A Whale For The Killing (19 page)

Curt could not take that in. It seemed incredible to him that any beast which lived its life in the sea could drown. He shook his head in bewilderment.

The barriers of illusion had crumbled so suddenly that my mind was in chaos. How
could
I have been so blind as to believe she would suffer no real harm from the hundreds of bullets that had plowed into her flesh? Yet, in all honesty, how could I have imagined that this gargantuan creature might succumb to the attacks of infinitesimal microbes entering her wounds? Nevertheless, this was what was happening. What could I do about it now? Was it too late to do anything except curse my own stupidity?

I was in an almost paralytic state of indecision. I wanted desperately to get to a phone and talk to Schevill or anyone who had some knowledge of whale pathology; who could perhaps suggest what to do for the sick whale, and
how
to do it. On the other hand, although I now realized she had not been driven ashore by anyone, or lanced, I was very much afraid the news that she was beached and completely vulnerable would swiftly spread through Burgeo and convince some of her enemies that the time was ripe to finish her off. It was a measure of how deeply the virus of suspicion, anger and ill will had entered into the human fabric of Burgeo, of which I was a part, that I was afraid to leave her unprotected.

That problem was solved by the arrival of the police boat after a hard punch out from The Reach. Danny Green had heard rumours that the whale had been attacked again, and he and Murdoch had risked the passage to the Pond. They anchored, and rowed ashore to join Curt and me upon the ridge. As I explained the situation, Murdoch stared across the leaden waters through his binoculars at the vast and motionless shape on the far shore. When I finished talking, he lowered the glasses and turned to me. His face showed how he felt... sickened at the sight of her; sickened and angry.

“We’ve still got no authority to stop people coming here,” he said shortly. “But orders or no orders... no boat’ll come near her again while we’re about!”

I thanked him and turned to go... and then I heard the voice of the fin whale for the fourth time... and the last. It was the same muffled, disembodied and unearthly sound, seeming to come from an immense distance: out of the sea, out of the rocks around us, out of the air itself. It was a deep vibration, low-pitched and throbbing, moaning beneath the wail of the wind in the cliffs of Richards Head.

It was the most desolate cry that I have ever heard.

ON THE WAY BACK TO Messers we put in at Firby Cove so I could collect a second bag of mail from the post office—mail from more well-wishers of the whale. As I hurried back to rejoin Onie at the dock, the heavy bag over my shoulder, I was confronted by a man I had known since my first arrival in Burgeo; a man for whom I had great respect and who, only a few days previously, had expressed his sympathy with the whale and with the attempts to save her. I greeted him warmly. He responded by deliberately spitting just to one side of my feet.

“What’s that for, Matt?” I asked, bewildered.

“’Tis for the likes of you! Strangers come here from away, telling lies about the people. Making troubles like we never had afore!”

He was a big man, and his words were delivered with such intensity I thought he was going to strike me. I stepped back; but he had no intention of using his fists. Words would serve.

“You and that bloody whale! Well, bye, she’s finished now! And you’re the same. Finished in Burgeo. I’ll tell you that without a lie!” He turned on his heel and strode away.

Shaken by this outburst, I reached the dock where the dory lay and here was another unexpected confrontation. The two doctors were there talking to Onie. They looked up as I approached.

“Onie’s told us the whale’s sick,” said the male doctor in a concerned and friendly manner. “Sounds as if it might be septicaemia. Is there anything we can do to help?”

I was astounded. From open advocacy of killing the whale, this couple had made as total a
volte-face
as Matt... but in the other direction. It was all just too damned confusing. Those whom I had thought were my “natural” allies seemed to be turning violently against me, while those who were my “natural” antagonists were now offering to help... but at this juncture I would have accepted help from the devil himself.

“There might be something. What about antibiotic treatment for a whale? Is it possible? Could you give it?”

The wife, an aggressive and impetuous woman, answered.

“We could try. Only there aren’t enough antibiotics in the hospital to make one dose for an animal that big. If you can get the drugs somewhere, we’ll see if we can administer them.”

I nodded gratefully. “Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

Twenty minutes after reaching home I had written a press release. It was an intemperate piece of work, reflecting the anger that I could no longer control. It began with a statement that the whale was probably dying of infection resulting from the wounds inflicted on her by the men of Burgeo. There followed the most harrowing paragraph I could compose describing the agonies the great animal was enduring—had been enduring for many days as her wounds turned septic. I concluded with a plea for help, for donations of antibiotics and injection equipment, “in order that we can try to make amends for the atrocious behaviour of those who inflicted such tortures on the imprisoned whale.”

I handed the paper to Claire to read before attempting to phone it out. She was horrified.

“You can’t
send
this, Farley! It’s... it’s vindictive. It’s as vicious as what they did to the whale! Please, don’t send it.” It was not sent.

