In 1819, the whaling ship Essex sailed from Nantucket Island off the north-east coast of the USA to the open sea. Twenty-one people on board had only one task – to land as many whales as possible in the shortest possible time. After months of sailing, somewhere in the middle of the Pacific, she had a close encounter with an unusually aggressive whale, which sank the ill-fated ship. Thirty years later, Herman Melville wrote his famous novel Moby Dick. He was inspired by the story of the whaler from Nantucket. One of the most beautiful books about man’s eternal struggle with nature, it ends with a scene where a huge white whale crashes into the Pequod and sinks it. Captain Ahab, who has spent his life obsessively hunting the elusive beast, is swallowed up by the waves. Nature has won. But where Moby Dick ends, the tragic and incredible story of the men of the Essex whaling ship is just beginning.
The shocked crew jumped into the boats to save their lives after a surprise attack by a frenzied whale. Within minutes, most of the water and food supplies sank with the ship. The castaways were thousands of kilometres from the shores of South America, left to fend for themselves in the endless Pacific. They knew that their chances of survival were slim. Then began their nightmare and another brutal chapter in the endless story of man’s struggle with nature.
Whale Island
Most of the Essex’s crew came from Nantucket, a small island off Boston, Massachusetts. Today, it lives mainly on tourism, but in the first half of the 19th century, this windswept, hilly islet was the whaling capital of America, perhaps even the world. Every family here has been involved in one way or another in this ancient activity.
Over time, the island began to run short of arable land, and for the 7 000 souls on Nantucket, the sea was a vast and seemingly inexhaustible pasture. In the 19th century, people learned to make many things from whale meat, blubber and bones. Until the advent of cheaper and more efficient kerosene, street lamps around the world burned thanks to whale oil.
Ambergris, a fragrant substance produced in the whale’s intestines, was used by high society ladies on both sides of the Atlantic. It was added to perfumes and fragrances. The price of this waxy and blackish product of the whale’s digestive tract exceeded that of gold. In the USA, whale oil was still used in the second half of the 20th century to improve the performance of automobile transmissions. Just as the bison was the most important animal of the American prairies, the bowhead whale was the king of the Northwest Atlantic Ocean.
Every child on Nantucket dreamed of one day becoming a whaling captain. The most successful of them were able to retire at a young age with a bit of luck and enjoyed a high reputation in island society. Luck was particularly important in the whaling business. The owners of the whaling ships, who were the organisers of the expeditions, did not pay the crew monthly wages, but only a share of the catch. As long as there were not enough barrels of whale oil in the hold, it was simply not worth returning to Nantucket, because then the crew would not get a cent. Fearing financial ruin and the shame of returning from failed expeditions, the whalers were therefore able to sail the ocean for years in search of the precious marine mammals.
Like the American prairies, where man nearly wiped out the bison, the sea off Nantucket, where pods of whales once swam, was almost devastated in the 1820s. Whalers sailed farther and farther out to sea, and many had to find new hunting grounds even in the distant Pacific. Sailors were no longer just whalers, but explorers and adventurers, pushing the limits of their endurance with every voyage.
The length of the expeditions also affected the family life of the sailors, who were away for most of the year. This led to a specific social structure on Nantucket. Children often grew up without a father and one in four women over the age of 24 was a widow. Death at sea was something that Nantucket women had to accept.
Maritime baptism
Working on the whaling ship was extremely difficult and unpleasant. The crew had to work hard to get back from the expedition with a decent pile of dollars. The captain, who usually had at least a couple of expeditions under his belt, had by far the biggest share of the catch. In addition, he had a number of privileges that made life at sea more pleasant: a comfortable berth, a varied diet and, above all, the last word.
The second and third officers were mainly trying to gain as much experience as possible, so that one day they could get behind the wheel of a whaler themselves. Their bunks were harder and their meals were rather monotonous. Everyone else was completely at the bottom of the ship’s hierarchy. They were crammed into cramped cabins, eating the same food every day and doing the hardest jobs. They were usually young locals taking to the sea for the first time and newcomers from the mainland. For the locals, working on a whaling boat was a kind of initiation into the adult world and a source of pride, while for the newcomers it was just a pressure to get the job done as quickly as possible.
