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<h3>Chapter Sixty One.</h3> <h4>An Assembly of Sharks.</h4> As the spermaceti in the pot still continued to blaze up,—the wick not yet having burnt out,—it occurred to Snowball to continue his culinary operations, and broil a sufficient quantity of the dead fish to serve for supper. The ex-cook, unlike most others of his calling, did not like to see his fuel idly wasted: and therefore, in obedience to the thought that had suggested itself, he brought forth another flake of shark-flesh, and submitted to the flames, as before. While observing him in the performance of this provident task, a capital idea also occurred to Ben Brace. Since it was possible thus to cook their supper in advance, why not also their breakfast for the following morning, then dinner for the day, their supper of to-morrow night,—in short, all the raw provisions which they had on their hands? By doing this, not only would a fire be no longer necessary, but the fish so cooked,—or even thoroughly dried in the blaze and smoke,—would be likely to keep better. In fact, fish thus preserved,—as is often done with herrings, ling, codfish, mackerel, and haddock,—will remain good for months without suffering the slightest taint of decomposition. It was an excellent idea; and, Ben having communicated it to the others, it was at once determined that it should be carried out. There was no fear of their running short in the staple article of fuel. Ben assured them that the “case” of a cachalot of the largest size,—such as the one beside them,—often contained five hundred gallons of the liquid spermaceti! Besides, there was the enormous quantity of junk and blubber,—whole mountains of it,—both of which could be rendered into oil by a process which the whalers term “trying.” Other inflammable substances, too, are found in the carcass of the sperm-whale: so that, in the article of fuel, the crew of the Catamaran had been unexpectedly furnished with a stock by which they might keep up a blazing fire for the whole of a twelvemonth. It was no longer any scarcity of fuel that could hinder them from cooking on a large scale, but a scantiness of the provisions to be cooked; and they were now greatly troubled at the thought of their larder having got so low. While Ben Brace and Snowball stood pondering upon this, and mutually murmuring their regrets, a thought suddenly came into the mind of the sailor which was calculated to give comfort to all. “As for the provisions in our locker,” said he, “we can easily ’plenish them, such as they be. Look there, nigger. There be enough raw meat to keep ye a’ cookin’ till your wool grows white.” The sailor, as he said this, simply nodded toward the sea. It needed no further pointing out to understand what he meant by the phrase “raw meat.” Scores of sharks,—both of the blue and white species,—attended by their pilots and suckers, were swimming around the carcass of the cachalot. The sea seemed alive with them. Scarce a square rod, within a circle of several hundred fathoms’ circumference, that did not exhibit their stiff, wicked-looking dorsal fins cutting sharply above the surface. Of course the presence of the dead whale accounted for this unusual concourse of the tyrants of the deep. Not that they had any intention of directing their attack upon it: for, from the peculiar conformation of his mouth, the shark is incapable of feeding upon the carcass of a large whale. But having, no doubt, accompanied the chase at the time the cachalot had been harpooned, they were now staying by a dead body, from an instinct that told them its destroyers would return, and supply them with its flesh in convenient morsels,—while occupied in flensing it. “Ugh!” exclaimed the sailor; “they look hungry enough to bite at any bait we may throw out to them. We won’t have much trouble in catchin’ as many o’ ’em as we want.” “A doan b’lieve, Massa Brace, we hab got nebba such a ting as a shark-hook ’board de Cat’maran.” “Don’t make yourself uneasy ’bout that,” rejoined the sailor, in a confident tone. “Shark-hook be blowed! I see somethin’ up yonder worth a score o’ shark-hooks. The brutes be as tame as turtles turned on their backs. They’re always so about a dead spermacety. Wi’ one o’ them ere tools as be stickin’ in the side o’ the old bull, if I don’t pull a few o’ them out o’ water, I never handled a harpoon, that’s all. Ye may stop your cookin’ Snowy, an’ go help me. When we’ve got a few sharks catched an’ cut up, then you can go at it again on a more ’stensive scale. Come along, my hearty!” As Ben terminated his speech, he strode across the deck of the raft, and commenced clambering up on the carcass. Snowball, who perceived the wisdom of his old comrade’s design, let go the flake of fish he had been holding in the blaze; and, parting from the pot, once more followed the sailor up the steep side of the cachalot. <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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