Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. VI, November 1850, Vol. IVarious
History
Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. VI, November 1850, Vol. I
Various
American literature -- Periodicals; Civilization -- Periodicals; Culture -- Periodicals
You begin to think the whale is never coming back; but the crew know
better. See too, the line is running out more slowly every instant; it
ceases altogether now, and hangs slackly over the boat's side. He is
coming up exhausted to breathe again. There are a few moments of
suspense, during which the harpooner is getting ready and poising one of
the javelins. It is longer, lighter, and sharper than the harpoon, but
it has no line attached to it. The harpoon is to catch--the javelin to
kill. Slowly the whale rises again, but he is not within aim. "Pull
again boys"--while the boy is hauling in the line as fast as he can. We
are near enough now. Again a whiz--again another--and the harpooner has
sent two javelins deep into the creature's body; while the blood flows
fast. Suddenly, the whale dashes forward. No need of pulling at the oars
now; we are giving him fresh line as fast as we can, yet he is taking us
through the water at the rate of twenty miles an hour at least. One
would fancy that the harpoons and the javelins have only irritated him,
and that the blood he has lost has diminished nothing of his strength.
Not so, however; the pace slackens now: we are scarcely moving through
the water.
"Pull again, boys," and we approach; while another deadly javelin
pierces him. This time he seems to seek revenge. He dashes toward
us--what can save us?
"Back water," cries the harpooner, while the coxswain taking the hint at
the same moment, with a sweep of his oar the little boat performs a kind
of curvet backward, and the monster has shot past us unharming, but not
unharmed; the harpooner, cool as ever, has hurled another javelin deep
into him, and smiles half pityingly at this impotent rage, which, he
knows full well, bodes a termination of the contest. The red blood is
spouting forth from four wounds, "neither as deep as a well, nor as wide
as a church-door," but _enough_ to kill--even a whale. He rolls over
heavily and slowly; a few convulsive movements shake his mighty frame;
then he floats motionless on the water--and the whale is dead!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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