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BAYARD RUSTIN
Bayard Rustin
A LEGACY OF PROTEST AND POLITICS

Edited by M I C H A E L G. L O N G

Foreword by C L A Y B O R N E C A R S O N

NEW YORK UNIVERSITY PRESS

New York
NEW YORK UNIVERSITY PRESS
New York
www nyupress org
© 2024 by New York University
All rights reserved
References to Internet websites (URLs) were accurate
at the time of writing Neither the author nor New York
University Press is responsible for URLs that may have
expired or changed since the manuscript was prepared
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Long, Michael G , editor | Carson, Clayborne,
1944– writer of foreword | Loggins, Jared A , other
Title: Bayard Rustin : a legacy of protest and politics /
edited by Michael G Long ; foreword by Clayborne
Carson ; afterword by Jared Loggins
Description: New York, New York : New York University
Press, 2024 | Includes bibliographical references and
index
Identifiers: lCCn 2023005926 | isbn 9781479818495
(hardback) | isbn 9781479818501 (ebook other) |
isbn 9781479818518 (ebook)
Subjects: lCsh: Rustin, Bayard, 1912–1987 | African
American civil rights workers—Biography | Civil
rights workers—United States—Biography |
African American pacifists—Biography | African
American gay men—Biography | African Americans—
Civil rights—History—20th century | Civil rights
movements—United States—History—20th century |
Nonviolence—United States—History—20th century
Classification: LCC E185 97 R93 B3937 2024 | DDC
323 092 [B]—dc23/eng/20230331
LC record available at https://lccn loc gov/2023005926
New York University Press books are printed on acid-
free paper, and their binding materials are chosen for
strength and durability We strive to use environmentally
responsible suppliers and materials to the greatest
extent possible in publishing our books
Manufactured in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Also available as an ebook
t o ou r r e a de r s

AND THEIR FIGHT TO ADVANCE THE LEGACY OF

baya r d ru st i n
“I MUST
RESIST.”
“I must resist ”
Bayard Rustin

—BAYARD RUSTIN
CONTENTS

Foreword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . x
C L AY B O R N E C A R S O N

Introduction: More Than Mr. March on Washington . . . . 1

MICHAEL G. LONG

PART I: PROTESTS, POLITICS, AND PARTNERS

1 Rustin’s Legacy of Civil Resistance in the US . . . . . . 10

ERICA CHENOWETH

2 Moving from the Streets to the Corridors of Power:

Rustin’s Evolving Perspective . . . . . . . . . . . 25
RANDALL KENNEDY

3 The Legacy of Grandmother Julia Rustin . . . . . . . . 35

WA LT E R N A E G L E

4 Rustin and A. Philip Randolph: “We Are the Advance

Guard of a Moral Revolution” . . . . . . . . . . . 41
D AV I D L U C A N D E R

5 Rustin and Ella Baker: Revolutionary Trailblazers . . . . . 54

DANIELLE L. MCGUIRE

6 Rustin and King: Stony the Road They Trod . . . . . . 75

J O N AT H A N E I G

7 Inspiring Stokely Carmichael, Sparring with Malcolm X . . . 87

PENIEL E. JOSEPH
 PART II: RESISTANCE, REFORM, AND RECONCILIATION

8 Rustin’s Resistance to War and Militarism . . . . . . . 96

S H A R O N E R I C K S O N N E P S TA D

9 Enforcing the Constitution: Rustin and the 1947 Journey

of Reconciliation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
GENE R. NICHOL

10 Rustin and Criminal Justice Reform . . . . . . . . . 119

JUSTIN BRONSON BARRINGER

11 Troubles I’ve Seen: Rustin and the Price of Being Gay . . . 131
JOHN D’EMILIO

12 Rustin’s Internationalism: How a Great American Activist

Learned from Movements Abroad . . . . . . . . . 144
SARAH AZARANSKY

13 A Pragmatic Pirouette in the Age of Malcolm X and the Riot 156

terrance wiley

14 Rustin and the Tactics of Democratic Socialism . . . . . 172

D AV I D S T E I N

PART III: WHAT RUSTIN MEANS TO ME

15 The Art of the Actual . . . . . . . . . . . . . 190

RASHAD ROBINSON

16 Sustaining Community Despite Disagreements . . . . . 193

DORIAN WILLIAMS

17 We Must Work to Bring About a Jubilee . . . . . . . 196

ARIEL GOLD

18 Educated in His Name . . . . . . . . . . . . . 200

D AV I S PAT E L

19 Bayard Sang the Body Eclectic . . . . . . . . . . 203

R O B T M A R T I N S E D A- ­S C H R E I B E R

Afterword . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 206
JARED LOGGINS

Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209
Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 210
About the Editor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 227
About the Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . 228
Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 232
FORE WORD

C l ay b o r n e C a r s o n

It has been more than a half century since Martin Luther King,
Jr., published his final book, Where Do We Go from Here: Chaos or
Community? Although King’s subtitle expressed the urgent need to
avoid chaos, he offered only tentative suggestions during his remain-
ing months of life about how to build a just and peaceful world
community. Based on the insightful essays in this book, I suspect
that Bayard Rustin might well have thought that he was the person
best prepared through long experience as an activist and advisor to
respond to King’s question.
The fact that King’s “I Have a Dream” speech at the 1963 March
on Washington is remembered far more than the person who orga-
nized the march helps us understand why this collection of essays
about Bayard Rustin is necessary and overdue. Although Rustin’s
controversial past led him to avoid drawing attention to his advisory
role, he made possible King’s swift assent from leadership of a bus
boycott movement in Montgomery, Alabama, to become the prime
symbol of a civil rights movement that transformed the nation and
inspired the world.

