by Sarah Lark
“Qui…quite a party…when the mo…mother is sulking and the fa…father is off somewhere else,” Gerald scoffed.
“You’re not exactly innocent with regard to Lucas’s and my lack of enthusiasm!” Gwyneira fired back at him. “But as you see, I’m not sulking. I’ll be there, I’ll smile—and you will read aloud a letter from Lucas who, regretfully, is still in England. Everything is burning down, Gerald! They’re walking all over us in Haldon. There are rumors that Paul…well, that he’s not a Warden.”
The party took place three weeks later in Kiward Station’s garden. Rivers of champagne flowed once again. Gerald acted amiable and let himself be saluted. Gwyneira kept a smile glued to her face and revealed to the assembled guests that Paul was named after his great-grandfathers. She pointed out the obvious similarities to Gerald to nearly all the members of the community. Blessedly, Paul himself slumbered in the arms of his nanny. Gwyneira prudently avoided presenting him herself. He still howled when she held him, and she still reacted with anger and impatience. She understood that she had to welcome this child into the family and secure his position—but she could not feel anything deeper for the boy. Paul remained estranged from her, and what was worse—every time she looked into his eyes, she was reminded of Gerald’s lustful grimace on the fateful night of his conception. When the party was finally over, Gwyneira fled into the stables and cried without restraint into Igraine’s soft mane just as she had done as a child when something seemed hopeless. Gwyneira wished it had never happened. She yearned for James, even for Lucas. She still had not heard a word from her husband, and Gerald’s researches had proved fruitless. The country was simply too big. Whoever wanted to stay missing, stayed missing.
8
“Just hit him, Luke! Once, with something behind it, on the back of the noggin. He won’t feel a thing.” Even as Roger spoke, he did in another abandoned seal pup—in accordance with the rules of the seal hunting profession, the animal died without his pelt being harmed. The hunters killed by hitting the seal on the back of the head with a club. If blood flowed at all, it flowed out the nose of the young seal. After that they got straight to work skinning it, without even bothering to make sure the animal was dead beforehand.
Lucas Warden raised his club, but he could not bring himself to harm the small animal looking at him with the trusting eyes of a child. The lamentations of the mother seals all around him didn’t help. The men were only there for the pups’ soft and valuable pelts. They wandered across the seal banks where the mothers raised their children, killing the pups before their mothers’ eyes. The rocks of Tauranga Bay were already red with their blood—and Lucas had to fight the urge to vomit. He could not comprehend how the men could be so heartless. The suffering of the animals did not bother them in the least; they even made jokes about how benevolently and helplessly the seals awaited their hunters. Lucas had joined the party three days before but had yet to kill an animal. At first the men appeared to hardly notice that he only helped with the skinning and storing of the pelts on the wagons and flats. But now they were insisting that he take part in the slaughter too. Lucas felt hopelessly sick. Was this what made a man? What was so much more honest about the work of killing helpless animals than painting and writing? Lucas, however, was tired of asking himself these questions. He was here to prove himself, determined to do exactly the work that his father had done to lay the foundations of his wealth. Originally Lucas had hired himself onto a whaling ship, but that had ended in ignominious failure. Lucas did not like to admit it, but he had fled—this despite the fact that he had already signed the contract and really liked the man who had hired him.
Lucas had met Copper, a tall, dark-haired man with the angular, weathered face typical of “Coasters,” in a pub in Greymouth. Right after his flight from Kiward Station, when he was still so full of anger and hatred for Gerald that he could hardly think straight. He had set out pell-mell for the West Coast, an Eldorado for “tough guys” who proudly dubbed themselves “Coasters” and earned their living with whaling and seal hunting and, more recently, the search for gold. Lucas had wanted to show everyone—to earn his own money, to prove himself a “real man” so that he might return at some point fabulously wealthy, weighed down with…with what, exactly? Gold? In that case, he probably should have taken up a shovel and gold pan and ridden into the mountains instead of signing on to a whale ship. But Lucas had not thought that far ahead. He just wanted to get away, far away, preferably out at sea—and he wanted to use his father’s own weapons against him. He had reached Greymouth, a poor settlement with little to offer other than a pub and a ship landing, after an adventurous ride through the mountains. Nevertheless, there was a dry corner in the pub where Lucas could make camp. For the first time in days he had a roof over his head. His blankets were still damp and dirty from his nights beneath the open sky. Lucas would have liked to draw himself a bath, but they were not equipped for such a thing in Greymouth. Lucas was not surprised. “Real men” did not seem to bathe very often. Instead of water, plenty of beer and whiskey flowed, and after a few glasses, Lucas had told Copper about his plans. He took heart when the Coaster did not just wave him away.
