Whaler Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
Phineas Arthur Alexander was his God-given name, although he never
went by it. Arthur had been adrift at sea for twenty-three days. Or some amount
very close to that. He had lost track of time and stopped counting. He was
mostly dead already, starving, and found little energy to spare to worry about
things like just how many days had passed since the wreck.
Everyone had heard the stories of the wreck of the Essex – the
rare and strange case of a whale actually attacking and sinking a whaleship.
Whaling was dangerous enough. It didn’t need strange and monstrous occurrences
such as this making it any more deadly than it already was. But as it turns
out, as is often the case, when the money is so great, the risks, no matter how
new or strange or deadly, simply don’t matter. There was just too much profit
to be had. Even the survivors of the Essex had gone back to sea. That spoke
volumes as to the power and the draw. Whaling was an international trade, a
world economy, and the oil was too powerful a commodity to stop. It would be
nice to say that certain lessons had been learned from the experiences on the
Essex, but really, for the most part, whalers either believed that the events
that led to the tragedy of the Essex were rare and it was an isolated incident,
which to some degree was true, or they believed that it was just rumor, myth or
legend, which wasn’t true to any degree. Certainly some of the crew of the
Essex had made money from its story, but the story was real, it was a warning,
a cautionary tale. The fiction would come decades later with the publication of
a book.
Arthur didn’t read, but he had heard the stories. He didn’t think
about whether they were true or not. He didn’t care.
The Sapphire had been lost. Amazingly, Arthur had been
below deck and was not witness to the accident. Arthur wouldn’t admit to being
scared, but for a brief moment, he actually thought that perhaps, just perhaps,
they had run across the demon whale that befell the Essex.
Unfortunately, their wreck was far less romantic or
daring a danger. A storm had driven The Sapphire off course. They had been
driven west and south for several days and wildly off-course. As they attempted
to find their way to a better known location, they had accidentally run aground
on some coral reef.
The Sapphire was lost and the nearby islands were
uninhabited. No one wanted to attempt a similar journey as the men from the
Essex attempted, and yet it seemed as if they might have to. There wasn’t
enough food. There wasn’t enough water. There was no indication that if they
stayed that they would ever be rescued. But South America seemed too far. They
thought they would have better luck making it to Australia.
One thing that had been improved since the Essex was
the mapping and knowledge of many of the islands of the Pacific, including the
Sandwich Islands. The fear of the Marquesas Islands, which had been rumored to
be inhabited by cannibals, and the Essex crew had refused to sail towards, had
also since been proved false.
With limited optimism, Alexander and crew found what
refuge they could in the whaleboats. Never designed for a long voyage, their
whaleboats would certainly be tested – rough water, leaks, saltwater soaked
food, and a scarcity of food in general and a lack of fresh water. There were
seemingly a string of constant and serious problems.
That was weeks ago. Arthur had been lost for fourteen
days. His whaleboat had been separated from the others and slowly they had lost
sight of each other. The men he was with were slowly dying. They were all too
weak to paddle or to do anything that would help them catch the other boats.
Instead they were at the mercy of fate. They had no plan. They had no ability
to implement it, even if they had a plan. All they could do was wait and see where
they ended up.
Every few days, another man died. Arthur wasn’t the
biggest or strongest of the men, and yet, he kept surviving. The others died,
but he somehow kept going. He didn’t know why. He didn’t deserve to be alive,
that much was true. But for some reason fate had other plans for him. He was
weak. He was gaunt and starved. Every day he thought would be his last day. But
then he would last for another. This had continued for close to a week, his
slow creep towards the end.
Then one day he saw land. He didn’t know where he was.
He had no idea what this island was. He had a fear that perhaps it wasn’t real
and he was dreaming or hallucinating. It
didn’t matter. He had to try. Broken and starved and barely able to move, he
had to try to make it to that island.
When Arthur made it ashore he prayed. He thanked God for giving
him this land, for giving him this chance. He knew he wasn’t a good man and
knew he didn’t deserve this chance, but he welcomed it. He found new energy.
His soul was renewed and his body had found fresh strength. It was a miracle.
Then they came out of the forest. They were men, but they weren’t
men at all – taller, stronger, a pronounced ridge on their forehead. They
looked more beast than man. They were brute creatures, half-man, half something
else, something ancient.
Arthur’s heart sank. He had no idea where he was, but he knew
whatever small chance at redemption he thought he had, it was nothing but an
illusion. These things, these creature-men, made their way towards him, and
Arthur found himself praying again. This time he prayed for something
different, not for rescue or survival, but he prayed for a quick death.
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