Tommo and Hawk Read online

  I am lost in these recollections when there is a shout from high above me. It is Tommo, high-pitched and much excited, shouting that he has seen a spout. ‘Thar she blo-o-o-o-ows! Thar she blo-o-o-o-o-ows!’ he bellows down at the top of his voice. Then the other two lookouts start shouting as they too see the whales.

  For a few moments nothing appears to happen, then the whole ship springs to life, like a dozing animal suddenly surprised. My recent thoughts tumble into oblivion as I jump to my feet to play my part in the whale chase to come.

  Seb Rawlings, the fourth mate, has not yet included me in the crew of the whaleboat he captains. Instead he has selected William Lanney to serve as the fifth crewman along with four Maori whalemen led by Hammerhead Jack, an impressive giant of a man.

  I am the ‘stand-by’ and must ensure that all the equipment needed in the boat for a whale hunt is kept in good working order and made ready. Now I climb in while it is still attached to the davits to make one last inspection before the crew is lowered into the sea.

  I check everything thoroughly, though there is scarcely time. The fast launching of the whaleboats is of great concern to Captain O’Hara. Quickly I scan the two-thirds-inch manila rope in the aft barrel. Only yesterday I examined every inch of this line for fraying before folding it back myself, so I know all two hundred fathoms to be in good order. My secret mark is still upon it which means it has not been tampered with. Below me on deck I hear Hammerhead Jack lead his men in some sort of savage war cry, a ritual of theirs.

  I check the splices to the two harpoons which will be attached to the line by means of short warps, and then look over the harpoons themselves. They are of the new double-barbed Temple iron which rotates ninety degrees within the flesh of the whale to form a T-shape which will not pull out. I examine the three lances and the five pulling oars, the steering oar and the paddles. I check that they are sound and that the rowlocks are well fixed. I make sure that the boat piggin is not holed, that three gallons of drinking water in a canvas bag are on board for the men, and that the two boat knives which are attached to marlin line are stowed. Finally I see that the small lug sail is in place with a spare roll of canvas. All is shipshape. There are over forty articles in a whaleboat and I cannot inspect them all now, though I have done so as part of my watch on the previous day. I am climbing down from the davits in haste when I hear Billy Lanney beseeching Hammerhead Jack.

  ‘I go crew, Jack! Me back be tickety-boo, number one!’ Billy says in some anguish.

  ‘Let me see your back then, Billy!’ a voice demands from behind us. To my surprise it is not Rawlings’ and I turn to see the first mate, Crawlin Nestbyte, standing in front of the little Aborigine.

  Billy Lanney shakes his head vigorously. ‘You no must see, boss! Rowing me can do! No plurry problems!’ He swings his arms about like a windmill to show that they are not troubled by the wounds to his back.

  As I drop onto the deck where the whaleboat crew are gathered, Hammerhead Jack grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me forward, smiling at Crawlin Nestbyte. ‘Him, Ork, him good! He be crew, boss!’

  Nestbyte hesitates. Hammerhead Jack releases me and, after removing Billy’s hat which he drops to the deck, he grabs Billy’s canvas blouse. He jerks it roughly over Billy’s head and then lifts Billy bodily, spinning him around in the air and planting him down again so that his naked back is facing the first mate.

  At the sight of Billy’s back Nestbyte grins broadly. ‘Ah, a spine well worthy of God’s wrath!’ he says happily, leaning forward to make a closer examination. ‘"I am not mocked, sayeth the Lord,”’ he pronounces proudly, and steps back well satisfied.

  My horror at what I see must show clearly upon my face. Billy’s back is a great yellow and purple suppuration with maggots among the deep furrows of his infected wounds.

  Hammerhead Jack shakes his head in commiseration, jerking his thumb in Billy’s direction. ‘Him, Billy, brave man!’ Then he clucks his tongue twice. ‘Not come, boss, too much sick to row boat!’ He says this firmly, stabbing a large finger at Crawlin Nestbyte’s chest, and pointing to me. ‘Ork, him come!’

  Nestbyte does not much like Hammerhead Jack’s demand, and anger clouds his expression. His fists bunch at his side. But then he seems to think better of it and his hands unclench. Though the first mate is by most standards a big man, the Maori is more than a head taller than he. Besides, there is not much time and the other boats to portside have already been launched.