x
 Fore w ord

These essays are by no means hagiography. They reveal Rustin’s

flaws as well as his virtues, the limitations as well as the breadth of
his vision. He was controversial because of his early involvement
during the 1930s with the Young Communist League and because of
his sometimes furtive homosexuality. Prominent Black leaders such
as A. Philip Randolph, Ella Baker, Martin Luther King, and many
others were willing to look beyond Rustin’s baggage because they
appreciated his unique assets.
Although still a teenager when I attended the March on
Washington and became aware of Rustin’s significance as a behind-­
the-­scenes organizer, he soon attracted my curiosity once I became
a part-­time journalist for the Los Angeles Free Press and ultimately a
full-­time graduate student at UCLA. When I began the research that
ultimately resulted in my dissertation about the Student Nonviolent
Coordinating Committee (SNCC), I realized that I needed to know
more about the man who seemed always on the periphery of my
main topic.
I would discover that Rustin had been invited to address SNCC’s
first conference in October 1960, but the invitation was withdrawn
when a union sponsoring the conference objected to Rustin’s radi-
cal reputation. SNCC members would soon regret giving in to an-
ticommunist hysteria, but some would later deride Rustin as an ally
of the liberal establishment that opposed seating the Mississippi
Freedom Democratic Party (MFDP) delegation to the 1964
Democratic Party convention in place of the all-­white “regular” del-
egation from Mississippi.
Stokely Carmichael, with whom I became acquainted shortly
before the March on Washington, would later tell me about his ef-
fort as a Howard University student to arrange a debate between
Rustin and Malcolm X. He recalled being impressed by both men,
although Rustin strongly criticized Stokely’s adoption of the Black
Power slogan, dismissing it as “positively harmful” because it would
remove Black Americans from “the main area of political strug-
gle.”1 At the time, I shared Stokely’s distrust of Democratic Party

xi
Foreword

liberalism, but agreed with their shared belief that protests were not
sufficient to achieve economic and political power.
Perhaps because I ultimately came to know so many of Rustin’s
acquaintances, one of my greatest disappointments was that I was
never able to meet and interview Rustin. Once I began the research
for my first book, In Struggle: SNCC and the Black Awakening of the
1960s, I tried in vain to write and call him to arrange an interview.
By then, he had become head of the A. Philip Randolph Institute
and perhaps too preoccupied to pay much attention to a fledgling
scholar. I decided to stop by his office and accepted his assistant’s
offer to wait outside just in case he found time to meet with me.
Thus, for me, this anthology substitutes for the extended, probing
interview for which I patiently waited.

xii
Introduction

More Than Mr. March on Washington

M ic h a e l G. L o ng

No one had stronger qualifications for organizing the March on

Washington for Jobs and Freedom than Bayard Rustin. By 1963, he had
already planned three major protests in the nation’s capital—­the Prayer
Pilgrimage for Freedom in 1957 and the Youth Marches for Integrated
Schools in 1958 and 1959—­and played a leading role in national and
international movements against war and nuclear weapons. It seemed
as if Rustin’s entire professional career had been preparing him to
become the lead organizer of the March on Washington. Rustin was
also ambitious and assertive enough to crave the job.
But there was a significant obstacle—­Roy Wilkins. The powerful
executive director of the National Association for the Advancement
of Colored People (NAACP) did not want Rustin to head the march.
“Look Bayard,” Wilkins said in a phone call. “I want you to know
that I’m not in favor of your organizing the March on Washington.”
Rustin wondered why.
“There are several reasons,” Wilkins replied. “First of all, I know that
you were a sincere conscientious objector during the war, but you have
been called a draft dodger over and over again on the floor of the Senate

1
Mich a el G. L ong

and House. Second, you are a socialist, and many people think that
socialism and communism are basically the same thing. Thirdly, you
admit that you belonged to the Young Communist League. And then
there’s the whole business of you having been arrested in California
on a sex charge. Now, do you think we ought to bring all that into the
March on Washington? Because it’s gonna come out, you know?”
Opponents of the march, according to Wilkins, could and would
use Rustin’s complicated and problematic past as fodder for under-
mining the entire protest. So rather than sacrificing the success of the
march, the prudent move would be to sacrifice Rustin.
“I know, I know,” Rustin replied. “But what happens depends on
you people who are the main leaders. If you stand up and have some
courage, it [my past] will do no damage.”1
At a July 2 meeting about the march, three of the Big Six civil
rights leaders—­Martin Luther King, Jr., James Farmer, and John
Lewis—­showed some courage and stood up to the NAACP head.
In the end, A. Philip Randolph became the official director, and he
named Rustin as his deputy director, a position that effectively made
Rustin the march’s main organizer.
It’s still shocking that a pacifist, socialist, ex-­convict, former com-
munist, openly gay, Black man was largely responsible for planning
and executing the most significant event in US protest history. But
just as jolting is Rustin’s refusal to roll over and surrender after ac-
knowledging that he would be the direct target of the march’s oppo-
nents as well as the subject of intense media scrutiny.
If there is anything that the March on Washington reveals about
Rustin other than his organizing genius, it’s his ambitious refusal to
confine himself to the shadows of history. Indeed, near the conclusion
of the march, Rustin strode to the microphone and, with his clenched
right fist thrust high, led the massive crowd in supporting each of the
march’s ten demands. In that moment, at a protest broadcast around
the world, Rustin took center stage and made history. He was no
shrinking violet. He was a Black radical, at least in that moment.
Indeed, one of the most overlooked parts of the march is its radi-
calism. Not everything about the march was radical, of course. Rustin

