72 A YEAR WITH, A WHALER^ 



and cruel. His eyes were sharp and sinister. 

 His ebony skin was drawn so tightly over the 

 frame-work of his face that it almost seemed as 

 if it would crack when he smiled. His nose had 

 a domineering Roman curve. He carried his 

 head high. In profile, this little blackamoor 

 suggested the mummied head of some old Pha- 

 roah. 



He was a native of the Cape Verde islands. 

 He spoke English with the liquid burr of a Latin. 

 His native tongue was Portuguese. No glim- 

 mer of education relieved his mental darkness. 

 It was as though his outside color went all the 

 way through. He could neither read nor write, 

 but he was a good sailor and no better whaleman 

 ever handled a harpoon or laid a boat on a whale's 

 back. For twenty years he had been sailing as 

 boatsteerer on whale ships, and to give the devil 

 his due, he had earned a name for skill and 

 courage in a thousand adventures among sperm, 

 bowhead, and right whales in tropical and frozen 

 seas. 



My first impression of the Night King stands 

 out in my memory with cameo distinctness. In 



