CHAPTER VI
AT FULL STEAM
The whole ship’s crew hurried towards the harpooner,—commander, officers, masters, sailors, cabin boys; even the engineers left their engines, and the stokers left teir furnaces. The order to stop her had been given, and the frigate now simply went on by her own momentum.
The darkness was then profound, and however good the Canadian’s eyes were, I asked myself how he had managed to see, and what he had been able to see. My heart beat as if it would break.
But Ned Land was not mistaken, and we all perceived the object he pointed to.
At two cables’ lengths’ from the Abraham Lincoln, on the starboard quarter, the sea seemed to be illuminated all over. It was not a mere phosphorescent phenomenon. The monster was submerged some fathoms below the surface, and radiated that very intense but inexplicable light mentioned in the report of several captains. This magnificent radiation must have been produced by an agent of great illuminating power. The luminous area made on the sea an immense oval, much elongated, the center of which was intense and whose overpowering brilliancy died out by successive gradations.
“It is only an agglomeration of phosphorescent organisms,” cried one of the officers.
“No, sir, certainly not,” I replied with conviction. “Never did pholades or salpae produce such a powerful light. That brightness is of an essentially electrical nature....Besides, see, see! It moves! It is moving forwards, backwards! It is darting towards us!”
A general cry rose from the frigate.
“Silence!” said the captain; “helm alee, reverse the engines.”
The sailors worked at the wheel, the engineers at their machines. The steam was immediately reversed, and the Abraham Lincoln, beating to port, described a semicircle.
“Right helm, go ahead,” cried the captain.
These orders were executed, and the frigate moved rapidly from the intense light.
I was mistaken. We tried to sheer off, but the supernatural animal approached with a velocity double our own.
We gasped for breath. Stupefaction more than fear made us silent and motionless. The animal gained on us, sporting with the waves. It made the round of the frigate, which was then making fourteen knots, and enveloped it with its electric rings like luminous dust. Then it moved away two or three miles, leaving a phosphorescent track, like those volumes of steam that express trains leave behind. All at once from the dark line of the horizon where it had retired to regain its momentum, the monster rushed suddenly towards the Abraham Lincoln with alarming rapidity, stopped suddenly about twenty feet from the hull, and died out,—not diving under the water, for its brilliance did not abate,—but suddenly, and as if the source of this brilliant emanation was exhausted. Then it reappeared on the other side of the vessel, as if it had turned and slid under the hull. Any moment a collision might have occurred which would have been fatal to us.
However, I was astonished at the maneuvers of the frigate. She fled and did not attack. She was no longer the pursuer: she was the pursued. On the captain’s face, generally so impassive, was an expression of unaccountable astonishment.
“Mr. Aronnax,” he said, “I do not know with what formidable being I have to deal, and I will not imprudently risk my frigate in the midst of this darkness. Besides, how attack this unknown thing, how defend one’s self from it? Wait for daylight, and the scene will change.”
“You have no further doubt, Captain, of the nature of the animal?”
“No, sir; it is evidently a gigantic narwhal, and an electric one.”
“Perhaps,” added I, “one can get no closer to it than one can to an electric eel.”
“Undoubtedly,” replied the captain, “if it possesses such dreadful power, it is the most terrible animal that ever was created. That is why, sir, I must be on my guard.”
The crew were on their feet all night. No one thought of sleep. The Abraham Lincoln, not being able to struggle with such velocity, had moderated its pace, and sailed at half speed. For its part, the narwhal, imitating the frigate, let the waves rock it at will, and seemed decided not to leave the scene of the struggle.
Towards midnight, however, it disappeared, or, to use a more appropriate term, it was extinguished like a large glow-worm. Had it fled? One could only fear, not hope it. But at seven minutes to one o’clock in the morning a deafening whistling was heard, like that produced by a column of water rushing with great violence.
The captain, Ned Land, and I, were then on the poop, eagerly peering through the profound darkness.
“Ned Land,” asked the commander, “you have often heard the roaring of whales?”
“Often, sir; but never such whales the sight of which brought me in two thousand dollars.”
“True, you have a right to the prize, but tell me, is it the same noise whales make when they vent water?”
“The same noise, sir; but this one is incomparably louder. It is not to be mistaken. It is certainly a cetacean there in our seas. With your permission, sir,” added the harpooner “we will have a few words with him at daybreak.”
“If he is in a humor to hear them, Mr. Land,” said I, in an unconvinced tone.
“If I can only approach within four harpoon lengths of it!”
“But to approach it,” said the commander, “I ought to put a whaler at your disposal?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“That will be trifling with the lives of my men.”
