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WHALE HUNTING with GUN and CAMERA
A NATURALIST’S ACCOUNT OF THE MODERN SHORE WHALING INDUSTRY, OF WHALES AND THEIR HABITS, AND OF HUNTING EXPERIENCES IN VARIOUS PARTS OF THE WORLD

BY

ROY CHAPMAN ANDREWS

ASSISTANT CURATOR OF MAMMALS, AMERICAN MUSEUM OF NATURAL HISTORY, NEW YORK; FELLOW OF THE NEW YORK ACADEMY OF SCIENCES; MEMBER OF THE BIOLOGICAL SOCIETY OF WASHINGTON, ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

NEW YORK LONDON

1916

Copyright, 1916, by

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED TO

MY WIFE

WITHOUT WHOSE ENCOURAGEMENT IT

WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN WRITTEN

AND TO

MY MOTHER

WHO HAS BORNE THE ANXIETIES

OF HER SON’S LONG WANDERINGS

PREFACE

In this book I have endeavored to tell of modern shore whaling as I have seen it during the past eight years while collecting and studying cetaceans for the American Museum of Natural History. This work carried me twice around the world, as well as northward on two expeditions to Alaska, and southward to the tropic waters of Borneo and the Dutch East Indies.

I have also tried to give, in a readable way, some of the most interesting facts about whales and their habits, confining myself, however, to those species which form the basis of the shore whaling industry, or are commercially important, and which have come under my personal observation.

In all of this work the camera has necessarily played a large part, for it is only by means of photographs that whales can be seen in future study as they appear alive or when freshly killed. It is hardly necessary to say that the photographing has been intensely interesting, and to any one who is in search of real excitement I can heartily recommend camera hunting for whales.

It should be understood that this book is in no sense a manual of the large Cetacea. I hope, however, at some future time to write a volume which will treat of this wonderful mammalian order in a less casual way, and thus satisfy a desire which has been ever present in my mind since I began the study of whales.

Some portions of this book have been published as separate articles in the American Museum Journal, World’s Work, Metropolitan, Outing, National Geographic, and other magazines, but by far the greater part of it is new.

There have been many pleasurable sides to the work, but one of the most delightful has been the friends that I have made, and my cordial reception by the officials of the whaling companies in whatever corner of the world I have chanced to be.

Space will not permit me to mention all those to whom I am indebted and who have contributed to the success of the various expeditions, but I wish first to express my gratitude to the Trustees of the American Museum of Natural History, under whose auspices all my work upon cetaceans has been conducted, and especially to President Henry Fairfield Osborn for his encouragement and wise counsel.

Captains I. N. Hibberd and John Barneson have never failed in kindness and the President and Directors of the Toyo Hogei Kabushiki Kaisha of Osaka, and Mr. D. Ogiwara of Shimonoseki, Japan, are in a large measure responsible for the success of the work conducted in the Orient. Not only did these gentlemen freely extend the courtesies of their ships and stations, but also presented to the American Museum of Natural History skeletons of all the large Japanese cetaceans, which are the only specimens of Asiatic whales in America.

Thanks are due to the Directors of the (former) Pacific Whaling Company of Victoria, B. C., and to the (former) managers of the stations, Mr. Sidney C. Ruck, V. H. Street and J. H. Quinton. Mr. Ruck also furnished me with valuable data as to the progress of the American West Coast whaling industry and assisted in other ways.

I cannot mention, individually, all the gunners who have entertained me ashore and afloat, but the kindness of Captains H. G. Melsom, Fred Olsen and Y. E. Andersen I shall never forget. Captain Melsom has also read portions of the manuscript of this book and in criticism has afforded me the benefit of his long experience and keen observation.

My wife, Yvette Borup Andrews, has transcribed practically all of this book from my dictation and has assisted in numberless other ways throughout its preparation, and to her my thanks are due.

Lastly, I wish to express my gratitude for material assistance throughout the work upon cetaceans to Dr. Frederic A. Lucas, Director of the Museum; Dr. J. A. Allen, Dr. Herman C. Bumpus, Messrs. George H. Sherwood, (late) George S. Bowdoin and Mr. and Mrs. Charles L. Bernheimer.

Roy Chapman Andrews,

American Museum of Natural History,

New York City.

February 8, 1916.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

WHALE HUNTING

WITH GUN AND CAMERA

INTRODUCTION
THE DEVELOPMENT OF SHORE WHALING

Although the commercial products of whales have contributed largely to the comfort and welfare of the civilized world for over a thousand years, never have the animals been of greater economic importance than they are today.

It is true that the magnificent fleet of ships which had its birth in the New England States has passed away, and that the smoke of cotton-mills now drifts over the famous old city of New Bedford where once the harbor was filled with the towering masts of scores of whaling vessels.

But as one chapter of whaling history closed another opened and the scene shifted to Norway where Tønsberg, a little city in Christiania Bay, has become the Alpha and Omega of the modern whaling alphabet. It was there, in 1864, that Svend Foyn invented the harpoon-gun and brought into existence the sturdy little steamships which were destined to take the place of New England’s fleet, destroyed by the Confederate raiders during the Civil War.

Although despised by the “deep-water” whalers of New Bedford, nevertheless shore whaling has rapidly grown into a world industry which today, in the height of its prosperity, yields a revenue of nearly $70,000,000 a year.

In the old days only three species, the sperm, bowhead and right whale, were hunted and until Svend Foyn invented the harpoon-gun the fin whales, of less commercial value, were seldom captured. Their yield of oil was so small, and the whalebone so short and coarse, that if these products alone were utilized they were not worth the trouble of killing. Moreover, the great speed of the animals in the water and their tendency to sink when dead made them unacceptable to the men who hunted in a small boat with a hand harpoon and lance.

With the development of steam whalers the situation was changed, for they made possible the capture of “finners” in sufficient numbers to warrant the erection of stations at certain points on the shore, near the feeding grounds of the animals, where the huge carcasses could be brought in and converted into commercial products.

The perfection of the harpoon-gun and steam whale ships came only after long discouragement and persistent effort upon the part of Svend Foyn. Foyn was born in Tønsberg in 1809, and died there in 1894. He went to sea at fourteen in the merchant service and later entered the sealing fleet where he eventually made considerable money. It was while sealing that he conceived the idea of capturing the fin whales with a bomb harpoon, and 360,000 kronen were spent in experimenting before he succeeded in building a suitable gun and vessel.

In 1864 he went to Finmark for the first time in the small ship Spes et Fides, but caught nothing and was equally unsuccessful in the two following years. In 1867 he secured the first whales at Vardö, in Varangerfjord, and the next season killed 30. In 1869 he went north with two ships but got only 17 whales, and in 1870 only 36. It was in this year that at Kirkeö the first factory for converting whale flesh into guano, or fertilizer, was built and successfully operated. Foyn’s best years were between 1871 and 1880, when 506 whales were killed, having a value of about 2,000,000 kronen.

In 1877 a competitive company began work in Jarfjord, and in 1881 two others started at Vardö and two in West Finmark near the North Cape. In 1882 Norway had 8 companies and 12 ships, and five years later 20 companies and 35 ships. In 1890 the whales began to show the effect of continual persecution, decreasing rapidly in numbers, and five companies shifted their operations to Iceland. In 1896 the 18 ships hunting there killed 792 whales, yielding 49,500 barrels of oil; in the same season 29 ships off the Finmark coast caught 1,212 whales.

From the very beginning the Norwegian fishermen were hostile to the shore whalers, for they believed that the whales drove the fish toward the land and into their nets and that their industry was being greatly injured by the slaughter of the animals. Although it has been clearly demonstrated that whales have no direct influence upon the movements of fish, nevertheless in 1903 the Störthing prohibited shore whaling altogether.

The efforts of the Norwegian whalers had been watched with interest in other parts of the world and in 1897 shore whaling began in Newfoundland; there it thrived amazingly, and by 1905 eighteen stations were in operation upon the island and in its immediate vicinity.

In 1905 the first shore station on the Pacific coast of America was built at Sechart, in Barclay Sound, on the west side of Vancouver Island. This factory was under the management of the Pacific Whaling Company, of Victoria, B. C., and although their first season was not a success, a revision of the methods of handling the carcasses resulted in a lucrative business being established. In 1907 a second fine station was erected at Kyuquot, one hundred miles north of Sechart.

About this time the Tyee Company was formed under the direction of Captains Hibberd and Barneson, and a station was constructed at Murderer’s Cove, on the southern end of Admiralty Island, Alaska. The hunting here was entirely conducted in the inland waters of Frederick Sound, and after a few seasons the whales became so reduced in numbers that operations had to be transferred to the open sea about Cape Ommaney, sixty miles away; the Tyee Company was later re-formed as the United States Whaling Company.

In 1910 the Pacific Whaling Company was sold to the Canadian North Pacific Fisheries, Ltd., with stations at Rose and Naden Harbor, Queen Charlotte Islands, and Bay City, Washington, besides the two Vancouver factories. Another establishment, known as the Alaska Whaling Company, started work at Unimak Pass, Aleutian Islands, Alaska, and a Norwegian firm built a station on the Pacific coast of Mexico.