  ‘Watch thy tongue, kanaka bastard!’ is all he says to Hammerhead Jack. Then he turns to me. ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Mr Rawlings’ fine nigger pupil! High time to see if thou art a good nigger or a gutless one, eh? Mr Rawlings hath the tropical fever and Captain O’Hara is himself indisposed. It will be my privilege to break thee in…or break thee— which shall it be, I wonder?’

  I smile, though I have a great desire to smash Nestbyte’s teeth into the back of his throat. It is just my luck that both Rawlings and O’Hara are indisposed!

  ‘Him good! Ork good nigger,’ Hammerhead Jack says and laughs happily, not in the least concerned by the first mate’s admonishment. He slaps me again on the back.

  Hammerhead Jack is truly a huge man. He is taller by four inches or more than I, and is also wider of girth and in the barrel of his chest. He has a long face and square jaw which are off-set by the height and flat surface of his protruding brow. This already extraordinary visage is framed by two great sweeps of hair which rise upwards and then hook down at the back. They are separated by an inch-wide scar which runs like a roadway from the front to the back of his skull, giving his hair the appearance of the claws of a carpenter’s hammer, which is where Hammerhead Jack’s name comes from.

  At our first meeting Hammerhead Jack was much taken by the scar about my neck, pointing to his own scar and then running a finger around my neck, carefully tracing the silver ribbon of tissue. Then he shook my hand vigorously to indicate that we had in common a mutilation which, it was plain to see, he regarded as most handsome in appearance.

  Our whaleboat is being lowered and we scramble overboard and into its bows as it passes the level of the top deck. Hammerhead Jack and myself are the last in, following the first mate.

  The men working the falls lower us into the water with a great splash. Without thinking I take my place on the thwart, on the far side of the boat immediately behind Hammerhead Jack at the bow. He turns and gives me a great grin, pleased as Punch. ‘Good Ork!’ he says. The other three Maori laugh. ‘Good Ork!’ they shout, welcoming me to the crew and ignoring the scowling first mate who has taken up the sweep oar to steer us.

  I would have felt more honoured if it had been Seb Rawlings who had chosen me. Mr Rawlings is no angel, a hard man, but he is fair in most things and respected by the men.

  Nestbyte, on the other hand, is a proper bastard, a bully-boy who is much disliked for his harsh punishment of the smallest offences. It is said he is an expert with the blade and he carries an American bowie knife on his belt. If someone should so much as challenge him, he will pull it out and fight them.

  ‘I’ll take the bastard with me axe any day he wants,’ Tommo boasts, but I have never seen my twin fighting with his axe and it is my earnest hope I never shall.

  Sometimes the first mate is referred to as ‘Creepy Crawlin’ as he will frequently creep around the decks at night with a whale-oil lamp, hoping to find men at sodomy. When he catches two men at it, he has the permission of Captain O’Hara for a most heinous punishment. First the offenders are held down and a spoonful of ground Chinese chilli peppers is inserted up their arses. Their hands are then tied behind their backs and they are allowed to go for the night. If any should render them aid in their agony as the peppers burn their insides, they too will receive the same treatment. The following morning at muster the offenders are given fifty lashes, inflicted by the first mate’s own hand. Then, with their backs open and bleeding, they are made to walk the main deck with huge bags of salt tied about their
necks by a cord. The bags rest on their backs, leaking salt into their open wounds by means of small apertures. Their wounds aflame, they must walk until they drop from exhaustion. Nestbyte repeats this torture of chilli and floggings every day for a week, with the victims still required to complete a full watch each day.

  After this, each offender is issued with a brass neck-plate bearing the inscription, ‘A Son of Sodom’ and under this the words, ‘I am not worthy of God’s redemption’. Those who have been caught are named Brass Bimbos by the rest of the whalemen, and there are half a dozen or more on board who wear this attachment. They do so without shame, as if it is a badge of honour, hard-earned— which, I suppose, is true enough!

  Crawlin Nestbyte is a cruel braggart who talks endlessly of his exploits and derring-do with the whale. There is an old saying on a whaling vessel which goes thus:

  That which the coward brags he will do,

  The whaleman true goes silent to!