“Don’t look much like a whaler,” he remarked, taking a long look at Lucas’s thin face and soft gray eyes. “But not like a weakling neither.” The man reached for Lucas’s upper arm and felt his muscles. “All right, why not. Been plenty o’ men who learned to hold a harpoon.” He laughed. But then his gaze became searching. “But can you handle being on your own for three or four years? Won’t you miss the pretty girls in port?”
Lucas had already heard that you had to sign on for two to four years when you hired on to a whaling ship these days. The golden era of whaling, when sperm whales were easily found right off the South Island’s coast—the Maori had even hunted the beasts from their canoes—were past. By now the whales just off the coast were all but extinct. One had to sail far out to sea to find them and often spent weeks, if not years, on the hunt. Lucas had few concerns about that. The company of men even seemed attractive to him, as long as he didn’t stand out as he had on Kiward Station as the boss’s son. He would make it through this all right—no, he would go so far as to earn respect and recognition. Lucas was determined, and Copper did not turn him away. On the contrary, he seemed to regard him with interest, slapping him on the shoulder and patting him on the arm with the paws of an experienced ship’s carpenter and whaler. Lucas was somewhat ashamed of his manicured hands, his lack of calluses, and his relatively clean fingernails. On Kiward Station the men had occasionally alluded to the fact that he cleaned them regularly, but Copper didn’t say a word about it.
Lucas had followed his new friend onto the ship, had himself introduced to the skipper, and signed a contract that bound him to three years on the Pretty Peg, a pear-shaped sailing ship that, though small, appeared just as resilient as its owner. The skipper, Robert Milford, was short but built of solid muscle. Copper spoke of him with great respect and praised his skills as the main harpooner. Milford greeted Lucas with a powerful handshake, told him what his pay would be—which struck Lucas as shockingly low—and directed Copper to show him to a berth. The Pretty Peg would soon be setting sail. Lucas had only two days to sell his horse, bring his things on board the whaler, and take over the pallet next to Copper’s. That suited him just fine. Even if Gerald had sent out search parties, he would long since have set sail before word reached out-of-the-way Greymouth.
But life on board sobered him up quickly. On the first night, the fleas belowdecks kept him awake; what’s more, he had to battle against seasickness. Lucas made every effort to pull himself together, but his stomach rebelled whenever the ship rocked in the waves. It was worse in the dark room inside the ship than on deck, which led him to finally try spending the night outside. The cold and the damp soon drove him back to his quarters, and he knew it would be impossible to sleep outside once they were at sea, when water would be washing over the deck. Once again, the men we
re laughing at him, though he did not mind so much this time because Copper was obviously on his side.
“He’s just a polite little lord, our Luke!” he remarked good-naturedly. “He’s just got to get used to it. But just wait till he’s baptized in blubber. He’ll be all right, believe me!”
Copper commanded great respect from the crew. He was not only a capable ship’s carpenter, but was also considered a first-class whaler.
His friendship did Lucas good, and the furtive touches Copper seemed to seek on occasion were not unpleasant. Lucas might even have enjoyed them if the hygienic conditions aboard the Pretty Peg were not so appalling. There was limited drinking water, and no one even considered wasting it on washing. The men rarely shaved, and they did not own any changes of clothes. After a few nights, the whalers and their lodgings stank worse than the sheep stalls on Kiward Station. Lucas tried washing himself with seawater as a last resort, but it was difficult and drew laughter from the rest of the crew. Though the other men seemed to enjoy the shared company and hardly appeared to notice the stench of their unwashed bodies, Lucas was ashamed of his dirty, flea-bitten condition. He realized it wasn’t necessary, given the state of the others, but he couldn’t help but be bothered by it.