About the time Newfoundland became interested in shore whaling, the Russians and Japanese started operations along the coasts of Siberia and Japan, respectively. The Russian industry there was abruptly ended at the time of the Russian-Japanese war and has not since been resumed, but the Japanese have continued their work with great success and today vie with the Norwegians in the development of shore whaling, for by their methods almost every particle of a whale’s carcass is utilized for human consumption.

The Toyo Hogei Kabushiki Kaisha, of Osaka, is the largest whaling company in the world, owning fifteen stations and twice as many ships, and conducting operations in almost every part of the Japanese Empire.

The South African industry was founded by Mr. John Bryde, of Sandefjord, Norway, who in 1909 erected the first station in Durban and another in the following year in Saldanha Bay on the west coast. Stations have also been built at several places in Australia and Tasmania, and in New Zealand humpback whales are being caught in wire nets. This method is so unique that a description of it here may be of interest.

The station is owned by the Messrs. Cook Brothers and is located south of the Bay of Islands, at the village of Wangamumu. On their annual migrations the humpback whales often pass through a narrow channel just under Cape Brett, which separates a cluster of outlying rocks from the mainland, and makes an ideal spot to place the nets. Having a stretch of five hundred or six hundred feet and a depth of two hundred, the nets, meshed to seven feet and made of three-eighths-inch wire rope, are hung on strong cables buoyed by huge floats and drogues. When a whale is sighted from the coast, steam launches place the three nets, which are allowed to float loose, the principle being to so hamper the whale by the entangling wires that it falls an easy prey to the hunters. What happens when a whale is caught can best be told in the words of an eye-witness.

When the nets are in position the launches and attendant whale-boats, with their crews, take up their stations at some distance to watch for the upheaval and dancing float-line that marks the “striking” of a whale.... Suddenly a sort of shudder runs through the sea. There are tossing billows and wild commotions away by the bobbing float-lines. “Hurrah! She’s struck!” is the cry.

Away go the boats, each racing to be first “fast” to the struggling “fish” and so earn the bonus that rewards the winning crew.

A mighty gray-black head, entangled in a clinging web of wire, rears from out the water. Up, up, it goes till a huge bulk of body towers a good fifty feet in the air, its side fins thrashing wildly in a smother of foam. It curves in an arch and then, like an arrow, down go whale and net together for the “sound.”

Not for long, though. The upward drag of the bunched net-floats, and its necessity for breath, bring the “fish” quickly to the surface—a spouting, snorting, wallowing mass; mad with rage, wild with terror of the unknown, clinging horror that envelopes it.

Bang! bang! go the guns from each boat, in quick succession. Both irons are home and well placed. A wild quiver of flukes and fins, and the whale either “sounds” again or “races” along the surface, towing the boats after it at express speed. But the net holds fast, and at each new effort for freedom the victim becomes more hopelessly “wound up” than before.

Soon, exhausted with futile struggling, the whale comes to rest, and there is a momentary cessation of the mad fight as the leviathan pauses for breath. Huge, panting air-gasps are plainly audible aboard our launch at a distance of half a mile.

The crews are quick to seize the opportunity. With the lance-men ready in the bow, the boats sweep in, one on either side. “Steady with the lance.” “Now!” Eight-foot steel blades drive deep for the heart behind the pectoral fins.

A shiver, a hissing spout of water and blood, a wallow and roll of the huge, wire-tangled carcass, flashes of red and white foam in the sunlight, and the black heave of a twenty-foot fin that for one dread instant, scimitar-shaped, a falling wall of bone and sinew, hangs over the boat and its occupants. The boat’s crew back out like lightning, just in time. Down crashes the mighty flail, missing its blow by a barefoot. There is a roar and clap of many thunders, and jetting spurts of spray leap high into the blue.

The boats, backed clear, still hang to the lines, the crews watching events and waiting the end. It may be that the dying whale will “sound” again, or “race” in a final effort.

But, no. The lances have gone home. A few more wallows’ of despair, the great tail-flukes thrash the water with lessening force, and presently the huge body, inert, lifeless, lies quietly on the surface. Hawsers are made fast to the dead whale, and while the boats return to their stations to watch the remaining nets it is towed by the launch to the flensing jetty ashore.[^[1]]

[1]. D. W. O. Fagan in the Wide World Magazine, pp. 423–432.

Since the beginning of the last century the sub-antarctic islands known as the Shetlands, South Orkneys, Falklands, South Georgia and Kerguelen have proved to be the greatest whaling grounds of modern times, and are today yielding nearly $35,000,000 per year—just one-half of the total world revenue derived from the shore whaling industry. On South Georgia alone, eight companies with headquarters in Norway, England, Scotland, and Argentina are in operation, and all the other islands have one or more stations or “floating factories.”

In South America there are several stations on the coast of Brazil, Argentina, and Chile, and operations are also being carried on at Spitzbergen, the Faroe Islands, Shetland, the Hebrides, Greenland, and the Galapagos Islands. Shore whaling is, therefore, a world industry in the truest sense of the word.

A modern shore whaling station at Kyuquot, Vancouver Island, B. C. The flensing slip, carcass platform and wharf are shown in the foreground. In the background is the manager’s dwelling.

When it was discovered that in certain localities the whales were being rapidly killed off and the vessels had to hunt so far from the stations as to make the trip unprofitable, the “floating factory” was devised. This is a large steamship of five or six thousand tons which is fitted with huge boiling vats and can be moved about from place to place as the whales themselves travel. Usually two or three steamers operate from one floating factory for formerly when only the blubber was used and the carcass was turned adrift, one ship could not supply enough whales to make the work profitable. These factories are used most extensively on the South Atlantic grounds.

The Orion with three humpback whales at Sechart, Vancouver Island.

The modern shore station is usually situated in a bay or cove not far from the open sea. The flensing slip and carcass platforms are the most striking portions of the establishment, and these are surrounded by boiling vats, the machine for drying the flesh, the engine house, wharf, bunk houses, offices, and the dwelling of the manager, the whole forming an imposing group of buildings.

Many of the whaling stations have very comfortable quarters and those on the bleak islands of the South Atlantic are even luxurious. The manager’s house is often beautifully furnished, with electric light, bathrooms, and even steam heat, so that when one becomes accustomed to the all-pervading odor from the “dryer,” the station is a delightful place at which to work. Although each one differs in respect to food, nevertheless the meals are for the most part excellent, for the managers realize that if their men are to be contented they must be well fed.

The whaling ships usually return to the station each night and, if one is free from seasickness, furnish a rather inviting home for a short stay. They are trim, high-bowed vessels of about one hundred tons burden, ninety to one hundred feet long, and have a speed of from nine to twelve knots per hour. Round-bottomed to facilitate speedy manipulation, they ride the water like a cork but roll and pitch almost beyond belief in the slightest seaway.

Most striking of all the upper works is the harpoon-gun mounted upon a heavy iron support at the very bow. It is a short cannon, 51½ inches long, with a 3-inch bore, and turns easily upon a swivel up and down and from side to side.

At the butt end, under a short wooden handle, is an iron lever, the trigger, which when pressed upward explodes the gun. The charge is 300 to 375 drams of very coarse, black powder which is sewed up in a cheesecloth sack and rammed home from the muzzle; then come wads of oakum, hard rubber or cork, and wool, after which the harpoon, well greased, is pushed in and hammered solidly into place with a wooden mallet. Some guns require more powder than others but if too much is used the iron will be bent as it leaves the muzzle.

The harpoon is 76 inches in length, and has a double shaft, at the end of which are 4 twelve-inch flukes, or barbs; these are tied to the shaft but spread widely upon entering the whale’s body and prevent the iron from drawing out. The harpoon is tipped with a hollow point, called the “bomb,” which is filled with powder and ignited by a time fuse set for the desired interval. Three or four seconds after the gun is fired the bomb bursts, frequently killing the whale almost instantly.

The harpoon is made of the best Swedish iron and weighs one hundred and ten pounds. After it has been fired into the body of a whale it is usually badly bent and twisted, but the tough, elastic iron can be straightened by the station blacksmith and made as good as new.

The harpoon-gun on the Rex Maru. The gun is loaded and the harpoon is shown projecting from the muzzle; coiled on the iron pan below is the rope which is carried with the iron in its flight. The winch may be seen in front of the bridge at the left of the picture.

A large ring slides easily along the double shaft of the harpoon, and to this one end of a five-inch rope is fastened. Forty or fifty fathoms of a somewhat smaller line, called the “forerunner,” are coiled on a heavy iron pan just under the gun, giving slack to be carried with the harpoon as it flies through the air.

From the pan the rope passes backward over a roller in the bow of the ship to a double winch just in front of the bridge and down into the hold, where a thousand fathoms (6,000 feet), or more, are carried. By means of the winch the whale is “played” as one would use a reel on a fishing rod, and after the animal has been killed it is hauled to the surface and fastened to the side of the ship.

The harpoon lines are made of the finest Italian hemp and tested for a breaking point of eighteen tons, but the forerunner is tested for only fifteen or sixteen tons. Some, made especially for use in hunting the giant blue whale, will resist a strain of twenty-eight tons. If a tight line is kept and there are no sudden jerks the ropes seldom break.