  It must be said in fairness, though, that those men who have shared a boat with Nestbyte admit that he is not lacking in courage. He is known to be reckless and because of this no one who has previously voyaged on the Nankin Maiden will volunteer to his whaleboat, choosing any other by preference. While he takes delight in inflicting suffering on others, he is not afraid to take on a man his own size even without a knife. That is all that can be said in his favour. The crew are hard men who would turn like a pack of wild dogs on one of their own kind caught stealing or cheating. But they take little pleasure in witnessing Nestbyte’s numerous cruelties to whalemen whom he believes have offended him or have been neglectful of their duties.

  Though his Quaker mouth is full of God’s words, his dark soul is in the possession of the devil himself. Nestbyte employs only two expletives, ‘Bastard’ and ‘Damn’, explaining to all that both words are not a blasphemy or foul language. The first is but the name for a child born out of wedlock and the second a shortening of the word damnation which is to be found frequently in the good book itself. If both words are innocent, then never was there a man who could inject more venom into them!

  I have been out to sea only half a dozen times in a whaleboat, on practice runs while we were becalmed to learn the harpoon. Now the atmosphere is charged. I sincerely hope that I do not let my companions down, for I don’t know what to expect. Seb Rawlings, on the last occasion he took me out, pronounced himself satisfied that I have the strength and skill to throw the harpoon. But as we rowed back to the ship he said, ‘Ah yes, lad, but do ye have the courage to stand up to the whale and will ye use the lance correct?’

  Do I have the courage? I now ask myself. Will I prove a coward? I cannot answer. I must wait for the moment to come, when I must throw a harpoon into a live whale and not a bobbing barrel, and use a lance at which I’ve had no practice. I am thankful that Hammerhead Jack is the harpooner in our crew, and I hope by watching to learn much from him.

  Seated on our thwarts we are perilously close to the harpoon rope. This runs from the barrel at the stern, down the centre of the boat, to the crutch on the starboard bow where it is spliced to the two harpoons in front of where Hammerhead Jack is seated. When the rope is running to the whale it becomes sizzling hot. Should we suddenly be thrown against it, or move carelessly, it will in a moment cut inches deep into our thighs or slice our arms down to the bone, cooking the flesh it ravages.

  We cannot see the other three whaleboats and our late start has caused some anxiety in Nestbyte. ‘Row, row! Row, row!’ he repeats urgently. ‘It’s first to the pod for us, or I’ll see ye flogged and stretched to the mizzen! Row! Row! Row, ye cannibal bastards, row!’ His voice grows ever angrier as he envisages us lagging behind the other boats.

  I am not sure how much of this call is understood by Hammerhead Jack and the rest of the crew. Their faces show nothing beyond the strain of pulling at the oars and they do not quicken their stroke at the mate’s admonishments. My arms ache and I wonder how much longer I can keep up.

  The breeze seems to me to be stiffening and the seas beginning to rise. Nestbyte, who steers the boat from the stern sheets, counts the breeze insufficient to hoist the lugsail and we must perforce row on. As we come over the lip of a large wave, I can see there is new cloud boiling up from the horizon. A sniff of rain is in the air.

  I have been told whalemen hunting in the Pacific Ocean are not concerned by a squall at sea. The Yankee whaleboat is well constructed from half-inch, white cedar clinker planking and difficult to capsize. If it should upend, or be swamped, it will continue to float or even right itself. If the sea is moderately calm, it is no great hardship to clamber back in. But in the Southern Ocean around Cape Horn and towards the Antarctic it is an altogether different proposition. If a boat should be overturned by an errant wave, the crew will often freeze to death.

  ‘Pacific whaling be a treat, lad,’ Rawlings once confided at harpoon practice, ‘with naught to bother about except for a mishap with the whale.’ Then he grins. ‘Mind,’ he says, ‘should the great fishy tail smash down upon you and you be thrown into the sea and not killed outright, with your boat smashed to smithereens, then naught awaits except drowning or being taken by the sharks who gather at the smell of harpoon blood and tear at anything that moves.’

  Nestbyte hoists the lug sail and I am much relieved that we can ship our oars and turn to see where we might be going. The whaleboat takes smoothly to the waves and we are soon making good progress. It is pleasant not to hear the first mate’s harsh voice urging us on. Hammerhead Jack calls for water. We are all streaming with sweat and the sun overhead is as hot as Hades.

