Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
One - Alaska, June 1871
Two - “The Dearest Place in All New England”
Three - A Nursery and a Kindergarten
Four - The Crucible of Deviancy
Five - The Killing Floes
Six - The Nantucket Paradigm
Seven - “Well Cut Up”
Eight - The Newer Bedford
Nine - Neither Land nor Sea nor Air
Ten - The Profits of Asceticism
Eleven - The Ships and the Men
Twelve - Old Lights and New
Thirteen - Frequent Visitors
Fourteen - Paradigm Shift
Fifteen - “Our Dreadful Situation”
Sixteen - Abandonment
Seventeen - Aftermath
Eighteen - “How Hard It Is to Rise, When You’re Really, Truly Down”
Epilogue 1
Epilogue 2
Acknowledgements
Sources
PUTNAM
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Publishers Since 1838
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York,
New York 10014, USA • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East,
Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin
Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2,
Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell,
Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd) • Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd,
11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi-110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive,
Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd) • Penguin Books
(South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Copyright © 2009 by Peter Nichols
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or
electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials
in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. Published simultaneously in Canada
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Nichols, Peter, date.
Final voyage : a story of Arctic disaster and one fateful whaling season / Peter Nichols.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references.
eISBN : 978-1-101-14880-8
1. Whaling—Arctic regions—History—19th century. 2. Marine accidents—Arctic regions—History—19th
century. 3. Whaling—Economic aspects—Massachusetts—New Bedford—History—19th century.
4. Seafaring life—Massachusetts—New Bedford—History—19th century.
5. New Bedford (Mass.)—Economic conditions—19th century.
6. New Bedford (Mass.)—Biography. I. Title
SH383.2.N
338.3’72950974485—dc22
While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
http://us.penguingroup.com
This book is for Gus,
my son, Augustus Paris Nichols.
Prologue
After surging to an all-time peak, oil prices were falling, despite the depletion of fields around the world. Oil itself was talked about as an outmoded commodity, soon to be relegated to the past as cheaper, inexhaustible, emerging energy sources were being developed.
Oil barons and financiers were suddenly facing the loss of an industry that had supported them and supplied the world’s needs for generations. Banks and hitherto bedrock-solid financial institutions were foundering.
Wealthy men were ruined overnight, stunned that they had not seen what was coming, that everything they had believed in and counted upon lay in ruins.
The old paradigm was broken and a new one was overtaking the world.
This, then, was the state of the whale-oil industry 140 years ago.
One
Alaska, June 1871
Early in June 1871, as the whaling bark John Wells, of New Bedford, Massachusetts, approached the snow- and fog-shrouded Siberian shore at the southern entrance to the Bering Strait, the ship was intercepted by a small boat full of wild-looking, fur-clad men. At first the whalemen on the Wells’s deck mistook them for Eskimos, natives of this coast. For the most part, New Englanders found the Eskimos, with occasional female exceptions, repellent-looking (made more so by the chin tattoos of the women, and the holes men bored in their cheeks around their mouths, then plugged with ornamental pieces of bone), but these creatures, as they drew closer, looked particularly wretched. All were bearded, their long hair matted, their faces smeared with grease and blackened from crouching over smoky fires. They appeared out of the cold, vaporous air like spectral phantoms, waving and calling, their voices thin and imploring. But their cries were in everyday English. The boat was soon alongside the John Wells, and its ripe-smelling occupants were helped aboard the ship.
One of them introduced himself as Captain Frederick Barker and explained that he and the men with him were the surviving crew of the whaling ship Japan, which had driven ashore on the nearby coast in a storm eight months before. Barker and his men were taken below, where they bathed, shaved, and were given clean clothes. Finally, over a seaman’s meal of beef, pork, beans, and bread—Christian food they had not tasted for eight months—they told their story to the Wells’s captain, Aaron Dean, and his officers.
They had enjoyed an exceptionally fortunate season’s whaling the previous year, in the summer of 1870. The Japan had pushed through the ice in the Bering Strait and reached the Arctic Ocean whaling grounds by the unusually early date of March 10—it was normally July before ice conditions allowed whaleships north of the strait. Their good luck had continued throughout the summer and into the fall. Because of mercurial changes of weather at the season’s close, when summer might be replaced by winter in the space of twenty-four hours, most whaling captains normally started heading south from the Arctic by early September. Lulled by continued fine conditions and an abundance of bowhead whales—and mindful of the injunction given by all whaling ship owners to their captains: “You are not to omit taking a whale when you can”—Captain Barker delayed his departure by a full month. He continued taking whales even as the autumn rime coated the shore, the true barometer of what was coming.