Not far beyond the winch the mast is stepped, bearing near its peak a small barrel, called the “crow’s nest,” from which the whales are sighted.

The vessels carry a crew of ten or twelve men beside the captain, who is usually also the gunner. In Japan vessels are required by the coasting laws to have a Japanese in command, and consequently a native captain is employed who takes the ship in and out of the harbor. He is really the pilot, and the vessel is turned over to the Norwegian gunner as soon as the open sea is reached.

The harpoon is tipped with a hollow point called the “bomb,” which is filled with powder and ignited by a time fuse. The barbs, or flukes, are tied to the shaft of the iron.

The harpoon after it has been fired into the body of a whale. The bomb has exploded and the shaft is bent.

Although in various parts of the world I have met two or three gunners who were not Norwegians, there are not many such. From their Viking ancestors the Scandinavians have inherited their love for the sea and, since Svend Foyn’s time, Tønsberg has sent forth her sons to the whaleships much as did New Bedford half a century ago. Thus the present generation has grown up as the industry developed, and from boys to men they have seen it in all its phases and learned not only how to shoot a whale but how to handle it afterward, which is fully as important.

A trial shot with the harpoon-gun. The harpoon line is shown, and three men may be seen in the barrel at the mast head.

Even as the harpoon-gun brought with it a new era of whaling, so it gave to the scientist undreamed-of opportunities for the study of cetaceans. Until shore stations were established, few indeed were the naturalists who had examined more than five or six whales during their entire lives. These carcasses were usually of whales which had met with some accident at sea and had been cast up on the beach; almost always the animals had been dead for days before they came under the notice of a competent scientific observer, and had lost much of their original proportions and color. A whale’s body begins to generate gases at an astounding rate as soon as the animal is dead, and within a very few hours becomes so swelled and distorted that the true proportions are almost lost. Even trained naturalists did not always take this fact into consideration, and their descriptions and figures were consequently notable chiefly for their inaccuracy.

It is only within a very few years that it has been generally recognized how rapidly cetaceans change color when dead, and often in scientific papers whales are described as “black” which are never black in life. By far the greater number of whales and dolphins have various shades of slate, or gray, on the upper parts, and if exposed to the sun for a few hours these portions turn jet black.

Again, there is in all cetaceans great variation among individuals of the same species, and whales from the same school or “pod” may differ widely in proportions and general color. Some may be long and slender, others short and thick; one may have a light gray back and pure white underparts, while a second, taken from the same herd, is dark slate above and strongly shaded below; and, moreover, the skeletons often vary almost as greatly as the external characters.

A near view as the gun is fired at a target. The harpoon rope is visible through the smoke.

Quite naturally when these extremes came under the notice of a scientist who had, perhaps, seen but three or four whales in his entire life, they were at once judged to be representative of different species and were given new names. This course cannot be wholly condemned, for under existing conditions it was almost the only one to be followed. Although it did put on record many valuable facts concerning the history of the animals, it also resulted in multiplying nominal species to such an extent that the work of later investigators in separating the valid from the invalid has become a herculean task; quite false conclusions as to the distribution of the various whales were also drawn, which only a vast amount of labor and study can rectify.

The number of whales taken during a season varies greatly with the locality, but at one of the Vancouver Island stations when I was there in 1908, three hundred and twenty-five were killed in seven months by one ship. In a single week twenty-six whales were captured, and on June 10, the S. S. St. Lawrence, Captain Larsen, brought in four humpbacks, one blue whale, and one finback.

Whales are such enormous creatures that the ordinary methods used in the study of other animals cannot be applied to them. Instead of having actual specimens before one for comparison, a naturalist must depend almost entirely upon photographs, notes, measurements, and descriptions.

Until shore whaling began such data were rare and most unsatisfactory. When a whale is cut in as it lies along the side of a ship, it is never possible to see the entire animal at once; it is almost impossible to secure photographs of real value for comparative work, and even measurements can be taken only with difficulty and not without a large percentage of error. Internal anatomical investigations are out of the question, because as soon as the blubber has been stripped off the carcass is turned adrift.

By the establishment of shore stations these difficulties have been largely eliminated. The whales are usually drawn entirely out of the water upon the slip where, before the blubber is stripped off, they can be measured, photographed, and described. As they are being cut in it is possible to make a fairly detailed study of the fresh skeleton and other parts of the anatomy—if the investigator is not afraid of blood and grease. Moreover the great number of whales of a single species brought to the stations allows a study of individual variation, which evidently is greater among some of the large cetaceans than in other groups of mammals.

Since shore stations are located in widely separated parts of the world, they have facilitated investigations of the distribution, life history, and relationships of large whales, which otherwise would have been impossible. Thus it is obvious that a naturalist who is fortunate enough to stay for some time at a modern factory has opportunities for original work such as were undreamed of before the days of steam whaling.

The directors of the companies, and the managers of the stations, have usually been glad to assist in the study of the animals which form the basis of their industry, and have generously extended the courtesies of their ships and stations. In some instances they have gone to considerable trouble to secure specimens which could be prepared and presented to museums in various parts of the world for exhibition and osteological study. It is deeply to be regretted that the wholesale slaughter of whales will inevitably result in their early commercial extinction, but meanwhile science is profiting by the golden opportunities given for the study of these strange and interesting animals. Thus, the old saying that “it is an ill wind that blows good to no one” applies very decidedly to the whaling industry.

CHAPTER I
MY FIRST WHALE HUNT

Great lumbering swells of gray water rolling out of the fog from the wide sweep of the open Pacific were the picture I saw through the round, brass-bound frame of the porthole on the S. S. Tees. It was the last of May, but the cold of winter still hung in the sea air, and even when we drew in toward the foot of the mountains which poked their fir-clad summits far up into the mist clouds, I shivered in my heavy coat and tramped about on deck to keep warm. Finally when we were right under the towering mountain’s walls, we swung abruptly into smooth water, the long roll and pitch of the ship slackened and died, and we were quietly plowing our way up river-like Barclay Sound, which, from the west coast, cuts into the very heart of Vancouver Island.

It was hardly six o’clock in the morning when the wail of the ship’s siren whistle shot into the deep mountain valley where the station of the (former) Pacific Whaling Company is located at the one-time Indian village of Sechart. With a great deal of curiosity I strained my eyes through the fog to study the group of white frame buildings which straggled up from the water’s edge back into the valley.

Captain Balcom at the gun on the Orion.

I could see only one or two Indians, clad in dirty shirts and overalls, loafing about placidly staring at the ship, but by the time she had been warped in and the winch had started to swing aboard the great oil casks which lined the wharf, two pleasant-faced men appeared, one of whom I learned was Mr. Quinton, the station manager; to him my letters were presented. With him was Mr. Rolls, the secretary of the station, who showed me to a room at the house. I got out of my “store clothes” and came down to the wharf, now lined with men of six nationalities—for Norwegians, Americans, Newfoundlanders, Indians, Chinese, and Japanese are employed at these west coast stations.

Tied up to the side of the pier was the ship Orion. She was typical of all steam whalers, had been built in Norway and made, under her own steam, the long stormy passage across the Atlantic to Newfoundland. A few years of work there and she started for the Pacific around the Horn, beating her way northward to the scene of her present work at Sechart.

The Orion had not gone to sea that morning, for the fog outside made it useless to hunt; even if the ship could have kept her bearings in the mist it would have been impossible to see the spout of a whale, or to follow the animal if one were found.

The crew were all ashore, and I met Captain Balcom, an alert young Canadian, and one of the few successful gunners who was not a Norwegian. He offered at once to take me “outside” with him when the weather cleared but said we would see only humpbacks, for the blue whales and finbacks had not yet appeared on these hunting grounds. At Kyuquot, a station only one hundred miles farther up the coast, blue whales and finbacks were taken with the humpbacks in March as soon as the station opened, while at Sechart they did not come until July.

When the station was first located at Sechart, humpbacks were frequently taken in Barclay Sound but were soon all killed, and others did not take their places. At the time I was there, the Orion seldom found whales less than thirty miles at sea. She usually arrived about two o’clock in the morning, dropped her catch, and in half or three-quarters of an hour was again on the way out in order to reach the feeding grounds shortly after daylight.

I went aboard with Captain Balcom at ten o’clock and turned in on the Mate’s bunk. The cabin was small, but not uncomfortable, and it was not long before I was asleep. I did not even hear the ropes being cast off in the morning and only waked when the boy came down to call the Captain. We were well down the Sound when I came on deck, and were steaming swiftly along among little wooded islets half shrouded in gray fog. Far ahead the ugly, foam-flecked rocks of Cape Beale stretched out in a dangerous line guarding the entrance to the Straits of Juan de Fuca; beyond was a sheer wall of mist shutting us out from the open sea.

The Captain was sure it was only a land fog hanging along the coastline, and that we would soon run through it into clear air. As the ship rose to the long swells of gray water and burrowed her way straight ahead deeper and deeper into the mist, everyone on deck was drenched and shivering. Fifteen minutes of steaming at full speed and the gray curtain began to thin; soon we ran out of it altogether.

There was not a big sea running, but the little Orion was dancing about like a cork. Balcom said, “It is calm weather so long as she keeps her decks dry,” and with this rather dubious comfort I settled down to get used to the tossing as best I could.

