Whaler's Luck

[Jadeling Hawkins]

If at all possible, John's expression was more somber than ever before. His cap was pulled low over his yes, and his knuckles were white as he gripped the mighty spear--his only weapon against the clearly seasoned brute that the ship was going after now. Don't hold the line, Starbuck had said. That was all well and good...but what precisely did he mean? Surely John needed to hold the line at some point, to prevent it becoming tangled around his thin legs and dragging him to a violent and watery death along with the hurled spear when the time came. Don't hold the line. That was what Starbuck said, and John had followed the man's every word like instruction from the sacred book since he'd first been taken on as an apprentice (even if he hadn't exactly asked for it at first). So John would do as Starbuck had said, and remember not to hold the line.

Nansen grinned at him, but John could do little more than offer a stern nod in reply. But as nervous as he was, he was also excited...his first whale, after so long cleaning up the oil and packaging the blubber as a deck hand, finally he'd be helping to bring one in. If he kept his wits about him.

Soon John was on the boat, and the strong arms of several sailors rowed the small and shaky vessel over towards the scarred back of their prey. John held his spear at the ready, fighting off the sudden urge to vomit. He dared not to take the first throw, instead looking towards his instructor, Starbuck, for the signal. He tried to shut out the sounds of the ocean and the slow, almost tantalizing splash of the creature's elongated body moving through the water. Waiting.

[Irish Wolf]

Starbuck smiled broadly at John and Nansen, lifting the first of his two harpoons up about his head. Hopefully they would get the signal that it was every boat for themselves. He would have liked to launch a coordinated attack on the Leviathan, as big Spems were dangerous to a band of boats, let alone a single whaleboat but he knew Mr. Spencer would not allow it, not after the way he was driving the rowers. He knew the mate desperately prove himself to the captain, as this was his first voyage aboard Jerobaom .

Despite the fact that Mr. Spencer was of good protestant, Nantucket stock, if he didn't prove himself able to take whale, he could be replaced by almost anyone. If the owners or captain felt that an escaped Nergo slaves had the skills and drive to take the place of the first mate, they could put him there. Unlike the rest of the world at this point in time, pay and position about the Yankee Whalers was based upon skill not religion, social standing, skin color nor place of birth. When the Americans joined the whaling community, whole crews had been made up of the red Indian with only white man aboard being the captain of small sloops that chased whale.

"Get me that whale" roared Mr. Spencer, from his position at the stern. The two forward most sailors in the whaleboat, twin freemen of color, pulled on their long oars like his voice had been a cracking whip. The bow smashed through the waves, drawing closer and closer towards the old bull. The forth sailor, a scrawny fellow, who's pull would equal that of the young lad that the mate had grabbed to fill his boat.

Starbuck rose to his position in the bow, standing off to the left of the tub of line, to make sure his thick legs were not to tangle. The single flue harpoon was raised, ready for the throw. His heart was pounding, beating against his ribcage, excitement surged through his veins. The thrill of the hunt filled him totally, narrowing his world to the bounding whaleboat and the slowly swimming Sperm. A loud cry of exuberance burst forth from his lungs, as the boat reached throwing range. The black ink of his tattoos gleamed in the sunlight, as he harpoon flew from his fingers tips. Time slowed as the wicked barb traveled through the air and buried itself deep into hump of the whale's tail.

If one could have been underwater, the sound of the bull's cry of pain and rage carried for miles beneath the waves. If one had been within feet of the mighty beast, the sounds waves would have smashed eardrums or knocked out the unlucky being. The first thing his brain wanted to do was run and run far away from these small things that caused him pain but the maddening rage that burned in his brain forced another thought to appear: attack. Swiftly the bull rolled over on his back, giving him an advantage over the lead boat but leaving him exposed to the other two and violently thrash the surface of the water with its fluke.

"Good play" whispered Starbuck, as soon as he saw the Sperm's belly. He didn't get much more out, before the fluke smashed into the belly of the whaleboat. The little wooden rowboat splintered as it was tossed into the air, throwing the six men aboard in every direction. The harpooner was thrown forwards, towards the whale but fell a few yards off the bull's right side.