Nor was this unintentional, gentle impact all.

The instant after her shoulder had touched, startled by the contact, she flailed out with her tail.

The blow smote the rail just for'ard of the fore-shrouds, splintering a gap through it as if it were no more than a cigar-box and cracking the covering board.
That was all, and an entire ship's company stared down in silence and fear at a sea-monster grief-stricken over its dying progeny.
Several times, in the course of an hour, during which the schooner and the two whales drifted farther and farther apart, the calf strove vainly to swim.

Then it set up a great quivering, which culminated in a wild wallowing and lashing about of its tail.
"It is the death-flurry," said the Ancient Mariner softly.
"By damn, it's dead," was Captain Doane's comment five minutes later.
"Who'd believe it?
A rifle bullet! I wish to heaven we could get half an hour's breeze of wind to get us out of this neighbourhood." "A close squeak," said Grimshaw, Captain Doane shook his head, as his anxious eyes cast aloft to the empty canvas and quested on over the sea in the hope of wind-ruffles on the water.

But all was glassy calm, each great sea, of all the orderly procession of great seas, heaving up, round-topped and mountainous, like so much quicksilver.
"It's all right," Grimahaw encouraged.