Everything was intensely interesting to me, for it was my first trip on a steam whaler. Already a man had been sent aloft and was unconcernedly swinging about with glasses at his eyes watching the water ahead. I learned later, when seasickness was a thing of the past, what a wonderful view can be had from the crow’s nest. The whole level sea is laid out below like a relief map and every floating object, even the smallest birds, shows with startling distinctness. And if it is comparatively smooth, one can look far down into the water and see a whale or shark long before it is visible at the surface or to those on deck.

Loading the harpoon-gun. “The charge is 300 to 375 drams of very coarse, black powder which is ... rammed home from the muzzle; then come wads of okum, hard rubber or cork, after which the harpoon ... is hammered solidly into place.”

Before we left the station, the harpoon-gun had not been loaded. The muzzle was plugged with a wooden block and the iron rope-pan drawn upward and tied against the gun’s support. When coming in from the last trip the vessel had encountered heavy weather, and the rope was taken off the pan to prevent it from being carried away by a wave and fouling the propeller. Now as we were nearing the feeding grounds, the Bo’s’n went forward to load the gun, re-coil the harpoon line, and see that all was clear and running smoothly.

The men on board were greatly interested in my camera and anxious that opportunities might be given for pictures. For two hours, with the Chief Engineer and the Mate, I sat aft on the great coil of towing line, used only in very heavy weather, listening to stories of the idiosyncrasies of whales, especially humpbacks. Their firm conviction was that one—never could guess what a “hump” was going to do—except that it would be exactly what was least expected.

The Engineer had just finished telling about a big fellow that a few days before had come up in front of the ship and swam towards it with his enormous mouth wide open, when the man in the barrel called down, “Whales on the port bow!”

I jumped as though a bomb had been exploded and grabbed my camera. The other men took things rather quietly, for the whales were still a long way off. The Captain tried to show me the spouts but it was several minutes before I could distinguish the white columns of vapor shooting up every few seconds.

Model of a humpback whale in the American Museum of Natural History. The model was prepared by Mr. James L. Clark, under the direction of Dr. F. A. Lucas.

There were three of them—all humpbacks. On the instant, the dark bodies slowly rounded into view and three huge, propeller-like tails were smoothly lifted out of the water, elevated vertically to the surface, and again drawn below. It is impossible to describe the ease and beauty of the dive. To look at the heavy body and long, ungainly flippers of a humpback one would hardly suspect that there could be grace in any movement, and yet the enormous animals slide under the surface as smoothly as a water bird.

“The man in the barrel called down, ‘Whales on the port bow!’”

When the flukes came out, the Captain rang for half speed, for the whales would probably be down several minutes. Turning the wheel over to the Mate, he went forward to the gun, pushed up the spring which cocked it, and waited, alert, for the animals to rise.

I had descended with him from the bridge and stood just behind the gun platform. The ship, her engines stopped, was rolling about on the mirror-like patches of water left by the whales as they went down. After ten minutes of waiting three silvery clouds suddenly shot upward a quarter of a mile away. Instantly the engine signal rang and the ship swung about, plowing through the water at full speed until the whales sounded. For two hours this kept on. Each time when we were almost within range the big fellows would raise themselves a little higher, arch their backs, and turn downward in a beautiful dive, waving their huge flukes as though in derision.

I had my notebook and pencil at work as well as the camera but it was getting pretty difficult to use either. The wind had risen and I was deathly seasick; even the best sailors lose their “sea legs” when aboard one of these little eggshell boats after a long period ashore, and mine were gone completely. The Orion was twisting and writhing about as though possessed of a demon, and every time she climbed a huge wave to rock uncertainly a moment on the crest and then plunge headlong down its smooth, green slope, I was certain she would never rise again. Balcom was doggedly hanging to the gun, but just after we had both been soaked by a big sea that came over the ship’s nose he shouted, “If we don’t get a shot soon we’ll have to leave them.”

At that time we were heading for the whales, which were spouting only a short distance away. One of them had left the others and seemed to be feeding. He was swimming at the surface, sometimes under for a second or two, but never far down. The ship slid nearer and nearer with engines at dead slow until the huge body disappeared not thirty fathoms away.

“In a minute he’ll come again,” shouted Balcom, feet braced and bending low over the gun.

I was clinging to a rope just behind him, trying to focus the camera, but the flying spray made it well-nigh impossible. Suddenly I saw the Captain’s muscles tighten, the tip of the harpoon drop an inch or two, and caught a glimpse of a phantom shape rushing upward.

Almost on the instant a blinding cloud of vapor shot into our very faces, followed by the deafening roar of the gun. I saw the black flukes whirl upward and fall in one tremendous, smashing blow upon the water; then the giant figure quivered an instant, straightened out, and slowly sank. For a moment not a sound was heard on the vessel save the steady “flop, flop, flop” of the line on the deck as the dead weight of forty tons dragged it from the winch.

Balcom leaned over the side and saw the rope hanging rigidly from the ship’s bow. “I must have caught him in the heart,” he said, “and killed him instantly.”

“Two men with long-handled knives began to cut off the lobes of the tail.”

As the Captain straightened up he shouted to the Engineer to check the line. Then began the work of bringing to the surface and inflating the dead whale. Taking a hitch about a short iron post, the harpoon rope was slacked and run through a spring pulley-block on the mast, just below the barrel, to relieve the strain of raising the great body. As the winch ground in fathom after fathom of line the vessel heeled far over under the tremendous weight. I was clinging to the ship’s side looking down into the water and soon saw the shadowy outline of the whale, fins wide spread, nearing the surface. As it came alongside a lead-weighted line was thrown over the tail, a rope pulled after it, then a small chain, and finally the heavy chain by which the carcass was made fast to the bow.

The winch had not yet stopped when two men with long-handled knives began to cut off the lobes of the tail to prevent the flukes from pounding the rail as the body swung up and down in the seaway. Already other sailors were working at a long coil of small rubber hose, one end of which was attached to an air pump and the other to a hollow, spear-pointed tube of steel, perforated along its entire length. This was jabbed well down into the whale’s abdomen, the engines started, and the animal slowly filled with air. When the body had been inflated sufficiently to keep it afloat, the tube was withdrawn and the incision plugged with oakum.

The other whales were a long way off when the ship was ready to start. The man in the “top” reported them as far to the south and traveling fast. As there was little chance of getting another shot that day and the wind was blowing half a gale, the Captain decided to turn about and run for the station.

We reached Sechart at 1:30 A. M. and the whale was left floating in the water, tied to the end of the wharf near a long inclined platform called the “slip”; then the Orion put out to sea and I went to bed at the station. I shall never forget my intense surprise next morning when I saw the humpback “cut in.” Work began at seven o’clock, and as the Manager had just awakened me, I ran out and did not wait for breakfast, thinking there would be ample time to eat when the operations were under way. It soon became evident, however, that there were no breathing spells when whales were being cut in, and every soul was at his work until the last scrap of flesh was in the boiling vats.

“A hollow, spear-pointed tube of steel ... was jabbed well down into the whale’s abdomen, the engines started, and the animal slowly filled with air.”

After a heavy wire cable had been made fast about the posterior part of the whale, just in front of the flukes, the winch was started. The cable straightened out, tightened, and became as rigid as a bar of steel. Slowly foot after foot of the wire was wound in and the enormous carcass, weighing at least forty tons, was drawn out of the water upon the slip.

One of the Japanese scrambled up the whale’s side and, balancing himself on the smooth surface by the aid of his long knife, made his way forward to sever at the “elbow” the great side fin, or flipper, fifteen feet in length.

Before the carcass was half out of the water other cutters were making longitudinal incisions through the blubber along the breast, side, and back, from the head the entire length of the body to the flukes. The cable was made fast to the blubber at the chin, the winch started, and the thick layer of fat stripped off exactly as one would peel an orange. When the upper side had been denuded of its blubber covering, the whale was turned over by means of the canting winch, and the other surface was flensed in the same manner.

It was a busy and interesting scene. The strange, unfamiliar cries of the Orientals mingled with the shouts of the cutters and the jarring rattle of the winch as the huge strips of fat were torn from the whale’s body, fed into the slicing machine, carried upward, and dumped into enormous vats to be boiled or “tried out” for the oil.

When the blubber was entirely gone, the carcass was split open by chopping through the ribs of the upper side and cutting into the abdomen, letting a ton or more of blood pour out and spread in a crimson flood over the slip. A hook was attached to the tongue bones (hyoids) and the heart, lungs, liver, and intestines were drawn out in a single mass.

The body was then hauled to the “carcass platform” at right angles to, and somewhat above, the “flensing slip,” the flesh was torn from the bones in two or three great masses by the aid of the winch, and the skeleton disarticulated.

Flensing a whale at one of the Vancouver Island stations. A great strip of blubber is being torn from the animal’s side.

After the bones had been split and the flesh cut into chunks two or three feet square, they were boiled separately in great open vats which bordered the carcass platform on both sides. When the oil had been extracted, the bones were crushed by machinery making bone meal to be used as fertilizer, and the flesh, artificially dried and sifted, was converted into a very fine guano. Even the blood, of which there were several tons, was carefully drained from the slip into a large tank, and boiled and dried for fertilizer. Finally, the water in which the blubber had been tried out was converted into glue.