Early in October, Barker finally turned his ship south. On October 4, a heavy gale struck the Japan, and with it came the full, brutal, change of season. In driving snow, with ice forming in the rigging, Barker and his crew attempted to work the ship through the fast-disappearing channel between the coast and the solidifying ice pack that the storm was hourly driving closer to shore. With the ice and the storm came snow squalls, and between the squalls, the air was filled with a dense, disorienting fog. When even the roughly level plane of the sea beyond the decks became invisible, Barker’s world was reduced to an icy, disorienting cloud. Without visual or celestial aids, his navigation exponentially veered toward guesswork as he aimed the Japan for the eye of a geographic nee
dle, the sixty-mile-wide Bering Strait, beyond which lay the open waters of the Bering Sea and the North Pacific.
The benign season had also seduced other whaling captains into postponing their departure from the Arctic, and these ships were now sailing through this same storm. The New Bedford whaleship Elizabeth Swift was not far away. “ This day blowing a terible gale from the N,” noted the Swift’s logkeeper on October 5. Waves continually broke aboard the Swift, filling her with water, keeping her men laboring at her pumps. The oar-powered whaleboats carried in davits high above the decks were swept away. As the storm went on, the height of the waves and the force and weight of the water crashing aboard increased. On October 6, a great wave smashed into the ship’s side and “stove our starboard bulwarks all to atoms.” Sails blew to ribbons. Another New Bedford whaleship, the Seneca, was seen working heavily through the seas not far away. Neither ship knew its position with any certainty. “ Dont know whare we are,” wrote the Swift’s logkeeper. “Vary cold. So ends this day.”
On October 8, the men aboard the Japan sighted another whaleship through the snow, the Massachusetts, of New Bedford, also running south at speed. The Japan made signals to the other ship, hoping to stay in company with her, for Barker feared the Japan might not weather the storm. But the Massachusetts either did not see the signals or could do little about them, and disappeared into the spumy air.
At the same time, the Champion, of Martha’s Vineyard, lay about sixty miles to the north, behind the Japan. She had recently caught and cut up four whales, but there hadn’t been time before the storm struck to boil the blubber from these into oil and stow the barrels below. Large chunks of whale meat and blubber, called “horse pieces,” 500 barrels’ worth, were now stored “between decks,” the space between the upper deck and the ship’s hold. This constituted a danger almost as great as the storm, for such deadweight, forty or fifty tons of it, sliding around with every roll and pitch, made the ship dangerously top-heavy, more likely than ever to slew around out of control before the wind and capsize. The Champion’s captain, Henry Pease, later described the circumstances aboard his ship as it headed for the Bering Strait:
... ship covered with ice and oil; could only muster four men in a watch, decks flooded with water all the time; no fire to cook with or to warm by, made it the most anxious and miserable time I ever experienced in all my sea-service. During the night shipped a heavy sea, which took off bow and waist boats, davits, slide-boards, and everything attached, staving about 20 barrels of oil.
With the coming of a bleak daylight, the Champion’s crew lowered the lead line (a lead weight on the end of a rope) in an attempt to get some idea of where they were. They found seventeen fathoms of water beneath the ship and concluded that they had passed through the Bering Strait during the night and were now headed for the rocks of St. Lawrence Island, directly ahead. By then the storm moderated enough to allow them to raise two small sails and haul the ship away from the island, saving themselves from certain shipwreck.
Barker and his crew were not so lucky. On the morning of October 9, running at “racehorse speed” before the wind, in “such blinding snow that we could not see half a ship’s length,” the Japan drove like a runaway train onto the rocky shore at the western side of the strait. All of her crew were miraculously unhurt in the wreck. Most of them immediately jumped overboard and waded a quarter of a mile through the pounding surf to the shore. The water temperature was at, or only a little above, freezing. Barker went below to gather his ship’s papers and logbook, but as he emerged from the cabin, a breaking wave swept over the deck and tore everything from his arms. Drenched, in clothes instantly growing stiff with ice, he descended to his cabin, again to change. Although the Japan was now pounding in the shallows, the ship’s position had stabilized somewhat. Knowing he would probably not have another chance, Barker spent a further three hours below-decks, attempting to collect clothing and provisions for his men.
Meanwhile, two of the Japan’s crewmen, who had reached dry land and started running up and down the shore to restore their frozen circulation, spotted fresh dog prints in the snow. They followed these to an Eskimo village, whose inhabitants immediately returned with them to the shore to help the sailors.
The Eskimos met Barker staggering out of the surf. They put him on a sled and began pulling him toward their village. On the way, he saw the bodies of many of his men, who, after safely reaching the shore, had collapsed on the ground and frozen to death. He imagined that he, too, was dying.
The air was piercing cold. . . . I thought my teeth would freeze off. . . . I supposed I was freezing to death. In a short time we reached the huts and I was carried in like a clod of earth, as I could not move hand or foot. The chief ’s wife, in whose hut I was, pulled off my boots and stockings and placed my frozen feet against her naked bosom to restore warmth.
But there were no hot meals for the survivors. Raw walrus meat and blubber, much of it putrid and rotting, was the only food, and it was days before the whalemen could bring themselves to eat it. “Hunger at last compelled me, and strange as it may appear, it tasted good to me.”
