Sea Fever

by Sam Jefferson

  For these efforts, each member of the crew could expect a proportion of the profits of the trip. This was known as a ‘lay’, and the size of your lay depended on your experience. Melville, as a novice, could expect one of the lowest lays and had to satisfy himself with 1/175 of the total profit from the voyage. On arriving home, all aboard were at the mercy of the very volatile sperm oil market, which ultimately decided how much they made from the trip. Melville arrived when the Acushnet was almost ready to sail, and observed the last of the supplies being loaded aboard prior to departure. It was the depths of winter, and icy cold, which must have set young Melville dreaming of the exotic lands to come. On 3 January 1840, the whaler slipped her cable and nosed down the icy Acushnet River bound around Cape Horn and beyond to the South Seas in pursuit of the whale.

  His voyage aboard the Acushnet was later published in Ty-Pee, Melville’s first and, for the duration of his lifetime, most successful novel. He was always at pains to state that the book was based solely on fact and, if this is the case, then Captain Pease does not come off well at all. Re-named Captain Vangs, Pease is described thus:

  The usage on board of the ship was tyrannical; the sick had been inhumanly neglected; the provisions had been doled out in scanty allowance; and her cruises were unreasonably protracted. The captain was the author of the abuses; it was in vain to think that he would either remedy them, or alter his conduct, which was arbitrary and violent in the extreme. His prompt reply to all complaints and remonstrances was – the butt-end of a handspike, so convincingly administered as effectually to silence the aggrieved party.

  Just how bad Pease was is hard to ascertain. What is true was that the crew of the Acushnet, having signed the ship’s articles, were by and large at the mercy of the captain, who could be as cruel or as kind as he wished. It is unquestionably true that seamen were often treated disgracefully aboard ships and, as late as 1851, the American clipper Challenge limped in to San Francisco with 11 sailors dead from the mistreatment that had allegedly been doled out on the trip around the Horn. In this instance, the captain and mate were both acquitted of any wrongdoing. Nevertheless, whaling vessels tended to be more harmonious, due to the extreme length of their voyages. Between launching for whales, the crew could generally take it easy. On the other hand, Pease had already been taken to task by some of his crew during a previous whaling voyage, with some of the ship’s complement complaining of substandard supplies and poor treatment.

  Melville had all this to come as the Acushnet meandered slowly down the Atlantic toward Cape Horn. There was plenty of opportunity to take stock of his surroundings. He was part of a crew of 26, made up of the captain, three mates, two junior officers, a cook, two carpenters, a blacksmith and 16 seamen or ‘foremast hands’. All of these foremast hands were housed in the fo’c’sle, a low, dark hovel situated right in the bows of the boat, which must have been intolerably stuffy and a veritable pit of filth and frustration after several weeks at sea. Melville describes a typical whalers fo’c’sle thus in his later book Omoo:

  The general aspect of the forecastle was dungeon-like and dingy in the extreme. In the first place, it was not five feet from deck to deck and even this space was encroached upon by two outlandish cross-timbers bracing the vessel, and by the sailors’ chests, over which you must needs crawl in getting about. At meal-times, and especially when we indulged in after-dinner chat, we sat about the chests like a parcel of tailors.

  In the middle of all were two square, wooden columns, denominated in marine architecture ‘Bowsprit Bitts.’ They were about a foot apart, and between them, by a rusty chain, swung the forecastle lamp, burning day and night, and forever casting two long black shadows. Lower down, between the bitts, was a locker, or sailors’ pantry, kept in abominable disorder, and sometimes requiring a vigorous cleaning and fumigation.

  With the sailors thus crammed together in such a deplorable manner, the Acushnet wafted her way into warmer climes. Doubtless the crew would have been set to work at practising lowering the boats and rehearsing their roles for a real live chase of the leviathan. A whaler generally carried four whaleboats slung on davits, or cranes, along her side. These boats were double ended and around 25-30ft in length and were powered along by five oarsmen, who manned extremely long oars up to 18ft in length. To aid with the stealthy pursuit of the whale, matting was placed under the rowlocks or ‘thole pins’, which ensured that the whaleboats could glide along in almost total silence. As the greenhorns found their place, they would have observed the respect and obsessive care with which their seniors handled all of the whaling gear; harpoons were honed and pared down to razor sharpness, while the long whale lines, which were attached to the harpoons, were coiled down into tubs with total precision. One snarl up while this line was paying out when a whale dived could drag the whole crew down to Davy Jones’ locker.