The baleen, or whalebone, which alone remained to be disposed of, was thrown aside to be cleaned and dried as opportunity offered. The baleen of all the fin whales is short, stiff, and coarse and in Europe and America has but little value. In Japan, however, it is made into many useful and beautiful things.

I learned that the cutting operations at Sechart and the other west coast stations were conducted in the Norwegian way which is followed in almost all parts of the world except Japan. In the Island Empire a new method has been adopted, which, while it has the advantage of being very rapid, is correspondingly dangerous and will not, I think, ever be widely used.

CHAPTER II
HOW A HUMPBACK DIVES AND SPOUTS

Although it had been possible to secure but few good pictures during my first trip at sea on the Orion, nevertheless I had learned much about the ways of humpbacks. One impression, which I subsequently found to be correct, was that this would prove to be the most interesting of all large whales to study—at least from the standpoint of its habits.

There are no dull moments when one is hunting a humpback, for it is never possible to foretell what the animal’s next move will be. He may dash along the surface with his enormous mouth wide open, stand upon his head and “lobtail,” throwing up clouds of spray with smashing blows of his flukes, or launch his forty-ton body into the air as though shot from a submarine catapult.

He may do dozens of other highly original things, all of which show his playful, good-natured disposition and, if he is allowed to continue his elephantine gambols unmolested, he is as harmless as a puppy. But once imbed an iron in his sensitive flesh and it is wise to keep well beyond the range of his long flippers and powerful flukes which strike the water in every direction with deadly, crushing blows.

The humpback is the whale which is most usually seen from the Atlantic passenger vessels, and may easily be recognized because when “sounding,” or going under for a deep dive, the flukes are almost invariably drawn out of the water; the finback and blue whales, the two other common species, seldom show the flukes.

A humpback whale “sounding.” “The humpback comes up obliquely, and, as soon as the spout has been delivered, arches the back and begins to revolve.”

When a humpback dives the easy grace with which the animal manipulates its huge, ungainly body and great propeller-like tail, drawing it out of the water smoothly but with irresistible force, always gives me a thrill of admiration. I remember one day, while crossing the Atlantic on the Kronprinz Wilhelm, a humpback came up not far from the ship and swam parallel with her for several minutes. Each time the big fellow drew himself up, slowly rolled over, and brought his flukes out, an involuntary cheer went up from the passengers. But it is only when sounding that the tail is shown and never when the whale is feeding or swimming near the surface.

A humpback whale with a very white breast. The side fins, or flippers, are almost one-quarter the entire length of the animal, and to them barnacles attach themselves as well as to the folds of the throat and breast.

The humpback comes up obliquely and, as soon as the spout has been delivered, arches the back and begins to revolve, finally drawing out the flukes and going down vertically. When hunting, the proper time to shoot is when the dorsal fin begins to show above the water—depending, of course, upon the distance. The iron then has a fair chance to reach the lungs or heart and a larger target is presented.

How far a whale can descend is a matter of conjecture and more or less dispute among naturalists. One writer argues that whales cannot go deeper than three hundred feet because of the tremendous water pressure. But all cetaceans have certain specializations in body structure which undoubtedly enable them to withstand high pressure.

I have, as personal evidence upon this subject, the fact that a blue whale, harpooned between the shoulders and but slightly injured, dove straight downward and took out over a quarter of a mile of rope. We were, at the time, almost a hundred miles at sea and so far as could be determined the animal had gone down to the full limit of the line which hung from the bows as rigid as a bar of steel. The whale remained below for thirty-two minutes and reappeared not more than a hundred yards away and directly in front of the ship.

It is the opinion of every whaler with whom I have talked that all the large cetaceans can descend to a considerable depth, and each man will give numerous instances, similar to the one I have cited in the case of the blue whale, to prove his point. Until further information is available this subject must be an open one. A smooth, circular patch of water is always left at the spot where a large whale dives. This is undoubtedly produced by suction and interrupted wave action but has given rise to many ingenious and absurd theories in explanation.

When studying whales the most important fact to remember is that they are one-time land mammals which have taken up a life in the water and that their bodily activities, although somewhat modified, are nevertheless essentially the same as those of a horse, cow, or any other land mammal.

Since a whale breathes air, when it is below the surface the breath must be held, for if water should be taken into the lungs the animal would drown. Thus, as soon as a cetacean comes to the surface its breath is expelled and a fresh supply inhaled before it again goes down, just as in the case of a man when diving. However a whale is able to hold its breath for a much longer time than can an ordinary land mammal—even as much as forty-five minutes or an hour.

When the animal comes to the surface the breath which has been contained in the lungs under pressure is highly heated, and as it is forcibly expelled into the colder outer air it condenses, forming a column of steam or vapor. A similar effect may be produced by any person if, on a frosty morning, the breath is suddenly blown out of the mouth. I have often seen a whale blow when its head was still a short distance under the surface and at such times a little water will be thrown upward with the spout.

The tail of the humpback as the animal “sounds” looks like a great butterfly which has alighted upon the water.

That whales spout out of the blowholes water which has been taken in through the mouth is probably more widely believed than any other popular misconception. As a matter of fact such a performance would be impossible because a whale’s nostrils do not open into the back of the mouth as do those of a man, and the animal is not able to breathe through its mouth as do ordinary land mammals.

Instead, an elongation of the arytenoid cartilages and the epiglottis fits into the soft palate, thereby forming a continuous passage between the nostrils and the trachea, or windpipe, and entirely shutting off the nasal passages from the mouth. In this way a whale can swim with its mouth open, when feeding, without danger of being strangled by getting water into the breathing organs.

The blowholes, or nostrils, have been pushed backward and upward to open on the top of the head instead of at the end of the snout. This is an adaptation to aquatic life, which is also seen in other water mammals, for in this way the nostrils are almost the first part of the body to appear at the surface and the whale can begin to breathe immediately upon rising.

Although all the fin whales have two nostrils, the spout ascends in a single column, which, in the humpback, is from twelve to fifteen feet high. The cloud of vapor is narrow at the base but spreads out at once, forming a low bushy column which rapidly drifts away.

The height and density of the spout in all whales depends upon the animal’s size and the length of time it has been below. If the whale has been submerged but a brief period, as during surface dives, a comparatively small quantity of air is expelled and the breath has not had time to become highly heated; consequently the column will be low and thin.

The first spout after sounding is usually the highest and fullest. I have seen humpbacks, which had been badly wounded, lying at the surface close to the ship, blowing every few seconds, and the spout could hardly be seen although the opening and closing of the blowholes and the metallic whistling of the escaping breath were plainly distinguishable.

Immediately after the delivery of the spout the lungs are refilled, the blowholes being opened widely and protruded upward, and the breath rapidly drawn in. The elevation of the blowholes is probably to prevent a wave from slopping over and filling the nasal passages, but when a whale lies dead upon the slip there is no indication that the nostrils can be protruded. This was first learned through a photograph of a spouting blue whale, taken by Dr. Glover M. Allen in Newfoundland waters, and since then I have secured two others which show it admirably. At the time my first picture was taken we had an interesting experience which I shall never forget.

CHAPTER III
AN EXCITING EXPERIENCE IN ALASKA

After leaving Vancouver Island I had gone north to Murderer’s Cove, Tyee, Alaska, and was being most hospitably entertained on board Captain Charles Grahame’s ship, the Tyee. We were hunting in the waters of Frederick Sound and had been out two days. A big finback had given us an exciting time of it in the afternoon and evening of the second day and I had gone to bed tired out.

Next morning at five o’clock I was awakened by a hand on my shoulder and the voice of the Mate saying:

“We’re in a bunch of humpbacks, sir. You’d better get up if you want some pictures.”

As I had only removed my coat and shoes the night before, in five minutes I was on deck with my camera and plate holders. It was a gray day, heavy clouds lining the sky and a strong wind blowing from the westward. Already the little steamer was pitching and rolling in a way which made me hate even the thought of breakfast, but catching sight of the flukes of a big humpback just disappearing below the surface on the starboard side, I forgot for a moment that there was such a thing as seasickness. I climbed to the bridge beside the Mate who was at the wheel and after getting the camera ready for instant use, took out my notebook and glasses.

The whales were all about us but feed was evidently scarce and far below the surface, for the animals were swimming long distances under water, only rising to blow at irregular intervals. For three hours we kept up a fruitless chase after first one and then another of the humpbacks, once or twice getting so close that a shot seemed imminent. At last the Captain, who had come on deck, said:

“The flukes of a big humpback just disappearing below the surface on the starboard side.”

“It’s no use to bother with these fellows; there is no feed and we may stay here all day without killing; we’ll go over toward Fanshaw, and see if we can’t find another bunch.”

Two hours of steaming brought us in sight of Storm Island and far over near the shore we could see several spouts. Now and then flukes would show as one of the animals went down, indicating to my satisfaction that some, at least, were humpbacks. When we neared the whales I left the bridge, making my way forward along the deck to the harpoon-gun, and with camera ready braced myself against a rope. The steamer was pitching furiously and it was all I could do to keep my feet, but clinging to a line with one hand and shielding the lens of my camera with the other, I awaited the reappearance of a whale that had gone down on the starboard side.