2
 In t roduc t ion

originally conceived of the day as including mass lobbying at the US

Capitol, an act that would shut down regular business for the day; a
defiant march past, and an encircling of, the White House; and a rally
that would include speeches from unemployed people. But by the
time Rustin completed his plans, he had left these ideas behind, earn-
ing the wrath of militants in the Student Nonviolent Coordinating
Committee (SNCC) who had been looking forward to shutting
down Congress and calling President Kennedy to task. For them, the
watered-­down march was little more than a friendly picnic.
But that criticism was not entirely fair. Despite de-­radicalizing his
plans, Rustin ensured that at least some of the march’s content re-
mained radical.
Both Rustin and A. Philip Randolph were fervent democratic so-
cialists, and one of their goals was to use the march as a platform for
sharing their socialist vision and calling for its enactment. The two
socialists achieved at least part of their goal by ensconcing it within
the march’s list of ten demands. Thanks to Rustin and Randolph, the
march officially demanded “a massive federal program to train and
place all unemployed workers—­Negro and white—­on meaningful
and dignified jobs at decent wages,” as well as “a national minimum
wage act that will give all Americans a decent standard of living.”2
Randolph also used his opening speech to declare war against US
capitalism. “The sanctity of private property takes second place to the
sanctity of the human personality,” he said.
“It falls to the Negro to reassert this priority of values because our
ancestors were transformed from human personalities into private
property. It falls to us to demand new forms of social planning, to cre-
ate full employment and to put automation at the service of human
needs, not at the service of profits—­for we are the worst victims of
unemployment.”3
Randolph’s speech, coupled with Rustin’s militant presentation of
the march’s demands, represented the first time that millions of white
Americans heard prominent Black leaders deliver not only a sharp
critique of capitalism but also a demand for a socialist approach to
the nation’s economic challenges. Together, Randolph and Rustin left

3
Mich a el G. L ong

a remarkably radical and threatening legacy, one that is usually ig-

nored in annual feel-­good celebrations of the march and its leaders.
Beyond that, the march inspired countless people to fight for racial
justice and helped to create the conditions that led to the passage
of the 1964 Civil Rights Act. Just as important, the historic protest
stirred other oppressed people to rise up, and even provided a tem-
plate for subsequent protest marches. In the years to come, millions
of protesters, many of whom had marched in 1963, would similarly
march on Washington for women’s rights, labor rights, LGBTQIA
rights, and so much more. No protest in US history has been more
influential and consequential than the 1963 march.
However significant the march was, and however radical part of it
was, the legacy of the march—­and thus Rustin’s legacy—­is tainted.
On August 16, the march’s administrative committee held its
last meeting before everyone headed to Washington. Anna Arnold
Hedgeman, the only woman on the committee, asked for the floor.
“In light of the role of Negro women in the struggle for freedom,” she
said, “it is incredible that no woman should appear as a speaker at the
historic March on Washington Meeting at the Lincoln Memorial.”4
Hedgeman, joined by Dorothy Height and others, had pleaded
with Rustin and Randolph to include a Black woman as a speaker,
but the two men adamantly refused, saying that the program was
already full and that choosing one woman would create jealousies
among other women leaders.
Hedgeman’s final plea changed that. At the last minute, the
Big Ten—­the Big Six had added four white men to the inner
circle—­decided that the program would now include a woman-­led
“Tribute to Negro Women, Fighters for Freedom.” Still, though,
no woman would be allowed to deliver one of the major speeches
at the march. The exclusion stung. Black women were not only
the backbone of the civil rights movement; they were also its head,
neck, body, and legs.
It might be difficult for some of us to believe this, but Rustin and
Randolph, like all of us, were not saints. Nor is their legacy at the
march the hallmark of saintly politics and protest. Just ask the women.

4
 In t roduc t ion

Given the significance of the March on Washington for Jobs and

Freedom, the common tendency to see Rustin’s legacy only in rela-
tion to the march is understandable. Plus, our culture likes to freeze
its heroes in certain times and places, particularly those that seem
safe and unthreatening. We prefer heroes who are uncomplicated,
one-­dimensional, shallow. But Rustin was much more than “Mr.
March on Washington,” and to reduce him to the march would be to
ignore the depth and breadth and complexity of his longtime fight for
economic, racial, social, and political justice.5
Our book avoids this reductionist tendency and shows that Rustin’s
legacy is deep and wide—­that it has roots in numerous social move-
ments and institutions in the United States and across the globe. Rustin
traveled through his times like a fast-­moving octopus with very long
tentacles, and the sheer size and extent of his legacy is breathtaking.
By exploring his large legacy in its complexity, we depict Rustin
not as the one-­dimensional figure often spotlighted and celebrated
in annual articles about the march, but as a complicated activist who
left multiple legacies, many of them praiseworthy and some of them
troubling, that defy simple characterization.
Legacies are never easy to describe with accuracy and certainty.
They are like moral character—­best viewed from many different an-
gles, in historical context, and over a long period.
Rustin’s legacy, when viewed this way, is especially difficult to de-
scribe. Though a pacifist, Rustin refused to join the peace movement
during the Vietnam War, and years later he called for the US govern-
ment to send jets to Israel. Though an openly gay tactician, he did not
join the LGBTQIA movement of the late 1960s and 1970s; it would
take almost two decades after the Stonewall Uprising before he would
become a visible activist in the movement. Though strongly com-
mitted to alleviating poverty, he did not support the Poor People’s
Campaign until after King’s assassination. And, as we have seen,
though an enthusiastic proponent of equality, Rustin treated women
leaders at the 1963 march as second-­class citizens. The difficulty of
describing Rustin’s legacy is, at the very least, a testament to the com-
plexity of his personality and life.