When, about seven that evening, I finally got a call through to Canadian Press, the story I gave was as dispassionate as I could make it. CP promptly put it on the Canadian wires and relayed it to the international services. The CP district manager in Toronto took the dictation personally, and when I finished he thanked me and added:

“Moby Joe is front-page news across the continent. The story’s stirred up the hell of a stink. It’s crazy, but people seem more worked up about your whale than about the mess in Vietnam. I hope you know what you’re doing down there, Farley.”

I was not sure what he meant by that parting shot, but I did not ask. The truth was that I was no longer sure what I was doing, or of what I had already done. Fortunately, there was no time for reflection. Within an hour the CBC was broadcasting a special bulletin:

Moby Joe’s keeper tonight issued an urgent appeal for massive donations of antibiotics after it was discovered the trapped Burgeo whale had a huge infection in its back from bullet wounds. Farley Mowat said the whale was very sick. He said a husband-and-wife medical team in the hospital in Burgeo had volunteered to administer the antibiotics if they could be made available. They need 160 grams of petracyclin hydrochloride for each dose and a minimum of eight doses will be required. They also need a three-pint syringe and a three-foot stainless steel needle...

The response began to reach us almost immediately. A pharmaceutical manufacturer in Montreal phoned to say that 800 grams of antibiotic was being shipped to us from St. John’s by charter flight at dawn—weather permitting—and a further supply would be flown from Montreal to Gander. A second message told me that suitable syringes existed only at the Bronx Zoo and at the Vancouver Aquarium, and that both institutions had been asked to air express their syringes to Gander, from which point another charter flight would ferry them to Burgeo in the morning.

Schevill, still stranded at Stephenville, heard the first radio bulletin and spent hours on the long-distance phone consulting experts as far afield as Puerto Rico; obtaining opinions on the treatment the whale should receive, and setting into motion shipments of drugs from the United States. Then he called me.

“There’s a good forecast for tomorrow. We’ll make it in by helicopter in the morning, for certain this time!”

A veterinary surgeon from St. John’s wired that he was flying to Burgeo at his own expense to give us a hand. Dozens, scores, of wires and phone calls plugged all South Coast circuits with offers of advice, encouragement and money. By midnight the response of the outer world had mounted to such a crescendo that the poor Hermitage operator, willing as she was, could not handle the flood. So we arranged to have a friend in St. John’s accept and deal with the overflow.

The incredible and almost instantaneous response to the radio and television appeals had a curious effect upon me. The anger and grief of the early part of the day were submerged and washed away in an intoxication of excitement. The constant ringing of the telephone, and the blaring of radio voices describing the reaction to our plea for help, acted like a powerful stimulant. I felt like someone who discovers he can command miracles. I no longer doubted that I would save the whale. Realities were dimming in the euphoric glare of attention which played on Burgeo throughout that long, cold night.

Just before midnight I had a call from one of the Sou’-westers. He was exultant.

“Are you listening to the radio? It’s fantastic, eh? The old town’s really on the map! Another couple of weeks like this and Joey’ll be pushing the highway down to us. Thank the Lord for that whale! Moby Joe’s going to put Burgeo into the modern times for sure!”

He paused, and when he continued there was a note of anxiety in his voice.

“She
is
going to pull through all right, isn’t she?”

“She’s sick and getting sicker,” I replied. “Look, there’s supposed to be at least five charter flights coming in early tomorrow with drugs and experts and I’ll have to stick to the phone until I hear. Will you get someone to go to Aldridges as soon as it’s light and keep an eye on things? The Mountie can’t be there all the time, and I don’t trust those bastards who peppered her. And ask someone to call me early on to let me know how she looks.”

“Sure, Farley. Nothing easier. I’ll go myself. Can’t take a chance on something happening to her now.”

It was another almost sleepless night for me. The angry tensions of the day, and the high excitement of the evening, had brought me to such a pitch that I could not even lie down for more than a few minutes. I kept the kitchen stove going and swilled endless cups of tea as I waited for the dawn.

When the first greenish tints of the new day washed the eastern islands, I went outside. There was hardly a breath of wind and, as the light strengthened, it revealed a cloudless sky. The fog bank that always lurked a few miles off shore, ready at any time to roll in over the land and smother Burgeo, was only an indistinct dark line on the far horizon. It was going to be a perfect flying day along the Sou’west Coast.

Claire was up and cooking breakfast when I went back inside. We ate almost in silence while she eyed me anxiously from time to time. Finally she said:

“Why don’t you lie down for a little while. It’ll be hours before any planes can get here and you’ve got to get some rest. It isn’t a one-man job anymore, you know. There’ll be all sorts of experts to look after her now.”