The twenty-seven metre Essex sailed from Nantucket harbour on 12 August 1819, with the twenty-eight year old George Pollard at the helm. It was his first expedition as captain, but you would be hard pressed to find a man better acquainted with all the secrets of the Essex. Pollard had spent four years aboard as first mate, and the whaler’s owners offered him the chance to prove himself as captain. He was soft-spoken and mild, which was unusual for a whaling captain, but no one doubted his leadership skills.
The first mate was twenty-two-year-old Owen Chase, an ambitious and serious young man who had risen from a common sailor to the second most important position on board in six years. He shouted at and stabbed other crew members, but that was not unusual on a whaling ship. Most of the sailors were locals and they all knew that a man changes at sea and leaves his courtesy ashore. Among them was a young Owen Coffin, the captain’s cousin, who had left his home island for the first time in his life.
The bloody race
The owners of the Essex commissioned Pollard to go to the South Pacific, where there were supposed to be plenty of whales – a hunting ground unlike any they had ever seen. They calculated that the expedition would take no more than two years, but they were way off the mark. Sea conditions were often unpredictable and Essex encountered its first serious problems after just two days on the water.
Not far from her home port, a whaling ship found herself in the middle of a severe storm. The ear-splitting wind and the waves towering menacingly over the ship drove fear into the bones of the inexperienced sailors. Confusion reigned on deck, with crew running headlong across the deck. Orders and profanities, handed out by First Officer Chase, were lost in the wind, but fortunately the weather calmed down after a few hours. The crew of the Essex had a sea baptism before they were well out to sea.
After a short stop in the Azores to patch up the storm-torn sails, Essex headed south – towards the Pacific. Almost three months had passed since leaving Nantucket, but still no whales were to be seen. The terrible storm and the empty hold were a bad omen for the crew. Captain Pollard was as calm as ever, knowing from experience that patience would be rewarded sooner or later.
It was only when the Essex entered the South Atlantic Ocean, about halfway between Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires, that the crew heard the redemptive word: “Curek!” The first victim was less than a kilometre from the whaler. In no time at all, the deck became lively. Swear words started flying and sailors were running up and down the deck. They were carrying harpoons, ropes and oars – everything was happening at lightning speed. Three boats were lowered into the sea after the pulleys and everything was ready for the hunt.
There were six people in each boat, three of whom stayed on the Essex. The aim was to approach the whale as inconspicuously as possible. First Officer Chase this time gave orders and curses in a whisper. The five men rowed with all their might and the boat raced towards its first prey. Chase stood on the stern and encouraged his sailors. The same scene was taking place on the other boats. The first one to ram a harpoon into a whale had the right to brag about it for a few days. Competition between boats was a tradition of Nantucket whalers.
Owen Chase was the first to come close to the whale, having killed dozens of these huge marine mammals in his career. For five exhausted paddlers, their first encounter with a whale was a harrowing experience. A bowhead whale can reach up to twenty metres in length and weigh up to fifty tonnes. The terrified rowers crossed themselves, hoping the beast would take pity on them. A single swish of the tail could be fatal, as most of them couldn’t swim at all.
When the whale was less than two metres away, Chase drove the harpoon into its head with one swing. At that moment, the previously calm animal went berserk and a bloody naval race began. The whale swam away from the boat at full speed and started dragging it behind him. The harpoon was tied to the boat with a long and thick rope. The eight-metre long boat was chained to the enraged beast, which was trying its best to shake it off.
The crew, tossed about in the rickety boat, rowed in the opposite direction, trying to exhaust the whale. Sometimes nature won, but the longer the race lasted, the more chances man had. On that day, there were six people in the boat. After a few hours, the whale was exhausted and all that was left was to strike one last blow. Chase pierced his lungs with a long stick with a sharp blade attached to the end and the whale began to choke on its own blood. Soon the sea around the boat turned red and the hunt was over.
Next
The catch then had to be towed to Essex, which became a floating slaughterhouse for the next few days. First, the whale’s head, which was a third of its weight, was cut off and it was hoisted on board with pulleys. The fat was then separated from the meat, which still had to be purified. This is because whale blubber has nothing in common with the blubber of land mammals. It is an extremely hard substance that is difficult to cut. The sailors therefore had to constantly sharpen their knives. Then they boiled it in large pots for hours until it melted and turned into the precious liquid that got them to sea in the first place – whale oil.