5
Mich a el G. L ong

Like studies of moral character, explorations of legacies also lead

to a culminating question: Is there anything that ties the different
parts together? Is there a unifying element in the various legacies that
Rustin left us? Although answers to this question emerge throughout
this book, Rustin’s own words hint at possible answers. “My activ-
ism did not spring from my being gay, or for that matter, from my
being black,” Rustin wrote. “Rather, it is rooted, fundamentally, in
my Quaker upbringing and the values that were instilled in me by my
grandparents who reared me. Those values are based on the concept
of a single human family and the belief that all members of that fam-
ily are equal.”6 Should we take Rustin’s words here at face value? Is
Quaker morality the tie that binds together Rustin’s legacies? Or is
there something else? Or could it be that there is no accurate way for
us to synthesize the many legacies Rustin left us? Perhaps a quest to
tie together Rustin’s various legacies is fundamentally wrongheaded.
One thing remains clear: much of Rustin’s legacy remains unful-
filled. Consider, for example, the two march demands already men-
tioned. Despite Rustin’s efforts, there is no massive federal program
that trains and places all unemployed workers, and there is no na-
tional minimum wage that gives all Americans a decent standard of
living. Both demands are unmet, even though they are at least as
important today, when sky-­high inflation forces poor people to skip
meals, as they did in 1963.
Then there is the demand that appeared on a placard that Rustin
approved as an official sign of the march: “We Demand an End to
Police Brutality Now!”7 If there is any doubt that Rustin’s legacy is
relevant for today, call to mind the recent murders of George Floyd,
Breonna Taylor, and numerous other innocent Black people. Their
unjustifiable deaths cry out for us to take Rustin’s legacy seriously.
The pages ahead will describe other ways that Rustin’s legacy is
relevant for today. If we take Rustin’s legacy seriously enough to
move beyond the march, as this book does, we will see his ongoing
relevance for electoral politics, criminal justice reform, democratic
socialism, anticolonialism, and militarism, among other things. As he
was during his lifetime, Rustin is a rich resource for achieving justice.

6
 In t roduc t ion

Of course, when we realize that so many of Rustin’s demands for

justice remain unfulfilled, we might become overwhelmed and grow
too tired to march on. Perhaps in that moment, Rustin’s written
words—­yes, the remarkable legacy of his words—­can help. In a 1969
letter to a woman who had complained about how tired she was from
having to deal with anti-­Semitism, Rustin wrote:

I am not sympathetic to your cry of being tired, Mrs. Greenstone. . . .

I am black and I have lived and fought with racism my entire life.
I have been in prison 23 times—­serving 28 months in a federal
penitentiary and 30 days on a North Carolina chain gang among
other punishments.
I have seen periods of progress followed by reaction. I have seen the
hopes and aspirations of Negroes rise during World War II, only to be
smashed during the Eisenhower years. I am seeing the victories of the
Kennedy and Johnson Administrations destroyed by Richard Nixon.
I have seen black young people become more and more bitter. I
have seen dope addiction rise in the Negro communities across the
country.
I have been in a bombed church. My best friends, closest associ-
ates and colleagues-­in-­arms have been beaten and assassinated. Yet,
to remain human and to fulfill my commitment to a just society, I
must continue to fight for the liberation of all men. There will be
times when each of us will have doubts. But I trust that neither of
us will desert our great cause.8

In the final analysis, Rustin’s legacy is not about hope for a pie in
the sky. It’s not a legacy that promises that one day we will indeed
get to the Promised Land. Instead, Rustin left us a legacy marked
by grit and determination—­a relentless commitment to building the
beloved community one block at a time, even after it’s been torn
down or blown apart far too many times, even if there is no promise
of it coming to fruition. At last, Rustin’s legacy invites us to fight
unceasingly for the freedom of all, no matter what the result might
be. It’s as simple, and as complicated, as that.

7
PART I

PROTESTS, POLITICS, AND PART-

NERS PART I
Another random document with
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fortunate enough to stay for some time at a modern factory has
opportunities for original work such as were undreamed of before
the days of steam whaling.
The directors of the companies, and the managers of the stations,
have usually been glad to assist in the study of the animals which
form the basis of their industry, and have generously extended the
courtesies of their ships and stations. In some instances they have
gone to considerable trouble to secure specimens which could be
prepared and presented to museums in various parts of the world for
exhibition and osteological study. It is deeply to be regretted that the
wholesale slaughter of whales will inevitably result in their early
commercial extinction, but meanwhile science is profiting by the
golden opportunities given for the study of these strange and
interesting animals. Thus, the old saying that “it is an ill wind that
blows good to no one” applies very decidedly to the whaling industry.
 CHAPTER I
MY FIRST WHALE HUNT

Great lumbering swells of gray water rolling out of the fog from the
wide sweep of the open Pacific were the picture I saw through the
round, brass-bound frame of the porthole on the S. S. Tees. It was
the last of May, but the cold of winter still hung in the sea air, and
even when we drew in toward the foot of the mountains which poked
their fir-clad summits far up into the mist clouds, I shivered in my
heavy coat and tramped about on deck to keep warm. Finally when
we were right under the towering mountain’s walls, we swung
abruptly into smooth water, the long roll and pitch of the ship
slackened and died, and we were quietly plowing our way up river-
like Barclay Sound, which, from the west coast, cuts into the very
heart of Vancouver Island.
It was hardly six o’clock in the morning when the wail of the ship’s
siren whistle shot into the deep mountain valley where the station of
the (former) Pacific Whaling Company is located at the one-time
Indian village of Sechart. With a great deal of curiosity I strained my
eyes through the fog to study the group of white frame buildings
which straggled up from the water’s edge back into the valley.
 Captain Balcom at the gun on the Orion.