  The crew were divided in to two watches, port and starboard, under the command of the first and second mate respectively. Each watch would be four hours in length and two men were stationed aloft throughout the day keeping up a permanent search for whales. On sighting a whale, the following exchange, as told in Moby Dick, was typical:

  ‘There she blows! there! there! there! she blows! she blows!’

  ‘Where-away?’

  ‘On the lee-beam, about two miles off! a school of them!’

  Instantly all was commotion. The Sperm Whale blows as a clock ticks, with the same undeviating and reliable uniformity. And thereby whalemen distinguish this fish from other tribes of his genus.

  ’There go flukes!’ was now the cry; and the whales disappeared.

  There is no record of the first lowering in anger aboard the Acushnet, but it definitely occurred before the ship touched at Rio, for at this point over 100 barrels of sperm oil were shipped to a vessel heading back to the US. No doubt Melville was utterly focussed on his own role as oarsman when it occurred. The most important thing for him was staying in time with the rest of the crew, urged on as they were by the mate, who would entreat them to pull for all they were worth. Woe betide the man who got out of time and ‘caught a crab’, as this could be the end of the chase.

  Quite how Melville felt as the boats were lowered for that first chase is not fully recorded, but this passage from Moby Dick gives a fair indication:

  Not the raw recruit, marching from the bosom of his wife into the fever heat of his first battle; not the dead man’s ghost encountering the first unknown phantom in the other world; – neither of these can feel stranger and stronger emotions than that man does, who for the first time finds himself pulling into the charmed, churned circle of the hunted sperm whale.

  The time to strike a whale is just after it has surfaced, as it will not have been able to take in enough air to dive too deep once it has been ‘darted’ (harpooned) by its assailants. It was the role of the foremost oarsman, known as the ‘boatsteerer’ to hurl the first harpoon into the unsuspecting creature once within close range. Once darted, the chase entered its most dangerous phase, for the whale often hurled itself in the air, thrashing its flukes around in rage and pain, before descending into the deep. Meanwhile, onboard, the hundreds of metres of line attached to the harpoon fizzed out of the customised tub, where the line had previously been painstakingly coiled. Whale, harpoon and line all plunged down to the depths, while another oarsman poured water on the line to cool it down. While all of this was going on, the boatsteerer raced aft and swapped ends with the mate, in order to steer the vessel as it was towed along at great speed by the frantic whale. Sometimes a whaleboat could be towed out of sight of the mother ship by an enraged whale, and many a crew simply disappeared. It was also common in this initial frenzy for the whaleboat to be smashed by its prey if the crew were not smart enough at backing away.

  Once in tow, the crew awaited the resurfacing of their adversary and, as the whale weakened, would pull in on their line until once more within range. At this point, the mate would finish the unfortunate beast off with an ons
laught of repeated blows from his lance until the huge creature surrendered to death. Things did not always go this well, and the risk of the whaleboat being dragged under, swamped or sunk by the thrashing whale was extremely real. Nevertheless, if successful, this most dramatic and dangerous part of whaling, the chase, was over but the hard work had only just begun.

  With the whale dead, the crew could inspect their prey. Sperm whales are generally around 50–60ft in length and can live up to 80 years. On close inspection it was often discovered that an elderly whale would already have several rusted harpoons sticking out of its skin from previous unsuccessful attacks. If a crew was fortunate, the mother ship would be close at hand and could sail over and collect its prey but, all too often an exhausting row, towing the dead whale, was required. Whales are naturally buoyant, but in some cases, all the hard work was undone and the whale would inexplicably sink without a trace. Melville records this occurrence in Moby Dick and the dismay and frustration must have been palpable.

