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<h3>Chapter Sixty Five.</h3> <h4>A Whale on Fire!</h4> Perhaps we have drifted too far adown the currents of the ocean. From our digression let us return to out special “Waifs.” We left them making preparations to roast the shark-flesh,—not in single steaks, but in a wholesale fashion,—as if they had intended to prepare a “fish dinner” for the full crew of a frigate. As already stated, fuel they had in sufficiency; or, at all events, the best of oil, that would serve as such. The spermaceti could not be readily kindled, nor its blaze kept up, without wicks. But neither was there any difficulty about this. There was a quantity of old rope trash on the raft, which had been fished up among the wreck of the Pandora, and kept in case of an emergency. It needed only to restore this to its original state of tarry fibre, when they would be provided with wick enough to keep the lamp long burning. It was the lamp itself, or rather the cooking furnace, that caused them uneasiness. They had none. The tiny tin vessel that had already served for a single meal would never do for the grand roti they now designed making. With it, along with time and patience, they might have accomplished the task; but time to them was too precious to be so wasted; and as to patience,—circumstanced as they were, it could scarcely be expected. They stood in great need of a cooking-stove. There was nothing on board the Catamaran that could be used as a substitute. Indeed, to have kindled such a fire as they wanted on the raft,—without a proper material for their hearth,—would have seriously endangered the existence of the craft; and might have terminated in a conflagration. It was a dilemma that had not suggested itself sooner—that is, until the shark-steaks had been made ready for roasting. Then it presented itself to their contemplation in full force, and apparently without any loophole to escape from it. What was to be done for a cooking-stove? Snowball sighed as he thought of his caboose, with all its paraphernalia of pots and pans,—especially his great copper, in which he had been accustomed to boil mountains of meat and oceans of pea-soup. But Snowball was not the individual to give way to vain regrets,—at least, not for long. Despite that absence of that superior intellect,—which flippant gossips of so-called a “Social Science” delight in denying to his race, themselves often less gifted than he,—Snowball was endowed with rare ingenuity,—especially in matters relating to the cuisine, and in less than ten minutes after the question of a cooking-stove had been started, the Coromantee conceived the idea of one that might have vied with any of the various “patents” so loudly extolled by the ironmongers, and yet not so effective when submitted to the test. At all events, Snowball’s plan was suited to the circumstances in which its contriver was placed; and perhaps it was the only one which the circumstances would have allowed. Unlike other inventors, the Coromantee proclaimed the plan of his invention as soon as he had conceived it. “Wha’ for?” he asked, as the idea shaped itself in his skull,—“wha’ for we trouble ’bout a pot fo’ burn de oil?” “What for, Snowy!” echoed the sailor, turning upon his interrogator an expectant look. “Why we no make de fire up hya?” The conversation was carried on upon the back of the whale,—where the sharks had been butchered and cut up. “Up here!” again echoed the sailor, still showing surprise. “What matter whether it be up here or down theear, so long’s we’ve got no vessel,—neyther pot nor pan?” “Doan care a dam fo’ neyder,” responded the ex-cook. “I’se soon show ye, Mass’ Brace, how we find vessel, big ’nuff to hold all de oil in de karkiss ob de ole cashlot, as you call him.” “Explain, nigger, explain!” “Sartin I do. Gib me dat axe. I soon ’splain de whole sarkumstance.” Ben passed the axe, which he had been holding, into the hands of the Coromantee. The latter, as he had promised, soon made his meaning clear, by setting to work upon the carcass of the cachalot, and with less than a dozen blows of the sharp-edged tool hollowing out a large cavity in the blubber. “Now, Mass’ Brace,” cried he, when he had finished, triumphantly balancing the axe above his shoulder, “wha’ you call dat? Dar’s a lamp hold all de oil we want set blaze. You d’sire me ‘crow’ de hole any wida or deepa, I soon make ’im deep’s a draw-well an’ wide as de track ob a waggon. Wha’ say, Mass’ Brace?” “Hurraw for you, Snowy! It be just the thing. I dar say it’s deep enough, and wide as we’ll want it. You ha got good brains, nigger,—not’ithstanding what them lubbers as they call filosaphurs say. I’m a white, an’ niver thought o’ it. This’ll do for the furness we want. Nothin’ more needed than to pour the sparmacety into it, chuck a bit o’ oakum on the top, an’ set all ablaze. Let’s do it, and cook the wittles at once.” The cavity, which Snowball had “crowed” in the carcass of the whale was soon filled with oil taken from the case. In this was inserted with due care a quantity of the fibre, obtained by “picking” the old ropes into oakum. A crane was next erected over the cavity,—a handspike forming one support and an oar the other. The crane itself consisted of the long iron arrow and socket of one of the harpoons found in the carcass of the cachalot. Upon this was suspended, as upon a spit, so many slices of shark-meat as could be accommodated with room, and when all was arranged, a “taper” was handed up from below, and the wick set on fire. The tarry strands caught like tinder; and soon after a fierce bright blaze was seen rising several feet above the back of the cachalot,—causing the shark-steaks to frizzle and fry, and promising in a very short space of time to “do them to a turn.” Any one who could have witnessed the spectacle from distance, and not understanding its nature, might have fancied that the whale was on fire! <hr /></div> <div class="bodytext"> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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