I could see only one or two Indians, clad in dirty shirts and
overalls, loafing about placidly staring at the ship, but by the time
she had been warped in and the winch had started to swing aboard
the great oil casks which lined the wharf, two pleasant-faced men
appeared, one of whom I learned was Mr. Quinton, the station
manager; to him my letters were presented. With him was Mr. Rolls,
the secretary of the station, who showed me to a room at the house. I
got out of my “store clothes” and came down to the wharf, now lined
with men of six nationalities—for Norwegians, Americans,
Newfoundlanders, Indians, Chinese, and Japanese are employed at
these west coast stations.
Tied up to the side of the pier was the ship Orion. She was typical
of all steam whalers, had been built in Norway and made, under her
own steam, the long stormy passage across the Atlantic to
Newfoundland. A few years of work there and she started for the
Pacific around the Horn, beating her way northward to the scene of
her present work at Sechart.
The Orion had not gone to sea that morning, for the fog outside
made it useless to hunt; even if the ship could have kept her bearings
in the mist it would have been impossible to see the spout of a whale,
or to follow the animal if one were found.
The crew were all ashore, and I met Captain Balcom, an alert
young Canadian, and one of the few successful gunners who was not
a Norwegian. He offered at once to take me “outside” with him when
the weather cleared but said we would see only humpbacks, for the
blue whales and finbacks had not yet appeared on these hunting
grounds. At Kyuquot, a station only one hundred miles farther up the
coast, blue whales and finbacks were taken with the humpbacks in
March as soon as the station opened, while at Sechart they did not
come until July.
When the station was first located at Sechart, humpbacks were
frequently taken in Barclay Sound but were soon all killed, and
others did not take their places. At the time I was there, the Orion
seldom found whales less than thirty miles at sea. She usually arrived
about two o’clock in the morning, dropped her catch, and in half or
three-quarters of an hour was again on the way out in order to reach
the feeding grounds shortly after daylight.
I went aboard with Captain Balcom at ten o’clock and turned in on
the Mate’s bunk. The cabin was small, but not uncomfortable, and it
was not long before I was asleep. I did not even hear the ropes being
cast off in the morning and only waked when the boy came down to
call the Captain. We were well down the Sound when I came on deck,
and were steaming swiftly along among little wooded islets half
shrouded in gray fog. Far ahead the ugly, foam-flecked rocks of Cape
Beale stretched out in a dangerous line guarding the entrance to the
Straits of Juan de Fuca; beyond was a sheer wall of mist shutting us
out from the open sea.
The Captain was sure it was only a land fog hanging along the
coastline, and that we would soon run through it into clear air. As the
ship rose to the long swells of gray water and burrowed her way
straight ahead deeper and deeper into the mist, everyone on deck
was drenched and shivering. Fifteen minutes of steaming at full
speed and the gray curtain began to thin; soon we ran out of it
altogether.
There was not a big sea running, but the little Orion was dancing
about like a cork. Balcom said, “It is calm weather so long as she
keeps her decks dry,” and with this rather dubious comfort I settled
down to get used to the tossing as best I could.
Everything was intensely interesting to me, for it was my first trip
on a steam whaler. Already a man had been sent aloft and was
unconcernedly swinging about with glasses at his eyes watching the
water ahead. I learned later, when seasickness was a thing of the
past, what a wonderful view can be had from the crow’s nest. The
whole level sea is laid out below like a relief map and every floating
object, even the smallest birds, shows with startling distinctness. And
if it is comparatively smooth, one can look far down into the water
and see a whale or shark long before it is visible at the surface or to
those on deck.

Loading the harpoon-gun. “The charge is 300 to 375 drams of very

coarse, black powder which is ... rammed home from the muzzle;
then come wads of okum, hard rubber or cork, after which the
harpoon ... is hammered solidly into place.”

Before we left the station, the harpoon-gun had not been loaded.
The muzzle was plugged with a wooden block and the iron rope-pan
drawn upward and tied against the gun’s support. When coming in
from the last trip the vessel had encountered heavy weather, and the
rope was taken off the pan to prevent it from being carried away by a
wave and fouling the propeller. Now as we were nearing the feeding
grounds, the Bo’s’n went forward to load the gun, re-coil the harpoon
line, and see that all was clear and running smoothly.
The men on board were greatly interested in my camera and
anxious that opportunities might be given for pictures. For two
hours, with the Chief Engineer and the Mate, I sat aft on the great
coil of towing line, used only in very heavy weather, listening to
stories of the idiosyncrasies of whales, especially humpbacks. Their
firm conviction was that one—never could guess what a “hump” was
going to do—except that it would be exactly what was least expected.
The Engineer had just finished telling about a big fellow that a few
days before had come up in front of the ship and swam towards it
with his enormous mouth wide open, when the man in the barrel
called down, “Whales on the port bow!”
I jumped as though a bomb had been exploded and grabbed my
camera. The other men took things rather quietly, for the whales
were still a long way off. The Captain tried to show me the spouts but
it was several minutes before I could distinguish the white columns
of vapor shooting up every few seconds.

