Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  We rise from our thwarts and stumble over each other as we crowd to the rear of the boat, careful to avoid the zinging rope. We crouch in the stern so that our bow may rise high and stay clear of the waves, for should it follow the downward direction of the whale we will all be dragged under. The eldest of the Maori crew has taken up the piggin and is dousing the whale-rope with sea water to keep it from bursting into flame. But the moment he goes to take another scoop of water, the line starts to smoke again as it whirls about the samson post.

  We now come across the other boats and wave to them desperately for help. But all three boats are attached to a smaller cow which sounds at that moment and they are too occupied to see us.

  ‘Damn!’ Nestbyte cries. ‘We are alone with the monster! This old bull will prove too much for us!’ He cups his hands to his mouth again and yells for one of the other boats to cut loose from the cow and come to our aid, but they are by now too distant to hear.

  I am shaking like a wet dog in a cold wind, though whether from fear or excitement I cannot tell. The rope is paying out at a great rate from the barrel and, despite its turn about the samson post which is intended to slow the whale by adding our weight to its drag, we are tearing across the water at a great rate of knots.

  I cannot believe the speed at which we move. It is as though the whale is a clipper fully rigged caught in a sudden gale, and we the float on a boy’s fishing line suspended from its stern— a mere bobbing cork dragged helplessly through the angry seas. How can any creature in nature be possessed of such enormous power as is the whale!

  The manila line within the barrel is not attached and should the whale take it all up in its dive, it will be free of us. Nearly the full two hundred fathoms of line have gone, and we begin to think we must soon lose our prey. My silent hope is that we do! Then the rope suddenly goes slack and we are at once becalmed. Thank God! I think. We are saved!

  But it seems this is the very moment we’ve been waiting for. ‘Pull in! All hands to the rope!’ Nestbyte calls. We begin, hand over fist, to gather the rope back into the barrel.

  It is the hardest of work and soon my hands are bleeding, but there is no respite. The task must be done quickly and we must be ready for the whale when he breaches. We pull at the rope until it is no longer slack and so we know it is attached to the whale lurking somewhere below us.

  The very moment the rope is gathered, the Maori move back to their thwarts. I follow, scrambling to take up my oar behind Hammerhead Jack.

  ‘We go!’ he says happily to me. ‘Whale come,’ he makes an upward movement with his hands and then blows through his lips, ‘Phiff!’ which I take to mean that the whale will soon surface spouting again.

  We have been occupied with the whale for two hours since the first harpoon and the sun is fierce upon our backs. I have heard how such fights may last six or more hours until, with the coming of the dark, the line must be cut and all is to no avail. I cannot imagine how we will sustain ourselves at our present pace if this old bull fights through the long afternoon.

  Within fifteen minutes, the giant whale surfaces about a hundred yards away, and we must follow the rope now toward him. At almost the same moment we run into a squall, the rain belting down so fiercely we can see only a few feet ahead. The raindrops hit like bird shot but they are welcome enough for we have become heated pulling in the line. With the sheeting rain I am once again afraid of our proximity to the giant fish which we can no longer see.

  Then, with the rain coming down and the sea misty, we come quite suddenly upon the whale. It is like coming upon a galleon through the fog, its huge shape looming unexpectedly in front of us. It would seem we have arrived midships as both the head and flukes of the Leviathan are lost to us in the pelting downpour. We take up the paddles again so as not to cause unnecessary noise.

  Nestbyte looks for our line so that he can determine the whale’s head from its tail, for when the old bull sounds again, its flukes could destroy us if we are too close to the tail-end. I can hear my heart beating in my chest as we paddle quietly towards the whale’s head and heart so that Hammerhead Jack may make a good shot.

  Then we see our line and, a moment later, our harpoon sticking out neat as a needle in a ball of tapestry wool. The old bull seems strangely oblivious of our presence.

  Hammerhead Jack takes careful aim, as much as that is possible in the torrents splashing off the whale’s back and cascading into the boat. He gives a shout and makes a mighty throw not five feet from the whale. Nestbyte wraps the line about the samson post and screams, ‘Row, row! Row, row!’ We are scarcely thirty feet away when the bull begins to roll to windward of us.