There was little to do. The ship could have sailed with a much smaller crew, and there would only be work for everyone once the hunt began. As a result, they spent a lot of time in close company. They told stories, exaggerating without compunction, sang dirty songs, and killed time playing cards. Lucas had always disdained poker and blackjack as being ungentlemanly, but he knew the rules, and played to avoid standing out. Unfortunately, he had not inherited his father’s talent for cards. Lucas could not sell a bluff or a poker face. You could look at him and know exactly what he was thinking, which was not an asset when it came to men and gaming. In short order, he had lost what little money he had brought with him from Kiward Station and had to let his losses stand. No doubt there would have been difficulties with the men if Copper had not had his hand on him. The older man fawned over him so explicitly that Lucas was starting to wonder about it. It was not unpleasant, but it was bound to draw attention sooner or later. Lucas still thought with horror of the allusions the shepherds made on Kiward Station when he preferred to be with the younger Dave O’Toole than with the more experienced men. The comments of the whalers on board the Pretty Peg stayed within proper limits, however. There were close friendships between other men on the whaler as well, and sometimes at night sounds emanated from the berths that made Lucas blush with embarrassment—but they also aroused feelings of lust and envy within him. Was that what he had dreamed about on Kiward Station and what he had thought about when he tried making love to Gwyneira? Lucas knew that there was a connection, but something within him prevented him from seriously considering love in these surroundings. There was nothing exciting about embracing stinking, unwashed bodies, male or female. The only model he had for his secret yearnings—the Greek ideal of the mentor who took in a handsome boy not only to provide him with love but also to impart wisdom and life experience—had little in common with this scenario.
If Lucas were honest with himself, he loathed every minute of his stay aboard the Pretty Peg. It was impossible for him to imagine spending three years on board, but there was no possibility of dissolving his contract. And the ship would not be docking anywhere for months. Any thought of flight was futile. Lucas could only hope that he would eventually grow accustomed to the cramped quarters, the rough sea, and the stench. The latter proved the easiest. After only a few days, he already felt less revolted by Copper and the others—presumably because he had begun to give off the same odor himself. His seasickness ebbed, and there were days when Lucas retched only once.
But then came the first hunt, and with that everything changed.
In an unusual stroke of luck, the Pretty Peg’s helmsman spotted a sperm whale just two weeks after setting sail. His excited call awoke the crew, who were still lying in their berths at that early hour of the morning. The men sprang up at once and stormed onto the deck at lightning speed. They were wound up and energized by the thrill of the hunt, which was no wonder. When successful, the whalers received premiums that enhanced their meager pay. When Lucas came on deck, he saw the skipper gazing over the side, frowning at the whale, which was playing a game with the waves within sight of the New Zealand coast.
“Gorgeous specimen!” Milford rejoiced. “Huge! I hope we take him. If we do, we’ll fill half the barrels today. He’s fat as a pig ready for slaughter!”
The men bellowed with laughter. It was Lucas’s first encounter with a whale, and he was having trouble viewing the majestic and fearless animal before them as prey.
The powerful sperm whale, almost as big as the whole Pretty Peg, slid elegantly through the waves, leaping out from time to time, turning and twisting in the air like a bucking, carefree horse, with a pure embodiment of the joy of life. How were they supposed to bring this gigantic animal down? And why did they want to destroy this beauty? Lucas could hardly get enough of the grace and sprightliness displayed by the whale despite its immense mass.
The other men, however, had no eyes for that. They were already separating themselves into teams and assembling around their individual boat commanders. Copper waved Lucas over to him. Apparently, he was among the select few who commanded their own boats.