The good breakfast, the red sun streaming low into the kitchen and Claire’s words combined to ease my tensions so that I was hardly able to get up from the table. The worst was over. I felt as a man might who has stood a long and lonely siege and at last hears the distant sounds of an approaching relief column.

I lay down on the bed and instantly fell into dreamless sleep. Nevertheless, it was a light sleep and I was brought bolt upright by the harsh jangle of the telephone. Claire answered it. A moment later she was beside the bed.

“You’d better talk to them,” she said in a stiff, almost frozen voice. “It’s from the plant. The whale’s gone. They can’t find her anywhere.”

It was exactly ten minutes past nine when I picked up the phone. I remember, because I automatically glanced at the kitchen clock to see how long it would be before the first plane could arrive.

“Farley? I’m just back from Aldridges. We was there just after dawn and we spent two hours looking all over the Pond and there isn’t a sign of the whale. She’s not there. She must have made a run for it last night. She’s gone right out of it, boy. She’s gone for certain.”

“Gone?” I echoed stupidly.

And then I knew. I knew with absolute certainty.

“Gone?... She’s not gone. She’s dead.”

My caller, who was a member of the town council as well as an officer of the Sou’westers Club, was not slow to grasp the implications of my flat statement. Probably he had already considered them during the search. Nevertheless, there was something close to panic in his voice.

“My God, man, she
can’t
be dead! She
must
have swum clear! There’ll be living hell to pay if the papers and radio get the idea she died here. They’ll murder us!”

The whale is gone... the whale is dead... The words echoed and re-echoed in my mind, and they lit the hard, white flame of hatred.

“You’re right about that. Indeed you are. They’ll murder you... just as Burgeo murdered the whale. Wouldn’t you say that was fair enough?”

“Can’t we agree to keep it quiet?” he pleaded. “If she
is
dead, she won’t come to the surface for days in this cold weather. Can’t we just say we think she’s got free? By the time she floats, the whole thing’ll have died down... You’ve
lived
here for five years. It’s your town too!”

“No,” I said. “It isn’t my town anymore. I guess it never really was.”

He was still expostulating when I hung up. I got Hermitage and, after the usual delays, the operator connected me with a newspaper reporter who had become the whale’s unofficial agent “outside.” I asked him to contact all those who were preparing to fly in to Burgeo, or who might already be airborne.

“Tell them it’s all over,” I said. “Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them they can all go home again.”

“Farley... are you
sure
she’s dead?”

“I’m sure. There’s no way she could have escaped. She was so sick last night she could hardly stay afloat.” And then, with an uncontrollable burst of bitterness, I lashed out at this good friend. “She’s
dead,
do you hear me! Christ, do I have to rub your face in her stinking corpse to make you understand?”

He was a very good friend, and he forgave me.

Word spreads fast in the new world of technological wizardry. I had hardly finished putting on my parka when the program of music from the CBC station to which we usually listened in the mornings was interrupted by an announcement that Moby Joe, the trapped Burgeo whale, had disappeared and was presumed dead.

Word spreads fast in the outports too. Even as the an-nouncement was being made, the kitchen door opened and Onie came quietly in.

“I t’ought you might be needin’ the dory,” he said softly. “She be ready when you is.”

THE RAMBLING, SCATTERED and brightly painted houses of Burgeo; the wide-spreading, ice-encrusted islands; the glittering waters of the tickles and runs had never looked more beautiful than they did this morning as the dory made its way eastward. But now I was seeing it all as I had not seen it for many years... through the sudden eyes of a stranger.

When we turned into Short Reach we passed a longliner outbound for the fishing grounds. I knew all three of the men who stood in her wheelhouse, yet none of them waved to me, and I did not wave to them.

As we approached the cove, a jet of white mist shot upward, hung for a moment and dissolved, as the Guardian’s long back slipped beneath the waters. His presence was final proof that the imprisoned whale had not escaped, in the flesh at least. He was down a long, long time and when he rose he lingered for a while upon the surface, motionless, it seemed. I am sure he was listening... listening for a voice he would not hear again.

The RCMP launch was in the Pond when we entered and together we searched. Although the waters were so calm and crystalline that we could scan the bottom to four fathoms, the deeper reaches were too dark to penetrate. We could not look into the mystery where she lay.

I do not know, can only wonder, why she did not die with her head upon the shore. I can only guess that, in the darkness of her dying, something in her weary mind willed her to seek the deeps, the lightless ancient womb of ocean.

When we had given up our fruitless search, the launch and the dory came together and lay idly in the middle of the silent Pond. “Do you think there’s any chance she might have got away?” Constable Murdoch wondered.

I knew his question was asked out of innocence and out of hope, and so I repressed a sharp reply and only shook my head. It was Danny who answered.