Our fourth and last whale gave us quite a bit of trouble. We sighted this fellow in a choppy sea among ice islands two or three miles off the edges of the polar pack. All three boats lowered for it. It was traveling slowly in the same direction the brig was sailing and about two miles from the . It took the boats some time to work to close quarters. When the mate's boat was almost within striking distance, the whale went under. As frightened whales usually run against the wind, Mr. Winchester to windward. But the whale had not been frightened; it had not seen the boats. Consequently it failed to head into the wind, but did the unexpected by coming up to , blowing with evident unconcern. This brought it nearest to Gabriel, who went after it in a flash. After a sharp, swift run down the wind, we struck the whale, which dived and went under water for the ice pack. The dizzy rate at which it took out our line might have led us to believe it was not hurt, but we knew it was seriously wounded by the fountains of blood it sent up whenever it came to the surface.  
The captain's signals from the brig, by this time, had headed the other boats in our direction, but they could not reach us in time to be of any assistance. The whale ran away with our tub of line and we sat still and watched the red fountains that marked its course as it headed for the big ice to the north.
 
Directly in the whale's course lay an ice about half a mile long, a few hundred yards wide and rising from five to ten feet above the surface. We naturally supposed the creature would dive under this and keep going for the main pack. To our surprise we soon saw fountain after fountain, red with blood, shooting up from the center of the floe. The whale evidently was too badly injured to continue its flight and had sought refuge beneath this strip of drifting ice.
 
Men were hurriedly landed from all the boats with and shoulder guns, leaving enough sailors on the to the boats clear of the ice. The landing parties clambered over the broken and tumbled ice, dragging the lines. We found the whale half exposed in a narrow opening in the center of the floe, all the ice about it red with blood. Long John and Little Johnny threw two harpoons each into the big body and Big Foot Louis threw his remaining one. As a result of this bombardment, five tonite bombs exploded in the whale, which, with the harpoons sticking all over its back, suggested a baited bull in a Spanish bullring hung with the of the banderilleros. But the great animal kept on breathing blood and would not die. After all the harpoons had been , shoulder guns were brought into play. In all, twelve tonite bombs were fired into it before the monster gave a shiver and lay still.
 
But with the whale dead, we still had a big problem on our hands. In some way the giant bulk had to be hauled out of the ice. This was a difficult matter even with plenty of time in which to do it. Night was coming on and it was the brig's custom in the hours of darkness to sail far away from the great ice pack with its edging of floating bergs and floes in order to avoid possible accident and to sail back to the whaling grounds on the morrow. This Captain Shorey prepared to do now. As a solution of the , an empty bread cask or hogshead was brought on deck and the name of the brig was seared in its staves with a hot iron in several places. This cask was towed to the floe, hauled up on the edge of the ice, and the long line of one of the harpoons sticking in the whale was made fast to it by means of . Thus the cask marked the floe in which the whale was lying.
 
It was growing dark when the brig went about, said good-night to the whale, and headed for open water to the south. ............