  ‘A mouthful each! No more, hear ye?’ Nestbyte orders. The canvas bag is passed to Hammerhead Jack, who hoists it to his lips and takes a long drink. ‘Enough! No more!’ Nestbyte yells. ‘If the hunt is long, ye’ll beg me for it later!’

  The big Maori hands the bag to me and I take a mouthful, then pass it back. ‘That’s enough! That’s enough!’ Nestbyte keeps saying before we’ve brought the mouthpiece to our lips.

  The wind changes direction and the lug sail begins to flap. ‘Man the oars!’ Nestbyte shouts, though we have seen the change and already set to rowing.

  ‘Backs! Put your backs into it, ye kanaka bastards!’

  I begin to wonder if Nestbyte’s constant yapping will ever stop. Then we rise over another wave and I damn near die of fright!

  Not forty feet to port a sperm whale surfaces. The sea around us boils and our boat begins to rise and rise until we are fifteen feet above the highest waves. Nestbyte yells to ship our oars. With a thunderous roar of falling water, the giant fish surfaces from the depths. It is a bull, a monster, a creature a hundred times bigger than anything I have ever seen before. Its malevolent eye, which appears to gaze straight at me, is bigger than a pudding plate!

  Suddenly we are drenched, as the spray from its spout pours down like a waterfall upon us. We are too close and I prepare myself to die in the moments left to me. Terrified, I glance at Hammerhead Jack to see what is to be done.

  Hammerhead Jack is seated calm as you like, his hands gripping the edges of the thwart so that he might steady himself. He has his back to me but he must sense I seek him, for he turns his head and there is a grin upon his much-tattooed face. His head and shoulders stream with the spray from the whale’s spouting. His lips appear to move but there is too much noise to hear what he is saying. I think it must be, ‘Good Ork!’

  We are suddenly plunged back to sea level as the wave caused by the whale’s breaching rolls away and subsides beneath us. The boat begins to spin like a cork in the foaming water and Nestbyte works with frantic energy to steady it by means of the sweep. Then, the very moment the boat is more or less on an even keel, he yells at us to grab our paddles and to row towards the great creature.

  Row towards? He must be mad! We are practically embracing the monster! Hammerhead Jack ships his paddle and the boat rocks as he goes to stand at the bow. I look up to see him take up one of the harpoons.
He stands darkly silhouetted against the sky. It is him against the whale, St George and the dragon, Neptune and the sea monster. For a short moment I gain courage at his immense calm and resolve as we row towards our certain death.

  We are no more than fifteen feet from the great fish and I can see a multitude of barnacles, scratches and scars upon its black carcass, deeply wrinkled aft of its flippers. Then Hammerhead Jack, with a shout, delivers the harpoon into its side. The harpoon’s head is buried a full three feet into the whale’s flesh.

  He has aimed for the heart, just forward of the small dorsal hump not far from the whale’s great head, which looks to me entirely composed of a nose with a whitish whorl at its end. At first the harpoon seems to penetrate cleanly, in the manner of a neat dart, but a moment later a huge gush of blood spurts from the side of the whale as though a pipe has burst. Then, just as quickly, the blood stops to a trickle.

  Nestbyte screams to Hammerhead Jack, ‘Another! Quick, the second! Damn thee, man, thou hast missed the vital part!’

  But it is almost as though the whale itself has heard the first mate’s shouts. Before the giant Maori can lift the second harpoon above his shoulder, the great beast raises its flukes and crashes them down against the surface of the sea. Rolling away from us, the whale sounds— diving down into the depths beneath us. There is another rush of water and then all hell breaks loose in front of my very eyes.

  ‘Aft, come aft!’ Nestbyte yells. He has already wound the manila rope around the samson post, putting a drag on the line which immediately begins to pay out and is soon screaming through the bow chocks. We are now being taken for a ride, towed by the mighty fish at breakneck speed, faster even than any good four-in-hand upon the macadam road to New Norfolk. Our whaleboat skims the waves and Nestbyte is still yelling at us. ‘Come aft! In the name of Christ Jesus, aft, ye bastards!’