146 FOLLOW THE WHALE 



Captain Stanley Burkett squints at the black sky over the distant 

 ice-field and feels a chill wind blow in his face; he peers along the 

 rocky coast line ahead, with its numerous headlands and low prom- 

 ontories often terminating in a Kne of half-submerged rocks, like 

 giant teeth, and utters a quiet sigh reserved for himself. Then he 

 turns on his heel and goes below in search of this agent fellow. When 

 he leaves, the helmsman looks at the mate. Their eyes meet and hold 

 for a long moment. 



Below in the cramped cabin of the poop the captain finds Mr. 

 Jonas Lodge poring over a large and detailed tabulation of figures, a 

 dirty quill pen, practically without any plume left, in his hand. He is 

 looking almost pleasant for once, and he even attempts a sour smile 

 as the captain enters. The ship's Basque harpooners have killed a 

 small whale from which twelve tons of oil have been extracted and 

 stowed below; they have also killed five hundred walrus in Thomas 

 Smyth's Bay, and the produce of these has prompted Mr. Lodge's 

 immediate decision to return home. He is already computing the 

 profits — the first to accrue to the floundering Muscovy Company 

 from its whaling endeavors. When, therefore. Captain Burkett once 

 again pleads to be allowed to seek a safe haven in some deep bay 

 where he may ride out the storm which he knows is almost upon 

 them, the agent dismisses him curtly with the admonition to avoid all 

 delays at all costs. 



Never before has Captain Burkett been placed in such a position 

 as this — to be master of a ship and yet to have to take orders from 

 a man who, although admittedly himself a mariner, has now shipped 

 as watchdog for a lot of bloated court toadies and has no real rank 

 aboard. Then and there the captain decides to do precisely what he 

 is told and if anything should go wrong, to submit himself to the 

 command of this Mr. Lodge. Thereupon he ascends the poop and, 

 being a deep-water sailor, prepares to get as far away from the coast 

 as possible by ordering a starboard helm and then setting a course 

 directly out into what is believed to be the open Greenland Sea. 



It would be hard to say which rose more quickly and furiously 

 thereafter, the passions and tensions among the ship's company or 

 the winds and the waves, but by nightfall the little ship was working 

 in every timber and lunging headlong before an angry following sea 

 under shortened canvas. A blizzard raged and the rigging soon gave 



