here they come!’ cried Dan. He had been keeping lookout up on the hill, and en masse we ran down to greet them. They appeared to be rowing in the most haphazard fashion; also, across the water we could hear strains of robust argument and song.

  ‘Oh, she was wily!’ cried my father, as he came lurching up the jetty. ‘She was a wily wily old wily old whale.’

  I looked at him in astonishment: he appeared to be intoxicated. In fact, it soon became apparent that they were all in this condition, to varying degrees. Darcy and Robert Heffernan were no sooner out of the boats than they began to punch one another, and had to be separated, while Percy Madigan had to be stopped from veering off the jetty altogether and into the water. It seems that so satisfied were the whalers with their efforts in capturing such a fine whale, they had promptly adjourned to the Great Southern Hotel before finally rowing back with a quantity of rum. It was most unlike my father to drink to the point of intoxication; however, it gives some indication of the intense relief he must have been experiencing in catching such a valuable whale.

  ‘We must feed them immediately,’ I instructed Louisa, and while the men washed themselves, we hurried up to the house to bring down the big pot of fish stew and some freshly baked damper with which to mop up the juices. They devoured it in the most ravenous fashion, and declared it a culinary triumph. We each felt a degree of pride as we had all taken some part in its creation, and for once we stayed with the men to enjoy the celebration rather than retiring to the house as we would normally do; my father was too inebriated to care. I should hasten to add that the meal had had the desired effect of sobering the men to some extent, otherwise I should never have permitted the younger ones to remain in their company.

  It was a bitterly cold night but several large campfires were lit on the beach, which we gathered around, sitting on kegs and blankets and whatever we had at hand. Our Aboriginal whalers, Albert Thomas Senior and Albert Thomas Junior and Percy and Darcy Madigan, provided the music by means of blowing upon gum leaves as you would blow upon a harmonica. To this, the little girls danced a jig while we all clapped along our encouragement. Our very own Dark Town Leaf Band demonstrated complete mastery of their unusual ‘instruments’, and their repertoire was wide-ranging, from reels and jigs to sentimental ballads, even several hymns that they had been taught by the missionaries of the Salvation Army. We sang along as best we could whenever we could remember the words; however, it was only ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ to which Bonnie felt compelled to add her voice, with an outburst of the most heartfelt baying and howling, inducing much laughter and merriment amongst us all.

  At one point, I looked across and saw my father gazing into the flames, wearing an expression of great weariness but also something akin to contentment. I felt a tug at my heart, for I realised I had not often seen this expression since my mother died. I went across and sat at his knee, and although we did not speak, he smiled at me and patted my hair.

  As I sat there, listening to the conversations around me, I began to piece together the story of the chase and capture of the black whale. After the Killers had arrived upon the scene and set about corralling the whale, it was short work for the first boat to make fast to it. However, once stung by the harpoon, the whale – who had seemed a placid creature up to this point – put up a ferocious battle for its survival. At once, it executed a series of short, sharp turns, as if attempting to dislodge the boat now suddenly attached to it; then, when this tactic did not achieve the desired result, the creature stopped suddenly and elevated its great tail flukes to a height of some twenty feet above the water, before sweeping them most deliberately across the length of the boat. Fortunately, my father, who was of course standing at the bow, and Arthur Ashby (at the steer oar) had had the wherewithal to hastily duck down, thereby avoiding what could undoubtedly have been serious injuries. (By all accounts, the whale’s tail span was twelve feet across, and of exceptional thickness.) The whale then made a spirited dash for North Head, causing the Killer whales to exert their most concentrated efforts in attempting to prevent its escape. It succeeded in rounding North Head, and was speeding in the direction of Leonards Island, still dragging my father’s whaleboat after it, before the Killers managed to rein it in and turn it back into Twofold Bay.

  Becoming increasingly desperate now, the whale sped towards the entrance of Lake Curalo, then thought better of the idea and skirted along Haslems Beach before proceeding to Lookout Point where, as if for the benefit of the onlookers assembled there, the Killers commenced a series of furious onslaughts. Humpy threw himself across the creature’s blowhole; Tom engaged in his favourite game of pushing at the whale repeatedly from underneath, while Hooky and company endeavoured to tear open the creature’s mouth. They only desisted long enough to allow my father clear access to deal the fatal lance, and with each thrust of the steel, the crowds on Lookout Point let out cheer upon cheer. Soon the spouting and bellowing and the crimson-foaming of the water ceased; the whale was hors de combat. The entire business, from making fast to the whale to its ultimate demise, took only an hour and a half.

  Remarkably, the whale was of such vast dimensions that the Killers had difficulty in pulling the carcass below. ‘We’ll have our work cut out for us towing it over the bar,’ said my father, and there was talk of the possible necessity of excavating a channel in order to tow the carcass close enough to the try-works. My father estimated that, given its size, it could yield up to ten tonnes of whale oil. Further, its whalebone was of tremendous length and quality. All in all, it had been a most satisfactory afternoon’s work.

  As the exertions of the day began to catch up with everybody, and the merriment and music died down, a stiff breeze rose up suddenly, causing the flames of the campfires to gutter. My father lifted his head, almost like a dog sensing something on the wind. He looked out towards the blackness of the water; then, without saying a word, rose to his feet and made his way down towards the jetty. I watched him for a moment, then got up to follow. As I passed, a shadowy figure, seated some small distance away from the campfire, reached out and took hold of my arm. It was John Beck.

  ‘Mary, Mary, sit with me a while,’ he said.

  I hesitated. He had obviously partaken of the liquor, for his eyes were shiny, but had not taken so much as to be unpleasant, nor were its fumes redolent on his breath. He gave a small tug at my arm by way of encouragement, and so I sat myself down beside him.

  ‘I have something for you,’ he said.

  He pulled from his pocket the broderie anglaise bandages, now
somewhat grimy from use, and for one moment I thought that he was simply about to return them to me. But instead, he carefully unwrapped them to reveal a shell, which he held up to show me in the flickering light.

  ‘I’ve been making a collection of seashells,’ he said. ‘But this one is by far the prettiest.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I responded. ‘It is very pretty.’

  In fact, it was a common spindle shell; undoubtedly attractive, with its brown and white markings and spindle shape, but perhaps I had seen too many of them to be greatly excited by it. John Beck, however, seemed quite delighted with it. He turned it over several times to admire its delicate contours, then pressed it into my hand.

  ‘It’s for you,’ he said.

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Yes. Do you know why?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Because you made my blisters better.’

  ‘Are they better?’

  ‘Oh yes. Look,’ he said, and he held up the palms of his hands. ‘I don’t think your little brother would be laughing at my ladies’ hands now. Do you see how they’ve toughened up?’

  He then took my hand so I could feel the new callouses where the blisters had once been.

  ‘Yes, they have toughened up considerably,’ I said. How earnest and dreary I sounded, I thought to myself. Yes, they have toughened up considerably. No wonder I had never been popular. Perhaps it was time to put into practice the advice of the homely woman: ‘Treat young men as if they are old and old men as if they are young.’

  ‘You should see my arms, Mary,’ John Beck was meanwhile saying. ‘See how strong my arms have got from the rowing?’

  Here he rolled up a sleeve to reveal his upper arm. ‘Feel it,’ he offered encouragingly. Twisting his fist this way and that, he made several flexing motions with his arm, causing the upper muscle to bulge most satisfactorily. Scarcely aware of what I was doing, I found myself reaching out and feeling it with my fingertips.