The Jewel of the Sea (Thomas Nickerson)

The Attack

The old ship rocked too and fro with the force of the surrounding gentle seas rising and crashing against her hulls. It was a day like any other; the sails blossomed and billowed in the cool November breeze, as pretty as petals, and as white as the clouds overhead. Her old oak hull groaned and creaked with every rise and fall of the great whaling ship on the merciful crystal blue waters.

The sky expanded above and over the horizon like an ever-growing dream, the sun mooring itself into its blue haze as if anchored to heavens ether. An ambient wind sang with a powerful passion; the briny aroma it carried with it had all the callings of home, yet it could bring no solace to the Essex's crew. It only served as a cruel reminder, played by God himself, that they had come all this way, gone through so much grief, and had almost nothing to show for it.  

Silence reigned. All that could be heard was the kindled symphony of the ocean and the occasional rasps from the ship. It was taunting the men, distracting them from their daily duties that they were trying their best to get done. Fourteen months at sea and only 280 barrels of oil, they felt as empty as the Essex's hold did.

Trust gave way to doubt. Hope to blind superstition. They started to wonder if there were any whales left at all, or if they'd all swam off the ends of the earth. They wondered if their captain had gone mad, that they had reached the edge of sanity.

Splash!

Owen rushed to the port, peering out into the skyline. Seemingly, he was the only man to have heard such burbling sounds.

"What is it?" Matthew asked him quizzically.

"Listen."

"Mr. Chase?" Barzillai hollered from the crows nest, "I see some white water."

"Where?"

"Portside!"

His words seemed to act as a trigger. The sailors seemingly sprung to life, pushing past each other to get a good look of what Barzillai claimed to be blows.

"Where are they?" Queried one.

"You see anything?" Asked another.

George squinted through his golden telescope as his men stood with feverish anticipation, clinging onto the thought that if there were whales, they would be home within six months.

To the young captains amazement, he spied an enormously large pod of barnacle encrusted sperm whales breaching in the early afternoon sunlight. He smiled in spite of himself. "Lower away!"

The men erupted in excited exclaims. "Lower away! Lower away!"  

"The devil take the Mexican grounds!" Owen grinned, shoving past his captain and second mate who stared after him with a shared commendation.

When the whaleboats were launched and the chase began, the sea air was suddenly filled with a frenzied exhilaration for the hunt. The crews raced against each other, rowing faster and harder with every grunt.

In their exuberant display, the whales jumped many times in a series, as free as any bird of open skies. The mothers and fathers, the children at play; about ninety percent of their 45 foot length cleared the water each time before turning to land on their side or back. White spray erupted around them as about forty tons of warm blooded mammal hit the surface.

"There she blows!" The sailors whooped and cheered in chorus. In that collective moment, they ceased to believe that they'd ever put doubt in their captains decisions; he was right all along. They were truly blessed.

As Owen's whaleboat surged forward, creeping closer to the danger, a sudden thump against the stern caused a few men to stumble over their feet as they fleetingly lost their balance. "Don't let him chew your ores, boys," Owen chuckled with amusement, "Back to it."