“And mine too,” responded the harpooner simply.
Towards two o’clock in the morning, the burning light reappeared, not less intense, about five miles to windward of the Abraham Lincoln. Notwithstanding the distance, and the noise of the wind and sea, one heard distinctly the loud strokes of the animal’s tail, and even its panting breath. It seemed that, at the moment that the enormous narwhal had come to take breath at the surface of the water, the air was engulfed in its lungs, like the steam in the vast cylinders of a machine of two thousand horsepower.
“Hum!” thought I, “a whale with the strength of a cavalry regiment would be a pretty whale!”
We were on the qui vive till daylight, and began preparing for the combat. The fishing implements were laid along the lockers. The second lieutenant loaded the guns, which could throw harpoons to the distance of a mile, and long duck-guns, with explosive bullets, which inflicted mortal wounds even to the strongest animals. Ned Land contented himself with sharpening his harpoon—a fearsome weapon in his hands.
At six o’clock, day began to break; and with the first glimmer of light, the electric light of the narwhal disappeared. At seven o’clock the day was sufficiently advanced, but a very thick sea fog obscured our view, and the best spyglasses could not pierce it. That caused disappointment and anger.
I climbed the mizzen-mast. Some officers were already perched on the mast heads.
At eight o’clock the fog lay heavily on the waves, and its thick scrolls rose little by little. The horizon grew wider and clearer at the same time.
Suddenly, just as on the day before, Ned Land’s voice was heard:
“The thing itself on the port quarter!” cried the harpooner.
Every eye was turned towards the point indicated. There, a mile and a half from the frigate, a long blackish body emerged a meter above the waves. Its tail, violently agitated, produced a considerable eddy. Never did a caudal appendage beat the sea with such violence. An immense track, of a dazzling whiteness, marked the passage of the animal, and described a long curve.
The frigate approached the cetacean. I examined it thoroughly. The reports of the Shannon and of the Helvetia had rather exaggerated its size, and I estimated its length at only two hundred and fifty feet. As to its width, this was difficult to estimate, though I judged that the animal was admirably proportioned in all three dimensions.
While I watched this phenomenon, two jets of steam and water were ejected from its vents, and rose to the height of 40 meters. Thus I ascertained its way of breathing. I concluded definitely that it belonged to the vertebrate branch, class mammalia, sub-class of monodelphians, group of pisciforms, order of cetaceans, family of ...what, I could not say. The order of cetaceans is composed of three families: the baleens, the cachalots and the dolphins. It is to this last that the narwhals belong. Each of these families is divided into several genera, each genus into species, each species into varieties. Variety, specie, genus and family I was still missing, but I did not doubt that I would soon complete the classification with the help of heaven and Captain Farragut.
The crew waited impatiently for their chief’s orders. The latter, after having observed the animal attentively, called for the engineer. The engineer ran to him.
“Sir,” said the commander, “you have steam up?”
“Yes, sir” answered the engineer.
“Good. Stoke up your fires and put on all steam!”
Three hurrahs greeted this order. The time for the struggle had arrived. Some moments after, the two funnels of the frigate vomited torrents of black smoke, and the bridge quaked under the trembling of the boilers.
The Abraham Lincoln, propelled by her powerful screw, went straight at the animal. The latter indifferently allowed it to come within half a cable’s length; then, as if disdaining to dive, it took a little turn, and stopped a short distance off.1
This pursuit lasted nearly three-quarters of an hour, without the frigate gaining two fathoms on the cetacean.2 It was quite evident that at that rate we should never catch up with it.
Captain Farragut was outraged and tugged at the tuft of hair under his chin.
“Ned Land!” he called.
Ned responded to the order.
“Well, Mr. Land,” asked the captain, “do you advise me to put the boats out to sea?”
“No, sir,” replied Ned Land; “because we shall not take that beast easily.”
“What shall we do then?”
“Put on more steam if you can, sir. With your leave, I mean to post myself under the bowsprit, and if we get within harpooning distance, I shall throw my harpoon.”
“Go, Ned,” said the captain. “Engineer, put on more pressure.”
Ned Land went to his post. The fires were increased; the screw revolved forty-three times a minute, and the steam poured out of the valves. We heaved the log, and calculated that the Abraham Lincoln was going at the rate of 18 1/2 miles an hour.
But the accursed animal swam too at the rate of 18 1/2 miles an hour.
For a whole hour, the frigate kept up this pace, without gaining a fathom. It was humiliating for one of the swiftest ships in the American navy. A stubborn anger seized the crew. The sailors abused the monster, who, as before, disdained to answer them. The captain no longer contented himself with twisting his beard—he gnawed at it.
