My name is Marcus Eugene.

I was born beneath a whaling ship. Father wanted to get ahead and Mother wanted to see. It was 1890 and even though sperm oil was down to 65 ½ cents per drum, a barrel of bones brought $4.67. So, on July twenty-third, Father’s harpoon hit a female to bring the bulls with a flag of red water. Mother screamed with her and I knew something had to be done. “Right now?” asked Father from the trigger. Our boat nodded and shot Mother into the ocean, into labor. I broke the water with a cry for life and cut the tether swimming. The whale fell quiet when I pulled the pain from her side, and she sank to the floor grateful to go away in one piece. The bulls stood back—safe in their awe. But Father’s thirsty pockets doomed them, so I pushed his spear through the hull and we drowned. Her blood marked me warlike, but the bulls know I fought for peace.