Model of a humpback whale in the American Museum of Natural

History. The model was prepared by Mr. James L. Clark, under
the direction of Dr. F. A. Lucas.
 There were three of them—all humpbacks. On the instant, the dark
bodies slowly rounded into view and three huge, propeller-like tails
were smoothly lifted out of the water, elevated vertically to the
surface, and again drawn below. It is impossible to describe the ease
and beauty of the dive. To look at the heavy body and long, ungainly
flippers of a humpback one would hardly suspect that there could be
grace in any movement, and yet the enormous animals slide under
the surface as smoothly as a water bird.

“The man in the barrel called down, ‘Whales on the port bow!’”

When the flukes came out, the Captain rang for half speed, for the
whales would probably be down several minutes. Turning the wheel
over to the Mate, he went forward to the gun, pushed up the spring
which cocked it, and waited, alert, for the animals to rise.
 I had descended with him from the bridge and stood just behind
the gun platform. The ship, her engines stopped, was rolling about
on the mirror-like patches of water left by the whales as they went
down. After ten minutes of waiting three silvery clouds suddenly shot
upward a quarter of a mile away. Instantly the engine signal rang and
the ship swung about, plowing through the water at full speed until
the whales sounded. For two hours this kept on. Each time when we
were almost within range the big fellows would raise themselves a
little higher, arch their backs, and turn downward in a beautiful dive,
waving their huge flukes as though in derision.
I had my notebook and pencil at work as well as the camera but it
was getting pretty difficult to use either. The wind had risen and I
was deathly seasick; even the best sailors lose their “sea legs” when
aboard one of these little eggshell boats after a long period ashore,
and mine were gone completely. The Orion was twisting and
writhing about as though possessed of a demon, and every time she
climbed a huge wave to rock uncertainly a moment on the crest and
then plunge headlong down its smooth, green slope, I was certain
she would never rise again. Balcom was doggedly hanging to the gun,
but just after we had both been soaked by a big sea that came over
the ship’s nose he shouted, “If we don’t get a shot soon we’ll have to
leave them.”
At that time we were heading for the whales, which were spouting
only a short distance away. One of them had left the others and
seemed to be feeding. He was swimming at the surface, sometimes
under for a second or two, but never far down. The ship slid nearer
and nearer with engines at dead slow until the huge body
disappeared not thirty fathoms away.
“In a minute he’ll come again,” shouted Balcom, feet braced and
bending low over the gun.
I was clinging to a rope just behind him, trying to focus the
camera, but the flying spray made it well-nigh impossible. Suddenly I
saw the Captain’s muscles tighten, the tip of the harpoon drop an
inch or two, and caught a glimpse of a phantom shape rushing
upward.
Almost on the instant a blinding cloud of vapor shot into our very
faces, followed by the deafening roar of the gun. I saw the black
flukes whirl upward and fall in one tremendous, smashing blow upon
the water; then the giant figure quivered an instant, straightened out,
and slowly sank. For a moment not a sound was heard on the vessel
save the steady “flop, flop, flop” of the line on the deck as the dead
weight of forty tons dragged it from the winch.
Balcom leaned over the side and saw the rope hanging rigidly from
the ship’s bow. “I must have caught him in the heart,” he said, “and
killed him instantly.”

“Two men with long-handled knives began to cut off the lobes of
the tail.”

As the Captain straightened up he shouted to the Engineer to

check the line. Then began the work of bringing to the surface and
inflating the dead whale. Taking a hitch about a short iron post, the
harpoon rope was slacked and run through a spring pulley-block on
the mast, just below the barrel, to relieve the strain of raising the
great body. As the winch ground in fathom after fathom of line the
vessel heeled far over under the tremendous weight. I was clinging to
the ship’s side looking down into the water and soon saw the
shadowy outline of the whale, fins wide spread, nearing the surface.
As it came alongside a lead-weighted line was thrown over the tail, a
rope pulled after it, then a small chain, and finally the heavy chain by
which the carcass was made fast to the bow.
The winch had not yet stopped when two men with long-handled
knives began to cut off the lobes of the tail to prevent the flukes from
pounding the rail as the body swung up and down in the seaway.
Already other sailors were working at a long coil of small rubber
hose, one end of which was attached to an air pump and the other to
a hollow, spear-pointed tube of steel, perforated along its entire
length. This was jabbed well down into the whale’s abdomen, the
engines started, and the animal slowly filled with air. When the body
had been inflated sufficiently to keep it afloat, the tube was
withdrawn and the incision plugged with oakum.
The other whales were a long way off when the ship was ready to
start. The man in the “top” reported them as far to the south and
traveling fast. As there was little chance of getting another shot that
day and the wind was blowing half a gale, the Captain decided to turn
about and run for the station.
We reached Sechart at 1:30 A. M. and the whale was left floating in
the water, tied to the end of the wharf near a long inclined platform
called the “slip”; then the Orion put out to sea and I went to bed at
the station. I shall never forget my intense surprise next morning
when I saw the humpback “cut in.” Work began at seven o’clock, and
as the Manager had just awakened me, I ran out and did not wait for
breakfast, thinking there would be ample time to eat when the
operations were under way. It soon became evident, however, that
there were no breathing spells when whales were being cut in, and
every soul was at his work until the last scrap of flesh was in the
boiling vats.
 “A hollow, spear-pointed tube of steel ... was jabbed well down
into the whale’s abdomen, the engines started, and the animal
slowly filled with air.”