Suddenly the gunner shouted, “There he comes!” and pointed over the bow where the water was beginning to smooth out in a large, green patch about thirty fathoms away.

Before I could focus my camera, the whale had burst into view, sending his spout fifteen feet into the air. Evidently he saw us for he was down again in a second, only to reappear several fathoms astern. Time after time he showed himself, never near enough for a shot but keeping me busy exposing plates.

After about an hour another humpback appeared beside him and together they seemed to be enjoying to the fullest extent the game of tag they were playing with us. Once the larger of the two threw himself clear out of the water, showing even the tips of his flukes, and fell back with a splash which sounded like the muffled clap of two great hands. Again he thrust his head into the air and, whirling about, I caught him with the camera just before he sank back out of sight.

“The captain swung the vessel’s nose into just the right position and they appeared close beside the starboard bow.”

For over an hour the game of tag continued, but once, when the whales had been down an unusually long time, the Captain swung the vessel’s nose into just the right position and they appeared close beside the starboard bow. The roar of the gun almost deafened me and instinctively I pressed the button of the camera, but a wave had thrown the steamer into the air at just the wrong time and the harpoon struck the surface several feet below the whale. Both animals went down churning the water into foam, and when next we saw them they were close together, far astern.

Although the chase had been an aggravation to the whalers, I had reaped a harvest of pictures and had exposed every plate in the holders. While Sorenson, the gunner, was reloading the gun, I descended into the hold, substituted fresh plates, and packed the others in the pasteboard boxes. My work was hastened by the sudden stopping and starting of the engines which proclaimed that another whale had been sighted and the chase already begun.

Pushing away the hatch which covered the entrance to the hold, I swung up the steep ladder to the deck above. Sure enough a big humpback was spouting only a short distance away, now and then rolling on his side and throwing his great black and white fin in the air.

“He’s feeding,” said Sorenson, as I stepped up beside him; “but he’s pretty wild. Perhaps we’ll kill this time.”

Back and forth for two hours we followed the animal, sometimes getting so close that when I saw him burst to the surface I held my breath, expecting to hear the roar of the gun beside me; but Sorenson, somewhat chagrined by his miss at the last whale, wished to be sure of this shot and would not take a chance. The Captain swung the boat in a long circle each time the animal disappeared and it seemed almost certain that we would at last be near when he came up. And so it happened, for when we had almost despaired of getting a shot the man in the barrel shouted, “He’s coming, right below us.”

“Scrambling up, I ... snapped the camera at the huge body partly hidden by the boat.”

Looking down into the water I could see the ghostly form of the whale rising to the surface with tremendous force just in front of the bow. There was no time to stop the ship and the animal burst from the water half under the vessel’s side. I started back, shielding my camera from the spout, and, stumbling over a pile of chains on the deck, slid almost to the forecastle companionway. Scrambling up, I jumped to the rail and snapped the camera at the huge body partly hidden by the boat.

The whale seemed dazed by his sudden appearance under the steamer, and rolling on his side, went down only a few feet, reappearing ten fathoms away. Sorenson, who had held to the gun, steadied himself, swung the muzzle about, and taking deliberate aim, planted the harpoon squarely behind the fin. It was a beautiful shot, and the whale went down without a struggle. The quiet which followed the deafening explosion was broken only by the soft swish of the line running out from the winch and the men going to their places. I was leaning against the side almost weak from the excitement of the last few minutes when Sorenson, a pleased grin on his sunburned face, turned and said, “I didn’t miss him that time, did I? He never moved after I fired.”

Four hours more of chasing first one and then another brought the vessel close to a humpback and again Sorenson sent the harpoon crashing into the lungs, killing at the first shot. As the day had been a tiring one and it was too dark to take pictures, I picked up my camera and climbed down the narrow companionway into the Captain’s cabin. After reloading the plate holders I lay down on the bunk listening to the rattling of chains and the tramp of feet on the deck above as the dead whale, with the other which had been picked up, was made fast to the bow of the vessel.

Bringing in a humpback at the end of the day’s hunt. The whale’s flukes weigh more than a ton.

The boat had started on the thirty-mile tow to the station and, gradually becoming accustomed to the rolling, I was lulled to sleep by the steady “chug, chug, chug” of the engines and the splashing of the water against the side.

CHAPTER IV
THE “VOICE” OF WHALES AND SOME INTERESTING HABITS

For me, developing the photographic negatives after a trip at sea is almost as fascinating as taking them, and no secret treasure chest was ever opened with greater interest than is the developing box. After my first expedition a tank developer was always used, for I invariably became so excited watching the image appear upon the plate that several were ruined by being held too long before the red lamp.

I shall never forget the breathless interest with which I developed the negative exposed when the humpback whale came up beneath the ship during the trip described in the previous chapter. I had had no time to focus the camera, and really expected a blurred picture, but still there was just a chance that it might be good. The image appearing on the plate slowly assumed form and I saw that it was a picture of the great body partly hidden beneath the ship. No one but a naturalist can ever know what it meant to get that photograph and how impatiently I waited until it could be taken from the hypo bath and examined.

I found that the plate had been exposed just after the spout had been delivered and while the animal was drawing in its breath. The great nostrils were widely dilated and protruded far above the level of the head.

This is an excellent illustration of what an important part the camera plays in natural history study, for often a photograph will show with accuracy many things which the eye does not record. When a whale rises so close to the ship that one can almost touch its huge body, the few seconds of its appearance are so full of excitement that it is well-nigh impossible to study details—at least so I have found.

During spouting, and while drawing in the breath, the rush of air through the pipe-like nostrils produces a loud, metallic, whistling sound which, in the larger whales, can be heard for a distance of a mile or more. Since cetaceans have no vocal organs it is probable that this is the sound which is so often mistaken for their voice in the statements that whales have “roared,” or “bellowed like a bull.”

To me it always seems as though a whale ought to have a voice of proportions equal to the animal’s bulk. I have never quite recovered from the feeling I had when I first saw a big humpback rise a few feet from the ship. The animal appeared so enormous that if it had uttered a terrifying roar it would have seemed quite the natural and proper thing. The respiratory sounds differ with each cetacean; I have often been near humpbacks and finbacks which were feeding together, and could always distinguish the latter species by the sharper and more metallic quality of the spout. This is probably due to the fact that the finback, since it is a larger whale, blows with greater force than does the humpback.

The white porpoise (Delphinapterus leucas) of the North, makes a most characteristic respiratory noise. It is a sharp “putt” much resembling the exhaust of a small gasoline engine and can be heard for a considerable distance. In early June of 1909, while hunting white porpoises in the St. Lawrence River, a heavy fog dropped on us and for several hours we could only wait for it to lift. All about were white porpoises, probably several hundred, and the sharp “putt, putt” of their spouts came from every direction, sounding like a squadron of gasoline launches.

The number of times the humpbacks spout at each appearance is exceedingly variable. As a general rule, if the feed is far below the surface, requiring a considerable period of submergence, the animals will blow six or seven times before again descending, in order to reoxygenate thoroughly the blood. If, on the contrary, the feed is near the surface, the dives are short and the number of respirations after each one is correspondingly small. And yet I have seen individuals which were “traveling,” or swimming for a considerable distance under water, rise to spout but once or twice and again descend.

I have often been asked how long a whale can stay below the surface. It is quite impossible to answer this with a general statement since some species can undoubtedly remain submerged much longer than others. Twenty minutes is my greatest record for humpbacks but there is no doubt that the animals can stay under a much longer time, if necessary.

A blue whale which we struck off the Japanese coast sounded for thirty-two minutes. In the north of Japan there was a whale of the same species which had had its dorsal fin shot away by a harpoon and had become extremely wild. The animal could be easily recognized by the large white scar on its back, and for three successive years was hunted by various ships of the whaling fleet. He was said to stay below half an hour each time and only spout once or twice between dives. One day, when seventy miles at sea, the ship I was on raised his spout, but after the whale went down we lost him. We were close enough to see the white harpoon scar as he sounded but I did not have a further opportunity to witness his reported eccentricities.

At Ulsan, Korea, Captain Melsom killed a blue whale which stayed below fifty minutes, spouted twenty times, and then went down for forty minutes. The longest period of submergence which I recorded for a finback was twenty-three minutes. There are many tales of the great length of time which the small-toothed whale, called the “bottlenose” (Hyperoödon rostratum), will remain under water but I have had no personal experience with this species. It is said that when a bottlenose has been harpooned it not infrequently sounds to a great depth and stays below for over an hour.

Many whalemen believe that cetaceans can remain under water for a long time without coming up to breathe. This owes its origin to the fact that whales will suddenly appear when for several hours previously there has been no sign of a spout even at a distance. Captain Grahame first called my attention to this fact and since then I have personally witnessed it twice.

“Suddenly, not more than two hundred fathoms in front of the ship, four humpbacks spouted and began to feed.” The flukes of one are shown, in the distance is a second which has just spouted, and the smooth patches of water where the other two descended are seen in the foreground.