Life on Essex at that time was unbearable. Black smoke and an indefinable but disgusting smell wafted from the undercroft night and day. There were pieces of whale meat and bones lying everywhere. After three days, the torture was over and the crew was exhausted but satisfied. The miracle hunting ground in the South Pacific was still a long way off and the Essex was on the move again.
In January 1820, a whaling ship successfully rounded Cape Horn, the southernmost point of Latin America, and reached the Pacific Ocean for the first time. From there, it headed north along the coast of what is now Chile. The winter and spring months were very successful in terms of hunting. The crew was already more experienced – smoke, smell and scurrying had become commonplace. On average, the men of Essex were catching one whale a week. By the time they reached Peru, there were 450 barrels of whale oil in the hold. One more and they could go home. With every whale they killed, they were closer to Nantucket.
In September 1920, Essex began the last leg of his journey, heading west towards the much-vaunted hunting ground, thousands of kilometres off the Peruvian coast. Before that, a stop had to be made in the Galapagos Islands, a standard stopover for whalers heading west, deep into the Pacific Ocean.
The crew of the Essex had a slightly different view of the lush fauna than Charles Darwin, who visited the beautiful islands fifteen years later. As a result, several turtles ended up on board the Essex. On one of the islands, the men from Nantucket had almost eradicated the population of these peaceful animals, which were an excellent source of protein and fat and could survive for more than a month without food or water. In the Essex sub-deck, there were full tanks of drinking water in addition to barrels of whale oil, and everything was ready for the expedition to continue.
Nature strikes back
Essex kept to the equator and sailed westwards. A month and more than two thousand kilometres later, he reached the notorious hunting ground – the final destination of his odyssey. With a bit of luck, he would return triumphantly to Nantucket a year later with a full pallet of whale oil. Captain Pollard will be able to retire, and Owen Chase will take his place at the helm of the next expedition.
But nature had other plans. On 20 November, it was sunny and there was a gentle breeze – an ideal day for hunting. A few minutes after the “jet!” from the bow, the boats were in the sea. It was promising to be a good catch and two of the boats were already very close to the school. However, Chase had to retire from the race and returned to the Essex as a hole in his boat was causing water to enter. The disappointment of being left empty-handed did not last long. He noticed a whale approaching the boat and his eyes began to see full oil barrels and his home harbour.
He was happy because he had never seen such a big whale before. But when the huge animal began to dart towards Essex’s side, his joy turned to astonishment. Within seconds, there was a loud crash and the ship shook as if it had hit a rock. Crew, equipment and turtles flew through the air. The shocked Chase could not believe his eyes. In the 100-year history of whaling on Nantucket, never before had a whale attacked a ship. Essex survived the first collision, but a second followed.
The “rabid beast”, as Chase put it, crashed into the ship again, this time into the hull, dealt it a fatal blow and sailed off into the unknown. Water began to seep into the hold and within minutes the Essex was completely turned on its side and began to slowly sink. The whale oil was draining out of the barrels into the sea, suddenly worthless, and that familiar, unbearable stench was in the air again. The broken Essex resembled a dead whale. Nature had struck back.
In a walnut shell across the Pacific
A few hours later, the other two boats returned from the hunt, Captain Pollard and Second Mate Matthew Joy and their crews. The sight of the sinking ship took everyone’s breath away, but no one spoke a word. There was no tension or sadness in the air, but terror paralysed all the senses. The men spent that night in silence. Even though they knew that Essex was beyond help, they refused to say goodbye to him and watched in resignation from their boats as he slowly sank.
It was only the next morning that the survival instinct awoke. Action was needed to salvage what could be salvaged from the sinking Essex. The sailors transferred navigation aids, several tanks of water, hundreds of kilos of roast meat and all the turtles that had not yet swum away to the boats. Meanwhile, the captain and two officers were forging a rescue plan.
They had only two options. Captain Pollard suggested going west. The nearest land was the islands of Polynesia, some 2000 kilometres away. Sailing in that direction would have been much easier because of the favourable winds. He calculated that the journey would take a little over a month at best. However, his proposal was fiercely opposed, as rumours circulated among American seafarers that the inhabitants of these islands were man-eaters.
The first and second officers therefore suggested that it would be better to head 2500 kilometres south, where they could catch the wind in their sails, which would then take them eastwards as far as the civilised coasts of South America. Captain Pollard, in his democratic spirit, yielded to the suggestion of his subordinates and thereby made a disastrous mistake. His fear of the Polynesian savages was entirely unfounded. They did not know it at the time, but cruel fate willed that the men of Essex should soon become man-eaters themselves.
Each of the three boats had precisely measured supplies of food and water on board. For the two-month trip, seven people had 100 kilos of rusks, 250 litres of water and two Galapagos tortoises. It was clear that the men, if they reached South America at all, would then resemble skeletons rather than men.
The idea of having to travel more than 2000 kilometres in eight-metre boats equipped with emergency sails was horrifying. On top of that, it was incredibly tiring. The men were constantly wet, with waves constantly splashing overboard. The slightest storm seemed like a cosmic flood, capable of sinking these three walnut shells lost in the middle of the Pacific in an instant.
“Land!”
The days without wind were even worse. That was when the feeling of helplessness was at its greatest. Every day was lost, because there was still food and drink to eat and drink. Stocks were depleted faster than planned and the daily food ration had to be reduced. Each seaman was given less than 100 grams of rusk per day. Fish were practically not caught, as that part of the Pacific was not rich in marine life.
After two weeks, the hunger was so bad that they decided to eat their companions from the Galapagos Islands on all three boats. The turtle meat instantly restored the men’s strength and, above all, their will to live. That day they even believed that they would be rescued, but their optimism did not last long.
Thirst was even more of a problem than hunger. A quarter of a litre of water a day, the amount each castaway had, is not enough to survive in the long term. They also drank their own urine regularly, but this did not help much. After only three weeks, the first signs of dehydration were already evident. Saliva became thick and bitter tasting and the tongue started to stick to the teeth annoyingly. Swallowing became difficult and my husband’s hearing even deteriorated.
Time was running out for the Essex castaways. They realised that only a miracle could save them, and exactly one month after the attack of the “mad beast”, someone shouted “land!” At first the men thought it was an apparition, but a small island did appear on the horizon. The atmosphere on the boats changed in an instant, the skeletons came to life, and someone seemed to have heard their prayers.
Pollard used a map to identify Ducie Island, an uninhabited atoll in the South Pacific. In reality, it was Henderson Island, but that didn’t matter. It was an opportunity for the castaways to get back on solid ground and refresh themselves after a month’s voyage. The green vegetation on the island promised well. The men immediately set out to scout for food and water. The only inhabitants of this secluded atoll were tropical birds as big as a chicken, a real treat for the famished castaways.
Drinking water was also dripping from a crack in a rock by the shore. The first night on the island was festive. After a long time, the men had eaten, refreshed themselves and, not insignificantly, had a good night’s sleep. They made the decision to stay on the island until they had fully recovered. Henderson Island was a God-sent and hospitable piece of land in the middle of a merciless ocean.
The tropical getaway lasted less than a week. In that time, the castaways killed every bird on the island. They ate all the plants that were edible and dried up the only source of water. The devastation they left behind was even worse than in the Galapagos Islands, and it was time to go again. To move into rickety boats and give in to the wind was a painful but the only logical decision.
For the three sailors, the idea of returning to sea was too scary and they decided to stay on the island. Pollard promised the three that he would send a boat back as soon as possible, but they all knew they would never see each other again. The three sailors chose to die on land, while their other companions chose the sea.
Divorce
On 26 December 1920, eighteen men left Henderson Island and continued eastwards. They had sailed more than a thousand miles in a month, but they were further from South America than on the day of the shipwreck. Windlessness, storms and headwinds made navigation unbearably difficult. The ocean played with the three walnut shells like a cat with a mouse. Thanks to a stopover on the island, the men had a refreshment break and thus gained some time in their battle with nature, but it soon began to show its teeth again.
Within a few weeks, when their bodies had used up their recently accumulated fat and protein stores, they were skeletons again. Their eyes bulged and their lips became almost imperceptible. Their skin, irritated by the sea water, was itchy and sensitive. They had eaten the last of the birds and fish they had caught on the island, but their hunger could no longer be satisfied. All that was left was the toast, the faithful companion of every naval expedition in those days. It was so hard that it was also known as the ‘iron bar’.
The hunger was the worst for Matthew Joy, the second mate, who was naturally ill. One day he asked the captain for permission to move to his boat. His companions took the best care of the starving twenty-eight-year-old, but he was beyond help. On 10 January, he died and his bony body, wrapped in a sail, ended up among the waves. For the next few days, the atmosphere among the men, who were used to everything bad, was even worse than usual. The death of the second officer was an unmistakable warning that the last hour was striking for all.
The boats have always tried to sail as close together as possible, but sometimes bad weather has made this almost impossible. In the severe storm that engulfed the expedition on the second day after the tragic death, poor visibility caused Owen Chase’s boat to become separated from the others. This was a severe psychological blow for everyone. The sight of the endless sea the next morning was even more painful than usual.
For Chase and his crew, it was a kind of kiss of good luck. The sailor who had succeeded the deceased Joy at the helm of the other boat was horrified to discover that there was only enough to last a few days. The dying officer apparently did not have the strength to restrain his starving sailors.
Immediately after the shipwreck, the men agreed that each boat was responsible for itself. If someone ran out of supplies, the others were not obliged to help, as more lives would be at risk. By unwittingly separating himself from the others, Chase’s boat avoided having to share the bounty he had so carefully guarded.
An ineffable thought
On the other two boats, the men were struggling with this very dilemma. Captain Pollard had several times more provisions than the other boat, but he was aware that there was not enough roast beef and water for six men, let alone twelve. Perhaps by then he was convinced that there was no solution and that it did not matter if death came a day or so sooner. After a short reflection, he decided to distribute his supplies among all the sailors. For most of the shipwrecked, there was really no solution at that time. No one believed in a happy ending anymore, death was only a matter of time.
The situation on Chase’s boat was not much better either, despite the larger amount of provisions. One day, the men were startled by a loud crash and the scene of two months earlier, when the Essex was attacked by a “mad beast”, flashed before their eyes. A huge shark was circling around them, apparently hungrier than the men on board, as it lunged at the boat with all its might, trying to bite the rudder.
Chase picked up the harpoon, but it didn’t have enough power to kill the aggressive predator. He quickly passed out and lay in tears on the bottom of the boat. Although the huge fish could have satisfied their food needs for days, the panicked crew breathed a sigh of relief as they watched the fin begin to move away from the boat.
On 20 January 1921, the famine claimed another victim. The oldest member of the Essex, sixty-year-old Richard Peterson, died on a boat captained by Chase. He had refused his ration of rusks that day, saying that food could no longer help him, but it might save someone else. He died very peacefully. To this day, some euthanasia advocates believe that death from dehydration and starvation can be painless and dignified. When a person’s internal organs begin to fail, suddenly he or she is no longer in pain and slips into unconsciousness, leaving this world peacefully.
After a short prayer, Peterson’s body ended up among the waves, but at that moment no one spoke of the unspeakable thought that had crept quietly onto the boat. Why are we throwing a comrade into the sea when there is a way for him to help us one last time? Why should his death be in vain? Is there really no hope for the rest of us?
Another sailor died at the same time on the boat commanded by Captain Pollard, where food supplies were virtually non-existent. The skeletons who looked death in the eye forgot in that moment all the inhibitions that define life on land, where there is no hunger and no thirst. For them, the corpse of their comrade had become flesh that could satisfy, at least for a few moments, their irrepressible desire for food.
When someone shyly suggested that the corpse could be eaten, no one objected. Sailors had killed and dismembered dozens of whales before, but there was no animal carcass in front of them. It was Lawson Thomas, a shipmate with whom they had shared a bunk for two years and with whom they had not long ago discussed what they would do when they returned to Nantucket.
There was no room for sentimentality on the boat that day. The men ate their companion in a few hours, and the more they ate, the hungrier they got.
The bloody lottery ticket
Meanwhile, in Owen Chase’s boat, a few hundred kilometres away, the same scene was unfolding. It had been 78 days since the shipwreck and hunger was claiming another victim. Isaac Cole’s body was already wrapped in a sail and ready for burial at sea. This time, however, the men did not throw their comrade overboard. They were all thinking the same thing, but no one dared to speak.
The silence was broken by Chase, and a few hours later the carcass was eaten. The officer persuaded his sailors to dry some of the meat and save it for later. Thanks to his prudence, there was even some roast meat on board – a testament to Chase’s indomitable spirit.
Ten days later, they were only 500 kilometres off the coast of Chile and they saw a sail in the distance. An English freighter, the Indian, spotted their rickety boat and hoisted the completely dumbfounded sailors on board. “Essex … whaler … Nantucket …,” was all Chase could get out. The skeletons were coming home.
Meanwhile, the other two boats continued to roam the sea. Chase, who was safe by then, was convinced that Pollard and the others were long dead. It had been almost two months since he had last seen them. Hunger, thirst, perhaps even a new attack by the “frenzied beast”, too many dangers lurked for the helpless sailors to have any hope.
But Chase was wrong, his companions in the other two boats were still alive, but they were dying one by one. The sailors ate all the companions without any restraint. The survival instinct was apparently still alive enough, even though the seven surviving castaways were already completely out of strength. Soon the other two boats also separated without anyone noticing. In one, all traces were lost, and in the other, Captain Pollard was left alone with three young men, including his cousin, Owen Coffin.
Almost three months have passed since the shipwreck, but the toughest test is yet to come. One day, the youngest of them, 16-year-old Charles Ramsdell, plucked up the courage to speak out about something that is not normally spoken about. But their situation was hopeless, because a few days before, they had eaten the last remains of one of their comrades, and there was only one solution. Ramsdell suggested that one of them should sacrifice himself for the others. One of them must die for the others to survive. They will draw straws and leave their lives to fate.
Pollard did not want to hear about it, even though he knew well the stories of castaways who, under extreme circumstances, had taken this cruel gamble. The other two sailors also agreed that straws had to be drawn and Pollard succumbed to the pressure once more.
On that day, 6 February 1921, Owen Coffin, the captain’s cousin, drew the shortest straw. Pollard first burst into tears and then threatened to shoot anyone who dared to touch his unfortunate cousin. When he calmed down, he offered his life in exchange, but Coffin would not listen.
Then the executioner had to be chosen, and Charles Ramsdell, the man who proposed the bloody lot, drew the short straw. He resisted for a long time, but finally gave in. Owen Coffin reassured his comrades that the lot was fair and that he was going to his death in peace. He asked for a moment’s silence, leaned his head overboard and Ramsdell pressed the cock. Within hours, nothing more of the corpse remained.
A few days later, another crew member, Barzillai Ray, died of natural causes, leaving his body to the other survivors. On 23 February, 94 days after the shipwreck, Pollard and Ramsdell were already off the coast of Chile, but they did not know it. They were completely without strength and without food. They had long since eaten the last remains of their comrades and were slowly sinking into delirium.
Towards evening, they heard indistinct voices and it seemed as if a large cloud covered the sky above the boat. It was the American ship Dauphin, their rescuer. Pollard and Ramsdell were so delusional that at first they did not realise that their calamity was over. When the sailors hoisted them on deck, they were mumbling and clutching a small white object nervously in their hands. It was the bones of their shipwrecked comrades, which they sucked obsessively. That day, they were more like “a mad beast” than human.
Epilog
The crew of the Essex – or what was left of it – only reunited on Nantucket after months of travel. The three men who remained on the isolated island in the middle of the Pacific also survived. Pollard kept his word and sent help. On arrival at his home port, the captain was greeted by more than a thousand people, but the atmosphere was not cheerful.
The captain was as rarely absent-minded as ever. News of the wreck and all that followed had reached Nantucket before his return, so even the locals were respectfully silent. Cannibalism and straw-pulling were acceptable among sailors in extreme circumstances, but they were not talked about. Especially not on land. All survivors had to bear this burden in silence forever.
It was also tragic in its own way that they all had to go to sea again soon. After all, they returned without a single barrel of whale oil. Pollard returned to the waves just three months after he arrived on Nantucket, but he was out of luck. In fact, he had two innocent shipwrecks in the space of a few years. He spent his old age on Nantucket, working as a town watchman. The job was not exciting or well paid, but at least Pollard knew he would be spending the night in his own bed. Every November 20th of the year, he would lock himself in his room and fast in memory of his dead comrades.
Owen Chase spent almost twenty years on various whaling ships, eventually working his way up to the position of captain. He was married four times and spent most of his time at sea. In his old age, he caught enough whales to become rich and retire. As a true Nantucket whaler should.