After a heavy wire cable had been made fast about the posterior
part of the whale, just in front of the flukes, the winch was started.
The cable straightened out, tightened, and became as rigid as a bar of
steel. Slowly foot after foot of the wire was wound in and the
enormous carcass, weighing at least forty tons, was drawn out of the
water upon the slip.
One of the Japanese scrambled up the whale’s side and, balancing
himself on the smooth surface by the aid of his long knife, made his
way forward to sever at the “elbow” the great side fin, or flipper,
fifteen feet in length.
Before the carcass was half out of the water other cutters were
making longitudinal incisions through the blubber along the breast,
side, and back, from the head the entire length of the body to the
flukes. The cable was made fast to the blubber at the chin, the winch
started, and the thick layer of fat stripped off exactly as one would
peel an orange. When the upper side had been denuded of its
blubber covering, the whale was turned over by means of the canting
winch, and the other surface was flensed in the same manner.
It was a busy and interesting scene. The strange, unfamiliar cries
of the Orientals mingled with the shouts of the cutters and the
jarring rattle of the winch as the huge strips of fat were torn from the
whale’s body, fed into the slicing machine, carried upward, and
dumped into enormous vats to be boiled or “tried out” for the oil.
When the blubber was entirely gone, the carcass was split open by
chopping through the ribs of the upper side and cutting into the
abdomen, letting a ton or more of blood pour out and spread in a
crimson flood over the slip. A hook was attached to the tongue bones
(hyoids) and the heart, lungs, liver, and intestines were drawn out in
a single mass.
The body was then hauled to the “carcass platform” at right angles
to, and somewhat above, the “flensing slip,” the flesh was torn from
the bones in two or three great masses by the aid of the winch, and
the skeleton disarticulated.

Flensing a whale at one of the Vancouver Island stations. A great

strip of blubber is being torn from the animal’s side.
 After the bones had been split and the flesh cut into chunks two or
three feet square, they were boiled separately in great open vats
which bordered the carcass platform on both sides. When the oil had
been extracted, the bones were crushed by machinery making bone
meal to be used as fertilizer, and the flesh, artificially dried and
sifted, was converted into a very fine guano. Even the blood, of which
there were several tons, was carefully drained from the slip into a
large tank, and boiled and dried for fertilizer. Finally, the water in
which the blubber had been tried out was converted into glue.
The baleen, or whalebone, which alone remained to be disposed of,
was thrown aside to be cleaned and dried as opportunity offered. The
baleen of all the fin whales is short, stiff, and coarse and in Europe
and America has but little value. In Japan, however, it is made into
many useful and beautiful things.
I learned that the cutting operations at Sechart and the other west
coast stations were conducted in the Norwegian way which is
followed in almost all parts of the world except Japan. In the Island
Empire a new method has been adopted, which, while it has the
advantage of being very rapid, is correspondingly dangerous and will
not, I think, ever be widely used.
 CHAPTER II
HOW A HUMPBACK DIVES AND SPOUTS

Although it had been possible to secure but few good pictures during
my first trip at sea on the Orion, nevertheless I had learned much
about the ways of humpbacks. One impression, which I subsequently
found to be correct, was that this would prove to be the most
interesting of all large whales to study—at least from the standpoint
of its habits.
There are no dull moments when one is hunting a humpback, for it
is never possible to foretell what the animal’s next move will be. He
may dash along the surface with his enormous mouth wide open,
stand upon his head and “lobtail,” throwing up clouds of spray with
smashing blows of his flukes, or launch his forty-ton body into the air
as though shot from a submarine catapult.
He may do dozens of other highly original things, all of which
show his playful, good-natured disposition and, if he is allowed to
continue his elephantine gambols unmolested, he is as harmless as a
puppy. But once imbed an iron in his sensitive flesh and it is wise to
keep well beyond the range of his long flippers and powerful flukes
which strike the water in every direction with deadly, crushing blows.
The humpback is the whale which is most usually seen from the
Atlantic passenger vessels, and may easily be recognized because
when “sounding,” or going under for a deep dive, the flukes are
almost invariably drawn out of the water; the finback and blue
whales, the two other common species, seldom show the flukes.
 A humpback whale “sounding.” “The humpback comes up
obliquely, and, as soon as the spout has been delivered, arches the
back and begins to revolve.”

When a humpback dives the easy grace with which the animal
manipulates its huge, ungainly body and great propeller-like tail,
drawing it out of the water smoothly but with irresistible force,
always gives me a thrill of admiration. I remember one day, while
crossing the Atlantic on the Kronprinz Wilhelm, a humpback came
up not far from the ship and swam parallel with her for several
minutes. Each time the big fellow drew himself up, slowly rolled
over, and brought his flukes out, an involuntary cheer went up from
the passengers. But it is only when sounding that the tail is shown
and never when the whale is feeding or swimming near the surface.
 A humpback whale with a very white breast. The side fins, or
flippers, are almost one-quarter the entire length of the animal,
and to them barnacles attach themselves as well as to the folds of
the throat and breast.