Once, when sixty miles at sea off the Japanese coast, trouble with the engines caused the ship to lie to for about three hours. During most of that time I was in the barrel at the masthead watching with glasses a school of porpoises (Lagenorhynchus obliquidens), which were playing about some distance from the ship. As far as I could see there was not the slightest sign of a whale nor had there been for at least two hours. Suddenly, not more than two hundred fathoms in front of the ship, four humpbacks spouted and began to feed. They remained for almost half an hour in our immediate vicinity, wallowing about at the surface, and then, as at a signal, arched their backs, drew out their flukes, and sounded. They rose again about half a mile away, spouted a few times and disappeared.

There is not one chance in ten that those whales could have blown within five miles of the ship, when they first appeared, without being seen. The ocean was as calm as a millpond and the sun so brilliant that the spouts glittered like a cloud of silver dust thrown into the air. From the masthead I could see for miles and had, moreover, been watching the water in every direction as the porpoises circled and played about the ship.

Practically the same thing has been reported to me at various times from other localities. Captain Grahame said that in Alaska at a certain place in Frederick Sound a school of finbacks used to appear suddenly every day about four o’clock in the afternoon. The whalemen seemed to be of the opinion that the animals had been under the water for some hours, perhaps sleeping on the bottom.

From what is known of the physiology of cetaceans this is highly improbable if not actually impossible. To me the most reasonable explanation seems to be the one advanced by Rocovitza, viz., that some species of whales frequently swim long distances at considerable speed without appearing to blow. When there is little feed and the whales are constantly moving, or traveling, I have seen them rise a mile or more from the place where they last disappeared, spout a few times and again go down, repeating this as long as they could be seen from the ship. There is no valid reason why the animals should not continue for half an hour or more without appearing to blow and during that time even slow swimmers, such as humpbacks, could cover three or four miles.

One day at Ulsan, Korea, Captain Hurum found two humpbacks and struck one. Captain Melsom who was but a short distance away came up at once and stood by to shoot the second whale. But that individual had absolutely disappeared and although the sea was calm and both ships kept a sharp watch was never seen again. Captain Melsom says it must certainly have swum five miles without rising to spout.

When and where whales do sleep we have no means of knowing. They have been recorded as following ships for great distances, always keeping close by, and I have often heard them blow at night. My own theory is that they sleep while floating at the surface, either during the day or night, but I have little evidence with which to sustain it.

Whales must have some means of communicating with each other of which we know nothing, for often the members of a school, even when widely separated, will leave the surface together and reappear at exactly the same instant.

At times two whales will swim so closely together that their bodies are almost touching and this habit has given rise to stories, vouched for by reputable scientific men, about an unknown whale with two dorsal fins. I could never bring myself to believe these tales and often wondered how they originated, until one day, while hunting off the coast of Japan with Captain Anderson, we saw a so-called “double-finned” whale. A big finback was spouting in the distance and as we were following a sei whale which was very wild, the Captain decided to see if we could get a shot at the new arrival.

Two humpback whales swimming close together at the surface. These animals were feeding and coming up to spout every few seconds.

The whale was swimming at the surface and as we neared the animal two dorsal fins were plainly visible. Anderson was as excited as I because it seemed that we would certainly “get fast” to the mythical whale. We watched every movement of the animal as it slowly crossed our bows and we could see the second dorsal fin about two feet behind the first.

Suddenly the animal spouted in a way that was unfamiliar to both of us, for the vapor column was very thick and plainly divided. We were within forty fathoms, almost near enough for a shot, before I realized that our strange cetacean was really two whales—a cow finback and her nearly grown calf. The latter was on the far side of the mother and was pressed closely to her side. Its dorsal fin appeared just behind that of its parent and while the whale was broadside to us we could see no other part of the calf’s body. Had we not been following the animal I should forever have been convinced that I had actually seen a double-finned whale.

CHAPTER V
THE PLAYFUL HUMPBACK

The first whale which I ever saw “breach,” or jump out of the water, was a humpback in Alaska. We raised the whale’s spout half a mile away and ran up close before the animal sounded. It seemed certain that he would blow again, and with engines stopped the ship rolled slowly from side to side in the swell. The silence was intense and our nerves were strained to the breaking point.

Ten minutes dragged by; then, without a sound of warning, the floor of the ocean seemed to rise and a mountainous black body, dripping with foam, heaved upward almost over our heads. It paused an instant, then fell sideways to be swallowed up in a vortex of green water. With the camera ready in my hands I stared at the thing. It might have been an eruption of a submarine volcano or a waterspout; I would as soon have thought of photographing either. Even the nerves of Sorenson, the harpooner, were shaken and he clung weakly to the gun without a move to use it.

The whale had dropped back scarcely twenty feet away; if it had fallen in the other direction the vessel would have been crushed like an eggshell beneath its forty tons of weight. Never since then have I known of a whale breaching so close to a ship, although they have frequently come out within a hundred and fifty feet.

A few days later we had sighted a lone bull humpback early in the afternoon and for two hours had been doing our utmost to get a shot. The whale seemed to know exactly how far the gun was effective and would invariably rise just out of range. Once he sounded forty fathoms ahead and, as I stood waiting near the gun platform with the camera ready, suddenly the water parted directly in front of us and with a rush which sent its huge body five feet clear of the surface the whale shot into the air, fins wide spread, and fell back on its side amid a cloud of spray.

I was watching for the animal on the starboard bow but managed to swing about with the camera and press the button just before he disappeared. Although the photograph was hardly successful, nevertheless it is interesting as being the only one yet taken of a breaching humpback; it shows the whale breast forward falling upon its right side.

Humpbacks probably breach in play and sometimes an entire school will throw their forty-five-foot bodies into the air, each one apparently trying to outdo the others. For some reason the humpbacks of Alaska and the Pacific coast seem to breach much more frequently than do those in Japan waters.

This species is the most playful of all the large whales—one of the reasons why to me they are the most interesting. Breaching is probably their most spectacular performance but what the whalers call “lobtailing” is almost as remarkable. The animal assumes an inverted position, literally standing upon its head, and with the entire posterior part of the body out of the water begins to wave the gigantic flukes back and forth. The motion is slow and measured at first, the flukes not touching the water on either side. Faster and faster they move until the water is lashed into foam and clouds of spray are sent high into the air; then the motion ceases and the animal sinks out of sight. There is considerable variety to the performance, the whale sometimes pounding the water right and left for a few seconds and then going down.

A humpback whale “lobtailing.” The animal assumes an inverted position and, with the entire posterior part of the body out of the water, begins to wave the gigantic flukes back and forth, lashing the water into foam.

Many of the gunners believe that lobtailing is indulged in to free the whale’s flukes from the barnacles which fasten in clusters to the tips and along the edges. I do not believe that this supposition can be correct for the barnacles are embedded too firmly in the blubber to be dislodged by such beating. That the animals come into shallow water and rub against rocks to rid themselves of parasites, as whalemen report, seems much more probable.

The playful disposition of these whales is manifested in other ways. Very frequently when a ship is hunting a single humpback the animal will play tag with the vessel. It will come up first on one side and then on the other; “double” under water and rise almost at the stern; thrust its head into the air or plunge along the surface with half the body exposed but always just out of range of the harpoon-gun. Sometimes this will last for two or three hours or until the whale is killed; at others the animal will seem to tire of the game and with a farewell flirt of its tail dive and swim away.

Captain Scammon says:

In the mating season they are noted for their amorous antics. At such times their caresses are of the most amusing and novel character, and these performances have doubtless given rise to the fabulous tales of the swordfish and thrasher attacking whales. When lying by the side of each other, the Megapteras frequently administer alternate blows with their long fins, which love-pats may, on a still day, be heard at a distance of miles. They also rub each other with the same huge and flexible arms, rolling occasionally from side to side, and indulging in other gambols which can easier be imagined than described.[^[2]]

[2]. “The Marine Mammals of the North-western Coast of North America.” By Charles M. Scammon, p. 45.

The animals of which I have thus far been writing are classified in the suborder Mystacoceti, or whalebone whales, and are distinguished from the suborder Odontoceti, or toothed whales, by the possession of two parallel rows of thin, horny plates which hang from the roof of the mouth. These plates, commercially called whalebone but properly known as baleen, are growths from the skin much like the claws, finger or toenails of land mammals and are not composed of bone but of a substance called “keratin.” Each plate is roughly triangular, being wide at the base and narrow at the tip, and has the inner edges frayed out into long fibers; these hairlike bristles form a thick mat inside the mouth and thus the small shrimps and other minute food upon which the baleen whales feed are strained out and eaten. The development of whalebone is one of the most remarkable specializations shown by any living mammal. The baleen is, in reality, merely an exaggeration of the cross ridges found in the roof of the mouth of a land mammal and a somewhat similar straining apparatus is present in a duck’s bill.

The great majority of people believe that all large whales eat fish whereas none, except the sperm whale, does so when other food is to be obtained. All the baleen whales eat small crustaceans and especially the little red shrimp (Euphausia inermis), which is about three-quarters of an inch long. These minute animals float in great masses, sometimes near the surface but often several fathoms below it, and the movements of the whales are very largely determined by their position and abundance.

The tongue of a humpback whale, which has been forced out of the animal’s mouth by air pumped into the body to keep it afloat.