“This is it, boys!” The skipper ran excitedly around the deck and gave the boats their launching orders. His core crew performed as a well-rehearsed team. The men lowered the small but sturdy rowboats skillfully into the water—six rowers took their places in each one, followed by the boat commanders and harpooners, and sometimes a boatsteerer as well. To Lucas, the harpooners looked very tiny in comparison to the animal they wanted to bring down. But Copper merely laughed when he made a comment to that effect.
“The size is what does it, boy! Sure, a single shot just tickles the beast. But six’ll lay ’im low. Then we pull ’im up to the ship an’ cut the fat from ’im. Hard work but worth it. And the skipper there ain’t greedy. If we bag that one, we’ll all be getting a couple extra dollars. So put your back in it!”
The sea was not too rough that day, and the rowboats quickly neared the whale. It did not seem to be trying to escape. On the contrary, it seemed to find the commotion of boats all around it quite diverting and made a few extra leaps, as though entertaining an audience—until the first harpoon struck home.
A harpooner from boat one rammed a spear into the animal’s fin. Shocked and annoyed, the whale threw itself around and swam directly at Copper’s boat.
“Careful around its tail! When he’s seriously hurt, he’ll flap around. Don’t get too close, boys!”
Copper gave directions as he aimed for the whale’s rib cage. He finally landed the second hit, which he placed much better than the first. The whale seemed to be weakening. Now an onslaught of harpoons rained down on the animal. Lucas watched with a mixture of fascination and horror as the whale reared up under the assault, now trying to flee but too late. The harpoons were attached to ropes, which was how the whale was to be hauled back to the ship. The whale was now almost deranged with pain and fear. It tore at its bonds, occasionally succeeding in pulling out one of the harpoons. But the whale bled from dozens of wounds, and the water around it foamed red. Lucas was nauseated by this theater, by the merciless slaughter of this majestic creature. The battle of the colossus against its opponents raged for hours, and the men poured all their strength into rowing, throwing, and pulling on the ropes to overcome the whale. Lucas did not notice the blisters forming and bursting on his hands. Nor did he feel any fear when Copper, determined to distinguish himself, came ever closer to the thrashing, dying whale. Lucas felt nothing but disgust and sympathy for the creature fighting valiantly until its last breath. He could hardly comprehend having a part in this unfair fight, nor could he abandon his crew. He was here now, and his life too depended on the whale being brought down. He could ponder it a
ll later.
Finally the whale floated motionless in the water. Lucas did not know whether it was really dead or simply exhausted, but regardless, the men were able to pull it up alongside the ship. What came next was—if possible—worse. The men began to stick long knives in the body to cut out the fat, which was hauled straight up to the ship to be rendered into blubber. Lucas hoped the creature was really dead when the first chunks were ripped from its body and thrown on deck. Minutes later, they were wading through fat and blood. Someone opened up the whale’s head to draw out the sought-after spermaceti. Copper had told Lucas that candles and cleaning and skincare products would be made from that. Others were looking in the bowels of the whale for the even more valuable ambergris, a basic ingredient for the perfume industry. It stank bestially, and Lucas shivered when he thought of all the eau de cologne he and Gwyneira had owned on Kiward Station. He never would have thought that any part of that was obtained from the stinking innards of a gruesomely slaughtered animal.
In the meantime, fires were being lit under giant kettles, and the stench of the whale fat being rendered filled the ship. The air was suffused with fat, which felt like it stuck to Lucas’s air passages when he inhaled. Lucas bent over the guardrail but could not escape the stench of fish and blood. He would have liked to vomit, but his stomach was long since empty. He had been thirsty earlier, but now he could not imagine anything that wouldn’t taste like blubber. He vaguely remembered that someone had explained the whaling process to him as a child and that he had found it ghastly. Now he was stuck in the middle of a nightmare of fat and flesh, which people were throwing into reeking kettles. The kettles of rendered blubber would then be emptied into barrels. The cask maker—responsible for the filling and sealing of the barrels—called to Lucas to help him close the containers. Lucas did so, trying not to look into the kettles, where pieces of the whale were cooking.
