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- 2542
- extracted_at
- 2026-01-30T20:48:15.149Z
- extracted_by
- structure-extraction-lambda
- start_line
- 2473
- text
- surprising familiarity with most nautical names and phrases, comprised
about all the English he knew.
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. In whaling, as
long as the fish is in sight, and no matter what may have been
previously undergone, there is no giving up, except when night comes;
and nowadays, when whales are so hard to be got, frequently not even
then. At last, Bembo’s whale was alongside for the second time. He
darted both harpoons; but, as sometimes happens to the best men, by
some unaccountable chance, once more missed. Though it is well known
that such failures will happen at times, they, nevertheless, occasion
the bitterest disappointment to a boat’s crew, generally expressed in
curses both loud and deep. And no wonder. Let any man pull with might
and main for hours and hours together, under a burning sun; and if it
do not make him a little peevish, he is no sailor.
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