The humpback comes up obliquely and, as soon as the spout has

been delivered, arches the back and begins to revolve, finally drawing
out the flukes and going down vertically. When hunting, the proper
time to shoot is when the dorsal fin begins to show above the water—
depending, of course, upon the distance. The iron then has a fair
chance to reach the lungs or heart and a larger target is presented.
How far a whale can descend is a matter of conjecture and more or
less dispute among naturalists. One writer argues that whales cannot
go deeper than three hundred feet because of the tremendous water
pressure. But all cetaceans have certain specializations in body
structure which undoubtedly enable them to withstand high
pressure.
I have, as personal evidence upon this subject, the fact that a blue
whale, harpooned between the shoulders and but slightly injured,
dove straight downward and took out over a quarter of a mile of
rope. We were, at the time, almost a hundred miles at sea and so far
as could be determined the animal had gone down to the full limit of
the line which hung from the bows as rigid as a bar of steel. The
whale remained below for thirty-two minutes and reappeared not
more than a hundred yards away and directly in front of the ship.
 It is the opinion of every whaler with whom I have talked that all
the large cetaceans can descend to a considerable depth, and each
man will give numerous instances, similar to the one I have cited in
the case of the blue whale, to prove his point. Until further
information is available this subject must be an open one. A smooth,
circular patch of water is always left at the spot where a large whale
dives. This is undoubtedly produced by suction and interrupted wave
action but has given rise to many ingenious and absurd theories in
explanation.
When studying whales the most important fact to remember is
that they are one-time land mammals which have taken up a life in
the water and that their bodily activities, although somewhat
modified, are nevertheless essentially the same as those of a horse,
cow, or any other land mammal.
Since a whale breathes air, when it is below the surface the breath
must be held, for if water should be taken into the lungs the animal
would drown. Thus, as soon as a cetacean comes to the surface its
breath is expelled and a fresh supply inhaled before it again goes
down, just as in the case of a man when diving. However a whale is
able to hold its breath for a much longer time than can an ordinary
land mammal—even as much as forty-five minutes or an hour.
When the animal comes to the surface the breath which has been
contained in the lungs under pressure is highly heated, and as it is
forcibly expelled into the colder outer air it condenses, forming a
column of steam or vapor. A similar effect may be produced by any
person if, on a frosty morning, the breath is suddenly blown out of
the mouth. I have often seen a whale blow when its head was still a
short distance under the surface and at such times a little water will
be thrown upward with the spout.
 The tail of the humpback as the animal “sounds” looks like a great
butterfly which has alighted upon the water.

That whales spout out of the blowholes water which has been
taken in through the mouth is probably more widely believed than
any other popular misconception. As a matter of fact such a
performance would be impossible because a whale’s nostrils do not
open into the back of the mouth as do those of a man, and the animal
is not able to breathe through its mouth as do ordinary land
mammals.
Instead, an elongation of the arytenoid cartilages and the epiglottis
fits into the soft palate, thereby forming a continuous passage
between the nostrils and the trachea, or windpipe, and entirely
shutting off the nasal passages from the mouth. In this way a whale
can swim with its mouth open, when feeding, without danger of
being strangled by getting water into the breathing organs.
The blowholes, or nostrils, have been pushed backward and
upward to open on the top of the head instead of at the end of the
snout. This is an adaptation to aquatic life, which is also seen in
other water mammals, for in this way the nostrils are almost the first
part of the body to appear at the surface and the whale can begin to
breathe immediately upon rising.
Although all the fin whales have two nostrils, the spout ascends in
a single column, which, in the humpback, is from twelve to fifteen
feet high. The cloud of vapor is narrow at the base but spreads out at
once, forming a low bushy column which rapidly drifts away.
The height and density of the spout in all whales depends upon the
animal’s size and the length of time it has been below. If the whale
has been submerged but a brief period, as during surface dives, a
comparatively small quantity of air is expelled and the breath has not
had time to become highly heated; consequently the column will be
low and thin.
The first spout after sounding is usually the highest and fullest. I
have seen humpbacks, which had been badly wounded, lying at the
surface close to the ship, blowing every few seconds, and the spout
could hardly be seen although the opening and closing of the
blowholes and the metallic whistling of the escaping breath were
plainly distinguishable.
Immediately after the delivery of the spout the lungs are refilled,
the blowholes being opened widely and protruded upward, and the
breath rapidly drawn in. The elevation of the blowholes is probably
to prevent a wave from slopping over and filling the nasal passages,
but when a whale lies dead upon the slip there is no indication that
the nostrils can be protruded. This was first learned through a
photograph of a spouting blue whale, taken by Dr. Glover M. Allen in
Newfoundland waters, and since then I have secured two others
which show it admirably. At the time my first picture was taken we
had an interesting experience which I shall never forget.
 CHAPTER III
AN EXCITING EXPERIENCE IN ALASKA

After leaving Vancouver Island I had gone north to Murderer’s Cove,

Tyee, Alaska, and was being most hospitably entertained on board
Captain Charles Grahame’s ship, the Tyee. We were hunting in the
waters of Frederick Sound and had been out two days. A big finback
had given us an exciting time of it in the afternoon and evening of the
second day and I had gone to bed tired out.
Next morning at five o’clock I was awakened by a hand on my
shoulder and the voice of the Mate saying:
“We’re in a bunch of humpbacks, sir. You’d better get up if you
want some pictures.”
As I had only removed my coat and shoes the night before, in five
minutes I was on deck with my camera and plate holders. It was a
gray day, heavy clouds lining the sky and a strong wind blowing from
the westward. Already the little steamer was pitching and rolling in a
way which made me hate even the thought of breakfast, but catching
sight of the flukes of a big humpback just disappearing below the
surface on the starboard side, I forgot for a moment that there was
such a thing as seasickness. I climbed to the bridge beside the Mate
who was at the wheel and after getting the camera ready for instant
use, took out my notebook and glasses.
The whales were all about us but feed was evidently scarce and far
below the surface, for the animals were swimming long distances
under water, only rising to blow at irregular intervals. For three
hours we kept up a fruitless chase after first one and then another of
the humpbacks, once or twice getting so close that a shot seemed
imminent. At last the Captain, who had come on deck, said: