The dying swan may not sing, but
there is no doubt about the ante-mortem Valkyrie song of the whale. From
the Bowhead the sound comes like the drawn-out "hoo-hoo-oo-oo-oo" of the
hoot-owl. A whaler stops coiling his harpoon-line to tell you that
"beginning on 'F' the cry may rise to 'A,' 'B,' or even 'C' before
slipping back to 'F' again." He assures us that, "with the Humpback the
tone is much finer, sounding across the water like the 'E' string of a
violin."
Whalers themselves on this grim shore die without requiem. Every year
men desert from the ships. They make their way across from Herschel to a
mainland of whose geography they know nothing, thinking that once they
strike the shore they can find railway trains which will take them to
the gold-mines. One man, Morand, left his ship without sled or dogs. He
carried only a gun, twenty rounds of ammunition, some cigarette papers
and tobacco. In the spring they found him about a day's journey from the
ship, frozen to death. He sat with his gun leaning against his left arm,
and a cigarette in his mouth. Both feet and one hand were eaten off. He
had fired off nine shots, probably as a signal which was never heard.
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