  There is a sound like thunder as the whale’s flukes smash down onto the waves, lifting the whaleboat clear into the air. I have no time to think of death as I grip the thwart, expecting to be thrown from the boat at any moment.

  But by some miracle the whaleboat remains upright and comes down again with a mighty splash into a cauldron of roiling water. As the bull dives, its huge tail towers above us in the air and then with a great rushing of spray and sea, it sounds, and we spin madly in its foamy wash. We have barely time to make it aft as the whale dives only a few fathoms down before levelling out and surfacing a hundred yards away. Then we are off again, hanging on for dear life with the whaleboat bumping across the waves and the rain like sharp pellets peppering our faces as the whale tows us through the briny.

  The wet rope seems to pay out even more quickly this time and the whine of it through the bow chocks pitches high above the wind from the squall about us. Despite the rain, we must still douse the rope as it smokes.

  We are a hundred fathoms through the rope when the rain stops. All that may be heard is the bumping of the bows against the glassy waves and the high whining of the line. Then the rope goes slack. The whale has been lost to sight in the rain and now Nestbyte scans the sea to find him.

  ‘Good shot!’ Nestbyte says, plainly excited. ‘We begin to have him!’

  Again we begin pulling in the rope and the blisters which have formed on my hands are soon broken and bleeding. Whalemen who crew the boats constantly soak their hands in brine and piss to harden them, but mine have undergone no such preparation and the coarse manila rope has torn the flesh from my palms in bloody scraps of meat.

  I recall now why Nestbyte is so well pleased that only half the line has been spent on our second ride across the waves. It means the whale has been struck well and is bleeding copiously from its spout. The blood will coagulate and prevent the whale from easily breathing. At the same time, the beast is weakened and will soon be forced to the surface to try and draw breath. But this does not mean the fight is done. A wounded whale can still move furiously fast upon the waves and can tow a boat beyond the reach of help.

  With the line gathered a full sixty fathoms or so Nestbyte turns us to the south-east. ‘Haul in the rope!’ he screams. ‘Put your backs into it, bastards!’

  Hammerhead Jack sighs deeply and I look around to see him shaking his head woefully. Then, to my surprise, he says something in his native tongue and all but myself rest their oars.

  ‘What means this?’ Nestbyte asks in anger.

  I am forced to ship my own oar as the giant Maori turns towards the first mate. He makes a tumbling motion in the air with his hands and points in the direction Nestbyte would have us row. I follow his direction but I can see nothing out of the ordinary.

  Ignoring him, Nestbyte shouts, ‘Take up the slack, ye bastards! Damn thee, Jack Kanaka! Pull!’ I sense that his hot voice is not simply fuelled by anger at being challenged but also defiance, as though there is something else afoot which is beyond my ken. I wonder what it could be between the two men. ‘Haul in the rope, bastard! Or it is the mizzen mast for thee!’ Nestbyte threatens again. Hammerhead Jack shakes his head adamantly.

  I search amongst the many whaling incidents I have heard of for an explanation. Ikey knew much of whaling from his nightly sojourns to the Whaler’s Arms Ho
tel and would often regale Tommo and me with stories when we were young. And then I realise that Nestbyte has chosen to row us into the weather.

  No whaleman will take a boat to the weather side of a big bull if it can be helped, for it is as close a thing to suicide as might be done in hunting a wounded whale. When a bull whale is struck and comes to the surface he always rolls windward, and if the whaleboat should be close enough to use a lance he will roll on top of it, killing all within. Even if the boat is further away, the wash from the bull’s roll will almost certainly capsize it, spilling all into the sea. A mate must always approach a wounded whale from the leeward side.

  But Nestbyte, who must know this well, will have none of it and insists we row weatherward. ‘Ye’ll all be flogged, ye kanaka bastards, I swear it in the name of Jesus!’ he screams at Hammerhead Jack. ‘Ye’ll not get away with this disobedience! Haul in the rope, ye cannibal bastards!’

  Hammerhead Jack shrugs his shoulders and spits over the side, then says something to the Maori crew. Reluctantly, they begin to take up the slack of the rope as Nestbyte, his face contorted with anger, steers us directly into the wind. The rope has begun to play out again, though not so rapidly; the whale, wherever he is, is moving sluggishly.

