We were not a very cheerful crowd that night, most of us being busy with his own reflections.I must confess that I felt far greater sorrow at leaving Vau Vau than ever I did at leaving England; because by the time I was able to secure a berth, I have usually drank pretty deep of the bitter cup of the "outward bounder," than whom there is no more forlorn, miserable creature on earth.No one but the much abused boarding-master will have anything to do with him, and that worthy is generally careful to let him know that he is but a hanger-on, a dependant on sufferance for a meal, and that his presence on shore is an outrage.As for the sailors' homes, I have hardly patience to speak of them.I know the sailor is usually a big baby that wants protecting against himself, and that once within the four walls of the institution he is safe; but right there commendation must end.Why are good folks ashore systematically misled into the belief that the sailor is an object of charity, and that it is necessary to subscribe continually and liberally to provide him with food and shelter when ashore? Most of the contributors would be surprised to know that the cost of board and lodging at the "home" is precisely the same as it is outside, and much higher than a landsman of the same grade can live for in better style.With the exception of the sleeping accommodation, most men prefer the boarding-house, where, if they preserve the same commercial status which is a SINE QUA NON at the "home," they are treated like gentlemen; but in what follows lies the essential difference, and the reason for this outburst of mine, smothered in silence for years.An "outward bounder"--that is, a man whose money is exhausted and who is living upon the credit; of his prospective advance of pay--is unknown at the "home." No matter what the condition of things is in the shipping world; though the man may have fought with energy to get his discharge accepted among the crowd at the "chain-locker;" though he be footsore and weary with "looking for a ship," when his money is done, out into the street he must go, if haply he may find a speculative boarding-master to receive him.This act, although most unlikely in appearance, is often performed; and though the boarding-master, of course, expects to recoup himself out of the man's advance note, it is none the less as merciful as the action of the "home" authorities is merciless.Of course a man may go to the "straw house," or, as it is grandiloquently termed, the "destitute seaman's asylum," where for a season he will be fed on the refuse from the "home," and sheltered from the weather.But the ungrateful rascals do not like the "straw house," and use very bad language about it.
The galling thing about the whole affair is that the "sailors'
home" figures in certain official publications as a charity, which must be partially supported by outside contributions.It may be a charitable institution, but it certainly is not so to the sailor, who pays fully for everything he receives.The charity is bestowed upon a far different class of people to merchant Jack.Let it be granted that a man is sober and provident, always getting a ship before his money is all gone, he will probably be well content at the home, although very few seamen like to be reminded ashore of their sea routine, as the manner of the home is.If the institution does not pay a handsome dividend, with its clothing shops and refreshment bars, as well as the boarding-house lousiness on such a large scale, only one inference can be fairly drawn--there must be something radically wrong with the management.
After this burst of temper, perhaps I had better get back to the subject in hand.It was, I suppose, in the usual contrary nature of things that, while we were all in this nearly helpless condition, one evening just before sunset, along comes a sperm whale.Now, the commonest prudence would have suggested letting him severely alone, since we were not only short-handed, but several of our crew were completely crippled by large boils; but it would have been an unprecedented thing to do while there was any room left in the hold.Consequently we mustered the halt and the lame, and manned two boats--all we could do--leaving the almost useless cripples to handle the ship.Not to displace the rightful harpooner, I took an oar in one of them, headed by the captain.
At first my hopes were high that we should not succeed in reaching the victim before dark, but I was grievously disappointed in this.Just as the whale was curving himself to sound, we got fairly close, and the harpooner made a "pitch-pole"dart; that is, he hurled his weapon into the air, where it described a fine curve, and fell point downward on the animal's back just as he was disappearing.He stopped his descent immediately, and turned savagely to see what had struck him so unexpectedly.At that moment the sun went down.
After the first few minutes' "kick-up," he settled down for a steady run, but not before the mate got good and fast to him likewise.Away we went at a rare rate into the gathering gloom of the fast-coming night.Now, had it been about the time of full moon or thereabouts, we should doubtless have been able, by the flood of molten light she sends down in those latitudes, to give a good account of our enemy; but alas for us, it was not.
The sky overhead was a deep blue-black, with steely sparkles of starlight scattered all over it, only serving to accentuate the darkness.After a short time our whale became totally invisible, except for the phosphoric glare of the water all around him as he steadily ploughed his way along.There was a good breeze blowing, which soon caused us all to be drenched with the spray, rendering the general effect of things cold as well as cheerless.
Needless to say, we strove with all our might to get alongside of him, so that an end might be put to so unpleasant a state of affairs; but in our crippled condition it was not at all easy to do so.