The feeding operations are most interesting to watch, and if the shrimps happen to be but a short distance under water, as often happens during the morning and evening or just before a storm, they can be easily seen. The whale starts forward at good speed, then opens its mouth and takes in a great quantity of water containing numbers of shrimp, turns on its side and brings the ponderous lower jaw upward, closing the mouth. The great soft tongue, filling the space between the rows of baleen, expels the water in streams, leaving only the little shrimp which have been strained out by the bristles on the inner side of the whalebone plates.

The fins and one lobe of the flukes are thrust into the air as the mouth is closed, and sometimes the animal rolls from side to side. At this time the whales are careless of danger and pay not the slightest attention to a ship. The quantity of shrimp eaten by a single whale is enormous. I have taken as much as four barrels from the stomach of a blue whale which even then was by no means full. Probably when shrimp are very scarce or are not obtainable, all the fin whales eat small fish, but during the last eight years I have personally examined the stomachs of several hundred finners and found fish in only four or five individuals.

Humpbacks, like all the large whales, show great affection for their young and many touching stories are told of their devotion. If a female with her calf is seen the whalemen know that both can be secured and often shoot the calf first, if it is of fair size, for the mother will not leave her dead baby.

This affection is reciprocated by the calf, as the following incident, related by J. G. Millais, Esq., will show:

Captain Nilsen, of the whaler St. Lawrence, was hunting in Hermitage Bay, Newfoundland, in June, 1903, when he came up to a huge cow humpback and her calf. After getting “fast” to the mother and seeing that she was exhausted, Captain Nilsen gave the order to lower the “pram” for the purpose of lancing. Every time the mate endeavored to lance the calf intervened, and by holding its tail toward the boat and smashing it down whenever they approached, kept the stabber at bay for half an hour. Finally the boat had to be recalled for fear of an accident, and a fresh bomb harpoon was fired into the mother, causing instant death. The faithful calf now came and lay alongside the body of its dead mother, where it was badly lanced but not killed. Owing to its position it was found impossible to kill it, so another bomb harpoon was fired into it. Even this did not complete the tragedy and it required another lance stroke to finish the gallant little whale.[^[3]]

[3]. “The Mammals of Great Britain and Ireland.” By J. G. Millais. Longmans, Green, & Co., p. 238.

Captain H. G. Melsom tells me that in Iceland a female humpback was killed, and her calf would not leave the ship which was towing its dead mother but followed the vessel until it was close to the station.

Humpbacks have a bad reputation among the Norwegians and it is seldom that a boat is sent out to lance a whale of this species. The gunners say that there is too much danger in the flukes and long flippers and that sad experience has given them a wholesome respect. Usually, if the animal is too “sick” to require a second harpoon it will be drawn close up beside the ship and lanced from the bow.

From personal experience I have only negative evidence to offer as to the fighting qualities of this whale for, although I have seen a great many killed, never did one give much trouble. They certainly cannot drag a vessel as a blue whale or finback will, and apparently do not like to pull very hard against the iron. I have seen humpbacks, which were being drawn in for the second shot, squirm and give way each time the rope was pulled taut. I do not pretend to deny, however, the widespread and probably well-founded belief in the danger of coming to close quarters with this whale and will again quote Millais in regard to this:

Pulling the barnacles off a humpback whale. This species is infested with parasites, which fasten in clusters to the throat, head, fins and flukes.

Humpbacks sometimes give trouble when struck too high in the body or only slightly wounded, and several serious accidents have occurred both to steamers and to the men in the small “prams” when trying to lance the wounded whale. The following authentic instances have been given to me by Norwegian captains:

In May, 1903, the whaling steamer Minerva, under Captain John Petersen, hunting from the station in Isafjord, made up to and struck a bull Humpback. The beast was wild, so they fired two harpoons into it, both of which were well placed. In the dim light the captain and two men went off in the “pram” to lance the wounded Whale, when the latter suddenly smashed its tail downwards, breaking the boat to pieces, killing the captain and one man, and breaking the leg of the other. The last-named was, however, rescued, clinging to some spars.

A most curious accident happened on the coast of Finmark about ten years ago. A steamer had just got fast to a Humpback, which, in one of its mad rushes, broke through the side of the vessel at the coal bunkers, thus allowing a great inrush of water which put out the fires and sank the ship in three minutes. The crew had just time to float the boats, and was rescued by another whaler some hours later.

Owing to its sudden rushes and free use of tail and pectorals the Humpback is more feared by the Norwegian whalemen than any other species, although fewer casualties occur than in the chase of the Bottlenose. It is not to be wondered at when you ask a Scandinavian about the dangerous incidents of his calling he will invariably answer, “I not like to stab de Humpback; no, no, no!” The Humpback generally sinks when killed, and is a difficult Whale to raise.[^[4]]

[4]. “The Mammals of Great Britain and Ireland.” By J. G. Millais. Longmans, Green, & Co., pp. 241–242.

Reliable data upon the breeding habits of all large whales are obviously difficult to secure and, except in the case of the California gray whale, it is impossible to state with certainty many facts upon this subject. Probably the period of gestation in the humpback is about one year and the calves are from fourteen to sixteen feet long when born. On June 16, 1908, at Sechart, a young humpback was killed with its mother. The calf had nothing but milk in its stomach and milk was flowing from both teats of the parent. I estimated that this baby humpback was about three months old and since birth had probably almost doubled its length.

A humpback partly in the water at the station in North Japan. The whale is lying on its side with the breast and flipper showing.

Although all the fin whales probably mate chiefly in the early spring, nevertheless pairing is deferred until later in the year among some individuals, as fœtal specimens show. Pregnant females always have very thick, fat blubber and yield a large amount of oil. Except in very rare cases all the large whales have but one young at a birth and although several instances of humpback twins have been recorded it is certainly very unusual.

How long the calf lives upon milk is problematical, but it can hardly be more than six months. The rate of growth of large whales is so exceedingly rapid that the calf would undoubtedly be able to care for itself very soon after birth.

The two teats of all cetaceans are concealed in slits on either side of the genital opening. In a humpback whale each teat is the thickness of a man’s thumb and two inches long. In the female humpback taken at Sechart with the nursing calf, the milk glands under the blubber had become greatly enlarged and were like an elongated oval in shape; they were 4 feet 6 inches long, 42 inches wide at the lower, and 9 inches at the upper, end.

By suddenly pressing the surrounding muscles the milk could be ejected 2 or 3 feet in a fair sized stream and it is in this way that the calf probably receives it. The young whale’s mouth is so constructed that it is impossible for the animal to suck, in the ordinary sense of the word, and the teat is much too short, even when protruded two or three inches, to be held between the thick, rounded lips. When the milk is ejected into the calf’s mouth apparently considerable sea water must go with it unless the mother lifts that portion of her body out of the water while the baby is nursing, which is probably the case.

The milk itself looks exactly like cow’s cream. I once drew out about a gallon from a humpback and tasted it. It was very disagreeable, but I imagine that little of the original flavor was left, for the whale had been killed about fourteen hours before and the milk had not only soured but was also permeated with the gases of decomposition. I am quite sure that if fresh the milk would not be at all bad, and stories are told (which, however, I have never substantiated and greatly doubt) that when at sea the Norwegians sometimes use on the table milk from a freshly killed whale.

A remarkable account of whale milking was published in a New York newspaper and had such a wide circulation that the facts may be of interest. It seems that a reporter was sent to interview Dr. F. A. Lucas, who had recently been at Newfoundland to secure a blue whale’s skeleton for the United States National Museum, and during the conversation Dr. Lucas jokingly remarked that it would be a fine idea to entice two or three whales into a narrow bay, bar the entrance with posts, and anchor a carcass inside. This would attract great numbers of small crustaceans and give food for the captive whales. The animals might then be trained to come to a wharf morning and evening and submit to being milked. Thus the problem of “the high cost of milk” for an entire village might easily be solved.

The result of a single day’s hunt. Five humpback whales at Sechart, Vancouver Island.

The reporter was certain that this would fill his editor’s idea of a whale story, but when writing it neglected to state that his data were purely imaginary. The story was copied in papers throughout America and for months afterward I was deluged with letters asking who the successful whale trainer might be.

CHAPTER VI
JAPANESE SHORE STATIONS

In the summer of 1909, after a short expedition to the St. Lawrence River to hunt white porpoises, I joined the U. S. S. Albatross in the Philippines as a special naturalist for a cruise among the islands of the Dutch East Indies.

It was an exceedingly interesting trip, but even though sailing over ground where thousands of sperm whales had been killed in years gone by, not a spout was seen. We raised our first whales at the southern end of Formosa late in January, while steaming northward to Japan. They were two humpbacks, lazily rolling about in a deep bay where we had anchored to escape a typhoon which was roaring along the coast outside, and showed us that we were on the edge of the Japan whaling banks, famous among all deep-water sailors.

In February the Albatross reached the beautiful harbor of Nagasaki and while wandering about the streets of the picturesque little city I saw great quantities of whale meat on sale in the markets. Peddlers were also doing an excellent business in selling meat and blubber from house to house, and altogether Japanese whaling appeared to be in a flourishing condition.

Since absolutely nothing was known, scientifically or otherwise, about the large whales of this coast, I determined to leave the Albatross and investigate the fishery as well as to secure specimens for the Museum, if possible.