  Nestbyte’s calculation is proved accurate again for we see the whale breach three hundred yards from us about half an hour later. We sail towards the bull and as we close in on him we see that he is spouting, a spray of rosy water rising high into the sky from his great square nose.

  ‘We have his chimney almost afire!’ Nestbyte yells joyously, pointing to the bloody spray.

  We have been going four hours and I am bone weary, my hands hurting beyond any pain I have felt since the wild man lassoed my throat behind his horse. If we must fight this beast much longer, I am not sure I shall bear up. Death, should it come, no longer seems such a bad thing!

  Hammerhead Jack’s tattooed face is most serious, his lips pulled tight and his eyes narrowed. The others also appear unhappy. Nestbyte takes no notice, steering the boat directly towards the whale, which barely moves, its flukes slowly slapping the water. I am mindful of an angry man drumming his fingers on the table as he considers his next action. It is as though we are being forewarned that there is still much power in this beast, which must soon take vengeance on us or die itself.

  All at once I am above my own miseries, aware only of the tension and the sense of death that prevails in the air about us, though whether it is ours or the old bull’s, I cannot say. Judging from the expression on Hammerhead Jack’s face I know that we are in mortal danger from this monarch of the deep. The sun, now out again, is warm enough, yet suddenly I am cold and a shiver passes down my spine.

  We approach the bull from its windward side and from behind, keeping as quiet as possible so as not to alarm him. He seems unaware of our presence, his head facing away from our boat. He moves along slowly, spouting the rosy water we have seen at a distance. Under sail, we are well able to keep up with him, moving ever closer to the point where we might fasten. We are fifty yards away when Nestbyte pulls down the sail and instructs us to take up the paddles for a silent approach. We have only the three lances to make our kill, then we must ride it out or cut loose.

  Now the whale turns on his side as though he is waiting for us, and all the while our boat draws closer and closer. Its left side is facing us, the side much favoured by the harpooner as it gives him a better chance to reach the aorta valve within the heart. The first mate turns the line in readiness about the samson post.

  ‘Right up! We probe!’

  Hammerhead Jack, who has taken up a lance, shakes his head vigorously. ‘More blood! We wait some!’ I take him to mean that the whale must lose more blood, that it is too soon to fasten.

  ‘What have we here, a coward?’ Nestbyte says.

  I do not know how much of this Hammerhead Jack comprehends but he is plainly furious. We stop paddling and Nestbyte screams, ‘Paddle, ye bastards! We must go close, ye damned cowards!’

  For a moment it seems as if Hammerhead Jack will fight Nestbyte, for he has taken up the razor-sharp lance and they stand glaring. Each has his eyes locked to the other’s in rage, Nestbyte with one hand on the bowie knife at the side of his belt.

  ‘Coward!’ Nestbyte taunts and spits over the side.

  It is this single word which seems to defeat Hammerhead Jack and with a shrug he turns away. By now, we are but thirty yards away. I cannot believe what is unfolding before my eyes. Nestbyte has chosen to take us right up to the whale so that Hammerhead Jack might use the lance as a deep probing blade.

  The lance is not a natural spear, but a razor-sharp two-sided blade, more like a surgeon’s scalpel, spliced to a long wooden handle. It is best used once the whale is substantially weakened through loss of blood. Only then will a whaleboat fasten to the whale. The harpooner’s task is to insert the lance and probe for a vital spot, seeking the heart or lungs or major artery to start the final massive haemorrhage.

  Not only are we on the windward side, but rowing right up to a whale that, far from giving up the fight, is more dangerous now than ever before. It can only be concluded that Nestbyte has gone stark mad, for he is taking us right into the jaws of death!

  ‘Ship paddles on the whale side!’ Nestbyte commands. This is my side and I am sweating with fear.

  ‘Stand off!’ Nestbyte cries, meaning that I and the young Maori behind me should stop the boat from bumping the whale by means of our paddles held against its great carcass.

  I have never touched a whale before, leastways one which may kill me for being so bold as to dare. My hands go out at one point when we go closer to the great sea beast and I feel its wet hide, soft to the touch under my palms.

  Hammerhead Jack turns quietly to me and motions that I should take up a lance. I do so, but I am shaking like a leaf and he can see the fear in my eyes. ‘Good Ork,’ he says quietly.