  Once alongside, the great carcass was lashed to the ship, tail forward and work had to continue at a fast pace, for all the time the waters between ship and whale were a frenzy of sharks, snapping away at the whale’s tasty blubber. Above this frenzy, a number of unfortunate men were lowered on a ‘cutting stage’: simply a short plinth attached to the side by two ropes, and from this vulnerable position the men dangled while they cut a deep incision in the whales blubber in order to insert a ‘blubber hook’, which was lowered from the rigging on a very substantial block and tackle. At this point, the unfortunate boatsteerer was ordered to jump on top of the whale and insert the hook. Although he was attached to the ship by a thin rope, the danger of this operation can be appreciated to some extent even as you sit comfortably reading this book. It certainly does not bear thinking about how the man felt who lowered himself onto the slimy corpse as it pitched around in the seas. One slip could mean being crushed between boat and whale or gobbled up by the voracious sharks.

  With the hook attached, a strip of blubber about six feet wide was cut around it, and the crew manned the windlass in order to haul up the hook, which bit deep into the whale and, under immense strain, ripped the flesh away from the carcass as the mighty creature rolled over and over, unpeeling in much the same manner as an orange. Once the tackle had run out of bight to haul up, a new hook was inserted lower down in this same strip of blubber and so the process continued. Meantime, the head of the whale, containing all that precious spermaceti, was carefully amputated from the body and once the great strips of blubber were peeled away from the carcass it was cast loose and drifted off to be chewed over by the insatiable sharks. The head was then secured alongside and carefully dissected. In most cases it would be too big to haul up on deck, so the extraction of the oil would have to be carried out with the great head hauled up almost level with the deck. With the ship heeling over drunkenly under the weight of what was left of the whale, a hole would be cut in the head and buckets would be lowered into it from whence gallons of the precious sperm oil were extracted.

  By now the men at the capstan, of which Melville would certainly have been one, would be utterly exhausted from hours of backbreaking work. Their hands would be blistered from gripping the capstan bars and their thighs and calves would be screaming from the exertion. Yet the labour was far from over, for it was now time to wring out every single ounce of oil from the blubber and head of the whale. Between fore and mainmast were situated the ‘try works’, essentially a great stone furnace built into the ship in order to treat the blubber and remove the last drop of oil from the unfortunate creature. With the blubber aboard, the great fires of the try works were lit, and blubber and ‘junk’ (part of the head made up of large, oil filled membranes) were loaded into huge copper pots and heated until the oil was rendered. First the ‘junk’ was treated, then the blubber was minced and heated through, the residue being thrown back onto the fires to burn and crackle. All the while the men toiled, soaked in oil and blood, working shifts of six hours on, six off. As night fell, the great furnace would glow eerie and red, reflecting in the dark, lonely ocean and shooting sparks into the empty sky. The scene is described vividly in Moby Dick:

  By midnight the works were in full operation. We were clear from the carcase; sail had been made; the wind was freshening; the wild ocean darkness was intense. But that darkness was licked up by the fierce flames, which at intervals forked forth from the sooty flues, and illuminated every lofty rope in the rigging, as with the famed Greek fire. The burning ship drove on, as if remorselessly commissioned to some vengeful deed. So the pitch and sulphur-freighted brigs of the bold Hydriote, Canaris, issuing from their midnight harbors, with broad sheets of flame for sails, bore down upon the Turkish frigates, and folded them in conflagrations.

  Finally, the casks of oil were made ready to be stowed and, following a full scrub down, the labours of the men were at an end. Yet the ever-vigilant lookouts remained at the topmast, and it was only a matter of time before the cry of, ‘Thar she blows!’ would be heard again. In fact, the more of this sort of work, the better as far as the whaler was concerned, for once a ship’s hold was full, she could return home.