The Japan had wrecked on East Cape, Siberia, the easternmost point of mainland Asia, at the top of the Bering Strait. After two months of the native diet, Barker and the healthier members of his remaining crew (others were too weak to travel) set out along the now solidly frozen shore for Plover Bay, several hundred miles away, at the southern end of the strait. This deep, protected harbor was well known to arctic whaling and trading vessels, and was the site of several large Eskimo settlements. Barker hoped he might still find a ship there that could carry him and the rest of his crew away before the onset of the long winter, or at least find better food if they could not get away. The white men had already traded their stiff salt- and ice-sodden pea-coats, canvas foul-weather clothing, wool pants, and boots to the natives, who coveted these smart outfits, for warm fur and skin Eskimo garments and boots, and these served Barker and his men well on their ten-day tramp over ice and rock.1 At Plover Bay they found the San Francisco whaler Hannah B. Bowen, which was wintering over in the bay. They were taken on board and made comfortable, but four days after they arrived, the Bowen sprang a leak as ice thickened around her waterline and stove in some planks, forcing all hands to move ashore. They fixed up a small hut and remained there through the winter, eating the Bowen’s more civilized rations. Three times over the next few months, Barker made trips overland through the brief hours of faint daylight to bring provisions to the thirteen men who remained at East Cape. Although the Eskimos there continued to show every kindness to the wrecked sailors, all but one of them, Lewis Kennedy, who was too sick to move, finally could no longer bear the grim austerity of native life and attempted to make the trek south through the strait. They got as far as Indian Point, thirty miles from Barker’s quarters in Plover Bay. One of them froze to death on the way. There they remained.
BARKER AND HIS FIRST MATE, E. W. Irving, told this tale to Captain Dean and the officers of the John Wells. The next afternoon, June 6, 1871, they boarded another New Bedford whaler, the Henry Taber, which had arrived in Plover Bay, and repeated their story. Both ships then sailed around the coast to Indian Point, where a third New Bedford whaler, the Contest, had found and taken aboard the Japan’s eleven crewmembers camped there. Ten days later, on June 17, the Wells and the Taber reached “Owalin” (the present-day Russian settlement of Uelen) near East Cape, where the Japan had wrecked, and the ship’s last shipwrecked sailor, twenty-four-year-old Lewis Kennedy, an Englishman, was taken aboard the Taber. Kennedy had been one of the men who had safely reached shore, and then almost died of hypothermia on the beach. He had never recovered enough to make the trek south, and had remained in the Eskimo settlement, where, despite the best attention and food the Eskimos could give him, he was still unwell. “We’ve now 15 of the japan’s men aboard including Captain & second mate,” wrote the Wells’s logkeeper, second mate Nathaniel Ransom, who hailed from New Be
dford’s neighboring town of Mattapoisett. At most times, Ransom’s log entries were the usual for ships’ logs: dry, essential details of weather, course, location, and ship’s business; but on this Saturday evening, after hearing of the Japan’s ill-fortune, his thoughts flew to the comfort of home, and he added, “Wrote a few lines to my darling wife.”
Abram Briggs, logkeeper aboard the Henry Taber, was more forthcoming:
Now, I am glad to state here that all of the survivors of the Ill fated Ship (Japan) are kindly cared for, as circumstances will admit and distributed among several of the fleet. From the time of her stranding, up to the present day, they lost 9 of the ships company & let us all trust they are far better off then In this World of Trouble, and let us hope the (all wise being) will permit the rescued ones to return to there friends no more to pertake of the trials & troubles of The Arctic Ocean.
The two young logkeepers, like every other whaleman in the Arctic, readily saw themselves in the Japan’s luckless and lucky crew. They were not inured to the prospects that lay beyond a moment’s bad luck, and keenly understood the peril of their situation. They were almost constantly afraid, like men in combat, and devoutly believed that, but for the grace of God, any one of them might find himself shipwrecked in the same unforgivable circumstances, facing a numbing or painfully lingering death, or, at best, a season in icy hell on an Eskimo diet. They put their lives and faith almost equally in the hands of God and His closest proxy in their world, their ships’ captains.
THE JOHN WELLS, the Henry Taber, and the Contest were in the vanguard of a fleet of forty whaling vessels then nosing through the melting ice in the Bering Strait. Most were from New Bedford. Others had sailed from Sag Harbor, New York; New London, Connecticut; and Edgartown, Massachusetts; several were registered in Honolulu; and one ship sailed annually to the Arctic from Sydney, Australia. The ships’ captains and crews fully expected to encounter one another, to see perhaps ten, twenty, even thirty other whaling vessels at a time in good weather, wherever they sailed during the season. But even amid such fierce competition, there was, by 1871, no better place on earth for finding whales.
Final Voyage Page 1
