One More for the Essex

by James Callan

She rose from her ocean bed, roused from the dark by her need to breathe. Like stars, like Cetus in the night sky, she brought light to the world off the glint of her back. She was silver in the moonlight, the surf churning pearls, a rich foam and salted spray that stirred the lookouts from the masthead.

Larboard, starboard, rise ye sleepers and roustabouts! Leeward! Captain Pollard cried. Leviathan! Thar she blows!

Breaching the horizon, the sun raked the sea with its claws of dawn, igniting the white water with glittering green, a glorious array of froth and thrashing. The beast turned, displaying the shadow of its vastness, casting its mythic eye like an ember of loathing. Overhead, the seabirds cried, combing the dimpled, marmalade stratus.

Boats were lowered, a frenzy of men, their oars slapping the sea like the writhing legs of drowning millipedes. Their hoarse cries were salted with oaths and curses, filled with elation for the dark fluke that surged through the agitated waves. The leviathan, having filled her lungs, turned her barnacled back on the slavering sea dogs; desperate men with a nose for blubber and spermaceti. The sailors slumped at their oars, deflated, watching the whale stately, slowly sink back from whence she came, returning to the dark lair of Neptune’s fathomless halls.

Idle your oars, Captain Pollard shouted, scanning the settled waves from the gunwale above. Rest from your weary toil.

Then the watching, the long waiting, till she’d rise up again.

Row hearties row! For the pride of your nation! Pollard thrust a weathered fist across the stern. Now for the blood, lads! Churn the water velvet red!

As to a dance, the boats advanced merrily, propelled by oars and arms, floating like feathers over the dark blue sea. Spades and lances clanged and gathered; bruised asses rising from splintered thwarts; harpoons held high.

Thar she blows!

And blow, she did, with salted rain falling from a clear blue sky. And the lances flew, and the harpoons hit. And the sapphire waves reddened to wine. And the men shouted, and some fell over. Splashing, seething, struggling, swimming.

Drowning. Dying.

The whale rose up, crashed back down, her dark fluke contending with oars, with spears splintering from her back. Her roving, wild eye widely searched, weeping with fear and rage.

Every man, haul your line! Hold the beast at bay! Heed her savage thrashes. We’ve got her now. That’s it, my hearties! Now bring her in!

Surrounded by foes, the leviathan went slack—an atoll of flesh assailed by seabirds. Her strength was spent, and she saw with her dinner-plate eye: the sea dogs had spirit, plenty of pluck. The contest was coming to an end.

Sharks arrived on the tide of her blood. The seabirds cried. The seamen cheered and mocked the whale in her terrible hour, goading the beast till her very last breath.

On board The Essex, Pollard raised a glass, and his men, in their dinghies, saluted their captain.

They turned to watch the whale die. Her wide eye fading, unsearching, unseeing. The men fell silent. The contest was over.