The engineer was again called.
“You have reached maximum pressure?”
“Yes sir,” replied the engineer.
“And your valves are under what pressure...?”
“Six and a half atmospheres,”
“Charge them to ten atmospheres.”
There was an American order for certain. I felt as though I were in a steamboat race on the Mississippi River!
“Conseil,” I said to my brave servant, standing beside me, “you know that we will probably be blown up?”
“Whatever pleases monsieur!” he replied. Well! I admit that I was willing to take that risk.
The valves were charged. The coal was engulfed by the furnace. The ventilators carried torrents of air to the flames.
The speed of the Abraham Lincoln increased. Its masts trembled down to their stepping-holes, and the clouds of smoke could hardly find a way out of the funnels quickly enough.
They heaved the log a second time.
“Well, helmsman?” asked the captain of the man at the wheel.
“Nineteen and 3/10 miles an hour, sir.”
“Clap on more steam.”
The engineer obeyed. The manometer showed ten atmospheres of pressure. But the cetacean “got up steam” itself, no doubt for, without straining itself, it made 19 and 3/10 miles an hour.
What a pursuit! No, I cannot describe the motion that vibrated through me. Ned Land kept his post, harpoon in hand. Several times the animal let us gain upon it.
“We shall catch it! we shall catch it!” cried the Canadian.
But just as he was going to strike, the cetacean stole away with a rapidity that could not be estimated at less than 30 miles an hour. Even during our maximum speed, it bullied the frigate, going round and round it! A cry of fury broke from everyone!
At noon we were no further advanced than at eight o’clock in the morning.
The captain then decided to take more direct means.
“Ah!” said he, “that animal goes quicker than the Abraham Lincoln! Very well! we will see whether it will escape these conical bullets. Send your men to the forecastle, sir.”
“The thing itself!”
The forecastle gun was immediately loaded and slewed round. But the shot passed some feet above the cetacean, which was half a mile off.
“A better gunner!” cried the commander, “and five hundred dollars to whoever will hit that infernal beast!”
An old gunner with a grey beard—that I can see now—with steady eye and grave face, went up to the gun and took careful aim. A loud explosion was heard, with which were mingled the cheers of the crew.
The bullet did its work; it hit the animal, but not fatally, and sliding off the rounded surface, was lost two miles away.
“Ah!” cried the old gunner in his rage, “the thing must be covered in six-inch plates!”
“Curse the thing!” replied Captain Farragut.
The chase began again, and the captain, leaning towards me, said—
“I will pursue that beast till my frigate explodes.”
“Yes,” answered I; “and you will be quite right to do it!”
I wished the beast would exhaust itself, and not be insensible to fatigue like a steam engine! But it was of no use. Hours passed, without its showing any signs of exhaustion.
However, it must be said in praise of the Abraham Lincoln, that she struggled on with indefatigable tenacity. I cannot reckon she made less than five hundred kilometers during this unlucky day, November the 6th. But night came and enveloped the heaving ocean.
Now I thought our expedition was at an end, and that we should never again see the extraordinary animal. I was mistaken.
At ten minutes to eleven in the evening, the electric light reappeared three miles to windward of the frigate, as pure, as intense as during the preceding night.
The narwhal seemed motionless. Perhaps tired with its day’s work, it slept, letting itself float with the undulation of the waves. Now was a chance of which the captain resolved to take advantage.
He gave his orders. The Abraham Lincoln kept up half steam, and advanced cautiously so as not to awake its adversary. It is no rare thing to meet in the middle of the ocean whales so sound asleep that they can be successfully attacked, and Ned Land had harpooned more than one during its sleep. The Canadian went to take his place again under the bowsprit.
The frigate approached noiselessly, stopped at two cables’ lengths from the animal, and drifted forward. No one breathed; a deep silence reigned on the bridge. We were not a hundred feet from the burning focus, the light of which increased and dazzled our eyes.
At this moment, leaning on the forecastle bulwark, I saw below me Ned Land grappling the martingale in one hand, brandishing his terrible harpoon in the other, scarcely twenty feet from the motionless animal.
Suddenly his arm straightened, and the harpoon was thrown, I heard the sonorous blow of the weapon, which seemed to have struck a hard body.
The electric light went out suddenly, and two enormous waterspouts broke over the bridge of the frigate, rushing in a torrent from stem to stern, overthrowing men, and breaking the lashings of the spars. A fearful shock followed, and, thrown over the rail without having time to stop myself, I fell into the sea.
1. A cable is equal to about 600 feet. R.M.
2. A fathom =6 feet. R.M.