  After calling in to Rio to drop off some of this hard-earned sperm oil, the Acushnet pressed on toward the dark waters of Cape Horn. The little whaler had to round this fearful headland in order to reach the rich whaling grounds of the Pacific, and there was much to fear from the dreaded Cape, for the Acushnet was headed ‘westabout’ the Horn, meaning she would have to beat against the prevailing easterly gales that howled around this bleak outcrop. Ships could be stuck down for weeks at a time in this snow-strewn, godforsaken spot as they attempted to reach the Pacific, and more than one ship had been known to turn tail and run eastabout almost around the world in order to make the Pacific via Australia. This exact circumstance happened to the Bounty in 1787 when bound to Tahiti, and the demoralising effect of the battering off the Horn certainly contributed to the subsequent mutiny.

  Fortunately, the Acushnet was new, well-found and evidently a handy vessel. Most importantly she encountered very clement weather and took a mere 12 days to enter into the welcoming waters of the Pacific. Melville could now count himself a true sailor, for he had crossed the line and rounded the Horn. From now on, every mile gained to the north took them into more pleasant weather and the warm, rolling billows of the Pacific. The Acushnet was heading for the ‘offshore grounds’, a rich whaling area off the coast of South America. The crew of the Acushnet could expect to spend the best part of the next three years rolling around on this great blue nothingness, wandering seemingly without direction save for the endless quest for the whale. The awful ennui and loneliness of such a life is hard for people to conceive these days, but many men led this existence for years on end. Aside from the few hours of terror and adrenaline that occurred each time the boats were lowered, there were only two other occurrences to break the terrible boredom of life aboard: the first was that the captain would be compelled to touch at some lonely port for water and supplies – at which point many men took the opportunity to break the tedium by deserting – or the chance meeting of a fellow whale ship. Whalers were, understandably, very sociable vessels and it was rare that two vessels meeting in this lonely expanse would not heave to and lower their boats in order to have what was known as a ‘gam’. This was a great opportunity to swap stories, possibly get news from home and generally enjoy other people’s company. It was probably in the course of one of these gams that Melville heard related the tale of the whaler Essex, which in 1820 was hunting sperm whales when a particularly large specimen turned on the ship and repeatedly rammed the vessel until it sank. The survivors had no choice but to remain in their whale boats, and endured a gruelling voyage, in the course of which some members of the crew drew lots to decide who should be eaten, and only a handful of survivors made the mainland. The story of the whale attacking the Essex was to form the tumultuous climax of Moby Dick, while other yarns of mutiny and
unrest, which would have been spun at these gatherings were also interwoven into the plot of Melville’s masterpiece.

  Apart from the odd gam, the only other diversion for many months was a stopover in Santa, Peru, where the men were given shore leave, the Acushnet was given a thorough clean, and running repairs were carried out. Melville wrote to his mother from here stating that all was well and that the crew were an excellent bunch. This was odd, for it would only be a matter of months before he deserted the ship. It is possible, however, that he was simply putting a brave face on things for his mother’s benefit. From Santa, the Acushnet continued to plod her way through the whaling grounds; by now her sails would have been well patched, threadbare and stained with the smoke of the tryworks; her once white decks would be marked with grease and oil, and her paint would be peeling. As for the men, all would now be struggling with the mind-numbing prospect of at least two more years of this drifting. Some passed the time working on scrimshaw, a method of carving whalebone and marking it with ink, which often produces the most delicate work. Others would busy themselves with model making, reading, arguing or lolling around the deck. All would have been desperately sexually frustrated and fairly sick of each other’s company.

  There were, however, rewards, for the Acushnet was crisscrossing lazily along one of the most perfect cruising grounds a sailor could dream of, and when there were no whales in sight, life aboard was extremely relaxing, as Melville recalled in Ty-Pee:

  What a delightful, lazy, languid time we had whilst we were thus gliding along! There was nothing to be done; a circumstance that happily suited our disinclination to do anything. We abandoned the fore-peak altogether, and spreading an awning over the forecastle, slept, ate, and lounged under it the live-long day. Every one seemed to be under the influence of some narcotic. Even the officers aft, whose duty required them never to be seated while keeping a deck watch, vainly endeavoured to keep on their pins; and were obliged invariably to compromise the matter by leaning up against the bulwarks, and gazing abstractedly over the side. Reading was out of the question; take a book in your hand, and you were asleep in an instant.