  He seems calm as he makes his inspection of the whale’s flank. Then he indicates a place on its side and points to me and to the lance I am holding. Moving a foot or so away, he swiftly inserts his own lance, which seems to cut through the beast’s flesh like a hot knife through lard.

  Numbly, I follow suit. I am astonished at the ease with which the blade runs through the whale flesh. Hammerhead Jack twists and probes, churning the malevolent knife to find the blood pipe he seeks, grunting with the effort. I do the same, though I feel sick as my blade buries into the great beast’s body, not knowing what it is I seek to find.

  Suddenly a great arc of crimson, ten inches wide, sprays out from where I have made my cut, and both Hammerhead Jack and I are deluged in the sanguineous gush.

  ‘Push away and stand off!’ Nestbyte yells.

  I am not certain how, in my bloody state, I find my oar, nor do I recall pushing away from the whale. But we are a full twenty feet away when the bull begins to roll towards us and his great flukes come up and smash down in a mighty explosion which rings my ears almost to deafness. He barely misses us as he prepares to dive. It is as though a mountain is falling on us and I am certain we shall be crushed to death.

  Somehow the bull’s huge bulk misses and we escape his crushing weight upon us. But with a roar of rushing water, a tidal wave overtakes us, and the boat goes over. I am under water yet can hear the scream of the line as it pays out. I struggle to free myself, knowing I have only moments to reach the surface before I must tangle in the line and be cut in half.

  I come clear of the boat at last, gasping and taking great gulps of air. The water about me is stained red. A paddle floats past and I grab it. It sinks beneath my grasp and then I see that I am clutching a man’s severed arm. I drop it from my frantic grasp and swim the few strokes towards the whaleboat, which has by some miracle righted itself. It is not yet moving, though the line is still paying out with a high-pitched whistle.

  My terror spurring me on, I lift myself into the half-submerged boat. I rest a moment, sucking in the wondrous air, before loo
king about me. In the water around me other heads have surfaced and they swim towards the boat where I pull each aboard as best I can, three of the Maori and Nestbyte, but Hammerhead Jack is missing.

  Then I see him twenty feet away. He is threshing the water with one arm, his head coming up and going down again in a foam of scarlet.

  A moment more and I am sure my courage would have failed, but I am in the water before I know it and stroking out towards the wounded man.

  ‘Leave him! Damn thee, nigger! Leave the bastard!’ I hear Nestbyte gasp from the boat, but I continue to swim. Tommo and I have been strong swimmers since childhood and in a few strokes I am upon Hammerhead Jack. I grab him about the chest and he has the good sense not to struggle or perhaps he has passed out, and I am able to pull him towards the boat.

  As I reach the side, which is half-submerged in the water, a strong hand encircles my wrist and I grab back to make a better purchase. But at that very moment the line zings and stiffens, and the boat begins to move away. The whale, which has dived straight down, is now levelling off and pulling away again.

  ‘Cut the rope! Cut the rope!’ I am shouting, though only in my head of course.

  ‘Leave him, nigger!’ Nestbyte screams at me. ‘Let go the damned cannibal!’ Then he brings his boot up and, aiming it at Hammerhead Jack’s head, kicks viciously downwards to separate him from me, or both of us from the boat, in order to chase his whale.

  ‘Damn thee! The lance is perfect set, the whale is ours!’ he screams.

  I have my hand about the wrist of one of the Maori whalemen on board and my arm hooked through Hammerhead Jack’s good arm and about his chest, my chin clasped to his neck. I will not let go, nor will the young Maori who is holding onto me. Blood drips onto my shoulder where Nestbyte has crushed Jack’s right eye and nose with the heel of his boot. The water around us is stained crimson with the whale’s blood, as well as that from the harpooner’s severed arm socket.

  I am hanging on for dear life as the whaleboat gains speed. Then I see the flash of a blade as Nestbyte brings his bowie knife down into the back of my hand. At the very same moment the whale finds a surge of strength and the boat’s bow is pulled down and we jerk forward. The first mate, already off balance from his downward strike at me, loses his footing and with a cry of alarm is pitched over my head and into the churning sea. He is at once gone from sight.