Being A Harpooner, And, As Such, Having Access To The Cabin, This Man,
Though Not Yet Civilized, Was, According To Sea Usages, Which Know No
Exceptions, Held Superior To The Sailors; And Therefore Nothing Was
Said Against His Being Left In Charge Of The Ship; Nor Did It
Occasion Any Surprise.
Some additional account must be given of Bembo.
In the first place, he
was far from being liked. A dark, moody savage, everybody but the
mate more or less distrusted or feared him. Nor were these feelings
unreciprocated. Unless duty called, he seldom went among the crew.
Hard stories too were told about him; something, in particular,
concerning an hereditary propensity to kill men and eat them. True, he
came from a race of cannibals; but that was all that was known to a
certainty.
Whatever unpleasant ideas were connected with the Mowree, his
personal appearance no way lessened them. Unlike most of his
countrymen, he was, if anything, below the ordinary height; but then,
he was all compact, and under his swart, tattooed skin, the muscles
worked like steel rods. Hair, crisp and coal-black, curled over
shaggy brows, and ambushed small, intense eyes, always on the glare.
In short, he was none of your effeminate barbarians.
Previous to this, he had been two or three voyages in Sydney whalemen;
always, however, as in the present instance, shipping at the Bay of
Islands, and receiving his discharge there on the homeward-bound
passage. In this way, his countrymen frequently enter on board the
colonial whaling vessels.
There was a man among us who had sailed with the Mowree on his first
voyage, and he told me that he had not changed a particle since then.
Some queer things this fellow told me. The following is one of his
stories. I give it for what it is worth; premising, however, that
from what I know of Bembo, and the foolhardy, dare-devil feats
sometimes performed in the sperm-whale fishery, I believe in its
substantial truth.
As may be believed, Bembo was a wild one after a fish; indeed, all New
Zealanders engaged in this business are; it seems to harmonize
sweetly with their blood-thirsty propensities. At sea, the best
English they speak is the South Seaman's slogan in lowering away, "A
dead whale, or a stove boat!" Game to the marrow, these fellows are
generally selected for harpooners; a post in which a nervous, timid
man would be rather out of his element.
In darting, the harpooner, of course, stands erect in the head of the
boat, one knee braced against a support. But Bembo disdained this;
and was always pulled up to his fish, balancing himself right on the
gunwale.
But to my story. One morning, at daybreak, they brought him up to a
large, long whale. He darted his harpoon, and missed; and the fish
sounded. After a while, the monster rose again, about a mile off, and
they made after him. But he was frightened, or "gallied," as they
call it; and noon came, and the boat was still chasing him.
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